My Reckless Love

by Melissa Limoges

  “So you knew as well.” Saints, had she been the only one who had not known of her own blasted wedding?

  Elena and Mairi had the good grace to appear sheepish.

  Disentangling her hand, Arabella turned away and returned to her seat near the hearth. Of course, the two women followed.

  Elena eased down on the stool beside her. “I’d hoped you would be pleased, dear. I was certain you favored Calum, at least a wee bit?”

  “Aye, I do. ’Tis just…” She propped her elbow on the chair arm and dropped her chin in her palm. “Why did neither of you speak of it? Everyone knew but me.”

  Mairi knelt on her other side. “I’m sorry, Arabella, but I promised my brother I would not. He worried you might not accept him. He simply wished for more time with you before speaking of the match. Believe me,”—she patted Arabella’s knee—“I dug into Calum when I discovered you did not know. Truth is, he was just as surprised to learn the news himself. Apparently, my brother did not agree to anything before he departed.”

  Elena added with a curl of her lip, “’Twas your uncle who told the clan as soon as Calum left for England.”

  “Oh.” So, ’twas true. Her uncle had wished to be rid of her.

  Elena grabbed her free hand and squeezed. “I’m just relieved Calum came ’round and told you. I despised the deception.”

  “Calum did not speak of it,” Arabella muttered. “Uncle Hammish did. He commended Calum’s choice of bride, and I mistook his meaning. I thought…I thought Calum was to wed another.”

  The older woman spat a rather colorful curse and Arabella lifted her brows. At present, she was sorely displeased with her uncle, but what had he done to earn such scorn from Elena?

  “You and my uncle…” Arabella paused at Elena’s stony stare.

  The woman released a deep sigh. “My nephew…his wounds are a source of weakness to him, though he would never admit such. I’m sure he worried you might not wish to wed him, so he chose to not speak of the match until he was certain of your feelings for him.”

  Certain of her feelings for him? She’d thought he was unsure of his feelings for her.

  Mairi grinned. “You’ll be good for our Calum. Mayhap in time, you’ll come to love him.”

  Arabella raised her brows. Love? She shifted in her seat, uncertain if she wished to examine the extent of her feelings for her betrothed just yet. “I…I—”

  Elena laughed. “Do not worry yourself with it now. You’ll know when the feeling strikes.”

  “How?” Arabella asked.

  “Love can be a truly wondrous feeling.” Elena’s smile faded. “But ’tis a risk. You open your heart and expose every part of yourself to another. The feeling can be shattering or, with the right person, you’ll feel as if you can reach to the heavens.”

  Arabella frowned at the odd statement. “Were you deeply in love with Liam’s father?”

  The question caught Elena by surprise. For the briefest of moments, pain flickered in her blue eyes before she ducked her head. When she lifted her gaze, she’d donned her cool, collected features once more.

  “Aye, I was very much in love with Liam’s father.” She stared over Arabella’s shoulder, and a faraway look entered her gaze. “’Tis taken me quite a while to understand I’ve never stopped loving him.”

  Arabella narrowed her eyes. “What do you—”

  Elena clapped her hands together and rose to her feet, moving to the other side of the solar. “Now, let’s see this dress you ladies are working on.”

  Surprised by the abrupt departure, Arabella glanced at Mairi, who frowned after the woman.

  No doubt ’twas far more to Elena’s tale she’d not revealed to them, but Arabella chose not to voice her concerns for the moment. However, she suspected her uncle played a greater role in the story.

  *

  Winded from training in the fields, Calum paused to catch his breath. Even though he crushed his opponent in the dust, he commended his cousin’s efforts. Liam’s ease with a sword improved by leaps and bounds. Namely, because he spent more time honing his skills and less chasing after the lasses, Calum thought with a chuckle.

  He grabbed his tunic from the ground and swiped it across his forehead as he looked on at his sparring clansmen. ’Twas how he’d spent the day, keeping himself busy in the training fields and far away from the temptation of his affianced bride.

  After last eve, he wisely decided to keep his distance lest he give in to his overwhelming desire for her. His innocent bride deserved a proper wedding night, even if it pained him to wait. But Saints, he wanted naught more than to rescue her from all those blathering females in his solar and spirit her away to finish what they’d started in the stables.

