by Amy Tolnitch
“Of course. Lugh is a fine man.” Her voice held no emotion whatsoever.
“Amice—”
“What now, Hawksdown?” The MacKeir bellowed as he crossed the bailey, trailed by Piers, Thomas, and the other men from the garrison. He wore a sword strapped to his waist and carried a shield. The MacKeir stopped several feet from Cain and cocked a brow.
“We had an appointment, MacKeir.”
The MacKeir looked at Amice. “Did my woman not tell you? I agreed to spare you at her request.”
“You forgot to mention you compelled her to agree to the marriage in exchange.”
“I compelled her to do nothing.” The MacKeir gave Cain a mocking look. “We are betrothed.”
No. He would not let her do it. Cain drew his sword and stepped close to The MacKeir. “Amice is a passionate wench. I shall always remember the feel of her warm curves beneath my body, her soft cries of pleasure.”
For a moment, The MacKeir looked shocked, then his eyes darkened, he pulled his sword free and raised his shield. “For that, you will die.”
“Give it your best try,” Cain hissed.
With a roar, Lugh swung his sword.
Cain dodged the blow by inches and slashed back toward Lugh’s neck. The sound of sword thunking against shield rang through the bailey.
“No!” Amice shouted. “Stop this madness.”
“Piers, get her out of the way,” Cain shouted, focusing on ducking another lunge by The MacKeir.
Shouts of encouragement filled the air, but the world narrowed to just The MacKeir and him. Though The MacKeir was bigger and stronger, Cain soon realized he was quicker and more agile. He used that advantage to leap and duck free from most of The MacKeir’s blows, using his shield to absorb as few as possible.
“Whoreson!” The MacKeir grunted, as he swept his sword toward Cain’s knees.
Cain jumped over the blade, and whirled back toward The MacKeir. He slashed with all his strength. His blade crashed into The MacKeir’s shield, then slid off, slicing into the Scot’s arm.
The wound inflamed The MacKeir, and he bore down on Cain in fury. In a move so sudden Cain had no time to prepare, he brought his sword up in a killing arc, the strength behind the blow so powerful, it wrenched Cain’s sword from his hand.
The MacKeir paused and smiled at Cain.
Cain could not believe it. No one had ever been able to do such a thing. Failure was an acrid taste on his tongue. He raised his shield. He would be damned if he would ask this boor for mercy.
“Do you concede?” The MacKeir growled.
“Go to hell.” Cain glared at him.
From the corner of his eye, Cain saw a flash of color, just before Amice burst between them. She gave Cain a look of sheer anguish, then turned to The MacKeir, palms up. “Lugh, please.”
For a long moment, The MacKeir stared back at her, his lips flat and his eyes hard.
“Please, Lugh. I have already agreed to marry you. Let us not begin with death.”
The MacKeir shifted his gaze to Cain and studied him. “He has earned it.”
“Lugh.” Amice laid a hand on his arm. “Please.”
Slowly, he slid his sword into the ring attached to his belt and nodded. “For you.” Then he grinned and shouted out, “Let us drink!”
Cain remained in place, watching with a growing sense of unreality as The MacKeir and everybody else in the castle trooped off to the hall to celebrate. Everyone save Gifford and Piers.
Gifford shot Cain a knowing look.
“Shut up,” Cain snapped.
Piers handed him back his sword. “Fine bit of sword-play, there.”
“I lost,” Cain said half to himself. “I failed her.”
“Lucky The MacKeir showed some sense,” Gifford muttered.
Cain rubbed his neck.
Gifford handed him a jug. “Take a drink.”
Cain tipped ale into his mouth.
“Go on, then,” Piers said, shoving Cain from behind.
“Go?”
“Into the hall.”
“I shall join you anon.” Cain stomped off toward the training field before the two could argue.
Chapter 8
“Lugh, you are bleeding,” Amice said.
He glanced at his arm and laughed. “’Tis but a scratch. Now, will you toast to my victory and great showing of mercy?”
