by Terry Spear
James groaned inwardly. How long had his brother been watching them? “Little brother, her cousin comes for her. Hush.”
‘Twas not much longer when a strapping young man, red blond hair like the girl’s, came into view astride a roan, a scar across his face, giving him a surly look.
“There you are. God’s wounds, cousin, my da will take a strap to you for running off. Why are you soaked to the bone? Get up.”
“I…I hurt myself.”
Her cousin jumped from his horse, leaned down, and grabbed her wrist.
James would have leapt from his hiding place and protected the lass if his brother hadn’t seized his arm and shaken his head.
The girl’s cousin yanked her to her feet, and she screamed out.
‘Twas more than James could bear. He fought against Malcolm, furious he would stop him from rescuing the lass.
“Och, Da will be more than displeased.” Her cousin grabbed her by the waist.
“My bag.” Her face pained, she motioned to the leather pouch on the ground.
He glanced at it. “Your rocks?” He grunted. “Da needs to find you a husband without delay.”
“But—”
He threw her over the saddle, and again she cried out. Before she could protest or James could get loose from Malcolm, the lass’s cousin remounted and galloped off.
“Who was she?” Malcolm asked as they rose from their crouched position.
The most foolish lassie James had ever met, and the only one who had ever heated his body to a fevered pitch, stolen every reasonable thought in his mind, and left him yearning for more of her touch.
He frowned at his brother for stopping him from rescuing the lass from her brutish cousin. Malcolm leaned down and lifted an ariasaid from the ground, hidden by the shadows of the rocks. “Is it hers?”
James took the plaid from his brother and smelled it. “Aye.” ‘Twas the sweet lassie’s scent. He tucked it into his plaid and traversed the rocky cliff. When he reached her bag, he hoped to discover more about who she was and where she was from. He peered inside and stared at the contents. Rocks? No wonder the lass weighed as much as his horse. Well, that, and her wet kirtle. He tied the pouch to his waist, hoping to learn who the lass was and return her treasures. “Is Da drunk again?”
“Aye. When is he not? But he says you must wed soon, and he wishes you to choose from one of the lassies he has in mind for you to marry.”
“I will not be laird until he is gone. ‘Tis time to take up my sword in the Crusade.” Mayhap James could redeem his father’s sins. Or mayhap not. He glanced in the direction the lass’s cousin had ridden. “Time enough later to find a lass to wed.”
When he could find one who made him feel like the girl in the green kirtle did, with silken hair and sea green eyes, who challenged him with her sweet innocence, aye, then he would wed.
Dubh Linn, Ireland, 1107
Chapter One
Eilis hastily brushed away tears, and kissed her beloved cousin’s cold cheek. Now with Agnes dead, ‘twas only her wee brother and her against the world.
“Hurry, Lady Eilis,” her cousin’s maid, Wynda, scolded. “You must not keep your uncle waiting. He has an audience with the king after he speaks with you.”
The fact Eilis’s uncle had summoned her right before he spoke with Muirchertach did not bode well.
“I am afraid of Uncle Ceardach,” Ethan whispered, her brother’s small hand squeezing Eilis’s to death, and she knew no matter how much she wanted to protect him from her uncle’s harsh ways, she had no power here. “He is verra angry that Cousin Agnes died,” Ethan added.
Looking up at Eilis, Ethan took a hesitant breath, his green eyes wide with trepidation, his windswept curly blond locks tangled over his forehead and the rest hanging down to his shoulders—a miniature version of their deceased father.
Eilis’s heart shrank with distress. “Aye,” she said softly, wishing she could allay her wee brother’s fears, wishing she could steal away with him and live with some other kinsman. But there were none who would go against her uncle’s will and provide them shelter.
She had seen her uncle terrorize his brother’s servants and even his own this verra morn. She had hoped once Agnes married Laird Dunbarton, their uncle’s temper would settle. Now with Agnes dead, their uncle’s hopes to secure peace along their clan borders died with it.
