The Highlander's Tempestuous Bride

by Cathy MacRae

  “I see ye found my horse. Fia bolted and ran when this big lad tossed his rider.” Gilda sidled carefully to the black stallion and offered her palm for him to sniff. The horse shook his head in a show of prideful annoyance but snuffled her hand when she didn’t draw back.

  Gilda laughed. “Such a temper. A wee bit like his rider, would ye say?” She turned to Conn, a conspiratorial smile on her face.

  Conn looked at her askance. “Bonnie and canny,” he mused.

  Ryan growled. “She is impertinent.”

  Gilda tossed an innocent look over her shoulder. “I did warn ye,” she reminded him.

  Ryan nodded curtly. “Mount up. Ye need to be home.”

  Gilda gave them both a sweet smile. “I thank ye for catching my horse.” She mounted with Conn’s assistance and smoothed her skirts over her knees. With a thump of her heels against the mare’s sides, she rode swiftly away, leaving the two men to stare after her.

  Chapter 3

  “Are ye daft?”

  Ryan broke his gaze from Gilda’s retreating form. “What?”

  “The lass. Ye were alone with her. Are ye looking to get marrit or start a clan war?”

  “What the hell are ye talking about? There was a storm and we sheltered in a cave.”

  Conn’s voice turned mocking. “Och, ye sheltered in a cave, did ye? With the laird’s daughter?”

  “Nae. She’s the healer’s niece.” Ryan motioned down the beach. “Ye cannae see it now, but she lives in a ramshackle cottage against the cliffs.”

  “I tell ye, she’s the laird’s daughter.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Why would ye say that?”

  “Her speech, for one thing. The lass doesnae sound like a crofter’s daughter.”

  “Mayhap, but that doesnae mean the laird is her father.”

  “What about her mare? ’Twas a fine piece of horseflesh and no Highland Pony. Not every lass has such an animal nor the time to learn to ride as she does.”

  Ryan waved a hand in the air in dismissal and stomped to his own fine horse. He shoved a booted foot into a stirrup and swung aboard the restless stallion. “Mayhap a long walk will clear yer head. I think the mal de mer has addled yer brain.”

  “Ye are a wee bastard, Ryan,” Conn shouted after him as he rode away.

  “’Tis no’ what my father told me,” Ryan flung over his shoulder.

  “Come on, Ryan. Give me a ride back. I caught yer mangy horse. ’Tis the least ye can do.”

  Ryan reined Duer in a wide circle and set the stallion to a slow canter back to his friend’s side, clods of damp sand flying from his hooves. In a seamless maneuver born of long practice, Ryan clasped Conn’s forearm and swung him up behind him. Duer gave a short buck of protest at the extra weight, but settled at a command from his rider and headed up the beach.

  * * *

  Trumpets sounded and bagpipes skirled the return of the laird’s son. Torches blazed on the parapets and in brackets along the walls, making the bailey nearly as bright as day under the evening gloaming. Ryan and Conn rode at the head of the procession of guards and servants, their horses shying briefly at the wild sounds of homecoming. The iron-studded, heavy wooden gates opened wide, the creak of the portcullis chains its own welcome as it rose in the air to permit their passage.

  “’Tis a verra nice place ye have, Ryan,” Conn murmured just loud enough to hear. “I hope they held dinner for us. I could eat a horse.”

  “Ard Castle bids ye welcome,” Ryan returned. “And I would imagine Da has a banquet well in hand.”

  A tall, gray-haired man strode from the great hall, a large group of people at his heels. They met in the bailey where Ryan and Conn drew to a halt. Stable lads rushed to take their horses as they dismounted, and Ryan stared at the man he scarcely remembered as kin.

  “Welcome home, son.”

  The knot in Ryan’s chest eased and he closed the gap between them in two long strides. They clasped arms in welcome and the unexpected joy of homecoming washed over him. It was a long moment before either of them remembered manners or voice.

  Laird Macraig stepped to one side, exposing a young girl who hung back, her eyes wide and assessing. Ryan stared. Her near-black hair and startling, amber eyes marked her as kin. His sister? She looked to be no older than nine or ten. Ryan cast his memory back to the day he’d left Ard Castle, his father’s arm about his leman’s swollen waist.