Amice sighed and looked past him to where Agatha hovered just out of reach. Her eyes were wide, and she gazed with clear fascination at Lugh as if he were some sort of dangerous creature, which of course he was. Hardly Agatha’s vision of an elegant, learned, fair-haired man who would write her poetry. “You should let me tend to your wound.”
“Drink first.” He waved to Hawis, who came rushing over.
“Aye, my lord?”
“Bring your best barrel of ale, my fair lass! Sparing a man’s life is thirsty work.”
Hawis looked to Agatha, who nodded up and down in jerky movements. “At once, my lord.”
As she scuttled off, Amice noted Gifford and Piers approaching. Where was Cain?
The two came to a halt before Lugh.
Abruptly, the buzz of conversation in the hall quieted.
Gifford lifted a brow. “Fine display of swordsmanship, MacKeir.”
Lugh puffed out his chest. “Thank you. My skill with a sword is known throughout the Highlands.”
“Perhaps while you are here, you can teach me that last trick you used on Cain,” Piers said.
“’Twould be my pleasure.” Lugh winked. “Your brother clearly needs aid.”
The people in the hall began talking again.
“Where is Cain?” Amice finally asked.
Gifford sniffed. “On the training field. Not used to being bested.”
“Is he injured?”
“Nay, only his pride.”
Hawis returned and put a ewer of ale into Lugh’s hands, while other servants passed drinks around the hall. Gifford, naturally, had his ever-present jug with him, and Piers strode off to find his own.
Lugh took a long drink. “Ah, ‘tis good.” He grabbed a cup from a passing servant, filled it and handed it to Amice. “Join me, m’eudail.”
“What does that mean,” Gifford asked.
“My darling.” Lugh filled another cup and motioned to Agatha. “Come, Lady Agatha.”
Agatha glanced at the cup, then at Lugh, then back again. Finally, she inched closer and accepted the ale. Lugh shot her a lusty grin, and Agatha’s mouth fell open.
Amice laid a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Lugh.”
His grin faded and he gazed down at her, his deep green eyes probing. “I would talk with you. Alone.”
“You shall allow me to clean your wound.”
“Aye.”
“Come to my chamber.” Laila started to follow them, but Lugh raised a hand.
“Your lady shall be safe.”
Laila looked to Amice. She nodded agreement and led Lugh from the hall. After stopping in the well-house for a bucket of fresh water, they walked across the wide bailey.
Lugh squinted up into the sunlight. “A fine day.”
With each step, Amice grew increasingly uncomfortable. In the distance, she spotted Cain riding full-out toward the quintain. She felt the heavy weight of Lugh’s stare upon her and wondered what he wished to talk about. He would no doubt be anxious to leave Falcon’s Craig. But surely he would understand she must stay to complete her task. Amice bit her lip.
When they reached her chamber, Lugh shut the door with a solid thump, and drew off his tunic and undershirt.
Amice swallowed, suddenly realizing just how large and imposing her betrothed really was. She pointed to the windowseat. “Sit.”
Without a word, Lugh sat and poured himself a cup of wine from the ewer Hawis kept filled.
As she drew herbs from her bag and tore a strip of linen from a chemise, Amice felt him watching her. She put the water next to him, and gently dabbed at the gash.
&nb
sp; “Well, shall I live?”
Amice twitched her lips. “Aye, but I should stitch the wound.”
“Do with me what you will, Amice.”
Her gaze shot to his. Lugh lifted a brow, then shook his head. “I know your secret,” he stated.
Shock pooled in Amice’s belly. Which one? “What do you mean?” She shifted her gaze toward Lugh’s shoulder.
“You love him,” he said softly.
Amice closed her eyes. “Nay. I did not want him to die, ‘tis true, but—”
“Look at me.”
Slowly, Amice let the linen drop into the bucket and looked at Lugh.
He gave her a small smile. “I know the look of a woman in love. ‘Tis in her eyes,” he said as he traced the side of her forehead with his calloused thumb. “In the way she holds her body when her lover is near.”
