by Willa Blair
“And had ye no’ been wandering the forest in the dark, ye wouldna encountered such danger. What if she’d harmed ye? Clawed yer face? Do ye think the MacGregor would accept a bride with her features so marred?”
So we’re back to that. More the laird concerned the bride arrive undamaged, than the father concerned for the health and safety of his child. Caitrin pursed her lips, biting back the protest she wanted to make, aware that their privacy was illusory. Besides, it would do no good to antagonize her father now. She might need his support later, if the MacGregor did not suit her. Or if she did not suit the MacGregor. As much as Fletcher pinned hopes for the future of their people on this match, getting him to give it up would not be easy. She hoped, whatever happened, her father would stand by her.
On the other hand, she hoped Jamie would, too. Did the bond of their youth yet exist? It seemed so to her. But Jamie’s mind—and heart—were not so easily understood. Did his duty to Lathan, to Toran, rule him completely? If she needed him, would he support her?
At this moment, she could say only one thing. “I’ll do my best to win over the MacGregor, Father. I care for our people, too.”
“I ken ye do, lass. I’m merely fashed yer old friendship could sway ye away from yer duty to yer clan.” Fletcher lowered his voice, as though the words were hard for him to speak. “But I also want ye to be happy with the choice.”
She sighed. In his fumbling way, her father was sincere in his desire to please her. And he expected a marriage with MacGregor would do just that. MacGregor had wealth aplenty, and he would be considered a good match by any clan. But when push came to shove, she knew Fletcher had his eye on what the MacGregor could do for him. His daughter was, above all else, a means to an end.
****
Caitrin accepted her father’s escort as they made their way to the MacGregor’s study. She didn’t take his arm, but followed him down the stairs, then walked beside him. Though he appeared serene, the tic by his right eye told her he was nervous, too. If she touched him, his nerves might compound her own, a risk she dared not take, not with the stakes so high for this meeting. At the solar door, he paused and caught her gaze. “Ready, daughter?”
She inhaled and let the breath out slowly then nodded.
When Fletcher rapped at the door, a deep voice called, “Come in.” A dark-haired, muscular man, not unpleasing to the eye, rose from behind a large desk.
“MacGregor,” her father greeted him.
“Fletcher. And yer daughter, Caitrin.”
Catrin sketched a brief curtsey, keeping her gaze demurely down. “Aye, my laird.”
The MacGregor stepped out from behind the desk and took her hand. He studied her from head to toe and back again. “Pleased I am to behold such a lovely future bride. Yer father’s description didna do ye justice.”
“Ye are too kind,” she answered absently. She fought not to squirm under his inspection, or to bolt from the room. Something about this man set her teeth on edge. The touch of his hand made her distinctly uneasy. Her reaction made no sense. He hadn’t said anything untrue. He was polite of bearing and handsome enough. She cut a glance at her father, hoping for some indication of what she should do, but he had stepped back.
“I’ll leave ye to become acquainted.”
This was the help he offered? His penetrating look reminded her of everything that was at stake, and she stifled her pique.
MacGregor squeezed her hand gently, let it fall, and stepped back. “Indeed, Fletcher. Have nay fears for her safety. I’ll no’ ruin her before the wedding.”
Heat rose from Catrin’s core to her chest, neck, and face. She knew she colored, but could not help it. The MacGregor was bold in his speech. Her father had not prepared her for that. Would he be equally bold in actions? Too bad, he’d released her hand before he’d made that remark. She would have known for certain whether he spoke the truth—or not. As it was, her antipathy toward him was confusing her usual ability to sense untruths. Nearness, especially touch, strengthened that sense, but she could usually get an impression from a few feet away if someone was lying.
Perhaps her father should stay.
“Da...I...”
“I’ll await ye in the hall for the evening meal,” he promised and took his leave.
Caitrin tried consoling herself that Fletcher had spent a great deal of time getting to know the man before her arrival, and would not leave her if she faced any danger. It didn’t work. With a sinking sensation in her belly, she watched the heavy oaken door close behind him then turned stiffly to her intended.
“Dinna fash, lass. I told yer da the truth.”
