The Laird's Choice

by Amanda Scott

  She smiled. “He may buy me whatever he likes, sir. But the beads are to be a gift for Mam on her birthday. I think she will like them. She does not hold by all the teachings of the Roman Kirk. But she does take interest in such matters.”

  So it was that they attended Vespers before supper.

  In their room afterward, Andrena admired the string of amber beads that one of the lay brothers had given her on her way out, with the abbot’s compliments.

  Mag had dropped two silver groats in the collection basket, earning a smile from the monk.

  “Thank you, sir,” Andrena said as they’d walked away, and Mag nodded.

  While serving supper in their room, their yeoman hinted that they should attend Complines, too. “Mercy, more prayers?” Andrena murmured after he left.

  “Not for me,” Ian said, helping himself to bread. “The abbot said we should enjoy our stay. Forbye, it is dark already and I warrant they’ll have us up before dawn. I’ll look in on my lads, but I don’t mean to linger with them.”

  “We’ll go out with you,” Mag said. “There should be a moon tonight.”

  They accompanied Ian to the stable entrance and then quietly followed a pathway around the abbey kirk. Although it was dark, a slender thread of a moon showed itself in a declivity northeast of them. The sky had filled with stars, too, so they had light to see their way. The silence was comfortable, but Andrena realized that Mag had talked little since their arrival.

  When they returned to their chamber, they found that someone had left a pallet on the floor by the bed, already made up with fresh sheets and blankets. A stone cresset on the table provided light, with flint and a tinderbox nearby.

  As Mag lit a candle at the cresset, Andrena watched him.

  “Magnus, I wish you would talk to me,” she said into the silence. “You have barely spoken to me all day other than to ask me to pass food to you at the table.”

  Letting wax drip into the candlestick’s socket—for she knew from the scent that it was wax, not tallow—he held the candle and waited a few seconds for the wax set around it before he let go and looked up with a smile.

  “What would you have me say, lass?”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “I told you before that you would know it if I were.”

  “Mayhap you did, but I can scarcely tell what you are feeling from one minute to the next.”

  “Nay, how should you? But if I were wroth with you, I would say so. Otherwise, I am just myself. I am comfortable with silence. But if you want to discuss something, you need only tell me. I fear that during these past months, I lost the habit of initiating conversation. Sithee, Parlan did not encourage talk, especially amongst those of us who served him against our will.”

  “It must have been horrid,” she said. “Did he keep you in chains?”

  She would want to talk about Parlan. But he had asked for it, hadn’t he?

  Even so, he did not like talking about himself. When he was younger and less experienced, he had enjoyed boasting about his successes and had hounded his father and brothers to judge his skills and teach him more. Now, though…

  “Well, did he?” she said.

  “Sometimes,” he admitted.

  “Magnus.”

  “I wish you’d call me Mag, lass, especially when we’re alone. When you said Magnus just then, you sounded exactly as my father did just before he’d take leather to me.”

  She bit her lower lip, but he’d detected a near smile.

  “What?” he demanded. “Do you laugh at me?”

  Then she did laugh but shook her head hard as if to assure him, even so, that she did not laugh at him.

  “It sounds as if you are laughing at me.”

  “I promise, I’m not,” she said, visibly struggling to contain her amusement. “I… I just have a vivid imagination. And the image of you over anyone’s knee…”

  Breaking off again, red-faced and nearly choking as she tried to suppress more laughter, she looked at him helplessly.

  “I was a lad then,” he said. “But you ken that fine.”

  Finding breath at last, she gasped, “I do… But I can’t… picture you then.” After a deep breath, she added, “I know only how you look now. When I try to picture you as a boy, I see you as you are now, only… only smaller.”

  He supposed the image of him as he looked now but bent over his father’s knee would be humorous to a lass who did not know Galbraith. That Mag’s own memories of such events were not ones he cherished would scarcely impress her though, not while she was irritated with him for not talking more with her.