  “Ryan, this is yer sister, Lissa.”

  Ryan bowed his head in formal acknowledgement. “M’lady.”

  Lissa’s eyes narrowed. “Brother.” She offered him no other title, and the lilt to her voice challenged him to remark the slight. It was obvious she did not relish the return of the laird’s son.

  Ryan allowed a small smile. The lass had spunk. Would she also be a pain in his arse? He let silence linger a moment longer in mild rebuke for her childish behavior, catching a satisfying glimpse of the flush of embarrassment that rose beneath her skin, then continued with the introductions.

  “Da, this is Laird MacLaurey’s son, Connor. He and I have become great friends over the years.” He turned to Conn. “This is my father, Laird Macraig.”

  Ryan’s father inclined his head at Conn’s short bow. “Welcome to Ard Castle. Ye are welcome as long as ye care to stay.”

  “I thank ye, m’laird. I appreciate yer hospitality.”

  “Speaking of which, I am sure ye lads are famished, and we have a feast prepared for ye.” Laird Macraig turned to a man at his side. “Find places for the guards and servants to shelter and wash, and send them in for their share. Call for more lads to care for the horses.”

  He faced the people around him, a broad smile on his face.

  “My son is home!”

  * * *

  Ryan propped his feet on the hearth, leaning his head against the chair’s high back. The sharp scent of burning peat filled the air, and embers lit the room with a golden glow.

  “I may never move again.” He groaned, covering his belly with one hand as he slumped further into his chair.

  “If I even catch a whiff of food cooking on the morrow, I think I will be sick,” Conn muttered from the other chair. “’Twas the best meal I have eaten in days.”

  “’Tis the only meal ye have kept down in days,” Ryan retorted.

  Conn burped pleasurably. “Aye.”

  Ryan’s eyes became hooded, mesmerized by the flickering glow of the smoldering peat. Warm and dry and overfed, still he couldn’t help but worry about the red-haired lass he’d left behind, wet and cold on the beach.

  “Do ye suppose she got home all right?”

  Conn roused with a grunt. “Who?”

  “Gilda, ye amadan.”

  “I imagine she knows her way home.”

  Ryan snorted. Knowing her way home and staying out of trouble along the way were two different things.

  Conn shifted in his chair. “Will ye ask yer da?”

  “About what?”

  “Gilda.”

  Ryan shrugged. “There is a feud between our clans. I cannae imagine my questions about a Macrory lass would be well-received.”

  Conn sat straight up. “A feud? About what?”

  Ryan shrugged again. “I dinnae know, exactly. My da offered for the auld laird’s daughter when I was a wee lad, but was refused. She then married the current laird, and there has been no alliance between us since.”

  “Is there war between ye?”

  “Nae. But neither clan ’tis likely to help the other.”

  “Ye should forget the lass, Ryan.”

  Ryan had no answer.

  “Will ye let it go?” Conn persisted.

  Ryan considered his answer—and lied. “Aye.”

  * * *

  Gilda peered around the great hall, searching high and low for the twins’ tousled blond heads. ’Twas no surprise she didn’t see them, but she greatly preferred knowing where the imps were to happening upon them unawares.

  She slip
ped up the stairs and quickly changed into dry clothes, briskly toweling her hair before the low embers on the hearth. Running a last critical appraisal over her appearance, she headed down the hall to her mother’s room and rapped softly on the portal. Cracking the door open, she peered inside. Her mother sat in a comfortable chair before a low fire and Gilda grinned as their gazes met.

  “Enter.” Riona beckoned with a smile. She wrapped the bairn in her arms in a soft blanket and Gilda took the wee lass with a coo, jostling her gently on her shoulder. Her mother adjusted her gown and rose from the nursing chair.

  “God bless ye, wee Sara.” Gilda laughed as the bairn burped contentedly. Her ma grabbed a piece of linen and wiped the milky bubbles from the rosebud lips.

  “I will take her now.”

  Gilda handed Sara back to her ma with a wistful tilt to her head.

  “I dinnae mind holding her.” She plopped down onto the window seat cushion. “She is much sweeter than the twins.”