Caitrin breathed a bit easier after he moved behind the desk, resuming his seat and gesturing for her to take one of the high-backed chairs facing the desk. But unease prickled along her skin as he picked up a small knife on his desk and turned it over in his hands. Why was one of his first comments about telling the truth? Had her father warned of her strange ability even as he refused to accept it?
“I’ll no’ have ye come to the kirk sullied,” he said, setting the blade aside, then, as if he just noticed what he’d done, slipping it into a drawer.
So it was not a threat. Perhaps he was as nervous as she, though that was hard to credit, and he’d handled it without thinking.
“It wouldna be proper for a lass such as yerself,” he continued. “Ye may be assured of my respect.”
Recalling the dismay that flooded her at his touch, Caitrin suspected she should take little comfort from his assurance. Likely, he put on appearances for her father or for the Lathans.
“Ye have an interesting upbringing, one I hope will make ye more amenable to life as my wife. Fostered with the Lathans for many years, ye have experience with a large keep. But ’tis unusual to foster a lass away from her home.”
His silence told her he expected an explanation, though she was certain he’d been over her history in great detail with her father.
Caitrin took a breath and found her voice. “After my mother died, my father believed I would be better cared for by the Lathans. I did no’ wish to leave the only home I’d ever had, but I was too young to understand the reasons.”
MacGregor nodded. “So ye lived with the Lathans in their keep? Or were ye placed with one of their crofters?
“I lived in the keep.” Despite his genial tone of voice as he questioned her, Caitrin had the strong sense he wanted something. But what?
“Yer closest friends included the Lathan and yer escort, too, I’m told.”
Caitrin’s blood chilled. So he’d meant to get her off guard and then strike? If he hoped to lull her into admitting to an improper relationship with someone there, he’d be disappointed. And why would he look for a way to refuse the betrothal? Did he think to punish Fletcher for overreaching himself? If so, she was an easy target. He could bed her and send her away in shame for her father’s temerity. She fought to keep her hands on the wooden arms of her chair rather than crossing them defensively over her chest as a thousand worries flitted through her mind. But she owed him an answer. “Aye. We played and were schooled together with the other lads and lasses in the clan.” That should satisfy him, and take the focus off of her relationship with Jamie.
How many layers of deceit did he plan to practice on his guests?
It mattered not. She would discover them all.
****
Jamie sat at the head table. As Lathan emissary and honored guest of the MacGregor, not to mention former schoolmate, he would have been insulted to be placed anywhere else. But the MacGregor seated Caitrin between them, making conversation with him difficult. Her father sat on the MacGregor’s other side. Keeping his future family close, Jamie supposed. Jamie had hoped to make use of the more relaxed atmosphere of the meal to introduce the MacGregor to the idea of Toran’s treaty. Instead, he had to look past Caitrin any time the MacGregor spoke. And she distracted him too much for him to accomplish anything.
She appeared uncomfortable, pale, even tense. Why? Wa
s it merely nervousness after meeting her future husband? Or had something happened to leach the color from her cheeks? Jamie wanted to ask her, but anything he said would be overheard by the MacGregor. If Alasdair had caused Caitrin’s discomfiture, Jamie would do her no favors by drawing attention to her.
Instead, he passed the meal in polite small talk with the MacGregor and Fletcher and, when she would answer, with Caitrin. She ate little and failed to rally during the meal, making Jamie’s disquiet even stronger. What had her so fashed?
The people of clan MacGregor seemed well-off. The hall was filled with much of the MacGregor’s fighting force, though he boasted of many more men scattered around his holdings. Women and children mixed with the men in what Jamie supposed were family groups. Judging by the number of bairns, the MacGregors were a lusty lot. They seemed relaxed and comfortable as they talked and ate. Musicians played from the landing of the main stairs. Younger lads chased dogs around the tables, snatching scraps to feed the hounds when their elders’ attention was elsewhere. The scene looked normal. Was it? Caitrin’s countenance gave the lie to it all.
