Niall had a reputation for having more anger than sense and being more of a warrior king than a benevolent caretaker to his people. And, while it was true that he had spent many a month at war alongside his fellow Scots, such rumor-mongers might have been surprised to know the hours he worked into the night to see the practicalities of leadership completed. He had to be very meticulous with the tenants, the crop production, the handling of the taxes and the inter-provincial trade. A laird was more than a leader of men, able to draw swords and yell commands. He was a benefactor. Often an austere father that had to choose the best, for the futures of his peoples from the lowest peasant to the richest of merchants. No matter if that was what they found pleasing.
To that end, Niall had in his employ several scribes about his lands. They operated as his eyes and ears, ensuring that his instructions and expectations were met by the general populace. He used such information to balance his handling of orders, ensuring that the rich were never treated unfairly for the money they held in their pocket, and the poor were never made more so through hard labor in their benefactor’s name.
Being laird was a game of balance. Not brutality.
Yet Niall had never been very good at showing how he might possess both.
Watching as his maid finished her cleaning with a faster hand than she had begun, and then left the room in a hurry, Niall gave only a moment's thought to the new rumor that would surely spark among the corridors of the estate. That the lord and master of the manor would bark vileness at people that took too leisurely a pace.
Niall had never attempted to correct his reputation as a cursed man of the manor, for his temper always saw to thwart his attempts, coating his name in tar with every moment of ire.
This time, his anger had been flared by the correspondence from an area of land kept in the charge of his cousin. The scribe that he held in his keeping there gave detailed address to recent changes made by Malcolm, under the guise of Niall’s orders. Large areas of greenland kept in fell for future seasons had been worked and turned to agricultural lands. The people of nearby villages had been absconded to work the fields with plough and ax. They were paid generously for the additional labor to their days, and the land itself was not being poorly utilized, so the writer of the reports had seen no harm in the actions Malcolm had taken. But Niall was more aware of matters than his scribe, for the taxation and reports of the situation of Malcolm’s lands had not changed to include new areas of produce.
His cousin was working expansions of Brodie lands and pocketing the profit of such a venture, turning public territory into private gain.
What was more concerning was that the Brodie household expenses, for the manor in which Malcolm lived, had not increased. This meant his cousin had a very specific purpose in mind for this sudden accumulation of private wealth.
Suspicion boiled in Niall’s gut, as he read over the letter for a third time, comparing the finer points of detail with his own reports of commerce. His eyes were growing tired by the candlelight and he was irritable enough that even the crackling of firewood from the hearth behind him was needling at his patience.
His uncle could not have picked a worse time to disturb him.
Yet, the knock at the door and Lord Mackenzie’s entrance was not one that Niall was willing to turn away. He had a soft spot for the old man that any fatherless boy might have formed in his youth, and he was not about to shut out his limited circle of friends when foes were already collating their reserves.
Niall’s bark of entry was sharper than he had intended, and he winced against a throbbing that had set up behind his vision. The pads of his thumb and forefinger bore into his closed eyes before pinching at the bridge of his nose and blinking at Duncan’s entrance to the chamber. The man was clearly in high spirits; Niall made an effort to ensure that his face did not mirror his stormy mood.
His uncle knew him well enough to be insulted by such attempts at fallacy.
“You’re looking well, Duncan,” he greeted his old friend. A smile was too much to ask from the laird, but the lilt to Niall’s voice was enough to tell the man that he was welcome, regardless of the hour.
“As well I should, my lord,” the man greeted back. Duncan had always insisted on addressing Niall by his station, even if he was at least thirty years his senior. His only break with tradition was the occasional affectionate use of “boy” or “son.” Also, the old man had a knack for knowing when to show respect and when Niall might more appreciate the hand of a caring relative.
“I have come to ask for your blessing, as I intend to be married,” the old man continued. Despite his age, his step was light, his smile wide, and his eyes winked with a youthful exuberance that was almost comical. There was a sway to his gait that had the heavy cross he always wore upon his chest, bouncing softly against the cotton of his tunic.