  “She will be fast asleep in a moment.” Her mother swayed rhythmically as she approached the cradle beside the bed, conspicuously empty with the knowledge the laird was not at home.

  “When will Da be back?”

  Her ma tucked Sara into her cradle and tweaked the curling silver birch bark trim meant to keep evil spirits, faeries and goblins at bay. Finished, she straightened and turned to Gilda. “I dinnae know, lass. He is away for the king, and he couldnae say for how long.”

  Gilda tossed her red curls over her shoulder with a sigh of annoyance. “Why must he continually curry favor with King Robert? The Macrorys have always been faithful to the crown.”

  “Scaurness is of vital importance to the king, ye know that. And since King Robert bestowed the rank of earl on yer da…”

  Gilda’s deep sigh was full of youthful frustration. “I know, I know. Da is known and respected and well-liked.” She listed the well-known litany with a scowl.

  Her mother crossed to Gilda’s side and gently swept an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “What troubles ye, lass? Did ye not have a good visit with Auntie Tavia?”

  The corner of Gilda’s mouth quirked in an attempt at a smile, but her eyes remained troubled and she knew her ma noticed.

  She motioned for Gilda to make room for her on the window seat, and Gilda scooted to one side. Her mother slid an arm about her waist and pulled her close. Gilda tucked her feet beneath her on the cushioned seat and leaned into her ma’s comforting embrace.

  “Auntie Tavia is fine, as always.” She sighed.

  “Then, what troubles ye?”

  “Ma, did Da say anything to ye about a betrothal for me before he left?”

  Her mother’s hesitation was short, but Gilda’s heart quickened when her ma did not hasten to reassure her.

  “Lass, yer da willnae ask ye to wed without consulting the both of us first. As far as I know, he doesnae have plans for ye yet.”

  “But he will expect me to marry for the clan, aye?”

  “Gilda, ye are the daughter of his heart, and he couldnae bear to betroth ye simply for the benefit of the clan. But even though he isnae yer father by blood, ye are still known as his daughter, and ye are expected to behave as such.”

  “Like ye?”

  “Mayhap not like me. There were nae other options for me at the time.”

  “But there were other lairds ye could have wed. Why Da?”

  “Ye know that story. And yer da and I have made a very good marriage of it. I wouldnae change a thing.”

  Gilda sighed. Her mother’s answer only partially reassured her. She couldn’t explain why she felt so restless, and to her surprise, her thoughts drifted back to the young man who’d sheltered and distracted her from the storm. Her face flushed and she squirmed as she remembered his kiss.

  “Is there a problem, Gilda?”

  Gilda risked a peek at her ma and quickly schooled her expression into innocence.

  “Nae. One of the lads has paid me attention overmuch, and it caused me to wonder if Da thought me old enough to wed.” She gave her mother a bright smile. “’Tis nothing.”

  Her ma gave her an assessing look, but did not pursue the conversation.

  * * *

  Ryan swatted at Conn’s feet beneath the coverlet as he passed by the bed.

  “Ye are a lazy lout,” he complained, brushing aside the single heavy curtain at the narrow window.

  Conn rolled over, groaning in protest. “Leave me be, and get out of my room.” He dragged his pillow over his head. “The sun isnae up yet, either.”

  Ryan frowned in disgust at Conn’s mumbled words. “Ye are missing the best part of the day. I am going to explore a bit before breaking my fast. Are ye coming with me or nae?”

  “Nae.” Conn grunted and clamped his arms around his pillow, burrowing deeper into the soft mattress.

  Ryan spun on his booted heel and clumped noisily to the door, ignoring Conn’s muffled grumble. Slamming the door behind him with a little more force than entirely necessary, Ryan hurried down the hallway. He made his way down the stairs and out into the bailey where he pulled up short. And whistled in surprise at the thick mists blanketing the air.

  Taking a step into the gray fog, his surroundings were immediately lost to view, the candlelight from the great hall reduced to nothing more than a pale yellow beacon. Ryan stepped cautiously forward and the dark hulk of the stables loomed ahead.

  A single lantern hung on a sturdy post, its light penetrating a scant few inches into the fog wrapped around the stone building. Inside, the heat from the horses’ bodies turned the cold mist into a pleasant steam.

