The Laird's Choice

by Amanda Scott

  With a mental grimace, Mag told himself to stop thinking like a dafty. He would never take a belt to any lass, let alone to Andrena. Sakes, but he had even stopped MacNur from giving that scamp Pluff a well-deserved leathering.

  She licked her lips as if she might be nervous. But she seemed more curious and uneasy than anxious. Uneasy was good. She should be uneasy.

  “I should not have said what I did,” she murmured, looking down and then up into his eyes. “I did not think before I spoke. But you are right when you say that I’d dislike it if you said something like that about me to someone I’d just met.”

  He nodded, his fingers contracting on her shoulders. He did not speak, because he no longer wanted to punish her. But what he wanted to do would teach her nowt save the strength of his desire for her, desire so strong that she might easily see it as a weapon or a means, at least, of controlling him. He gazed into her eyes, wishing he could peer through those dark pupils to the thoughts in her mind.

  “I wish you would say what you are thinking,” she said. “Or do whatever it is that you mean to do to me.”

  His hands tightened again on her shoulders, but looking down into those heavily lashed blue-black eyes, he could not seem to think of anything but the sensations storming through his body. His cock, having lain dormant for nineteen months before getting a taste of what it had missed, wanted much more and was urging him to forget everything except what the lass offered to remedy the lack.

  Forget punishment, it seemed to shout. Just dominate the woman in bed!

  Seizing on her last few words, he said, “I am not going to do anything dreadful, lass. I just want to be sure that you understand what you did, why I didn’t like it, and to know that you won’t do such a thing again.”

  “I won’t, sir; I promise,” she said. “It was gey thoughtless of me.”

  “Then we’ll say no more about it.”

  She sighed, and he knew that she had been worried, perhaps even afraid of what he might do.

  “There is one more thing I would ask,” he said.

  “What?” Her little red tongue darted out to dampen her lips.

  “Sir Ian delights in teasing his friends and flirting with comely women. Prithee, do not encourage him.”

  “Mercy, sir, do you think Ian would go beyond the bounds? I do not.”

  “Nevertheless, you must not encourage him. I don’t like it.”

  “Well, that is plain enough,” she said with a rueful look.

  Shifting his right hand from her shoulder to cup the back of her head, he gently touched her lips with his. When she pressed forward, inviting more, he murmured, “You are mine now, lass. If you want to flirt, flirt with me.”

  Her lips curved against his as if she were smiling, so he scooped her into his arms and took her to bed.

  Andrena savored his lovemaking but felt as if something were missing, as if he were not wholly with her. Her previous experience of sexual matters had consisted only of occasional flirtation and rudimentary knowledge gained from watching animals. So she could not measure how he compared to or differed from other men.

  She did know that she had easily sensed the strength of a man’s desire for her then. Indeed, most men who desired her had made no secret of their feelings.

  But Mag had said naught of having tender feelings, or any feelings, come to that—except that he had disliked Ian’s flirting with her. She had known then from the hungry look in Mag’s eyes that he’d wanted to take her. But although he pounded strongly into her now, it seemed only physical, and she was unsure how to respond. Unable to gauge his emotions, she felt adrift in a world no longer her own.

  For all she knew, he was still furious with her.

  After he reached his climax, he lay beside her and pulled her close so that her head rested on his chest near his shoulder. Listening to his slowing, steady heartbeat, she waited for him to say something. The next thing she knew, he was asleep.

  Irritation stirred. She felt like giving him a good shake to wake him. But she could think of nothing sensible to say if she did. While she tried to think of a pithy way to explain how she felt, she fell asleep herself.

  Saturday morning, they got up early and joined Colquhoun and Sir Ian on the dais to break their fast. While they ate, gillies carried their belongings to the wharf.

  Outside, the sky was gray, heavy with overcast. A brisk wind from the south raised frothy waves on the loch. Andrena wore her fur-lined cloak and her boots, so she was warm. But the voyage would be slow unless the wind shifted or died down.

