Gunnar cleared his throat. “May I present to ye, my laird, Lady Lilias of Clan Cameron. She is the eldest of Chief Cameron’s daughters. Well versed in the duties she’d be responsible for as lady of the castle, having been trained extensively by her late mother, Lady Cameron. She was also educated by the same tutors as her brothers.”
Dirk raised a brow. A woman of worth indeed. There were not very many women so well educated. A detail that might intimidate a lesser man, but which Dirk found exceedingly appealing.
Nay! Not appealing. She was not for him.
At least he would have someone interesting to speak with on the long journey rather than a muddle-headed simpleton.
A light pink blush covered Lady Lilias’s sculpted cheeks at the not so humble introduction. Ah, so she was modest, too. Saints, but his mother and grandmother had done a very good job at finding a bride for his cousin. Bastard wouldn’t appreciate her in the least. All the light he saw in her eyes would likely dim within the first few months of marriage. Her natural curiosity would be squashed, and she’d look out blankly at those in her court rather than meeting anyone in the eye.
No matter. His duty was to deliver her. Not to worry about her future. And as such, he needed to present the betrothal documents to her sire for signing.
“Where is Chief Cameron?” Dirk asked.
At this, Lady Lilias’s face grew a deeper shade of red. Her lips thinned, and the hands she clutched before her turned white at the knuckles.
Gunnar looked as though he’d rather run from the great hall.
“My father,” Lilias started, her voice trembling, “was unable to accompany me. But I have brought my brother in his stead.”
A young man, perhaps in his twenty-fifth year, stood slightly behind Gunnar, his dark hair and blue eyes similar enough to hers that Dirk drew the connection.
“Why was he unable to attend?” Dirk studied them all, waiting for an explanation that had better be damned good.
“My father was… overwrought,” Lilias answered, her chin thrusting upward.
“Overwrought?” Dirk ran his fingers over his chin. “How so?”
Keeping her gaze steady on his, she said, “Grief, my laird.”
“My condolences for any loss your family must have suffered,” Dirk offered, assuming his grief was for his late wife.
Anger flashed on her face, but was quickly replaced by a flat, expressionless visage.
The lass’s moods appeared to change moment to moment. Perhaps he’d been wrong about the upcoming travel being interesting. From what he could tell, it was going to be… unpleasantly unpredictable.
Time to get this over with. Provisions had already been packed, and the sooner they departed the better. “Approach the dais, Lady Lilias.”
Despite that flash of defiance returning, the lass did as he ordered, taking slow, measured steps toward the dais. Her hips swayed gently as she approached, the hem of her skirt swirling delicately around the tips of her leather boots. Something twitched in Dirk’s gut as he watched one tip thrust out from beneath her skirts after another.
Her brother tried to follow but Gunnar held him back, and Dirk made no move to contradict his gate master.
“Cameron, go with Gunnar to sign the betrothal documents.” The man nodded and followed Gunnar up to Dirk’s library.
Lilias stopped in the center of the great hall. Her gaze followed her brother out, a bit mournfully, before she returned her scrutiny to Dirk. He was again struck by her beauty and boldness.
Men and women murmured from where they stood on the outskirts of the vast chamber. Assessing. Judging.
His grandmother’s words came back to him then. She will likely not be pleased with being a bargaining pawn… He understood what she might mean by that now. The lass was like a prized cow on display. Was she beautiful enough? Smart enough? Poised enough? Were her hips rounded enough to birth a child? Was she taller than Olafsson? Was her hair too dark? Skin too pale? Would the marriage successfully keep them safe from further raids?
The questions were disturbing to say the least, but the fact that he could hear them, meant that she could too, and judging by the rising flames in her cheeks, the way her neck had taken on a heated tone, she was mortified.
And yet, shouldn’t she be honored to be chosen? There were dozens of other prospects, but she was found to be the most valuable. Certainly, that had to be a source of pride for her.
Dirk sat forward in his chair, the great hall going silent, and the creaking of the wood and leather of his belt echoing in the sudden quiet.