  Alas, the wedding was a fortnight away. Far too long by his estimation.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Fraser. Wearing his usual stern features, the man strode straight for him. His shoulders slumped as he watched the older man’s approach. Frankly, he was not in the mood to continue with their argument.

  As soon as Fraser stopped beside him, Calum held his breath and looked on at his men in the fields.

  Fraser breached the awkward silence. “I’ll offer no apologies, but I can admit I deserved your anger.”

  Calum almost laughed. Of course, the man would not apologize on pain of death. At least, the brunt of his foul mood had passed.

  “I can accept that.” Calum slanted a glance at Fraser. “I know you and Elena are at odds with each other, but do not create any more trouble for Arabella and me. Fate has been unkind to her of late, and I’ll not have you upsetting her. Agreed?”

  Fraser peered at him with a look akin to grudging respect. “Aye.” He glanced away and tucked his hands behind his back. “I’ve behaved poorly since my lass arrived. I need to speak with her, try to explain…”

  “Aye, you do.” Calum mirrored his stance. “Arabella loves you dearly. She’ll understand.”

  “Does she know of the bride price?” Fraser asked.

  “Nay.” Calum shook his head. Hopefully, she’d never learn that minor detail of his arrangement with Fraser.

  “I suppose she would not know of it. ’Twas my sister Arianna’s. When she married Arabella’s father, the pair asked me to hold her dowry in safekeeping for their children should anything happen to them.”

  Calum raised a brow. No wonder Fraser held on to the land for so long. For years, he’d attempted a fair trade with his ally for the rich parcel, but Fraser always refused. Now, with the acquisition within his grasp, his interest ceased. ’Twas odd, but he could not accept the dowry and wed Arabella in good conscience.

  “Well, I’ve given the matter thought. Keep it. My clan’s survived this long without it.”

  “’Tis already done.”

  “I do not want it,” he bit out. “Arabella’s prize enough for me.”

  Fraser laughed. “Aye, but you’ll have her dowry just the same.”

  Calum huffed in irritation. ’Twas no use arguing. He’d simply give the parcel to Arabella to do with as she pleased. ’Twas hers in the first place.

  Fraser lifted his chin. “I’ve heard Mairi’s invited half the clans in the Highlands to your wedding.”

  “So it would seem,” Calum grumbled.

  “’Tis an occasion worth celebrating.” Fraser cracked a smile. “Let the lass have her fun.”

  “And what of Longford. Surely you’ve not forgotten the threat so soon. ’Tis just the sort of diversion he needs.”

  Shrugging, Fraser scratched his beard. “Mayhap. He can try, but he will not succeed. Arabella’s safe and protected. Do not worry so.”

  “I’m not. ’Tis just…” Calum waved his hand as if to explain.

  “I know, lad.” His ally grinned at him. “You’ll be good for my lass.”

  “Good of you to say so,” he wryly replied.

  Fraser cackled. “My lass has a tender heart. She’s a quiet girl, but prone to mischief. I’m sure you might’ve noticed.”


  Prone, his arse. She was downright reckless.

  The older man howled with laughter. “Aye, so you have.” When his humor subsided, he continued. “I promised your father I would look after you, and I’d like to believe I’ve honored my vow to Cormac. Your mother and father would be proud of the man you’ve become. You’ll honor my lass, and your vows, and show her every happiness and comfort.” Fraser cleared his throat. “I know this because you are your father’s son, Calum.”

  The warm sentiment left him speechless. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

  “I promise you, Hammish. I’ll do everything within my power to make Arabella happy and content. I only wish the best for her. She deserves that from me.”

  Fraser cast him a sideways stare. “And what of you? Will you be content?”

  Calum considered the question. “I’m content now.”

  “Hell, you’ve not fallen in love with the lass already, have you?”

  He gaped at Fraser. Saints, where had the man gotten that idea? Sure, he cared for Arabella. But love? How should he know? He’d never been in love before. What he felt for her…he could not explain. He would not explain. ’Twas a matter between him and Arabella.

