“Enough,” Tor snapped. “We’ve more important matters than whether two Englishwomen had empty bellies last night.” Which he knew they did not. Ava had taken the oat patties, ale, and cheese with her and returned to spend a comfortable evening in her rooms. Unlike him, who had to forbid his mother to speak anymore after she’d listed at least ten fine qualities of the blasted Englishwoman.
“With Mairi wed to Fergus MacInnes, we needn’t patrol the northern shoreline as often. We will focus on the buildup of English on the western shore of Oban,” he said. King Henry wasn’t content with ruling his own country. The greedy bastard wanted the whole of Britain, including her islands. Tor’s father had been obsessed with ensuring the safety of Mull from England, even to his last breath when he told Tor about the contract he’d signed and sent to Lord Somerset about his daughter.
“I want constant guards along the shoreline,” Tor said to Hamish and pointed out some outcroppings of rock that were covered by pines, their roots snaking out over the rock to reach dirt. “If I were the English, I’d attack at night. Make certain to have signal fires ready for lighting.”
“Ye think they’re planning something?” Hamish asked.
“Always,” he answered. “I won’t lose Da’s island to English rule.”
Hamish looked out with him. “I have Greer and Thomas banging out swords and arrow tips. And Kenneth is rigging his larger traps to be put out and about. They could catch a man.”
Tor’s face remained hard. “We’ll defend Aros or die trying.”
“So ye’d rather die than wed an Englishwoman?” Hamish asked, his face thoughtful.
Tor scowled at him. “My mother’s been whispering in your ear, hasn’t she?”
Hamish stuck a finger in the orifice and wiggled it around. “More like yelling.”
Tor crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll wed when I’m damn well ready.”
“Ye should talk to Father Kenan just in case we see them English rowing across,” Hamish continued as Tor turned and strode toward his horse. “He can be ready…”
Tor’s growl overrode the man’s words.
…
“The hell I’m going to show me arse to Joan Maclean, and especially not to an Englishwoman,” the man hollered from the back room of the two-room cottage.
Joan rolled her eyes at Ava where she stood next to Grace by the hearth. “Men and their pride,” Joan whispered. “It leads to early death.” She nodded toward the closed bedroom door. “Gladys will talk Thomas into it. She says the wound’s gotten so bad he can barely walk to the smithy.”
“How did he acquire it?” Grace asked.
“A misunderstanding with a grumpy MacDonald,” Joan said. “Punches were thrown and Thomas was pushed into a pitchfork. Stabbed him right in his arse.” She fought to keep a serious face. “I think if he’d gained it in battle, we’d be tending it much sooner than now.”
The door opened, and a lady with a neat bun and red-rimmed eyes poked her head out. “Stubborn ass won’t come out.”
No one moved. Ava dusted her hands together. “Then we will go see him.” She strode forward with the bag of vials she’d helped Joan carry from house to house on her rounds.
The room was half the size of the front room, sparse, clean with swept wooden floors. Light from a single shuttered window filtered in through cracks. A medium-sized man with wild hair around a balding spot on top lay on his side in the small bed. “Get out,” he yelled.
“Now, Thomas,” Joan said. “Ye have to let us tend ye. It’s festering.”
“He’s just like old man Giles,” Grace whispered to Ava. The old gardener at Somerset always had some putrid sore from rose pricks or cuts from rusted blades. He put up quite a fuss whenever Ava had to tend him, but she’d managed to keep him alive well into his seventies. She’d never received a thank-you, but on his deathbed she’d gotten a brief smile that had reached his rheumy eyes. It was more than enough.
“Hello, Thomas,” Ava said, skirting around to the head of the bed so he could see her serious expression. “I am a healer.”
“Ye’re English,” he spat. “The only English who will see a flash of my arse will be on a battlefield when they be running for their lives.”
“She’ll be a Scot once she weds Tor,” Joan said.
Thomas snorted.
“Oh,” Gladys gasped, her hands together. “I didn’t know. What wonderful news!”
“Tor Maclean ain’t marrying an English lass,” Thomas said.
