by Willa Blair
“Alasdair MacGregor.”
Jamie thought for a moment, then the face came to him. “I kent him in school. That’s no’ a good worry to have. But it doesna sound like the lad I met at St. Andrews. Is it justified?”
“I havena dealt with MacGregor. No’ yet.”
Jamie frowned, not liking the implication of Toran’s half-answer. What did he know?
“Fletcher isna much to regard. His holding is small, so he canna call on many men to fight for him, though he lost very few at Flodden. But we must avoid making an enemy of him,” Toran warned. “Caitrin’s to be the final enticement to Fletcher’s ambitions, it seems, along with the prestige and presence of the Lathan laird, and MacGregor’s approval of the lass.” He read from the document on his knee. “Fletcher recalls our fondness for her as a child and promises she has bloomed most handsomely into her maturity, a woman any man would be proud to call wife.”
“What the hell does he mean?” Jamie shook his head. “She’s three years younger than we are. That’s no’ too old to wed.”
“He makes it sound as though she fell from a horse onto her face.” Toran gave a quick grin and then shrugged. “Which, recalling our Caitrin, is quite possible. We spent five years trying to keep her out of trouble.”
Jamie snorted. “No’ the Caitrin I remember,” he objected. It came to him then that Toran had even prevailed on Jamie’s older sister to keep her occupied, but sadly, she’d had little use for a lass five years her junior. Perhaps if she had, things would have ended differently. Jamie shook his head at the memory and returned his attention to Toran. “She was all knees and elbows by the time she left us, aye, but she was pretty enough for a lass of fourteen summers.”
“So ye did have a yen for her. I thought so, even then. Ye canna deny it.”
“Ye’re daft.” Jamie hid his annoyance at Toran’s allegation by picking up his cup and studying the liquid left in it. Toran was right, of course. Jamie had admired Caitrin’s spirit and never objected to her company, even welcoming it as she grew. Much to Toran’s dismay. Jamie had never been sure if Toran thought of her as a pesky younger sister or if he’d suspected she was sweet on him and didn’t want to encourage her. That possibility was something they’d never discusssed.
“No’ so daft as all that,” Toran replied, smirking. “I can see the effect her name has on ye, six years later.”
Jamie snorted again then took a big swallow from his cup, coughing and spluttering as the strong spirit hit the back of his throat and burned all the way to his belly. At least he hoped the whisky caused it and not heat of another kind. He hadn’t seen Caitrin in six years, and she was about to be betrothed. At the time, it had all been innocent enough, for a while. Had he really cared for her? Or been jealous of any attention she paid Toran? Either way, he had no business resurrecting feelings he’d fought to contain as a hot-blooded lad.
Toran smirked. “Ye’re going to like the rest of what I have to say even less.”
Jamie stilled, suddenly wary.
“Ye ken I canna go.”
Jamie frowned, apprehension turning the burn of the whisky to ice in his belly.
“Ye’ll go in my stead. I’ll give ye a letter for the Fletcher, and one for the MacGregor. Aye, it will extol the virtues of our former fosterling and playmate of our childhood.” Toran paused. “On second thought, I’d best leave out that part.”
Jamie Lathan glared at his laird and best friend. “Ye jest.”
Toran shrugged. “Aileana is determined to provide our clan with a wealth of sons and daughters. Our triplets are no’ yet a year old, and she says she’ll deliver twins by the full moon. Ye ken with her talent, she’s never wrong about such things. She’d skin me alive if I told her I planned to travel for weeks with a lass from my past, even if it is to deliver Caitrin to another man. Besides, better ye than me,” he groused. “She was a wee pest, following us around, ruining our hunts with her noise and her sympathy for the creatures.”
His smirk warned Jamie he had more to say.
“Aye,” he continued, “but ye thought her a bonnie lass. I’ll wager she’ll be even more bonnie now, despite what Fletcher implies.”
“Ye’re imagining things.”
“Is that why ye dinna wish to make this trip? Ye fear ye’ll fall for her again?”
“Fear? Ye are daft! I’m no’ afraid of any lass. Least of all one ye used to dunk in the burn to get her out of our hair.” Jamie grimaced at the memory of Caitrin running to the keep for dry clothes. He’d done what he could for her, but unlike now, in those days, he hadn’t dared to object too strongly. Toran wasn’t the heir, but he was the laird’s son.