Jamie resolved to get her alone and learn what she’d discovered, if anything. She could simply be nervous about her impending betrothal. But that didn’t sound like the lass he knew, the one game to try almost anything, including turning tables on Toran. He knew he should keep his distance. The Fletcher had warned him to do just that. Damn Will Fletcher and his big mouth. But Jamie still cared about Caitrin. He feared he might be the only one here who truly did. So instead of bowing to the Fletcher’s wishes, he would do what he could to keep her safe, and if at all possible, happy.
“Ye’ve barely touched yer food, lass. Are ye no’ hungry after yer journey?” The MacGregor’s voice pulled Jamie out of his ruminations. He swept his gaze across the room. No one had paid any attention to their laird’s question. MacGregor studied Caitrin with what appeared to be genuine concern, and Fletcher regarded her over Alasdair’s shoulder. One eyebrow raised at the tableau they made, Jamie shifted his gaze to her. Stone-faced, she kept her gaze on the tables below theirs, all but cringing from the hand MacGregor had placed on her arm. He doubted the MacGregor noticed, but Jamie knew her too well to miss her discomfort.
“Thank ye, nay. I’m suddenly very tired. If ye’ll give me leave, I’d like to go to my rest.”
Jamie expected the MacGregor to refuse, to keep Caitrin by his side a while longer. Instead, he stood and offered her a hand up, but she remained seated. “I’ll escort ye myself,” he cajoled her. “Fletcher, if ye’ll attend, please. I willna have scurrilous rumors start here tonight.”
Fletcher leapt to his feet. “Of course, MacGregor. Come, Caitrin. Let’s get ye upstairs so yer maid can tend to ye.”
Catrin nodded, cutting her gaze to Jamie under cover of her bowed head. He started to get to his feet, but she gave him a subtle frown and touched her hair before schooling her features and lifting her gaze.
She clearly wanted to keep this moment between the MacGregor and her da. But later was another matter. He remembered that signal. How could he not? He would go to her after the keep settled down for the night and get to the bottom of this. He sat back and inclined his head, touching the hair at his temple in a brief salute—and answer. “Good evening to ye, Caitrin. Rest well.”
She rewarded him with a twitch of her lip then stood to take her father’s arm. The MacGregor arrayed himself on her other side and led her away.
Nay, Jamie didn’t like how this looked; which was why he’d agreed to talk to Caitrin later tonight and get some answers. It would be wiser to keep his distance, keep an eye on her, and on how the MacGregor treated her. But he could not ignore her request, not when she’d made it in that way. He had too many memories of her as a lass, homesick, or upset over something Toran or someone else had done, using that signal to summon him to keep her company. He’d been her best friend then, and it fell to him to be her friend now. No matter what it cost him.
The risks were great. He still had a job to do for Toran. Was getting the MacGregor signature on the treaty going to be possible? That, and getting in the way of a legitimate dynastic marriage, might be the least of his problems. By aiding Caitrin, if he did not tread very carefully, he risked war between MacGregor and Lathan.
Fortunately, as head of the Lathan scouts, he was very, very good at treading carefully.
Chapter Seven
“Father, please stay a moment.” Caitrin kept her expression serene as the MacGregor bowed over her hand. She got nothing from his brief touch. But she didn’t intend to take any chances. She meant to see to it that the MacGregor left her unmolested. She counted on her father’s presence to ensure that. Even though their host professed to be concerned with appearances and with her well-being, his earlier comments—and their odd tone—made her uneasy. And not just for her own safety. She, her father, Will, even the Lathans, could go from honored guests to prisoners at the MacGregor’s whim. But she also had no real reason not to trust him, just her very strong sense something was amiss. She sighed with relief when he left after simply bidding her a good night.
“What do ye think of him?” Fletcher asked, once the door closed and they were private.
She rubbed her forehead. She’d told the truth when she’d begged to be excused from dinner. Unaccustomed to days on horseback and sleeping on hard ground, and after the warm bath and as much of the meal as she’d been able to force down, she fought the sleep that beckoned. But she needed to see whether her father would listen to her concerns.
Besides, Nan had not yet arrived, so she’d better take advantage of the best chance she’d had so far to enlist her father’s aid.
