by John Ryan
“Gentleman?” Elspeth crackled in outrage. “Surely ye jest! Seeing as ye are completely bereft of propriety and manners, mayhap ‘tis I who must rescue ye!”
As Elspeth stalked furiously away, she missed the look of astonishment upon Thayer’s face. She also missed the appreciative smile that immediately supplanted it.
Chapter Two
Dirleton Castle
Late Autumn 1298
“Then it’s settled, daughter. Ye will marry Sir Thayer MacCourt,” Sir Rhoenne proclaimed to Elspeth.
As was oft his manner, he accentuated his point by slamming his monstrous fist down upon the small oaken table in the middle of his daughter’s spacious chambers. So incensed at his daughter’s refusal to discuss his sudden plans for her betrothal, Sir Rhoenne didn’t seem to notice the haphazard array of splinters which now protruded from his hand like a of set of prickly porcupine quills.
For her part, Elspeth was lost in her thoughts. Though nearly six years had passed since that stolen kiss, she inwardly confessed that the very mention of Thayer’s name still incited her heart to hammer wildly against her ribs. To this very day, she could almost taste his molten lips upon hers. But she quickly reminded herself that as much as she had grown during those long years, so had Thayer’s legendary rakish repute.
While she was loath to admit it, this morning’s discussion had only come about because of her unwillingness to tell her father of Thayer’s inexcusable, yet delicious, assault all those years ago. Sir Rhoenne would never have suggested marriage to a man capable of such loutish behavior. Actually, knowing how fiercely protective he was of his daughter; she felt he probably would have hunted him down to exact vengeance. It seemed, for this day at least, Elspeth was reaping what she had sown.
Though her audience with her father had commenced some fifteen minutes earlier, Elspeth had yet to utter a single word.
Surely, this is a nightmare! She raged inwardly, vying to constrain the wave of anguish welling within her chest. As it crested, she tugged fitfully at her delicate lace collar, which threatened to suffocate her.
At last, her father seemed to be at a loss for words. His brow furrowed as he gazed upon her.
“I am certain that ye have not lost the employ of your tongue, dearest daughter,” he quipped sardonically, arching a skeptical brow. “Forsooth, unlike my trusty sword, it has grown sharper every time ye have wielded it.”
Though Elspeth loved her father deeply and would never needlessly upset him, she was determined to at least make her position known before he departed her chambers. Painfully aware that the outcome was likely a forgone conclusion, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least try to sway him.
Since her childhood, Elspeth would try to match wits with her father. He would surely expect nothing less today, yet she knew she must tread lightly. After all, her father’s design for the match had merit. For the good of the Highlands, and for the sake of her family’s safety, the Mourney/MacCourt rift needed to be resolved. The two clans had already been at odds for nigh a decade. There had been countless livestock reft, increasingly hostile raids and skirmishes, and just last week her cousin, Shaun, was nearly killed in a fight with a MacCourt. If only there were another way to end the feud…
“Father, ye ken I love ye with all of my heart, but rest assured, I shan’t be led like a lamb to the slaughter. It seems ‘twas folly to teach me the fine art of persuasion, Elspeth said as she fought to conceal a triumphant smile.
Surely spying the subtle ascending arc of his daughter’s soft lips, Sir Rhoenne thundered, “I dinna care how ye twist and turn that bonny little face of yours, Elspeth, ye will marry Sir Thayer MacCourt!”
Elspeth gazed upon her father, noting that his face had mottled with a deep crimson hue that rivaled the thick red hair of his beard. Undeterred, she smiled to herself, confident that she was up to the task of defending her position and, just possibly, changing her father’s mind. If this war of words were to escalate into a war of wills, Elspeth was determined to emerge from it victoriously.
As her father continued his protest, Elspeth simply shook her head and rested an elegant finger upon her lips. She had no doubt that, as the veteran of many battles with his headstrong daughter, he understood her inference precisely.
“Ye are remiss to address me with your words, Elspeth, but your eyes, and your silence, speak volumes. Your beloved grandfather once told me that to achieve true wisdom one must ken precisely what to overlook. I’m sorry, dear daughter, but this impertinence I cannot ignore. It will not work, I tell ye, me mind is made up.”