“I think ye are.”
Toran’s chuckle failed to elicit the same response. Jamie just groaned.
****
The next morning, as he gathered what he needed for another foray from the Aerie, Jamie still wrestled with the idea of seeing Caitrin Fletcher. He had done his best to forget her these last six years. He’d thought never to see her again, certainly not before she was married off and mother to a keep-full of bairns. That she remained unwed rankled like a thistle under his seat. Despite what he’d admit to Toran, the idea of escorting her to her betrothal to another man cut him to the core. He went to the window and looked out over the keep, but didn’t see any of it. Perhaps she’d forgotten him.
How had Caitrin fared in the six years since they’d last been together? At fourteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, she’d been coltish, but had shown promise. Surely by now she was a woman grown into her beauty. He regretted the circumstances under which she’d left the Aerie, but she’d been sent home for her own good. The events of that time still weighed heavily on him. He hoped she’d never learned the details. His sister’s body had been found in the woods where the wee lads and lassies often played. The clan elders had deemed the area outside the keep no longer safe, locked the Lathan children inside the Aerie’s walls and sent Caitrin home to Fletcher. The rest of the summer had passed in a cloud of fear and suspicion, but his sister’s killer had never been found. Since then, he hadn’t wished to remind Caitrin of the tragedy, or the grief of her leave-taking, and so had kept his distance. As much as it still hurt, he accepted the necessity.
Since it was his fault.
Pushing away the memories, he rubbed the back of his neck. What was he doing, packing to accompany the Fletcher ghillie back to their keep? He shrugged. Following Toran’s orders, as usual. Instead of dwelling on the past, he tried to imagine the Caitrin of today. She’d be taller, certainly, lithe and strong, since she’d always loved to be active. She used to run Toran and him ragged trying to avoid her, outfox her, or, worst case, outrun her.
That last had been getting hard to do by the time she’d left. Her coltish legs carried her nearly as fast as the lads she chased in their games. She could climb a tree, nock an arrow and hit dead center in a target, even wield a practice sword as well as either of them. Only the weight of a real sword slowed her down. But she’d been hell with a dirk, Jamie thought, smiling. Her intended husband had better never cross her, or he might find himself missing certain favorite parts of his anatomy. That idea elicited a chuckle, breaking Jamie from his reverie, and reminding him he had more than one mission to accomplish.
Toran not only wanted him to stand in his stead as the escort the Fletcher requested, but to sound out the MacGregor, and if at all possible, get his signature on the Lathan treaty.
Many old feuds had died along with the lairds and their heirs who were killed with King James IV while fighting the English four years before at Flodden Fields. To take advantage of the thaw in relations between the local clans, Toran had conceived a mutual-defense treaty. Since the lowlander incursion last year brought his healer wife, Aileana, Toran had become even more determined to see the treaty succeed. The journey to MacGregor offered an unexpected opportunity.
And a dilemma for Jamie.
What had become of the MacGregor, once his schoolmate at St.
Andrews? Had he, like Toran, risen to the demands of the position he never expected to hold? Was he, like Jamie, forced by circumstance to do things he’d very much prefer not to do? Clenching his teeth, Jamie tossed another shirt into his bag and added a spare dirk for good measure. He closed the bag as someone knocked on his chamber door.
“Are ye ready?” Toran said as he stepped in, unbidden.
“Come to offer last minute advice?” Jamie tied the bag closed then regarded his friend, nay, his laird.
“Of a sort.” Toran propped a hip on the window ledge and crossed his arms over his chest.
Jamie hefted his bag in one hand and claymore in the other. “And?” Something in Toran’s posture made him set them down again.
“Have a care. The MacGregor is powerful, and there are rumors...”
So, Toran did ken more than he’d admitted last night. “What kind of rumors?”
“Rumors telling me he may no’ be a good match for our Caitrin.”
“Our Caitrin, is it now?” Jamie ran a hand through his hair. What was Toran leading up to? “Last night, ye wrote her off as a horse-faced pest.”