  The longboat provided little comfort for passengers, but Mag drew her to a bench near a small cabin near the prow. There, the cabin wall and the boat’s high stempost and sloping plank sides protected them from the wind. Warmed through by his body heat, lulled by the low, steady beat of the helmsman’s drum and the rhythmic stroking of oars, she gazed idly out over the backs of the oarsmen. She could see all the way to the towering, mist-curtained mountains that cradled the loch’s head. No other boat or sail was in view.

  Magnus was silent, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

  Continuing her idle musing, she wondered what, other than flirting with Ian, might anger Mag enough for her to sense it in her usual way. In any case, she knew she would be wiser not to anger him while they traveled with Ian and his men. A tickling awareness stirred that angering Magnus was unlikely ever to be wise.

  She tried to imagine just asking him about his feelings and persuading him to describe them for her. When they made love, she felt an aching desire for him throughout. But as stoical as he was, despite the strength and power of his lovemaking and the pleasure he brought her, she could sense no identifiable emotion in him. She knew she would find it hard to express her increasingly tender feelings for him unless she could sense his eagerness to accept them.

  A new thought stirred. What if he didn’t have any feelings for her? Faith, what if he felt no tender emotions? Not only might being a prisoner of Parlan’s have killed such feelings in any man, but she had heard of warriors who possessed strong feelings only for war and fighting. Such men used women only when they felt lustful. What if Magnus was like them?

  Worse, what if he’d married her only to acquire some MacFarlan land? How would she know? He might even be spying for Parlan. Who would know?

  Common sense told her that she was imagining things. Mag did reveal his amusement. He was protective of her, and she believed that his gratitude to Lina for his new clothing was sincere. At last, aware that he was dozing as he held her, she fixed her gaze on the scenery and wondered where they would find his grace.

  Mag dozed but remained aware of the longboat’s progress and eyed the loch behind them regularly through slitted lashes to be sure that no one followed them.

  Ian stayed with his helmsman for a time but joined Mag and Andrena to share the midday meal that his father’s kitchen had provided.

  Mag noted with satisfaction that the younger man behaved toward Andrena with propriety. Doubtless he did so to set an example for his men. But, whatever the reason, Mag approved of the change in his behavior.

  The longboat entered the Firth of Clyde at midafternoon and reached the harbor serving the royal burgh and castle of Dumbarton shortly afterward.

  Dumbarton Castle sat atop a two-hundred-foot rock of basalt that jutted up in a sheer wall above the influx of the river Leven to the river Clyde, thus forming an imposing peninsula in the east angle of the confluence. A full mile around, the enormous rock stood starkly alone in the landscape. The castle entrance was on its north side, where one followed an ascending footpath through a series of iron gates.

  It took one of Ian’s oarsmen, sent ashore at the harbor, just minutes to learn that Jamie Stewart was staying at nearby Paisley Abbey, southwest of Glasgow.

  “ ’Tis our good luck that he is so near,” Ian said. “He visits Paisley often, though. Sithee, his father lies buried before the high altar in the abbey kirk, and Jamie was gey fond of the old King.�
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  Ian sent the same man back the castle to tell Gregor Colquhoun that, since the tide was receding, Ian would take the galley on to Dunglass, the Colquhoun stronghold farther up the Clyde. “You’ll be glad to stretch your legs by walking to Dunglass,” he told his henchman cheerfully. “We’ll meet you there.” To Mag, he added, “Dunglass is three miles nearer Paisley than Dumbarton is.”

  “I’d surmised as much, aye,” Mag said, having no objection to the plan.

  Less than an hour later, Dunglass loomed ahead. Mag had not seen it from the water before, having always approached from the landward side.

  The riverside stronghold boasted a twenty-foot curtain wall with the Colquhoun arms marking a turret at the southwest corner. A wharf and jetty extended from the gate a few yards east of that turret, and the hoarding above the wharf held men-at-arms who eyed them suspiciously until Ian waved and extended their Colquhoun banner, rendered limp by lack of wind.

  The gate opened, and men hurried to the wharf to aid their landing.