Ethan’s hand squeezed Eilis’s again when they saw Broc, their uncle’s only son, also headed in the direction of the great hall, shoving a servant out of his path. An old scar cut against Broc’s brow, a mishap when fighting a neighboring clansman, giving him a perpetual scowl, now deepened as he spied Eilis with her brother.
“He is angry also,” Ethan whispered to Eilis.
“Aye.” She imagined Laird Ceardach MacBurness had taken his anger out on Broc as much as he did anyone else in the clan this morn. Soon, her uncle planned to return to Scotland, leaving his brother’s castle in Ireland after but a brief visit, meant to secure concessions from him, no doubt. She wished Ceardach would leave Ethan and her behind to live in Ireland. But Ceardach was the elder of the two and despite her prayers and wishes, she knew he would not give them up to be wards of his younger brother, Maddock. Ceardach would train Ethan to be a warrior, loyal to his rule. She feared her uncle would soon offer her to some minor chieftain to gain special considerations as well. What she wouldn’t give to raise her brother of six summers until he reached manhood.
They entered the great hall where Uncle Ceardach sat, his red beard streaked gray, making him appear older than his forty summers. He gave her only a cursory glance. Then Broc entered the hall, a smug smile fixed to his lips.
Uncle Ceardach rose to his full height, which made Eilis all the more uneasy. His green eyes pinned her as if to say she would not object to the disagreeable news. Immediately, her heart beat irregularly.
Her uncle folded his arms across his broad chest. “I have weighed this matter with the utmost concern, and my decision will stand.”
She scarcely breathed, and Ethan’s small hand was cutting off the circulation in hers.
“You will marry Laird Dunbarton.” His cold eyes fixed on her, challenging her to object.
Her heart took a dive, her knees went weak, and she could scarce believe his words. Her uncle couldn’t mean for her to wed the old laird in Agnes’s place. Would the laird even be agreeable? “But—”
Her uncle waved her objection aside. “You will do as I bid. Since your mothers were twins, lassie, you look enough like your cousin, the same red gold curls, the same height, same green eyes. Laird Dunbarton has never seen either of you, and no one there will ever know the difference. The fighting along our clan borders has to stop, and he agrees to halt the conflict with this marriage.”
Her thoughts swirled with confusion.
“You will take her place.”
She grasped at any hope to make him change his mind. “But, my laird, will Laird Dunbarton accept me since I am but your niece not your daughter?”
“I will not have my plans laid asunder because of Agnes’s death. I cannot afford for him to say no. You will be Agnes from this day forth.”
Her heart stopped beating for an instant. He could not be serious. Ethan looked up at her, his mouth agape. They had always been taught not to tell falsehoods. How could she explain to him their uncle was forcing her to live the biggest lie of their lives?
“But, my laird,” Eilis pleaded, knowing her entreaties would fall on deaf ears but praying her uncle would listen to reason while he paced back in forth in his brother’s castle overlooking the coast. “He will know I am not your daughter. Agnes—”
Laird MacBurness came to an abrupt halt and glowered at her. “The agreement has already been signed and witnessed.”
“The marriage agreement says Laird Dunbarton will marry Agnes, my laird. Not me,” Eilis implored, her heart sinking in despair.
As the clan chief’s only daughter, Agnes had had everything Eilis e
ver wanted, a father and mother to take care of her every whim, a clan who treated her like a princess. Eilis had loved Agnes like a sister. Knowing she’d never see Agnes’s smiling face again brought tears to her eyes.
Taking a heavy breath, Eilis remembered the way her mother had looked, flushed with fever, then pale as death, the same way Agnes had appeared on her deathbed. Only in Eilis’s mother’s case, the fever was due to birthing Eilis’s baby brother who was born stillborn, and her mother died shortly thereafter.
Eilis was certain that’s why her father, so distraught over her mother’s death, had fought against the raiding MacIntosh clan with no care for his own safety and lost his life.
Eilis’s thoughts shifted again to poor dear Agnes. For once, Eilis had been grateful not to be the clan chief’s daughter when her uncle made arrangements to marry Agnes to the Dunbarton chief, who was sixty summers in age. Although Eilis had fretted enough for the both of them that poor Agnes would have to marry the old chief.