  He did like to see her laugh, even if she was laughing at him.

  She was eyeing him differently now. He could tell that she had thought of something else, something that she was unsure she ought to mention.

  He stepped closer and put his hands gently on her shoulders. “What is it, lass? By my troth, I am not angry or even a wee bit annoyed. Forbye, if I had been angry, my anger is quickly over. Even when I was a lad, that was true. I would roar at something or someone and then be laughing minutes later.”

  “I have not seen you laugh,” she said, frowning as if she were trying to recall when he might have done so. “It surprised me when you chuckled before.”

  “I don’t laugh much anymore,” he admitted. “I like watching you laugh, though. Just now you look as if you are fretting about something and don’t want to tell me what it is. If you want more conversation, you must feel free to speak.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “I’m just not certain that I ought to speak my thoughts aloud yet.”

  “Sakes, but now you must,” he said with a smile.

  “I suppose so,” she agreed. “Sithee, you know that my father wanted me to meet the King with you.”

  “Aye, I ken that fine,” he said. “I agreed to it.”

  “You did,” she said. “But you have not said anything to me about the message you have for his grace. I did not ask you about it when you first spoke of it, because we fell into that discussion about whether I would even come with you or not. And I haven’t liked to inquire since, because I ken fine that the information may be unsuitable for me to know. But unless you mean to meet privately with his grace and then invite me to join you, which might not suit him…”

  “I’ll admit that I did not consider that,” he said when she paused. “I have never been one to share confidential matters with the women in my family. My sisters rarely keep anything to themselves. But you have promised to respect my confidences, and you have given me no cause to doubt that you will. Moreover, your father clearly trusts you to speak for him.” He paused reflectively.

  She was silent.

  Hands still on her shoulders, he gazed into her beautiful face. Then, bluntly, he said, “Parlan has been plotting with others to kill his grace.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “Murdoch and his two elder sons, most likely. Also Lennox, I suspect.”

  “That’s why you escaped then, to warn the King?”

  “Aye, but you and your father persist in giving me credit I do not deserve. I escaped because opportunity finally presented itself, and I dared not ignore it.”

  “Even Ian said he’d have expected you to escape straightaway.”

  “Mayhap I would have, had I seen a chance to do so. But I was injured, often chained, and didn’t care much then about where I was or who had chained me.”

  “Will you tell me more about that?”

  “Some other time, perhaps,” he said. “I dislike talking about it.”

  She nodded. “Mayhap we might think of something else to do then, other than talk. Because if we do talk, I’ll likely ask you to tell me more.”

  He smiled. “I think that bed may be large enough for me to keep your mind off of that subject for a time, at least.”

  Mag did keep Andrena’s mind sensuously, even ardently, occupied for a time. But, although he was inventive and stirred eager response
s in her everywhere his lips, warm hands, fingers, cock, or agile tongue touched her, she felt afterward as if much was still missing from the experience.

  He murmured softly to her about how silky her skin felt and how her long hair enticed his fingers to stroke and toy with it. But the strongest reaction from him was a groaning sigh as he gave way to his own needs and began pounding into her. After he reached his climax, he fell asleep as usual, despite the too-small bed.

  She did not expect further discussion after their coupling. But she did wish he would tell her more about himself. That topic was of greater importance to her than the contents of his message for the King, despite her belief that had he failed to share the message with her, it would likely have caused problems later with his grace.

  Bereft of her abilities as she was with Mag, she was at a loss for a way to overcome his reluctance to share his more private opinions and feelings.

  He was easy enough to talk to about most things. So, why…?

  The answer came before the question fully formed in her mind: His feelings were not the issue. Her abilities were. She could not keep pressing him to share thoughts and emotions that disturbed him without fully explaining her strange ability to sense such things in others, something she had never had to do before. Her parents had known she was different from the start. Her sisters shared most of her abilities.