Niall had been leaning back, the power of his legs sending the heavy throne on which he sat up upon its back legs. At this startling piece of news, he lost his foundation and the chair dropped to all four feet with a clunk. No longer restrained by his hands, the parchment on his desk jumped and curled back into shape, rolling away towards his inkwell.
“Come again, Uncle?” he asked the man, unsure that he had heard the old coot right. It had been only a week ago that Duncan had first mentioned a desire to remarry—at the festivities to celebrate Malcolm’s son—and now he had already secured a potential wife?
A life of watching over his shoulder for traitors and thieves had Niall’s suspicion writhe once more. His uncle was a steadfast man, a gentleman of thought and reason. But there was no possible way for him to have found a woman that he wished to marry—one that he had not, during his decades, already considered and discarded as a future Lady Mackenzie—and weighed all considerations to the union within a week.
Niall thought back to their conversation at Malcolm’s cèilidh. They had been neither quiet nor unaccompanied; anyone could have heard Duncan’s thoughts about a new match. It would not take much for a careful woman to orchestrate a path into Duncan’s eyeline.
Niall held respect for his uncle. He knew him to be a knowledgeable and clever man. He was neither gullible nor stupid. But he was also a faithful Christian man, and he gave all the kindness that he thought owing to his neighbor. The idea that he had been taken in by a pretty pair of breasts and the facade of a sweet disposition was an unlikely one.
He paused for a moment, reading the excitement on his uncle’s face and considering his next words carefully.
“You give me such news, Uncle, with no time or detail.” His tone was one of affectionate reprimand. “Just how am I to offer you blessings for your future union when I do not yet know the bride?”
His smile upon Duncan was returned tenfold before the man took a seat. The chair that sat opposite Niall’s desk was as tall as his own but positioned with its back to the room. It was a seat of inferiority before the lord and master of the lands. Niall shifted so that they were seated as friends across a table, not enemies across a divide.
“You’re quite right,” Duncan assured his nephew, hands up in a gesture of assurance, “which is why I come to you now, my boy. I wish to invite my future bride to a meal here at Aberlynn. Perhaps you would be so gracious as to host us for a dinner? You might make your appraisal then and be confident in my choice of lady?”
There was no true need for Niall’s blessing upon Duncan’s choice of woman. As a lord himself, married to the Brodie lineage, Duncan’s choice of wife was his own to make. The old man came to Niall now strictly due to their familial bond. He wished for Niall’s approval on a personal level, and Niall wished to know that his uncle was not about to be cuckolded by an ambitious woman the likes of Fiona.
“But of course, Uncle,” he assured the man. “I shall have one arranged for three nights hence.” And, upon that eve, Niall would perform his role as defender of his family and bloodline.
The Brodie family had one viper in its grasses already. It did not
need another.
5
A Soldier in a Dress
By the time the anticipated evening came to pass, Niall was perfectly sick of the notion of matrimony. With the festivities of Malcolm the previous week, and his doting upon the woman at his side, Niall had already been predisposed to dislike the reminder of his own lack of wife and child. Then, Duncan had made his announcement of betrothal. With him barely a husband for more than a few months the first time around, Niall had always seen Duncan as an honorary bachelor; his fall from grace now was unsettling.
An independent soldier surrendering to an enemy clad in dresses.
As if that wasn’t enough, one of his lead cooks in the kitchens had just birthed her fourth babe and Niall had been asked for permission for a union between one of his household servants and a blacksmith’s daughter in the nearby township.
It was as if some cosmic, godly hand was guiding all those around him into the church and to the altar.