  By the time Ryan fed and saddled his horse, the morning sun broke through the misty confines, revealing the new day. He swung aboard Duer’s back and leaned in to pat the gleaming neck.

  “Double yer oats, lad, after we have had our outing.” He urged the horse on and Duer tossed his head as he bounded forward.

  Ryan let his horse stretch his legs once they cleared the castle gate, giving the sentry a brief nod. He wasn’t willing to submit to the need for guards on his first day home, and knew he would get a lecture if he lingered. He wanted to wander the paths he remembered from his childhood; the freedoms he’d treasured as a lad. There would be time for protocol soon, but now he wanted to wander and remember, and wonder what lay ahead.

  He rode to the coast, unconsciously retracing the path he’d taken the day before. As rising sea breezes blew away the mists, he drew Duer to a halt and dismounted. Dropping the reins, he left the horse to graze in the sparse grasses on the semi-barren land near the shore. Ryan climbed the rock that marked the border between Macraig and Macrory land, keeping a watchful eye out for wolves and red-haired lasses.

  * * *

  Gilda inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp morning air and the scents rising from the waters below. Mists clouded her view, but the lapping sound of the waves meeting the shore was a melody she’d known since infancy, one as familiar as her own heartbeat, and it soothed her.

  She turned to the thickets spreading inland, knowing the path she wanted to take. With long experience, she absently twitched her skirts aside to avoid the brambles as she plucked the berries from the bushes and dropped them into her woven basket, humming to herself as she worked at her task, one ear alert to sounds of approach. She was, once again, on Macraig land.

  A slight rustle to her right stilled her actions, and a wild, musky odor wafted to her on a slight breeze. She cut her eyes from side to side, searching for the source, but the wind was fickle and died away, taking with it the fleeting scent.

  A trill of alarm flashed beneath her skin and Gilda slowly sank to her knees, instinctively making herself as small a target as possible. Was she imagining things? She hadn’t slept well the night before, the episode with Ryan repeating in her mind until she’d fled the confines of her room to escape to the arms of the new day. Did someone watch her, or did her imagination betray her?

  Her heart pounded in her ears
, masking any sound of movement around her. She took a careful, deep breath, willing her heart to slow. On level now with the deepest shadows of the thicket, she peered into the gloom and met the feral glow of yellow eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Gilda forgot to breathe. Fright pooled like ice in her stomach as she gaped at the wolf’s face and its unwavering stare. At last, the necessity for breath filled her lungs with a sudden rush of air, bringing her to her senses as the shaggy animal leapt to its feet.

  A snarl rippled across the wolf’s features, but he did not run away. Gilda caught sight of its forepaw hovering just above the ground.

  “Och, ye are the poor lad I rescued yesterday, aye?” She crooned gently. The wolf tilted its head to one side, his gaze never leaving her.

  Gilda carefully lowered herself the rest of the way to the ground, her hands in her lap to avoid startling the large, gangly beast.

  “Ye are a young one, aye?” She eyed the lean, disproportionately long legs and body, the wolf not yet grown to its mature form. “And hurt and scared. I know. Ye frightened me, too.”

  She kept up the one-sided conversation, her voice a low monotone, steadying her nerves as she watched the young animal. The wolf’s unearthly gaze pinned her, but after a few moments, he dropped to his haunches, touching his injured paw briefly to the ground as he shifted his weight.

  “I wish I could help ye. I know the trap hurt ye.” Gilda shrugged, eying the line of raw flesh encircling the animal’s swollen foot. “But ye dinnae trust me enough to put salve on it, do ye?”

  The wolf collapsed its body to the ground and began licking his paw, his broad, pink tongue repeatedly stroking the injured flesh.

  Gilda sighed. “Ye know ’tis best to keep it clean. Ye would just lick off any salve.”

  The wolf, having apparently lost interest in Gilda’s non-threatening form, did not look up. Gilda relaxed, but continued to watch the wolf, fascinated by its actions and lack of concern with her nearness.

  “Ye keep massaging it to keep the swelling down, too, aye?” She shifted to a more comfortable position and the yellow eyes snapped to her. Gilda froze and after a moment, the wolf returned to his rhythmic, soothing motions, once again ignoring the human mere feet away.