  As Ian’s captain brought the galley alongside the wharf with a flourish, Mag said to Ian, “Andrena and I will take horses from here if you will lend them, lad. You’ll want to stay with your boat.”

  “Nay, Maggy, me lad. Not only do I have orders from my father to render you every assistance, but taking horse from here would also mean riding all the way to Glasgow and back westward to Paisley. We keep horses across the river. So we’ll cross in the morning. As you’ve seen, I have thirty oarsmen. They are also skilled men-at-arms and gey loyal. We’ll take eight of them with us.”

  “Only eight?” Mag said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Since you have been serving Pharlain, who never heeds any rules including his own, you may be unaware of the restrictions Jamie imposed on the size of noble retinues, last year during his first Parliament. A knight may take only eight men in his tail. A lesser laird, a prior, or a gentleman may take only six. Forbye, earls may have a score of men and a lord, a bishop, or a mitered abbot a dozen. We’ll leave the rest of my lads here to look after the boat and to rest.”

  “How did Jamie determine how many men a tail should have?” Mag asked as they prepared to disembark.

  Ian shrugged. “No one knows, but his intent was clear. He wants to keep nobles of any rank from leading armies to wreak havoc all over the country as so many of them did before his return. He also wants to end private wars between nobles and clans, and hopes that such restrictions will aid him toward that goal.”

  Standing, Andrena said, “It is not only Parlan who ignores such rules. From what I ken of Murdoch, Lennox, and their followers, few of them obey, either.”

  “They obey the rules when they know the King is nearby,” Ian said. “Some say he learned the art of ruthlessness from his uncle, the first Duke of Albany. So, unless we meet the Abbot of Paisley, I doubt we’ll see any group larger than ours today. ’Tis the abbot’s loss if he does not meet you, Dree,” he added, grinning.

  Andrena smiled back and then shot a look at Mag as he stood up beside her.

  Mag wanted to think she looked wary and hoped she was not challenging him. But he was nearly certain that she was just trying to get a rise out of him.

  To his surprise, the thought both warmed and amused him.

  Having smiled automatically in response to Ian’s compliment, Andrena felt instantly guilty, because she had decided not to encourage him. Seeing amusement in Mag’s eyes reassured her, and she gratefully accepted his hand when he offered it to help her step from the ship to the wharf.

  They spent the night at Dunglass, and Sunday morning at dawn, two Colquhoun cobles ferried their eleven-member party across the river to a small village harbor there. Magnus and Ian hired horses and sumpter ponies. Then they were all off again, wending their way along the east bank of the river White Cart as it meandered through ever-rising hills.

  Mag and Ian chatted desultorily as they rode, and Andrena listened. The ride was uneventful, and the sun peeked over the eastern hilltops just as the steeple of Paisley Abbey’s kirk came into view beyond a rise in the path. Cresting the rise, they saw the abbey and its grounds stretched along the riverbank below them.

  The gates beside a stately gatehouse stood open. Passing between them, Andrena feasted her eyes on the extensive gardens surrounding the abbey buildings.

  They dismounted in the courtyard, where a lay brother directed them to a guesthouse of considerable size. While Ian arranged to stable their horses and accommodate his men, the guest-master came outside to greet them, enveloped head to toe in the cape and hood of the Cluniac Black Monks who served the abbey. Had the stately gatehouse and the elegant stone wall surrounding the abbey not reminded Andrena that Paisley’s Benedictine order was Cluniac, the guest-master’s unmistakable aristocratic bearing and manner of speech would have done so.

  Hands clasped inside his capacious sleeves, he said to Magnus, “I am Brother Elias, my son. How may we serve you?”

  “We request chambers for the night, Brother Elias. I am Magnus Mòr MacFarlan and this is my lady wife. We come from Tùr Meiloach, in the Highlands between Loch Lomond and the Loch of the Long Boats. We also request audience with his grace, the King, to whom I bring an urgent message. We represent Andrew Dubh, true Chief of Clan Farlan and a fierce supporter of his grace.”