Despite matrimony being a celebration of God and a means of producing the next generation, Niall had never warmed to the idea. Not even as a child. Orphaned at a young age, with only servants and maids to see to his necessary ablutions, it had been decades since Niall had felt any great familial sentiment. He had never known the warmth of his mother’s embrace, and had long forgotten the feel of his father’s hand ruffling his hair. His only lessons in love and family were in the reputations that his parents had left behind; the knowledge that his father had married beneath his rank because love and affection had moved him to challenge the expectations of all.
In short, love and marriage seemed more a tribulation than a joy to Niall, doomed to cause disgrace, difficulty, or discontent one way or another. And, whether deliberate or subconscious, Niall had pushed all such thoughts for his own future to one side.
Now, with the subject lingering around every corner and ambushing him into formal dinners, it was hard for him to continue his charade of ignorance. His status as an unmarried laird felt like a crack beneath his feet, a weakness that his aunt and cousin were happily exploiting. And it gnawed at his belly that he should be showing his flank so easily.
Classifying such thoughts as an inconvenience to be addressed later, Niall tried to focus upon the evening ahead. Not wishing to insult his dear uncle, he had dressed well for the occasion in a long tunic of green. A belt of fine leather was wrapped around his hips and boots of the same rose to his knees. Pushing up the longer sleeves of his undershirt, Niall cracked his fingers and rolled his neck, seeking a goblet of wine from the cabinet to the left of the dining chamber.
Smaller than the great hall, where banquets of up to a hundred men could be seated, the dining parlor of the Aberlynn castle was grand in a different manner. With high and towering ceilings, impressive candelabras and the shining pattern of stained glass in each window, the room was a finely dressed one. The large, oak table, stained dark by careful polish and scarred with generations of memory, stood proudly in the center of the room atop a large rug of earthy hues. Fine linens and silken runners had been produced to lay atop the table. The cushions for each seat had been cleaned and loose threads seen to.
Niall had been insufficient in his details to the staff under his command. He had claimed the evening to be one of importance for his family and left them to dress the room as such. It mattered not to him if the candles were all fresh and the drooping, melted wax removed from their stands, but it might matter to Duncan. And so, the staff had seen to such inconsistencies.
As if summoned by thought alone, Niall heard the unmistakable step of his uncle jaunting along the hallway that led to the dining hall. The main doors to the parlor had been pushed wide, an invitation to Duncan and his guests. When the man came strolling in, eager to greet his nephew, Niall was careful to drink deep from his goblet. The finely crafted gold hid the majority of his face, so that he might appraise these newcomers with an unnoticed, critical eye.
“Lord Brodie!” They were amongst strangers, so Duncan greeted Niall with his formal title, but the smile upon his face belied his personal affection. “May I introduce my old and very good friend, Kenneth Webb.”
A man of Duncan’s age stepped forward. He possessed more grey in his hair than Lord Mackenzie but fewer lines upon his face. Had he not recognized the lack of title in the man’s address, the slight stoop to his frame would have given Webb away as common born. His shoulders naturally drew in, a man used to being bent over his craft.
“Webb,” Niall said simply. He glanced towards Duncan before offering up a hand of greeting to his friend. Webb’s hands were gnarled and rough to the touch, but his grip still held strength enough for a man of his years. “I welcome you to Aberlynn. I have heard your name over the years from Lord Mackenzie. I understand I am to thank you for my uncle still standing.”
The old man had grace enough to huff an amused laugh, batting away the compliment as easily as he might a nuisance fly.
“Only in exchange for him saving my own skin, my lord, I assure you,” Kenneth explained, his natural good humor and calm soul painted on his features. Niall could see why his uncle liked the man.
Where Duncan was tall, his friend was stouter. Not yet slipping into the old age that would see him to the state of portly, he was still powerful in frame with a sturdy pair of legs and broad shoulders. He held himself as a man used to his presence and perfectly aware of his own being; easy and serene.
“And this,” Duncan continued with his introductions, “is the young Miss Caoimhe Webb, who has graciously accepted the terms discussed by her father and I, and consented to be my wife.”