“I do not love Cain,” Amice choked out.
“Aye, you do.”
“Lugh, you do not know about the past we share. He—”
Lugh waved a hand. “’Tis of no significance.”
Amice straightened. “It is to me. And I have given you my consent.”
Lugh tilted his head toward his shoulder. “Finish your healing, lass, and I shall think on this.”
“You have to help me,” Morganna hissed.
Muriel glided closer. “Why? You failed to get Amice to leave.”
“I tried.” Morganna pouted. “It was not my fault Cain happened to catch her in time.”
“I do not want her dead, just persuaded to leave Falcon’s Craig. Do something else.”
“What?”
“Have you no imagination, stupid girl?” Muriel narrowed her eyes into emerald slits, and Morganna’s mouth went dry. “What was I thinking to enlist help from you?”
Morganna stuck out her jaw. “Because I am the only one willing to aid you.”
For a moment, Muriel glared at her, then nodded. “True enough. I need her gone.”
“I will think of something. But first, you must help me persuade Cain to bed me. He is so damned honorable he will force himself to marry me then. I want to be the Countess of Hawksdown, not some unpaid servant!”
“You should never have been so blatant. Cain is not the type of man to pounce just because a woman is naked.”
Morganna sighed. “Aye, I know that now. But I thought surely the sight of my body would sway him. And he was ready.”
“Not for you.”
“Then help me.”
A swirl of gold whipped through the chamber, filling it with strange light. Morganna stood frozen by fear.
Slowly, the gold solidified into a bag on the floor. Muriel gestured to the pouch with a gossamer hand. “Take it.”
“What is this?”
“Something very special. Very rare and very potent. Put only a small amount into the wine Cain keeps in his chamber.”
“What will it do?”
Muriel smiled. “Make him unable to resist you.”
“Perfect. Then all this will be mine.”
“Do not forget your part of the bargain.”
“I shall be happy to take care of Lady Amice.” Morganna looked down at the bag and slowly smiled.
After smashing the hell out of the quintain for the better part of an hour, Cain finally admitted he was avoiding facing Amice. He had been bested. Accept it and move forward.
Cain went in search of The MacKeir. What to do with the man now?
He entered the hall to find The MacKeir regaling Gifford, Piers, Amice, Laila, and even Agatha with some undoubtedly exaggerated tale of when he and his men fought off a hundred McDougals.
“And then, I jumped over the blade, twisted in the air, and brought my sword down right across the bastard’s neck,” Lugh said.
“Did you manage to perform a backflip at the same time?” Cain asked dryly.
Lugh grinned. “Did not think of it. Mayhap next time.”
Cain poured himself a cup of ale.
Rising to his feet, Lugh nodded to his audience then looked at Cain. “Hawksdown, I would have private discourse with you.”
Amice jumped up. “Lugh, I—”
“Do not worry. I shall not kill him.” He put his hands out. “I have no weapons.”
“Come,” Cain interrupted. “We can talk in my solar.” He gestured to The MacKeir. They left the hall and walked up the steps.
Once in the solar, The MacKeir closed the door and crossed his arms. “Did you bed my woman?”
For a moment, Cain stared at him, considering how best to respond. “Aye.”
“Why?” The MacKeir’s jaw looked like it could break apart at any instant.
“I should think it obvious.”
MacKeir took a step toward Cain. “Is it your habit to bed innocent women who happen to be within your holding?”
“Nay.”
“Then why Amice?”
There was no way Cain would tell him the truth. He could no more resist Amice than a fly could resist honey. “I had too much to drink, Amice was there, and…” he shrugged his shoulders.
“That is your excuse?”
Cain rubbed the back of his neck. “I knew naught of any betrothal.”
“Aye, but you do not answer my question. Amice is not a wench to be trifled with.”
“Nay, but she is a very beautiful woman.”
The MacKeir studied him through narrowed eyes. “I have long wanted Amice to be my wife, but circumstances delayed me being able to claim her.”