Though screams welled within her, bursting to escape, Elspeth maintained her poise. With a delicate shrug of her slender shoulders, she finally broke her silence.
“Father, did ye not teach me that a word uttered in anger can never be unsaid. That in love, as in battle, discretion is the more honorable path to tread?”
His own teachings returning to haunt him, Sir Rhoenne chortled, “I see ye have indeed retained the power of speech, Elspeth. For this, I am grateful. Yet, ye seem to forget that I also taught ye that denial is the most lethal form of delay.”
With her father’s droll retort, Elspeth’s composure fled. She could hold back no longer.
“Verily ye cannot be serious, Father! I’d rather die a maiden than wed that arrogant blackguard!”
Sir Rhoenne, tall, well-favored and nattily clad in a crisply pleated kilt of emerald and gold, flourished with a sash of jade tartan, sported a generous head of wavy red hair dappled with gray. As he set to prowling about the chambers with his hands knotted tightly behind his back, Elspeth regarded him with profound satisfaction.
Am I going mad? She mulled, keen to keep her gratification to herself. Or has Father’s hair taken on a more grizzled hue afore me very eyes? With her observation, Elspeth knew she was beginning to get under her father’s skin.
Sir Rhoenne continued to pace along the floor, a slew of oaths in his wake. As his heavy footfalls echoed in the spacious chamber, Elspeth’s gaze followed him closely.
“Och, ye are truly stubborn to a fault, dear daughter!” Sir Rhoenne at last concluded with exasperation, his jaw working in anger.
“Mayhap, but ‘tis ye I take after, Father,” Elspeth retorted.
“Elspeth,” Sir Rhoenne pleaded softly, testing a different tact, “ye must see the big picture here. This match may be the very last chance we have to mend this rift with the MacCourts.”
His voice sinking to a whisper, Sir Rhoenne further entreated her, “Elspeth, I depart tomorrow to join the rebellion against the English. I need ye to be strong for me, now. I want ye to do this for your family. I want ye to do this for your ol’ man.”
“Da, did ye not teach me to never abandon a cause I feel strongly about?” Elspeth suggested.
“Dinna get it into your head that this is a debate, Elspeth! That would imply there are two possible outcomes. I assure ye, there is but one,” Sir Rhoenne asserted as he cast a menacing glare at his daughter.
Unmoved, Elspeth mirrored his glower, inducing him to blink.
“Surely ye wish me to heed your guidance?” Elspeth murmured as her eyes shone impishly.
The instant Sir Rhoenne opened his mouth to respond, there was a sharp rap of knuckles upon the door, succeeded by a tentative request. He whirled around to face the entry.
“Please pardon the intrusion, m’lord,” bid the muffled voice. “‘Tis Shamus, the sentry of the tower. May I have a word with ye?”
Elspeth sighed inwardly. She was grateful for the respite, no matter its duration.
“Aye, the door is unlocked, Shamus,” Sir Rhoenne answered as he strode toward the doorway.
From her vantage point in the far most nook of the room, Elspeth could see little and hear less. Her brows knit as she strained to pick up bits and pieces of the conversation.
Her ears pricked at the words, “English patrol…killed…skirmish.” Elspeth gasped as her heart surged, raising gooseflesh along
her nape.
Evidently, the spirit of the conversation had turned dire, because she watched as her father hastily whisked Shamus into the hallway to continue the discourse. A moment later, he returned, his face etched with worry.
“Is everything alright, Father?” Elspeth inquired with genuine concern. Rising from her perch upon the chaise beside the hearth, she approached him.
As if he appreciated the empathetic look upon his daughter’s face, Sir Rhoenne draped his hulking arm protectively around Elspeth’s slender shoulders and flashed a reassuring smile.
“‘Tis naught for ye to worry your bonny little head about, m’child,” he soothed. “Now, where were we?”
Studying his unsmiling eyes, Elspeth immediately sensed that her father’s grin was there merely for her benefit. As much as she loved him for trying to ease her anxiety, she decided even now would be too costly a time to betray any sign of weakness. Weakness, her father had always insisted, was sweetly provocative to any competitor, rival, or foe.
“As I recall, ye were ready to concede to me and cast off any notion of my marriage to that odious Thayer MacCourt. Do ye not remember?” Elspeth replied with impish impunity.