Beside him, his grandmother and mother waited on baited breath. Did they fear what he’d say? Were they worried he was not pleased with their choice?
On the contrary… He was exceedingly impressed. A pang of jealousy sprang to his belly, and the consideration recurred to him that Olafsson did not deserve Lilias of Clan Cameron. He was consoled with the belief that Olafsson did not deserve anyone.
“Ye’ve been chosen,” Dirk said gruffly to her.
The lass stiffened, did not look down at the planked floorboards as he expected she would—as she should. As she would know was expected for being so well educated. Instead, defiantly, she met his gaze head on, challenging him for a single breath, before she did indeed cast her ice-blue eyes to the floor.
Mo chreach, but his gut tightened.
There was no doubt that Dirk MacDougall loved a challenge. A gauntlet thrown. And this was exactly what the lass offered.
He grinned.
Chapter Two
To be so judged and found lacking. For the safety of thousands of lives to be on one’s shoulders. The wellbeing of all at stake, and the only thing that might save them was a mere woman and whether she could bear fruit.
Lilias was amazed at how she was able to maintain control standing in the center of this horde as they whispered about her behind her back. Inside, she was trembling with uncertainty, rage, and sadness. She wanted to run. To tell them all, in a loud, very unladylike voice, to bugger off.
The only ones not seeming to lay judgment upon her were Lade Elle and Lady Fenella, whom she’d met previously. The elder woman was dressed in the same green shades as when she’d come to see Lilias before. Elegant and poised. Her dark red hair swept up into a knot, a circlet of gold around it. Lady Fenella was wearing the colors of her clan, her face round and pretty, her light hair in a crown of plaits.
The man who sat between the two women, Laird MacDougall, stared at her intently with steely eyes. Dark hair framed his chiseled face. His visage was brooding, brows drawn low, lips flat and unmoving, unfeeling. The man was cold for all he was handsome. And it took every ounce of willpower not to cower, but to stand strong.
He scanned her as though she were a prized piece of horseflesh. The way he sat, with his long legs partially spread, an elbow on his knee was positively intimidating. The man’s frame was a massive bulk of brawny muscles. She had the impression that if he were to move just the wrong way, he might break the chair beneath him. That if he was to snatch her up against him, she’d snap in two.
How she missed her mother at this moment. Mama’s formidable strength beside her would have made Lilias almost fearless. Likely she would have snapped her fingers and the whispers around the room would have hushed, those who’d been gossiping would hang their heads in shame and offer up apologies.
But Mama wasn’t coming. Lady Cameron had passed from this life, just a week after the visit from Lady Elle and Lady Fenella. She’d been ill for so long, whispering of prophecies that she was certain would come to pass. ’Twas as if she’d been waiting for just that moment, to see her daughter betrothed, before she could let go.
No longer in pain, Lady Cameron left a massive hole in so many hearts, especially for Lilias. She had her mother had been so close.
Blinking slowly, she forced her tears at bay. Mama… I need ye… Perhaps, praying would help. If her mother was watching over her, she would come to her aid, haunt the gossipmongers
along the rim of the room. Aye, that would be satisfying.
Her brother Rauld touched her elbow from behind. Was this the sign her mother was sending that she was indeed there? Comfort from her brother?
Rauld would be laird when their father passed, so it was only fitting that he should come in their father’s stead to sign the betrothal papers. Especially since her father had not been well since Lady Cameron passed, and then to lose his daughter just as quickly… The man had been positively inconsolable.
The only problem with Rauld signing the papers was that Lilias would not be allowed to read the documents herself. To pour over their contents and make certain all the details that had been promised were within the document and that nothing else had been slipped in. Her brother could read, and she hoped that he could comprehend most of what he read, but he was not as—saints, how could she put it? He was not as clever with books as she was. Rauld tended to skim and skimp. A lot.
An issue she worried over with her father, but he often ignored her.
Rauld was the heir, and as such, was perfect in Laird Cameron’s eyes.