  “’Tis none of your concern, old man.”

  Fraser barked out a laugh. “Just as I thought.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And what of Elena?”

  “What of her?” Fraser sobered.

  Calum cast him a sideways stare.

  “Well now, boy, that’s none of your concern.”

  ’Twas his turn to bark out a laugh. “I could speak with her for you.”

  “Nay, she and I will have to sort our differences on our own.” Fraser rocked on his heels. “I suppose I’ll have to make amends.”

  “Aye, you will.”

  Both, he and Fraser wrenched their heads around to see Liam standing a short distance away. His eyes trained on Fraser, Liam scowled at the older man.

  Fraser swept his impassive gaze over Liam. “Do not concern yourself with the matter.”

  “Any matter that concerns my mother ’tis mine.”

  The vehemence in his cousin’s voice surprised Calum.

  Studying Liam, Fraser gripped the pommel of the sword at his side. Liam countered by stepping forward. Neither of the stubborn men showed signs of yielding.

  Enough of this foolishness. Calum moved between the pair and glared at both men. “When you two have finished comparing your swords, do you suppose we might attend the evening meal? I’m a bit famished.”

  Fraser and Liam slowly turned their heads to stare at him as if he’d sprouted horns.

  When neither responded, he lifted a brow. “Well?”

  Suddenly, Fraser snorted, defusing the tension. His cousin’s usual roguish grin slid in place.

  Liam shook his head and cuffed Calum’s shoulder. “You really should learn to jest better, Cousin.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The stench of soured rushes, rotten food, and unwashed bodies assaulted Geoffrey’s nostrils, and he choked back the instinct to gag. Following behind Finn and John, the two Scots in his employ, he curled his lip in disdain as they passed through the disgraceful hall of the MacRae Clan.

  A score of disheveled men slumped around filthy trestle tables full of used trenchers and tankards, while a pack of gaunt dogs fought over bits of scraps littered amongst the spoiled rushes. Cobwebs hung from dusty, wooden rafters. Drafts of frigid air pushed into the hall through gaping window holes, which Geoffrey counted a mercy. The faint flow of fresh air was all that kept him from retching from the horrid odor.

  Finn and John had assured him their former laird would welcome any opportunity to pad his coffers. Taking in the meager surroundings, Geoffrey had no doubt of that. ’Twas no wonder the two men had sought a more prosperous future in the service of another lord. The MacRae keep was a far cry from Penswyck.

  Christ, he itched to wrap his bare hands around Arabella de Percy’s throat. The foolish wench had caused him naught but trouble since the start. However, this latest inconvenience would carry a heavy price.

  He and his men halted a feet away from the high table, and Geoffrey took the opportunity to look over the fat, unkempt man sprawled at the head. The man’s beard scarcely disguised the deep lines of age carved in his face. Dried ale and sweat stained his rumpled, threadbare tunic. The hideous man released a belch followed by a fit of bone-jarring coughs.

  This pitiful excuse of a man was Laird MacRae?

  Biting his tongue, Geoffrey trained his features to hide his revulsion. He hardly wished to offend the wretched churl before requesting the man’s aid. Not that it mattered in the end, but his next move had been set in motion. ’Twas time for him to follow through with his part.

  Seated on the laird’s right sat a youth who looked no more than five and ten summers. The Scot seated to the left appeared closer to Geoffrey’s age. The laird’s sons, he presumed. Finn had warned him of the eldest before their arrival. He met the Scot’s weighing stare, noting a mix of wariness and intelligence gleamed in the other man’s gaze.

  “Why’ve the pair of you chosen to grace my hall again?” The old laird’s harsh query resounded throughout the hall, silencing the other occupants.

  Finn, the taller of his two escorts, tipped his head and stepped forward. “We bring you an offer, my laird.”

  “Your laird? You two whelps left without a thought to me or this clan,” MacRae barked out. “Now, you come to me with an offer?”

  “Aye. A prosperous one. To make amends.” Finn motioned to Geoffrey. “Lord Longford is prepared to offer a bounty for the MacRaes’ aid with a simple chore.”