How could a twist of fate be so cruel?
Now, there was no one to console Eilis in her grief. Worse, she could not protect her little brother if her uncle made him stay with him.
Leaning against the south wall, Broc considered her as if she were a peace offering, his blue eyes ice cold.. He wouldn’t voice a word to save her. Truth be known, he wanted her to marry the old laird just as much as his father did, to keep the peace, to ensure their plans were not interrupted.
“I am not any good at feigning the truth. I will say the wrong thing and Laird Dunbarton will want my head and yours also,” Eilis tried again.
“He would not be successful.” Ceardach MacBurness smiled heartlessly, the look of a battle-hardened Highland warrior. Her father had always warned her his older brother had eaten lesser men to break his fast. She was certain her uncle wouldn’t be swayed by her entreaty.
He gave her a stern look, his red hair hanging loosely about his haggard face, made harder from the strain of losing his only daughter. He cared not about Eilis nor Agnes for that matter. They were only pawns to be used wherever it suited the clan best. But losing his daughter had created the latest angst during his long years of embattled rule.
“If I don’t resolve this matter at once, I’ll have another fight on my hands,” he growled to Brock. “God’s wounds, couldn’t Agnes have waited to fall ill until after she’d wed Dunbarton?” he roared.
Instantly, Eilis felt feverish and wondered if she was coming down with the same sickness her cousin had died from. ‘Twould serve her uncle right.
MacBurness’s beady green eyes seemed to shrink even smaller in the tanned seasoned lines of his face. “‘Tis not my fault my daughter died of fever early this morn. You will do this for the sake of our clan. If you tell Laird Dunbarton otherwise, it will go badly for you. Your own people will deny you are Eilis.”
“What about Ethan?” she asked in a small voice, already knowing what would happen to her little brother. Her uncle would not want her influencing her brother any more than she already did, and Dunbarton probably would not want her attention diverted from him to a sibling either.
Her uncle gave her a sly smile. “He stays with me to learn to be a man.” He motioned to a servant. “The lady is ready for her journey.” Turning to Eilis, he said, “Do well by us, my niece, and your clan will speak only praise of you. Try any bit of trickery, and you will live to regret it. Now go and fulfill my promise to Dunbarton.”
‘Twas not what her uncle had promised Dunbarton at all! ‘Twas the most despicable of lies, and somehow she had to steal Ethan away and find someone who would shelter them. But she couldn’t even begin to think of anyone who might aid them who wasn’t afraid of her uncle.
Agnes’s maid, Wynda, stiffly walked toward Eilis, as dour as usual, her gray eyes clouded with hate, her lips pursed in complaint. Did her uncle intend Wynda to attend her in her new life? Och, the woman had treated her with contempt ever since Eilis’s da had died.
“Come.” Wynda’s petite stature and older age gave the illusion she was weak and easily manipulated, but the bony fingers gripping Eilis’s arm told the truth. “The ship awaits.” Wynda jerked Ethan’s hand away from Eilis’s, and her brother wailed.
Her heart in her throat, Eilis grabbed for his hand, but Laird MacBurness commanded, “Take him away!”
One of her uncle’s men strode forth, seized Ethan, and hauled her crying brother off toward his chamber.
Her uncle gave Eilis a look like she better not disobey him. And with a nod of his head directed at Wynda, signaled to the woman to yank Eilis out of the hall and through the keep toward the waiting ship and her fate.
****
James MacNeill, laird of Craigly Castle, surveyed the sheep pastured in the glen, and seeing no sign of the raiding Dunbartons, he motioned for his men to continue the sweep south. He would string every last one of the raiders by his neck if he didn’t put them to the sword first, he swore.
And to think he was supposed to be concentrating on wedding the fair Catriona, not dealing with troubles at his clan borders again. The thought of her creamy soft skin beneath his, the way she moved her hips, hurrying his thrusts, and mewed her pleasure stirred him all over again. Although it had been a year since he had been with the widowed lass, it seemed like yesterday.