Toran stood. “I didna call her horse-faced, as well ye ken. I said she might have fallen off a horse onto her face. She was a bit clumsy in the early days.”
“As are most lasses—and lads—at that age. I recall a few trips and spills of my own—and yers,” Jamie retorted.
“She was a bit of a pest. Ye have to admit that.”
“I dinna have to admit anything of the sort, least of all to ye.” He bent and retrieved his bag and longsword then faced his laird again, one eyebrow cocked. “She worshipped the ground ye walked on. I’d think ye wouldha missed her, given nay other woman has been fool enough to do so since.” Jamie hefted his claymore and turned toward the door.
“Until Aileana? Or do ye mean Coira?”
Toran spoke so softly, Jamie barely heard his question. He glanced over his shoulder and instantly regretted his words. Toran’s expression told him his comment had brought Coira to mind, the woman who stabbed Aileana at their wedding dinner had nearly been killed by Donal in defense of his laird’s new bride. Though badly wounded, Aileana managed to save Coira’s life. Toran had sent Coira home as soon as she could travel. Her escort had returned, reporting her safe delivery and that had been the end of it. Jamie was perfectly at ease with the fact that they’d never heard from her again. Bringing her to Toran’s mind was a mistake. He mentally kicked himself. He had wanted to keep his leave-taking lighthearted, despite their disagreement over this mission. They’d been friends too long to part in anger. “I suppose every woman has her weakness.” It was a feeble jest, but the best he could manage.
Toran glanced up, grunted, and gave Jamie a lopsided grin. “Perhaps Caitrin will be weak where ye are concerned.”
“Dinna be ridiculous,” Jamie answered with a snort. “Ye sound like an auld woman.”
Grinning now, Toran continued as if Jamie had not spoken. “If so, the MacGregor might, for the sake of yer former acquaintance, give ye a chance to explain yerself, or he might hang ye all the faster.” His expression turned serious, and he held up a hand, forestalling Jamie’s objection. “I ken what I’m asking of ye, but I trust ye to do what’s right. Hear me on this, Jamie. MacGregor is rumored to be raiding his neighbors. If he’s foolish enough to risk another clan war, and if yer mission goes wrong, it could undo all the work we’ve done on the treaty. Get him to sign so the treaty clans can control him. And get the betrothal done.”
Jamie gave up trying to lighten Toran’s mood—or his own. “Ye give me nay choice in the matter, laird.”
Toran stepped forward and clapped Jamie on the back. “Let’s get ye on yer way. I canna wait to hear how this turns out.”
****
Caitrin Fletcher shook out an undershift and paused to watch the dust motes dance in a beam of sunlight. Here she was, eleven years later, in her old room at Fletcher, doing the same thing she’d been forced to do as a nine-year-old lass, preparing to go live with strangers. Much about today differed from the last time—a dark, foggy morning then, a bright, sunny afternoon now. This time, she did the packing, while her old nursemaid, Rona, sat by, keeping her company. Then, she’d fought and cried, and begged her father not to send her away. This time, her father had gone ahead to negotiate the terms of the betrothal, and she looked forward to joining him.
She folded the garment and picked up another. It wasn’t that she yearned to marry, or to marry the MacGregor in particular. She didn’t know him, or even much about him. Rich and powerful, with lands and an army of his own. That about summed up all her father had told her. Things important to a man, to a laird, but not the other things she wished she knew, such as his age, his temperament, or what he looked like. But her father very much wanted this match to improve the standing of the Fletchers. If she became the MacGregor lady, surely her clan would benefit. She would see to it.
Again, she paused to imagine how her future husband might appear. Dark red hair, she decided, so dark it might be thought brown or black in some light. Tall and strong, with a square jaw and commanding manner, but a sense of humor, too. Deep blue eyes that warmed her with a glance and sparkled with mirth when he laughed.
But wait. Suddenly, she felt flushed all over. Though it grieved her, at this moment, she was glad Rona’s eyesight was poor enough she would not see her skin pinking from head to toe. The image forming in her mind was not of a stranger, but of a lad that she’d known well, until six years ago. A friend, the only Lathan male who tolerated her childish presence at first.
Jamie.