“I dinna ken whether I can marry him,” Caitrin announced quietly as soon as the door closed behind their host. Perhaps not the best beginning to the conversation she wished to have, but fatigue made her tongue run ahead of her thoughts. She braced herself, expecting Fletcher’s censure.
He gathered a breath, tensing, then shook his head. “Caitrin, lass, ye have barely met him. And ye’re worn out from the journey. Dinna decide on such short acquaintance.”
She knew he was right. Her reserves were exhausted, and he treated her gently for that reason, but she might not have another chance to begin to change his thinking. She forged ahead, hands clasped in front of her to keep from fidgeting. Fatigue and nervous energy made her jumpy. “I fear hours, days, weeks, or months will make little difference, da. He isna who he seems to be.”
“I’ve spent hours with the man. He’s exactly what ye see. A wealthy laird and a good match for ye and for Fletcher.” His fierce frown warned her to be silent, but she ignored the caution.
Instead, she tried a different tactic. “How can ye be certain he will be a good husband to me, or a good ally? We risk wasting what value I have.”
Fletcher stalked to the door and opened it then turned. “I willna talk with ye about this now.” He sighed. “Sleep. Tomorrow, things will look better.”
Caitrin shook her head, but her father interrupted before she could speak, his grip on the door tense, but his eyes sympathetic, which gave her hope.
“Dinna think to defy me on this, daughter. Rest and we’ll discuss this further when ye are more yerself.”
She kept her tone level and low. On the verge of slamming the door behind him, he would not listen if she appeared angry or distraught. “I understand ye are willing to risk me in this venture. But are ye willing to risk all of Fletcher? Think on it, Da, please. MacGregor has a goal in mind. I canna tell ye what it is. No’ yet. But I fear ye canna trust him. I am as much a tool in his hands as I am in yers.”
Fletcher stepped back into the room, leaving the door open. “Ye think to determine all this on the strength of a few minutes in the man’s company?”
Caitrin softened and lowered her voice to a whisper. She didn’t want this conversation echoing down the hallway. “Ye ken how it comes to me, Da, even if ye willna admit it.”
“Yer no
nsense.” He threw up his hands, patience with her apparently at an end. “Ye’re basing all of this on yer nonsense?” He turned and left the room without another word, closing the door behind him more gently than Caitrin expected, given the irritation he displayed.
Her heart sank. He would never admit her ability was real, even though he’d seen the proof of it many times.
****
Jamie found the strands of hair hanging from the door handle by touch. Invisible in the darkened hallway, they were the same signal Caitrin had used at the Aerie to indicate she felt homesick and wanted his company.
He paused, berating himself yet again for risking this visit. He and the other Lathans had been lodged on another floor as a message. Their job escorting Caitrin was done, their assistance no longer needed. The MacGregor would likely have sent them on their way, happy to see the back of them, if not for how their dismissal might appear to Fletcher.
Or perhaps, MacGregor could not boot them out. If Fletcher insisted they remain as an escort if the negotiation broke down, MacGregor would have to agree in order to maintain the appearance of cooperation. Jamie doubted the negotiation would end any time soon. Fletcher was intent on this marriage or none of them would be here. But what did MacGregor hope to gain, besides a beautiful bride? Fletcher had little else to offer him.
Caitrin had her doubts, or she would not have asked Jamie to come to her. She’d never been a silly, simpering miss. She would know what they risked.
At that thought, he paused, considering yet again whether he should turn around and make his way softly downstairs.
Did she hope to be discovered with him, to prevent the marriage to MacGregor? He had no business being here alone. Not during broad daylight, and certainly not in the depths of the night. But this was Caitrin. The lass he’d once known could not be capable of such treachery. Not the lass he’d sworn years ago to befriend and protect for all their lives. Nor, he hoped, could the woman she’d become.
If Toran had known about their nighttime visits during Caitrin’s fostering, Jamie would never have heard the end of it. But Jamie had felt sorry for the lass, a near-orphan, who kept up a brave facade during the day, withstanding Toran’s teasing with humor. She’d broken down once when Toran was out of earshot, and Jamie had pledged to attend her whenever she needed him. Jamie fingered the strands of hair again. They’d agreed on this signal.