Laird MacDougall cleared his throat, looking at her expectantly. Had he said something? Smirks abounded in the great hall. They would all question her mental state now. Her intelligence. Perhaps the ladies of MacDougall had not, in fact, found the most worthy of brides for Magnus Olafsson, King of Nothing as far as Lilias was concerned.
She could hear them now… What a jest that would be to deliver to the bastard a bride most lacking. Dear Lady Elle is so verra clever.
“Aye, my laird,” she murmured, peeking at his still foreboding visage.
“Speak up, my lady. I said ye’ve been chosen.”
Ah, so he’d not uttered anything new. Only a blanket statement of the obvious. Did he assume she was so addle-brained as to not realize why she was standing before him? Lilias narrowed her own eyes. How was she to respond? With unending gratitude? She supposed that was indeed how any other meek and submissive bride would respond.
“I am blessed.” That seemed to please many of those in attendance. Humbleness was a virtue that she suspected some in this very room did not possess. Lilias folded her hands in front of her waist for added measure.
“We will leave within the hour for Rothesay Castle,” the laird said.
“As ye say, my laird.” She kept her gaze on him so as not to let her mind wonder too far.
Rothesay Castle was on the Isle of Bute, a journey into treacherous territory that would take a sennight—if they were lucky. The holding had recently been seized by the great Norwegian king and left in Olafsson’s care. He would collect Lilias there, and wed her before returning to Castle Rushen on the Isle of Mann, which would be her new home. If he was King of the Isle of Mann, would that make her queen? Or would she simply be referred to as his wife? His prize?
Lilias’s mind quickly whirled into other nefarious territories. What if this entire alliance was a trap? A grand scheme to lull Laird MacDougall and all who traveled with him to certain death. Undoubtedly, it would be in King Haakon’s best interest to seize the lands held by Laird MacDougall, Lord of the Isles. And then, would Magnus Olafsson truly be King of the Isles as he professed now?
“What type of horse do ye ride?” Laird MacDougall tapped the arm of his thick wooden chair.
Perhaps it would not collapse after all. The construction of it looked exceedingly sturdy. Ah, but back to horseflesh, which he must have determined she was not.
“Whichever ye prefer, my laird.” Heaven help her, but this compliant front was going to be the death of her, for she feared she’d shatter soon if she wasn’t able to speak her mind.
The man blew out an irritated sigh, and Lilias held her breath. He stood slowly, unfurling his strong form, and then sauntered toward her. Every step of his kicked up her heartbeat a notch. Instinct bade her to retreat, but the wall of men behind her made that impossible.
Even with thirteen years passing since she’d been to the taibhsear in the woods, she still remembered vividly what she’d said, and this man, Laird Dirk MacDougall, fit all the lines she’d fed Lady Cameron. A perfect match.
Dark of hair. Stormy of eye. Fiercer than the wickedest gale storm.
The closer her got, the more her body heated. What would he do? Why did he need to come closer? To inspect her himself?
Standing a foot away, his brooding frown centered on hers, he put his hands on his hips and stared, giving the appearance of waiting. But for what? Then, just like the rogue she assumed he must be, his gaze traversed the length of her body, leaving her trembling and hot.
Lilias wrung her hands, working hard not to hide them in the folds of her plain gown. She felt like she should know what it was he seemed to desire, but the only thing she was capable of at the moment was returning his regard. Dark eyes, gray at the centers and fanning out to a deep, black-blue, scanned her face. Laird MacDougall’s features could have been sculpted from stone. A strong, square jaw, broad brow, sturdy cheekbones. Although his lips were pressed into that frown she was coming to think belonged permanently there, his lips were full, wide. If he smiled, she imagined he’d be even more striking.
This was the man who would deliver her to an unwanted marriage. This was the man she’d have to trust for the next sennight. A man who could have fulfilled the prophecy on looks alone, and to hold his position for so long, to be so revered by the Norseman and the Scots, he must have been fiercer than the worst of gale storms. Curse it, her belly was doing little somersaults. The same fluttering she’d felt as a lass a few years before when one of her father’s handsome retainers paid her some attention.