  “What chore would that be?” the laird’s eldest son drawled out. “And why should we help an Englishman?”

  Laird MacRae drained his tankard. Ale ran from the sides of his mouth and dripped into his beard. “Aye, Finn.” He slammed the goblet on the table. “Why’ve you brought the enemy into my home?”

  Geoffrey held up his hand, cutting off Finn’s reply. He’d spent enough time in the king’s service dealing with a few of the Lowland clans to grasp an adequate understanding of the barbaric language.

  He cleared his throat and appealed in Gaelic. “I seek my bride.” At Laird MacRae’s raised brows, he explained. “We quarreled days before our wedding and she’s taken flight to her uncle in a fit of anger. I merely seek the return of my property.”

  “Mayhap she’d no desire to wed you.” Laird MacRae cackled.

  Insolent heathen. Blood rushed to Geoffrey’s cheeks and he gritted his teeth at the offense.

  “How do you expect us to aid with a wayward bride, my lord?” the eldest son asked.

  “This uncle of hers, he’s a difficult man. He despises the English so he’ll not take kindly to my request to see her returned. For a tidy sum, I seek your clan’s help retrieving her.”

  Laird MacRae frowned. “Who’s the uncle?”

  “Hammish Fraser.”

  The eldest son leaned back in his seat. One corner of his mouth hitched upward. “’Tis interesting, Lord Longford, but not two days past we received word of a wedding banquet to honor Fraser’s niece. Ara…Ara…well, I do not recall the name.” He leaned forward and looked past Laird MacRae to the youth. “Connor, would you fetch the missive from the solar?”

  The information hit Geoffrey like a blow to the gut. The air pushed from his lungs in a rush. Surely, ’twas a mistake.

  The boy bolted from his chair and hurried from the hall. The eldest son’s gaze remained locked with Geoffrey’s as they awaited the whelp’s return. In no time, Connor tripped into the hall with a rolled vellum in his hand.

  MacRae’s eldest waved at Geoffrey. “Read for yourself.”

  Seething in anger, he snatched the missive from the youth’s extended palm. His gaze flew over the foreign words and he spat a curse. While he may speak the cursed language, he damned sure could not read it.

  He tossed the vellum to his m
an. “Read it.”

  As Finn read aloud, stumbling over the contents, Geoffrey trained his features to conceal his genuine surprise and the rage swelling inside him.

  So, the cunning wench thought to wed another? And a Scot, no less? Did the bitch honestly believe that would stop him? He’d never rightfully secure his hold on Penswyck without her as his wife. Nay, he would not be outdone, and most assuredly not by a mere woman.

  Let the little fool marry her Scot. Hardly mattered in the eyes of English law and the church. He simply needed to return Arabella to England, wed and bed the wench, and secure his claim. Afterward, well that depended upon her. ’Twas not uncommon for a wife to meet with an unfortunate end.

  “So you see,”—The eldest son interrupted his thoughts—“the woman you seek is to wed another.”

  Geoffrey sucked in a lung full of stale, rotten air and strove for his composure. With false calmness, he peered at the contemptible old laird. “Are you interested in my offer, Laird MacRae?”

  “We’ve no quarrel with Fraser or MacGregor,” the eldest said. “I do not believe—”

  “Name your price, Longford.” Laird MacRae spoke over his son.

  The eldest’s gaze flew to his father. “Have you gone mad? You cannot—”

  “Shut it, Aaron.” Laird MacRae grabbed his tankard. “I merely wished to hear the price Lord Longford is willing to pay.”

  Aaron straightened, slamming his fists on the table. “Are you so desperate for coin, you would call down the wrath of Fraser and MacGregor upon us? Do you care so little for your clan?”

  Geoffrey listened with interest. A man’s greed and pride could easily be the source of his downfall. A fact he’d do well to remember in his conquest of Penswyck. In this case, however, he added fuel to the flames.

  “Forgive me, but I labored under the impression your father was laird of this clan.”

  Aaron pinned him with a harsh, loathing stare.

  “Indeed, I am.” Laird MacRae banged his goblet down. “I’ll decide what’s best for this clan. Fraser and MacGregor be damned.”