Ava touched the man’s forehead, and he jerked back, but not before she felt the fire under his skin. She glanced back at Joan and Grace. “He’s feverish.”
“Grace, fish out the feverfew for Gladys to steep,” Joan said and came around the other side of the bed so that they flanked the older man. She leaned over him to peer half upside down into his face. “Thomas, we need to have a look. Clean the wound, pack it if need be. Ye could die—”
“I’d rather die,” he grumbled.
Grace rolled her eyes at Ava before heading out with the feverfew. Ava agreed. Thomas was even more ridiculous than Giles. Ava gathered her skirts to stoop so that her face was nearly level with Thomas on the bed. She gave him a tight smile, her eyes fiercely serious. He glared back, the wrinkles around his eyes digging in deep.
“Thomas,” she said. “If you don’t allow Joan and me to tend your wound, I will be forced to call the Maclean.”
“I’m not afraid of the chief,” Thomas said, shutting his eyes tight.
“Since I’m betrothed to the man, he will do as I ask. And I will tell him and two of his very stout warriors to hold you down while I strip off all of your clothes in front of them and tend your buttock before them all.”
Thomas sniffed, opening his eyes to stare Ava down. She didn’t even blink but raised one eyebrow slowly. “Or we can handle this discreetly without any of your friends seeing or laughing. Which would you prefer?”
“Tor Maclean won’t do what an Englishwoman asks,” Thomas countered, confidence set in his frown.
“Have you heard how we kissed in the hall yesterday?” Ava asked with huge amounts of false bravado. She let loose a smug smile. “The man will do what I ask.”
“I had to practically pull Tor off her,” Joan said, coming around so Thomas could see her nod. “If she asks him…” She let it hang with a tilt of her head.
A string of rough-sounding Gaelic issued from the man.
Gladys bustled in, yelling at him in Gaelic, her face red. “I’m sorry, Joan. He’s a stubborn mule with a sinful tongue.”
“But I think he can see reason,” Ava said. “One way or another we will be tending that wound, either in private or with at least three warriors witnessing it, who will likely tell the story for years to come.”
“Bloody hell,” Thomas spit out. With a flick of his hand, Thomas tossed back the covers, exposing his hindquarters. A swollen, red boil oozed across half the one buttock with the dirty hole of the pitchfork in the center.
“God’s teeth,” Grace cursed softly from the doorway. “You had to wait this long?”
Ava traded a glance with Joan. This would be messy. Thomas’s wife wrung her hands at the end of the bed. “Gladys, we will need hot, boiled water, clean rags, and something for Thomas to bite down upon,” Ava said. Joan nodded in agreement, and Gladys shot out of the room.
“I’ll help her,” Grace said, shaking her head once more at the foolish man.
Thomas wouldn’t look at Ava even as she bent down to stare into his face. “We will take care of this without anyone the wiser,” she said to him. He snorted in response and kept his eyes on the wall.
Ava walked out into the front room to see if Gladys had an old blanket they could use to protect the bedding. Gladys and Grace struggled to lift a pot of water over a fire, and Ava rushed to help them.
“Thank ye,” Gladys said, dusting her hands. “And thank the good Lord the Maclean has found another bride at last.”
Ava’s a
rms froze momentarily in the air before dropping to her sides. “Another?” Ava asked. “Tor Maclean had another bride?”
Joan whisked in. “I know ye love Thomas,” she said, looking at Gladys, “but he’s an ornery old goat.”
“God help me, I know,” Gladys said.
“Excuse me,” Ava persisted, looking between Joan and Gladys. “Tor Maclean had another bride?”
“Lord, we need some wine,” Grace said, her eyes wide as she looked around the room, searching for a bottle.
Joan waved her hand dismissively. “He wed another lass nearly a decade ago. She died within a year. Poor constitution.”
“Too much guilt,” Gladys murmured.
“Guilt?” Grace asked from where she leaned against the cottage door. “What did she do?” Her gaze snapped between Ava, Joan, and Gladys.
“She told him she was going to have his bairn,” Joan said, her mouth tight. “By the time he found out it was a lie, they were wed.”