  She had nearly explained as much when Mag had insisted that she would know if he was angry. Before she had met him, if she angered someone, she knew it as soon as it happened, even if the person’s expression remained as blank as Mag’s so often did. If an opponent in an argument reacted negatively or grew emotionally fixed on his or her idea of how a debate should result, she could tell as easily as if the person were to tell her so. But Mag defeated her and apparently without effort.

  She wished that she had discussed him more with her mother. Lady Aubrey understood her gifts better than most people did and had liked Mag from the start. Perhaps, Andrena thought drowsily, she should talk with her when they got home. When a hint of doubt followed the thought, she realized she could not do it.

  Mag had not mentioned her mother, only her sisters. But since it was wrong to discuss things he told her with Lina or Murie, it must be just as wrong—sakes, it would be base betrayal—to reveal her private issues with him to Lady Aubrey.

  She was thinking about that when she fell asleep, and it was the first thing on her mind when she awoke. Mag stood naked by one narrow, unshuttered window, staring outside. His expression, as usual, revealed naught of his thoughts.

  Although she would have liked to ask what he was thinking, she kept still, enjoying instead the sight of his splendid body in the pale dawn light.

  Mag felt her watching him and knew she had wakened. But she did not speak. Therefore, she was likely thinking about him or whatever still lay between them. He turned, saw her smile, and wished they had time to couple.

  “People are up and about, lass, outside as well as in,” he said. “Someone rapped on the door just minutes ago, doubtless to let us know that we should break our fast. I left plenty of water for you. But beware. ’Tis icy cold.”

  Pushing back the covers, she said, “Do you suppose the King washes with icy water whilst he is here?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. From what I’ve heard, Jamie likes comfort.”

  “Well, he can’t have got much of it as the English king’s prisoner, which is a lack that you also experienced, as Parlan’s captive.”

  “Aye, but nineteen months hardly equates to nineteen years.”

  “Even so, you should each have some understanding of the other.”

  She was right. But he did not know what to say, so he did not reply.

  Chapter 11

  Andrena would have liked to pursue the subject, but the air was chilly. She hurried through her ablutions and then donned her amber-colored tunic and skirt while Mag kilted up his new plaid. She was tucking her plaits neatly into her coif when a rap heralded the arrival of the yeoman with breakfast.

  When Ian joined them at the table, the yeoman said to Mag, “Brother Elias said I might tell you, sir, that his grace will see you directly after early Mass. “Also, if you agree, Sir Ian is to accompany you and her ladyship. See you, his grace likes to meet the knights of his realm whenever he can. Do you agree, sir?”

  Hesitating briefly, Mag said, “I do, aye.”

  “Thank you, sir. Brother Elias will come for you in half an hour’s time.”

  The guest-master arrived promptly and led them to the elegant, high-ceilinged hall that James of Scotland used as his audience chamber at Paisley.

  When they reached the tall, heavily carved door, Brother Elias said to Mag, “I will enter first, sir. Then you, Sir Ian, and your lady wife will follow me in. Prithee, wait then by the door until his grace nods for you to approach.”

  “We will, aye,” Mag said.

  When the guest-master announced their names, James nodded.

  Andrena knew, as did most Scots, that the King would be thirty-one at the end of July. Even seated, as he was, she saw he was shorter than his more Vikinglike Stewart kinsmen. His body was what Scots called “square-built”: heavy shouldered, thick through the torso, and solid. His dark-auburn hair touched his shoulders, thick, wavy, and unadorned. Despite the black velvet robe of state he wore over a red tunic and black leggings, his legs were fully visible. Their muscular thighs reminded her that he had a reputation for being skilled with all weapons and impressively athletic. Men also said he was imaginative, played nearly every known instrument, wrote verses on any subject that sprang to his royal mind, and was a master chess player.

  His dark eyes remained serious and watchful as Andrena approached with Mag and Ian until she smiled and sank into a deep curtsy before him. Returning her smile, James stood, saying. “Welcome to Paisley, my lady.”