Not that she expected to see him again. Her father had asked for the Lathan to escort her, feeling the presence of the young laird, who had influence in the highlands, might increase the clan Fletcher standing in the negotiations, and in the eyes of the MacGregor. So Toran would be her escort. She stifled a quick flare of disappointment. Seeing him again, she supposed, would be good. But, he was not the one she wanted to see.
Unless, among the men who surely would travel with Toran as guard and escort, he brought Jamie. Her pulse kicked up at the thought. The highlands were still a dangerous place, despite Toran’s best efforts to mend relations between formerly feuding clans. Toran would bring a dozen men, she guessed, perhaps more, to avoid risking her person or his relations with the Fletchers or MacGregors. Surely, he and Jamie were still close. They’d been thick as thieves as boys, never one without the other.
Nor without her, when she could catch up to them.
Once he knew they were to escort her, their wee pest of a friend they hadn’t seen in six years, surely he’d bring Jamie with him.
Caitrin clutched a kirtle to her chest and sank onto the bed, heedless of sitting on the clothes waiting to be sorted and folded.
“What is it, lass?” Rona might be nearly blind, but her ears were sharp as a bat’s. From her seat in the rocking chair across the room, she missed nothing, not the slight shift of fabric, nor the give of the ropes beneath the mattress.
“What if Jamie comes with the Lathan? He and Toran were inseparable.”
“That was six years gone, ye ken. They’re men grown. I doubt they’re in each others’ pockets the way they were back then. And if they are still close, perhaps Jamie is the one Toran trusts to leave behind in his stead to hold his keep.”
Caitrin’s heart sank. She clutched the kirtle, wrinkling the fabric mercilessly. “Ach, I didna think of that.”
“Ye’ve spent the last six years pining for a lad who couldna be bothered to call on ye. Now ye’re about to be betrothed to another man. ’Tis no’ the time to be wishin’ the lad would appear before ye.” Rona pursed her papery lips. “’Tis best to put him out of yer thoughts.”
“Perhaps ye have the right of it.” Caitrin’s eyes narrowed. Out of her thoughts? Possibly. Out of her heart? Never.
“Well, then, have ye finished packing?”
“Nearly so.”
“And do y
e recall what I told ye the last time ye were about to leave me?”
A sense of desolation swamped her, but it was only a memory, quickly dismissed. “Aye. Keep my talent a secret. Dinna tell anyone lest ye willna have any friends and nay lasses to play with.”
“Ye’re a might old to be worrying about finding playmates. Especially as ye’ll be lady of the clan and mistress of the keep. But ye mustna risk revealing yer ability in a clan full of strangers. They may no’ be as accepting of the old ways as I am.”
“I ken it. And I’m grateful for yer care and counsel, Rona.” Caitrin’s hackles rose at the thought of ruining her father’s plans for her and for their clan. She could not do that. She must be careful.
“Only if ye…if there is nay other way to save yerself. Do ye ken?”
Caitrin sighed. “Aye.”
“Well, then, that’s that. We’ve had the talk. Ye ken what to expect from yer husband should ye wed.”
Caitrin felt heat climbing into her face and knew she blushed again. But she kept her voice steady, secure in the knowledge Rona could not see her embarrassment. “Aye.”
“’Tis no’ so bad, after the first time. And if the MacGregor is the right man for ye, yer coupling may well be a joy. I wish it so for ye, lass.”
Suddenly, Caitrin struggled to find her voice around the lump in her throat. She sensed Rona was saying goodbye in the only way she knew how, counseling her one last time, reminding her of the things most important to her future. A future she would face, again, without her old nurse.
I’ll miss ye, as I did then.
“Ye ken I wish ye could go with me.” Caitrin choked on the words, but Rona’s smile told her they were enough.
Chapter Two
The trip from the Lathan Aerie to the Fletcher keep took two days. Most of that time passed in silence. Apparently, the Fletcher ghillie did not indulge in idle conversation, ever. Jamie tried a few leading questions about Fletcher’s aspirations with the MacGregor, about Caitrin, about the state of affairs in Clan Fletcher, but Will provided, at best, one sentence in reply, often only one-syllable responses—aye or nay, or merely a grunt of acknowledgement.