“She…tricked him?” Ava asked slowly, a flush prickling up her neck into her cheeks.
“Completely,” Joan said. “I’m afraid it turned him cynical.” She shook her head and laughed darkly. “He thinks every lass is full of lies now.” She squeezed Ava’s arm, though Ava barely felt it. “But that kept him free to wed ye and save Aros from King Henry like my Gus planned. My boy just needs an honest woman to bring him around.”
“God’s teeth,” Grace swore and plopped into another chair.
Chapter Four
“Are you sure we should both be wearing gowns?” Grace asked as she and Ava descended the curving stone steps while keeping their voluminous petticoats from tripping them. Grace wore a blue costume to bring out her blue eyes, and Ava wore a green one shot through with silver embroidery threads sewn into the pattern of dragonflies on the bodice.
“I’m afraid you don’t make a very convincing servant, Grace,” Ava said while using the toe of her slipper to feel for the next irregularly spaced step. “I’ve told Joan that you’re really more of a companion.”
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Grace whispered, shaking her head.
Yes, what had Ava gotten them into this time? Her adventures started out within acceptable limits but often tangled into horrible messes by the end. Leaving Vincent behind in York by convincing Lord Somerset to sign the betrothal papers had been the only option after Vincent’s threats. Deciding to switch places with Grace had seemed reasonable, considering her fear. Tricking her way onto Mull had been the only option that didn’t send them immediately back to York. In each case inaction had been the more dangerous option, yet now Ava felt backed into a corner.
“We must keep going,” Ava said. “I certainly can’t tell him the truth before we’re married.”
“So, you’re going to trick him all the way through wedding you?” she hissed.
“Do you see another option?” Ava asked. “Aros is a fortress surrounded by ocean, so sneaking away unnoticed would be impossible and unsafe, especially with winter blowing in with each passing day. Staying on Mull without a legal link to the Macleans will only last so long. And if I confess all right now, he’ll be justified in carrying us directly back to Vincent. If your father has perished, Vincent will have all the power, and we will be his slaves.”
Tears gathered in Grace’s eyes, her lips parting to allow faster breathing. As if a wave of panic was washing up to drown her, Grace’s whole body trembled, caught in the current of fear.
Ava stroked her arm and brought her tone back down. “But we are safe here. Marriage to Tor Maclean is the best option right now.”
Grace’s rapid succession of nods reminded Ava of a frightened bird hopping about. “You’re right,” she whispered. “We can’t go back. Either one of us marries the Beast of Aros or we are both on the run for the rest of our lives.” She leaned heavily against the wall. “We will truly have to live amongst wolves or on the streets begging.”
“And since you have a habit of almost fainting every time he is near—”
“For Heaven’s sake, Ava, he’s called a beast, and he growls. In my mind, it’s odd that you don’t faint.”
“Exactly why it will have to be me to wed him,” she said. Grace’s timid character was the obvious reason the thought of Tor marrying Grace made Ava nauseous. It had nothing to do with the fact she couldn’t forget the powerful sensation of his mouth moving over hers or the way he had looked shirtless and glistening in the hot kitchens last night.
“Courage,” Ava said under her breath.
“Very well.” Grace patted her cheeks gently and smoothed her skirts. “But know that I’m fainting on the inside.”
“As long as you keep walking on the outside.” As they entered, Ava noticed Tor Maclean immediately, dressed in a clean kilt over a white shirt with a sash of red plaid. He looked directly at her from where he stood near the entryway.
The Highlander named Gavin strode over to take Grace’s arm. “Two lovely lasses,” he said in his Scot’s accent and guided them into the room. The long table in the center held platters of roast meat, baskets of bread, and a board of cheese. A large, iron crock of steaming soup sat with a ladle in it.
“I’d avoid the stew,” Grace whispered to Ava. “It could be what they brought us last night.” Grace continued on with Gavin to one side of the heavy, polished table.
Ava stood alone, not sure where to sit. There were hierarchies to table seats, and she wasn’t sure of the etiquette here. She veered toward a tapestry by the hearth where she could pretend interest until everyone sat. Then she could pick from empty seats. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement, sending her heart beating faster. She willed her footsteps to remain even and slow.