“I swear, dearest daughter, ye could test the very patience of Job himself!” Sir Rhoenne growled as he shook his fist angrily in the air.
“Aye, but ‘tis only your patience I seek to test, Father,” Elspeth cooed, sensing an opportunity to benefit from the softness he held for her.
“Lizzie, I will say naught more!” Sir Rhoenne roared, his booming voice resonating through the room like a clap of thunder.
With those words, Elspeth felt a twinge of defeat. She knew she had pushed her father as far as she dared. This battle was nearing an end. Sir Rhoenne only referred to Elspeth as Lizzie when he was most cross with her.
“Very well, Father. But should I perish from heartbreak, I shall haunt ye and Mother throughout eternity, or at least until I receive my apology,” she quipped, mentally bracing herself for the inevitable backlash.
“Insufferable child!” Sir Rhoenne snarled, glowering at his daughter. “I give ye over to your mother now. Mayhap she can talk some sense into ye. But, ken this, Lizzie, ye will marry that man!”
With a grunt, Sir Rhoenne stalked out of the room, pausing only to flick a coltish wink at Lady Fiona as she gracefully glided into the chambers. Elspeth may have tested his patience but her parents both knew full well it was his own example she was following.
If I can try Father’s patience, mayhap I can breach Mother’s will as well. And since she has father’s heart--as well as his ear...Elspeth mulled.
Spying her mother, she made certain Lady Fiona noticed her before thrusting her chin defiantly into the air. A sigh fled Elspeth as she folded her arms tightly across her chest.
A statuesque and refined beauty, Lady Fiona was majestically clad in a flowing gown of rich violet and lustrous gold, her head adorned with a pearlescent kerchief of fine linen. The flowing ends of the kerchief draped elegantly over her slender neck and alabaster shoulders. A barbette sewn of exquisite silk was daintily tied beneath her chin. Atop her head, she wore a filet of linen in a hat-like ring. A pearl adorned wimple was fastened to her brow by a chaplet of wrought gold.
Lady Fiona bit back a snicker as she watched her daughter, her eyes crossed, huffing at an errant crimson tendril that was draped stubbornly from her brow.
Lingering in the fore of the room, Lady Fiona regarded Elspeth warmly as a wistful smile hovered about her lips.
Sweet Jesu, it seems ‘twas only yesterday my Elspeth was no more than a wee lassie. Now, look at her, all grown and about to be married. Where have the years fled?
Though Elspeth was only a fortnight removed from her twenty-first birthday, her ambrosial beauty was already widely celebrated throughout the realm of Lothian. Her supple skin and creamy complexion, unblemished as a blanket of freshly fallen snow, enveloped her body like a flawless silken cerement of ivory. Her auburn locks glowed as if aflame and cascaded gracefully to her waist. Her eyes, almond-shaped and emerald green, were as rich and deep as a Scottish loch. Her lengthy lashes, thick and sooty, enhanced their cat-like beauty and weakened the knees of any swain intent on pursuing her favors. Her sensuous ruby red lips were bow shaped and splendidly plump. The lines of her face were fine and well defined. Many in the realm remarked that a master sculptor could not have created a more perfect face.
Elspeth’s resplendent figure was widely esteemed as well. Blessed with long shapely legs, a slender torso, curvaceous hips, and a pleasingly ample bosom, the men of the realm fancied her a sight to behold. In a one-sided contention, however, the women of Lothian greatly envied and coveted her ethereal beauty.
Much to her parents’ relief, Elspeth was never prone to such pettiness. Fiona knew that ofttimes, Elspeth considered her beauty to be more of a curse than a blessing. It merely prompted unwelcome advances from lecherous old men, made younger men act as besotted fools, and drew the ire and jealousy of many of the women of the realm. She winced at nigh every mention of it.
“Ye really ought to go easy on him, Elspeth,” Lady Fiona admonished tenderly. “He loves ye dearly, ye ken.”
“Mother, please dinna tell me ye are in accord with Father,” Elspeth protested, a mutinous pout forming upon her lips.
Although she remained stoic, so she didn’t betray her inner turmoil, Lady Fiona’s heart was breaking for her daughter. Awash in a fog of guilt, she willed herself to maintain her reassuring mien.
“Are ye completely bereft of pity for me?” Elspeth asked as a dull ache crept into her heart.