  “You and your retinue are welcome,” Brother Elias said. “I will relay your request to his grace’s steward. Despite its urgency, I cannot promise that his grace will grant you an audience. He usually does so for anyone who makes effort to seek him out, as you have. But he reserves Sundays for prayer and contemplation. We celebrate High Mass at midday and encourage our guests to attend. Afterward, yeomen will serve dinner in your chambers. We are a silent order,” he added. “If you have other wishes or concerns to express, prithee do so through me. You may make simple requests of our lay brothers and yeomen. And they may speak to you. If his grace agrees to see you, he will do so tomorrow after early Mass.”

  “His grace is fixed here for some time then,” Mag said.

  “His grace’s people do not share knowledge of his movements or plans, my son. His grace will remain here until he departs.”

  They thanked him, and when Ian rejoined them, a yeoman showed them to two spacious chambers across a stair landing from each other. The man pointed out amenities, including a hogshead of wine. When he added that her ladyship might be more comfortable in a chamber reserved for visiting noblewomen, since his grace’s entourage included two other noble wives, Mag said, “My lady wife will stay with me. But we will not both fit in that bed. If you can arrange for a pallet…”

  “I will do so, sir, and I will bring hot water,” the yeoman said. “Dinner will be ready when you return from Mass. Will you dine together here, or separately?”

  Ian and Mag looked at each other.

  “Together,” Andrena said firmly.

  The yeoman annoyed her then by looking to Mag for confirmation.

  Peripherally noting Andrena’s stiffened expression, Mag nodded with a smile in response to the yeoman’s question.

  The man paused long enough to ensure that they desired nothing else. Then he departed, leaving the three of them standing by the open door.

  “They expect us to attend that High Mass, Ian,” Mag said. “We’ll meet you on the landing in an hour.”

  “Aye, good,” Ian replied. “I want to see where they’ve put my men to be sure they are content.” Grinning, he added, “Shall I rap if I get here before you?”

  “If that happens, practice patience,” Mag said.

  Ian chuckled, winked at Andrena, and vanished down the stairs.

  Mag shut the door and watched as she surveyed the room. Light came through two windows, each no wider than his two hands placed side by side. But the chamber was comfortably furnished and contained a small fireplace with a full wood basket beside it. The table boasted a white linen tablecloth and four cushioned back-stools. A side table held silver candlesticks, tankards, gob
lets, plates, spoons, and bowls.

  “The linens on this bed are delightfully fragrant,” Andrena said. “I expected a tidy monk’s cell. This is nicer than our bedchamber at home.”

  “The abbey frequently welcomes royal and noble guests,” Mag reminded her. Hearing male voices outside the door, he added, “That must be our hot water and mayhap our sumpter baskets.”

  He opened the door to a pair of lads bearing water pitchers and the baskets. When they had gone, Mag poured water into the washstand basin and said, “Wash up, lass. I want to look around whilst we’re here.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad. I was thinking—”

  “I ken fine what I suggested to Ian, but I feel the presence of too many priests to indulge my lust now,” he admitted.

  “I, too. Moreover, someone will soon be bringing your pallet.”

  “Mine?” He chuckled at the look of astonishment she gave him.

  In response, she shook her head at him.

  When she had washed, they went down to the courtyard, strolled quietly through the gardens, and met Ian without returning to the landing. They attended High Mass in the splendid abbey kirk, enjoying the ceremonial procession of the abbot, his train of attendant Black Monks, and the rest of the elaborate liturgy.

  The time passed faster than Mag had expected. Even so, his stomach informed him several times toward the end that he had not eaten enough earlier. When they exited the kirk, they found the lord abbot awaiting them.

  Greeting them and learning their names, he said cheerfully, “Prithee, enjoy your stay, my children.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Andrena said. “During Mass, I saw women holding strings of beautiful beads whilst they prayed. Where may one purchase them?”

  “Those are Paternoster beads, my lady. One counts one’s prayers on them, and our people string them here. I would be fain to gift a string to you. Later this afternoon, we look forward to seeing you at Vespers.”

  When they were beyond the abbot’s hearing, Ian said, “Is that how you force your husband to buy jewels for you, lass?”