A spark of interest. That’s what it was.
She wanted to get to know this man better. See if she could make him smile, straighten the lines at the furrow of his brow.
Inconceivable thoughts. Treasonous truly, for she was soon to be betrothed to another.
Additionally, she despised the very reason she stood before him. He might have been handsome, wicked even, fierce, but Lilias was determined to dislike him.
“My lady,” he said softly—much softer than she would have imagined. He glanced behind him at the two women left on the dais. “Might I have a word in private?”
In private? Lilias swallowed hard. A dressing down? Lilias nodded, suspicious that he wanted to rebuke her away from the prying ears of his court. He needed her; he wouldn’t hurt her. She had to remember that.
Laird MacDougall placed his strong, steely fingers to her elbow, searing her with heat, and steered her toward the back of the great hall, and a curtained alcove where they might be out of earshot of everyone else.
The curtain fell, partially blocking out the noise of those milling the chamber, and their judging faces, though not enough to be considered inappropriate.
As soon as they were out of sight, she shrugged him off—but more so the uncomfortable heat.
The laird ignored her urgent shrugs, and kept his fingers on her arm mayhap expecting her to run. “I understand that ye’re in a position that ye might not have chosen.”
Lilias remained silent. If she agreed, then he would be displeased, if she disagreed, she’d be lying.
“I would like to make your journey to Bute comfortable. Easy.”
Lilias pursed her lips and pointedly looked at his hand on her elbow. Laird MacDougall promptly let go.
Why was he being so… accommodating? “My thanks,” she said suspiciously.
“I will ask again, and I hope that ye will answer honestly. What horse did ye ride here today?”
Lilias supposed it wouldn’t hurt to go along with his request for the moment. “The mare my father gave me several years ago.”
“And does her gait suit ye? We’ve many days ahead of us, and I’d rather not deliver ye to Magnus Olafsson in ill health.”
Lilias drew in a long breath, hoping it wasn’t obvious. Did he mean unable to walk? Unable to perform her duties as a wife because her bottom and thighs would be too
sore from riding? Zounds, but she might faint. Heat flooded her face. She was mortified. Her vision grew momentarily blurry, so she closed her eyes. “She is a fine horse.”
When she wavered, he touched her elbow again, steadying her. “Good. Are ye unwell?”
She decided to be honest, just as he’d asked. “I am nervous, my laird.”
“Why?” The man genuinely sounded perplexed.
Lilias shrugged. If he were that dense, then all the days left in her life wouldn’t be enough to explain it to him.
“There is no need to be nervous around me. ’Tis my duty to see ye safely to Bute.”
“’Tis not ye that I worry over,” she mumbled without thinking.
Laird MacDougall eyed her funny at that. “I am glad that ye trust me, my lady. Pray tell, what is making ye nervous then?”
Again, without thinking, her tongue wagged. “I am to travel to marry an old man. A man my grandfather’s age.” Nay! Why did she say that? He’d not understand at all.
“Are ye not grateful for the honor of marrying for the peace of your people?” The question itself was blunt, much as she would have expected for her unchecked words. And much as she suspected, he wouldn’t understand.
But the tone… There was something else in his words, something hopeful, or was that her imagination? Her own hope mirroring in what he uttered.
Laird MacDougall was delivering her into hell, and there was no other way about it. Not only was her future husband easily three times her own age, but also, he was a violent, vengeful fiend. Saints, but the stories she’d heard… Lilias swallowed hard, pushing away the vile narratives. She had to concentrate on the man before her and what he was saying—and not saying.
Och, why was she even attempting to see something kind in Laird MacDougall’s tone? She was a lamb for the slaughter, and no one cared about how the lamb felt. The lamb was to be grateful.
Lilias lifted her chin. Ungrateful or not, the truth was, a great heavy blanket of unhappiness weighed her down. As heavy, she suspected, as the chainmail she’d seen on passing Sassenachs at her home. She did not want this marriage, and she was prepared to hate Dirk MacDougall for forcing her into it.
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