Catriona. He could not wait to see her on the morrow, although he was tired of pretending they had a chaste relationship in front of his clansmen, whilst burying himself deep inside her when she stayed in the chamber adjoining his. She had to agree to be his this time. She had to. He would allow her no other answer.
Movement in the woods stole his attention. ‘Twas a Dunbarton! The murdering thieves. With a war whoop, James targeted the bearded, heavy-set man, his tangled red hair hanging about his shoulders. He responded by charging toward James with a hearty war cry of his own. James’s own men had scattered in search of the Dunbartons and those who were allied with them, so he was on his own. But James would not let the whoreson out of his grasp. Either he killed him, or he took him hostage. Those were the only choices he would allow.
The redheaded beast seemed of like mind and with murder in his eyes, swung his sword at James. But James had fought valiantly in the Crusade and for his father until his death, ensuring the MacNeill lands were free from poachers and brigands. The man would not best him.
Yet the sheer force of the Dunbarton’s blows sent a jarring vibration through James’s sword arm every time steel met steel. The mountain was unmovable, and the strikes James dealt seemed to have no affect.
The beast gave a sly grin, his blue eyes narrowed with despise. “Laird MacNeill, you will taste my sword afore long. Why do you not give up? Make it easier on yourself. You know Laird Dunbarton will send us to plague you until you give your life for his nephew.”
“’Tis I who should be seeking Laird Dunbarton’s head for the death of my dear sister,” James said dryly.
Yet he knew the fault partly lay with him. Had he let his sister marry the Dunbarton’s nephew, would they still be alive today? Mayhap not. But he couldn’t stamp down the feeling he was the reason for his sweet sister’s death.
The battle between the clans had gone on for over a century. They killed a MacNeill, and the MacNeill evened the score. It would go on for several more centuries, no doubt.
Just when James thought he had struck a decisive blow, cutting the brigand clean across the chest, blood spilling from the fresh cut, the giant retaliated. Striking James’s readied sword with such force, the brigand knocked James from his horse.
On foot against the big man, James was sorely disadvantaged. Crippling the Dunbarton’s horse might have worked to even the odds, but even in battle, James could not injure a good horse. Instead, he danced like some Sassenach fool, moving himself out of the path of the rider and his horse, feeling the whoosh of the beast’s steel but missing the cut of its blade. Then swinging about as if readying himself for the final battle, only with him on foot and his opponent mo
unted, he waited for the Dunbarton to make a mistake.
With their eyes staring each other down, the Dunbarton kicked his warhorse forward.
James swung his sword first and made a deep cut across the Dunbarton’s thigh. With a howl, the enemy missed striking at James, who nimbly jumped away.
The Dunbarton whipped his horse around and charged again. Except this time, he swung first, and the impact of his sword against James’s knocked him off his feet. With a thud, James landed hard on his back, knocking the breath from him.
‘Twas not a good position to be in during a fight.
He tried to jump to his feet, but weariness cloaked him in a shroud of refusal. Staggering, he unsheathed a throwing dagger. He barely had time to aim it when the Dunbarton swung his sword at James’s head.
Whack! The dagger hit the Dunbarton in the temple.
The man teetered on his horse for a moment then plummeted to the ground. Dead. Meaning to take the beast alive, James cursed under his breath.
Noting a missive in the man’s belt, James reached down to remove it.
Meet the ship at the aforementioned time and bring the precious cargo here post haste.
James smiled wryly. He would send his cousin and seneschal with several of his men and intercept this precious cargo before Laird Dunbarton could get his grubby hands on it.
****
An icy wind tugged at Eilis’s plaid brat cloaking her head while she held onto the ship’s railing with a death grip. Her brother’s cries still echoed in her mind. His rounded green eyes filled with tears of terror still held her hostage. He was all she had left in the world, and she wanted more than anything to free him from their uncle’s tyranny. But what could she do?
A woman set upon the Irish Sea, bound to marry a man she didn’t love, pretending to be her cousin? She feared she was destined to fail, and all she could hope for was the creaking ship sailing across the frothing sea from Ireland to Scotland would sink.