  “It is an honor to meet your grace,” she said.

  “You may rise,” James said and then turned to Mag. More sternly, even severely, he said, “Brother Elias announced you as Magnus Mòr MacFarlan. But my steward, Sir William Fletcher, tells me you were born with a different name. Would you like to share the facts of that discrepancy with me?”

  Mag felt a sudden urge to clear his throat. Curbing it, he said with his usual calm, “By my troth, your grace, I meant no deceit. I gave the guest-master the name I’d agreed to take when I married the lady Andrena MacFarlan, at her lord father’s request. Forbye, I ought to have explained to Brother Elias before he brought us in that I was born Magnus Galbraith of Inch Galbraith and Culcreuch.”

  “Then Will Fletcher was right,” James said. “He’d heard that MacFarlan of Tùr Meiloach had devised such a requirement for any man who sought the hand of his eldest daughter. He did not mention, though, what a beauty her ladyship is.”

  Aware that Andrena’s gaze had shifted to him, Mag smiled, saying, “She is indeed, your grace, to my good fortune.” He was tempted to praise Jamie’s queen in return. But having never laid eyes on her grace, a keepsake from Jamie’s English captivity and one that all knew he loved deeply, Mag kept silent.

  James might, he thought, be the sole King of Scots in history to show sexual interest in only his wife. Some did say that his royal sire had been faithful to Queen Annabella Drummond… in his later years, at least.

  “I’m told that you bring an urgent message, Magnus Galbraith MacFarlan,” James said. “Will you impart it to me now?”

  “I’ll leave, if you like,” Ian said quietly to Mag.

  Mag hesitated.

  “Does Sir Ian not enjoy your confidence?” James asked.

  “He is, as yet, unaware of what I will tell you, your grace. It is information gleaned whilst I was a prisoner of Pharlain of Arrochar.”

  “So, you have also endured imprisonment, have you?”

  “Aye, your grace. But just nineteen months of it.”

  “Imprisonment is imprisonment,” James said sourly. “It changes a man, through and
through.”

  “It does, aye,” Mag agreed.

  “I will make your decision for you, then. Sir Ian will retire until you have shared your message with me. However, before you leave us, sir,” he added, looking at Ian, “I will hear from your own lips whether you, as a knight of my realm, and your lord father as Chief of Clan Colquhoun, stand with me or with those who oppose my right to the Scottish throne.”

  Ian stepped forward. Removing his gloves as required when swearing fealty, he dropped to a knee before James. Looking into his dark eyes, Ian put his right hand over his heart and said solemnly, “I, Ian Colquhoun, do swear to you on my honor as a knight of this realm and heir to the chiefdom of Clan Colquhoun, for myself, for my heirs, and for all others who be loyal to me and to my chief that we are now and ever will be loyal to you as rightful King of Scots.”

  Then, extending his bare hands to James, he bowed his head, adding, “Loyally do I pledge that we will render unto your grace the services due unto you from our estates—now and, God helping, to the end of our days.”

  Gripping Ian’s hands and placing one atop the other between his own, James said, “You are sure, then, that you speak for your father and for your clan.”

  “I am, your grace,” Ian said, meeting the royal gaze. “My lord father and I have long been of one mind in this.”

  “Then I do accept your pledge, Sir Ian Colquhoun. Will your father attend my Parliament in Perth on the twelfth day of March?”

  “If you want him, he will be there.”

  “I do want him, and you, too.”

  “We are yours to command, my liege,” Ian said.

  James released Ian’s hands. “I welcome your support, sir,” he said. “Doubtless, the lady Andrena will welcome your escort now as you leave us.”

  Mag saw Andrena stiffen. But the movement was so slight that he doubted Jamie had noticed. In any event, Ian’s words and demeanor had strengthened his increasing belief that he could trust the younger man—in most ways.