“And now?” Cain found himself half-hoping MacKeir had changed his mind.
“What happened between you and Amice in the past?”
Cain met the The MacKeir’s stare. “’Tis none of your affair.”
“Anything affecting my betrothed is my affair.”
“If Amice wishes to share the story with you, ‘tis her choice, but you shall not hear it from me.”
“Mayhap I should have killed you,” The MacKeir said, rubbing his chin.
“You would have been next.”
MacKeir shrugged. “Would not be the first time someone tried to slay me.”
“Even you could not fight off my entire garrison alone.”
“You shall give her your villa as recompense?”
“I shall grant it to her when that damned wraith is gone from Falcon’s Craig.”
“What kind of man forces a woman to his will and besmirches her honor?”
“A desperate one.”
The MacKeir scowled. “Than I shall stay as well to ensure Amice’s safety.”
“Fine.”
“And my men will be permitted entry. You have my word no treachery shall come of it.”
Cain nodded.
The MacKeir cocked a brow. “Are you in love with her?”
Love? Cain’s heart slowly twisted in his chest. He could not be. He was not sure he even knew anymore what that mysterious emotion was. “Nay.”
The MacKeir gave him a knowing look and strode out of the chamber.
Agatha knelt on the ground in the castle garden, pulling weeds from among the plantings of rosemary and lavender. She loved gardening, usually found the rhythmic motions soothing.
But not today.
Today all she saw was Lugh MacKeir, wielding his sword like some kind of conquering hero from the legend of Camelot. Her hand trembled as she yanked a weed.
“Lady Agatha?” a voice rumbled.
Her stomach flipped over. Slowly, she peered up and swallowed. The MacKeir stood over her, his massive body blocking the sun. “Aye?”
He squatted down next to her.
Agatha caught her breath. His eyes gleamed just like the lush green of the grass beneath her knees.
“I would know more about you.”
“Me?” Agatha’s voice came out a squeak and she coughed.
“Aye.” He planted each hand on the ground.
“I… I fear I am not very interesting, my lord.”
“Chief.” He drew his heavy brows together. “
Why has no man claimed you?”
Agatha lifted her chin and stood, clutching her bag of weeds. “’Tis none of your affair.”
The MacKeir rose and towered over her. “Has your brother not seen to your welfare?”
“My brother allows me the freedom to live at Styrling Castle.”
“Without a man? ‘Tis unnatural.”
“I assure you, it is quite natural for me.” Agatha’s face heated as she recalled her conversation with Amice. This man’s betrothed, she reminded herself.
He studied her and lifted a brow. “English men are blind indeed.”
The heat in Agatha’s face spread down her body. “I… I appreciate your concern, my, uh, chief, but I am content.”
“Are you?” He seemed to come closer though Agatha would swear he had not moved a single sculpted muscle.
“Aye.”
The MacKeir shook his head. “A woman needs a man’s touch.”
Agatha opened her mouth to dispute him.
“Just as a man needs a woman’s. ‘Tis as certain as the sun’s rise each day.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
“Mayhap you have not met the right man, Lady Agatha.”
“Mayhap,” she said weakly.
He winked. “Or perhaps you have.”
Agatha stood in the garden watching him leave, and felt as if the air had just been sucked out of her in one great whoosh. He is betrothed. He is a wild Highlander.
He is absolutely the most provoking man I have ever encountered.
Dear God, what was she to do?
Cain sat in the hall the next morning, nursing another cup of ale and trying very hard to remind himself of his goals. Keep the estate profitable. See to his villeins’ welfare. Find a man to exert some control over Morganna’s behavior. Figure out how to entice one to take Agatha.
None of it was working. He had never felt so helpless and frustrated in his entire life.
He cut a glance over at Amice, who sat calmly munching on a bite of bread. Damn it. Just watching her eat aroused him, the movement of her lips, the touch of her tongue catching a crumb from her mouth, making him ache for her taste.
Suddenly, his captain, Thomas, burst into the hall, his face taut and his eyes burning. “My lord!” he called.