“I hear that with one kiss I am completely at your mercy,” Tor said as he fell into stride with her.
Ava kept her feet and face forward. “An exaggeration to save your warrior’s life and pride, though he’d rather have forfeited the first to save the latter.” They stopped before the tapestry of a knight and a lady holding hands in a garden. The colors of the wool yarn were brilliant.
“Do not think I’ve changed my mind. I will not marry ye,” Tor said bluntly.
How to respond? Seduce him with a smile? Say something coquettish to entice him? Ava didn’t feel coquettish. In fact, his bluntness irritated her. She cocked her head so she could look at his profile as he gazed at the tapestry, his hands clasped behind his back. He was handsome, stately even, for a rough warrior.
“Why do they call you a beast?” she asked. She could be just as blunt. “I mean, the Beast of Aros is a strange name. Is it meant to scare people away?”
He turned his face so his stormy blue eyes stared into hers. “Apparently, it doesn’t work on Englishwomen.”
“Who gave you such a name?” she asked, ignoring the bite in his tone. “I mean, you are fierce, and you do growl—”
“I don’t growl, except in battle.”
“Your mother certainly wouldn’t call you a beast. So, who—”
“Her name was Matilda, and she was my wife,” he said, turning back to the tapestry. “She named me Beast after we wed. The name stuck.”
“Oh,” Ava said, studying his strong jawline. “Was it in a playful way?” She shrugged the slightest bit. “Such as ‘you beast, don’t you dare splash water on me,’” she said, her voice going up lightheartedly.
Piercing eyes turned back to her, a brief look of surprise turned hard. “No.”
“Oh.” She stared at his intense gaze. Was there pain hidden among the anger? The look turned quickly to bored annoyance, a mask Ava had learned to don herself over her lifetime at Somerset.
“As I said before,” he started, leading them away from the topic. “I have no desire to wed…again.”
“Even to save your island from the English?”
The side of his mouth turned up in a half smile that would have been charming if his eyes weren’t pooled with cynicism. “The Beast of Aros can slice
through English interlopers as easily as through the hearts of would-be brides.”
Her gaze narrowed as she tipped her head. “Is that a warning?”
He bent his face closer to hers. “Most certainly.”
Ava’s stomach fluttered, but she relaxed her mouth into a slight grin. “They are but words, and I am not afraid of words.”
“I am thinking ye need to be kissed again,” he said, his voice deep, his brogue rolling.
“And that will slice through my delicate English heart?” she asked, humor lighting her eyes.
“It will when ye lose your heart to me and I still send ye back to England.”
He was baiting her. “And what happens when you fall in love with me? The Beast of Aros fawning over an Englishwoman.”
Tor pulled back and laughed, but there was no humor in it. “One must have a heart to love.”
“Everyone has a heart, Tor Maclean,” she said, her expression growing serious. “Just some are under so much rubble that they barely beat.”
“Kiss me again, then. See if ye can make my heart beat,” he whispered, challenge behind his words.
Ava glanced over her shoulder at the dozen people about the room. She should encourage him, but…
“Not before the others,” he said. “I don’t need more rumors spreading. Since ye like to walk about the castle at night, find me right here when everyone is abed. See if ye can resurrect a dead and buried heart.” Tor turned on his heel, took a step, but stopped and offered his arm to her without looking.
She rested her gloved fingertips lightly on his sleeve. Counting out her breaths, she walked toward Grace seated at the table, a chair left open on her right. Tor released Ava’s arm before continuing on to the head of the table, quite far away. She sat, ate, and smiled, like a gracious lady—quite a feat considering that her stomach swooped about all evening as if it were a leaf outside, blown by the Highland winds.
Ava stood before the low fire in their bedroom. “What does one wear to a seduction?” she asked Grace, who stared at her critically. Ava had donned the day dress she had often worn at Somerset, having changed out of the heavy dining garments.
The Beast of Aros Castle (Highland Isles) Page 4