Niall’s gaze fell upon the woman that had commanded little attention since stepping into the room. Initially half-hidden behind her father, the young lady—no more a girl, really—seemed unsure in being brought to the forefront of the group. Despite a pretty carriage and a fine posture, she held no real charisma, no state of presence that summoned the gaze of others. Too simple to be called interesting and too thin to be called beautiful, the woman was almost frail to the gaze, as if a strong wind might see her fall sideways and a little rough handling would see her broken. Her hair was a pretty, soft brown, and her features fine, as if painted by a gentle brush, but that was perhaps all that she had to commend herself.
The young lady’s hands came before her, folding softly upon one another as she lowered herself into a formal curtsy. It was a rudimentary moment of grace, but Niall found himself more occupied by her face than her manners, waiting for her to meet his gaze. As she bent low, he was offered only the impression of long, dark lashes that fanned over her high cheekbones.
“I welcome you also, Miss Webb,” Niall offered. The words were formulaic as they left his lips. He could hardly treat his future aunt with anything less than basic respect. Besides, the more he was kind to her, the more likely she might be to reveal her true intentions towards his uncle. Set a snake defensive and you only allowed their anger to make them more dangerous.
As the girl named Caoimhe rose back up, she glanced at him from beneath those lashes. As color rose in her cheeks, Niall blinked in surprise at her eyes.
By all rights, they were as underwhelming as the rest of the girl. Dark brown—little more than the color of mud—and a little too big for her face to be considered truly pretty. Yet, they focused on him with a clarity that was almost unnerving. As if she could strip away all that he was, to the very center of things, if she so chose. It was a powerful gaze for a woman so unassuming.
Niall felt a spark of resentment. For, surely, those eyes told of more intelligence in the simple weaver’s daughter than she had any right to possess?
Before the girl had the chance to respond to his greeting, Niall’s steward, Brogan, appeared to announce that dinner was ready to be served. With a simple gesture that was without excessive ceremony, Niall encouraged his guests to the table before taking the seat at its head. His eyes watched the slim figure of Caoimhe taking her seat and puzzled over how she set her place and
briefly touched at the silver utensils.
Curious as to why a woman of ambition would exhibit her nervousness so, Niall’s gaze was drawn to Caoimhe throughout the first course of the meal, seeking other tells about her feelings on the union. Conversation flowed between the men easily enough before slowly, and naturally, leaving Niall and his stoic observations out of active participation. The older gentlemen seemed content to chatter over old memories and wax lyrical over the nostalgia they each held claim to. Niall was curious to see a little smile of sorts upon Caoimhe’s face as they spoke, her eyes bright upon her father.
When the dishes of lamb and vegetables were removed from the table, there was little wait before servings of sweets were set in their place. The braised pears and apples had been marinated in honey and whiskey until they practically fell apart on the tongue. It was one of the few desserts that Niall cared for and yet even the sugars of the dish could not lift his mood out of dark suspicion.
“Miss Webb…” Niall began, drawing the notice of all at the table. “Forgive my impertinence, but I am curious about the woman due to join my family. Would you object to a few questions to sate my interest?”
The tip of Caoimhe’s tongue was a soft pink as it broke free to moisten her lower lip. She glanced at her father, then at Lord Duncan, and finally came back in the direction of her host, but she seemed hesitant to meet his gaze.
“Of course not, my lord,” she offered. Her voice was quiet and soft but it was not weak. She spoke with a depth that turned her tone soothing and peaceful, like the waters at the bottom of the loch.
“Are you educated, Miss Webb?”
“You can call me Caoimhe, if you wish, my lord.”
“I do not.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and Niall felt the sharp look of his uncle, as he had received as a boy whenever he was misbehaving. He studiously avoided Duncan’s gaze, turning instead to the look of blushing awkwardness upon the young girl’s face. He pushed aside any guilt for making her feel uncomfortable and turned back to the matter at hand.
Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance Page 4