She inhaled deeply, fighting back the feeling of abandonment in the pit of her stomach. Though she was loath to accept it, Elspeth began to sense that the walls of her equanimity were collapsing around her.
“Surely ye know what kind of man Sir Thayer MacCourt is!” Elspeth railed, evoking the day she had confided in her mother about Thayer’s attempt to kiss her. Albeit, her telling was devoid of any salacious details. The version she presented her mother had Thayer merely brushing her cheek with an unwelcomed buss.
“Ye ken of his repute, Mother. He is a rake, pure and simple! ‘Tis said that he has a different lover nigh every new moon. If ye ken this, why do ye and Father insist upon remanding me to this unhappy fate?”
“Forgive us, Elspeth. I know ye have always dreamed ye would marry for love. Alas, ‘tis seldom the lot of a Lady of Scotland,” Lady Fiona confessed. Her red-rimmed eyes unwittingly exposed her acute sense of regret.
Looking as if she were feeling imprisoned in her own skin, Lady Fiona shifted uneasily and moved closer to her daughter.
“Were ye not in love with Father when ye married him?” Elspeth asked as her heart leapt with romantic hope.
A blithe smile hovered about her lips as Lady Fiona conceded, “Aye, ‘twas most fortunate that your grandparents arranged a marriage with the most eligible, handsomest man in all of Scotland. It vexes me greatly that I cannot offer ye the same, dear daughter.”
“Then dinna make me do this, Mother!” Elspeth pled as she watched her mother’s form swim through her tears.
“Forgive us, Elspeth, but your father and I truly do not have a choice,” Lady Fiona confessed. “Your father and Bromwell MacCourt both agreed to end the bloodshed and unite the clans by arranging the marriage between ye and his eldest son. I’m sorry, but this match must take place.”
Her mother’s words cutting her like a knife, Elspeth’s hope began to fade. She felt hollow, as if her very soul had taken flight. As wave upon wave of grief washed over her, Elspeth urged herself to remain calm. Her spirit all but extinguished, Elspeth began to sense that her most prized attribute, her will to fight, had forsaken her.
Spying her daughter’s slumped shoulders and look of despair, Lady Fiona consoled her. “Ye will see, Elspeth, ‘twill all turn out for the best. Mayhap, in time, ye will even grow to love him.”
“Love? Love Thayer MacCourt? Nae, Mother, I sh
all never love that randy varlet!” Elspeth insisted, reclaiming her crumbling composure. “Besides, coerced into this union, he will surely never come to love me. Ye ken what the wise allege, Mother. Where there is a marriage bereft of love, love without marriage will surely follow.”
“Elspeth, surely ye ken that your father loves ye deeply and would never permit a man of dubious character to wed ye. I’m quite certain he has received assurances from the elder MacCourt that his son has every intention to honor the match and remain faithful. Besides, ye are judging Thayer by your solitary acquaintance. That day was nigh six years ago. Ye both have grown so much since then! Surely ye can leave what has passed in the past.”
At last resigned to her fate, Elspeth murmured, “I’ll try, Mother. I’ll surely try.”
Chapter Three
Edinburgh Castle
October, 1298
“Nae, I will not do it, Thayer! I will not!” Faolin protested heatedly. His twin leisurely prop himself against the stone wall of his chambers and flashed a devilish grin.
The idea, which had come to Thayer as a bolt from the blue, would be his greatest coup of all. Now, if he could just pull it off!
“Mayhap ye forget, little brother, but ye have a debt to repay,” Thayer retorted as a throaty chuckle slipped past his lips.
“Little brother? Thayer, ye were born not ten minutes afore I! Dinna ye think ye are taking this little brother thing a wee bit literally?” Faolin fumed, his eyes of sapphire directing a thousand tiny dirks at Thayer.
“It matters naught, Faolin. Ye owe me a debt, and I fully intend to collect,” Thayer returned wryly. He held his brother’s gaze fast, smiling in elfish delight.
“Thayer, though I would be remiss if I dinna acknowledge that ye have indeed enjoyed a charmed existence thus far, ye must have been born arse-first to think such an outlandish scheme will succeed!” Faolin grumbled. “Ye really expect me to assume your identity and wed the Lady Elspeth in your stead?”