Wee William's Woman, Book Three of the Clan MacDougall Series

by Suzan Tisdale

  James also believed that no fine, upstanding young woman who loved her clan would say no if she learned that the potential for extended peace lay in her answer. Once she learned how much was at stake, she couldn’t possibly say no.

  “Aye, I’ll agree to that,” James said with a nod of his head.

  “And,” Angus continued. “No one is to tell her that we had this discussion. I’ll no’ have my daughter thinkin’ that the hopes fer peace lies solely at her feet, fer that be no’ the case. The hope fer peace lies with each of us, and us alone.”

  James Randolph was beginning to wonder is Angus could not read minds. Angus may have thought he had just taken away Randolph’s biggest bargaining chip, appealing to the lass’s sense of honor and duty. Angus had said no one was to tell her they had held this discussion. He said nothing about telling her about the potential for peace. While his son was a fine young man, James Randolph couldn’t be certain that his son’s good looks would alone win the girl’s affections.

  “So be it then,” James finally agreed.

  “So ’tis agreed then,” Seamus Lindsay asked Randolph. “Ye’ll sign the agreement, with or without Bree McKenna agreein’ to marry yer son?”

  “Aye, I do so agree, Seamus.”

  Seamus, Andrew, and Douglas all breathed small sighs of relief. This day had been far too long in arriving. However, neither Nial nor Caelen were pleased with the turn of events. Nial’s jaw clenched tightly while the scowl on Caelen’s face deepened. The two men remained quiet, each deciding to wait until the meeting was over to talk with Angus.

  Over the course of the next hour, quill was set to parchment as Angus scratched out the peace agreement that would bring the seven clans together. Each man stood one at a time to sign his own name and in doing so, pledged on his honor to come to the aid of any of the other clans in the event of war between Scotland and England, or anyone else that would do any of them or their people harm.

  Just before the sun rose in the east, the chief’s each shared a drink of fine whiskey. Peace, they prayed, would be long lasting.

  Nineteen

  Nial McKee and Caelen McDunnah were as opposite as two men could be.

  Though Nial was shorter than most, he was strong as an ox. He wore his brown hair cut close to his scalp and there seemed to always be a twinkle in his gray blue eyes. Nial was a lighthearted man, free with a smile and a bawdy joke. He preferred to use his brains and good humor as the means to an end. But should the need arise he was never afraid to use his brawn. Nial was as good on a battlefield as he was in a war room.

  Caelen McDunnah was a very imposing figure. Tall, built like a wall made of stone, Caelen wore his black hair long, well past his shoulders. Unlike Nial, he did not wear his heart on his sleeve. And none who knew him could ever remember seeing a twinkle in his mud-brown eyes—unless he was about to run a sword through someone’s gut.

  Caelen loved to fight. It was oft said that should he become bored or too long away from battle, he’d start an argument or disagreement for the sole purpose of using his fists or broadsword. Fighting amused him.

  While the two men may have disagreed on many things, there was one topic on which they could agree: There was something off about Gillon Randolph. Something about the young lad, something they could not quite put their finger on, that made each of them unable to trust him. What that something was, neither could explain to Angus. Therefore Angus was convinced it was simple jealousy that turned their heads and made them act like fools.

  The two men had done their best to convince Angus to change his mind as it pertained to Gillon Randolph courting the young, innocent Bree. As far as they were concerned, it was the first bad decision they’d ever known Angus McKenna to make. They felt as though Angus was sending Bree into the proverbial lion’s den.

  “Ye act as though ye think me daughter does no’ have the good sense God gave a goat!” Angus told them, shaking his head. “Bree is a good judge of character, lads. If there is something no’ quite right about Gillon Randolph, Bree will see it.”

  “But she be so young, Angus!” Nial exclaimed. “She does no’ have any experience with courtin’ or the way of men.”

  Nial had known Bree for more than a decade. He had watched her grow from a wiry little girl into a bonny young lass. Aye, she was a feisty thing, so full of life, energy, and sweetness. Bree would make any man proud to call her wife. The thought of Gillon Randolph having that honor gnawed at his gut. Bree was too good for the likes of him.

  “Nial, I’ll thank ye kindly to remember yer place.” Angus scowled at him, his ire growing with the man’s insistence that he had erred in his judgment.

  Nial would not back down. This was far too important to leave it alone and see where things might lead. Bree was too important to him. “Aye, Angus, I do ken me place. I am chief of me own clan. And I have called ye friend for many a year. ’Tis why I be speakin’ me mind this day.”

  Angus studied him closely for a long moment. “If we’re speakin’ blunt then, I’ll say me peace. I think yer jealous that I’d allow Bree to be courted by any man that be no’ ye.”

  Nial’s jaw twitched. “I make no secret that I be fond of yer daughter, Angus. She is a bonny lass. Aye, I would no’ mind courtin’ her meself, but ye’ve made it abundantly clear ye want no such thing. ’Tis yer right as her da. But I tell ye this, Gillon Randolph is the wrong man fer yer daughter!”

  Caelen could take no more of the arguing. He had been standing silently in the corner listening to Angus and Nial go back and forth for more than half an hour.

  “I think yer both as daft as the day is long.” He spoke softly as he stepped toward the table.

  Anger flashed in Nial’s eyes, but only for a fleeting moment. Angus was angry as well, but he made no attempt to hide it.

  Caelen turned his attention toward Nial as he walked around the table and stood near the door. “We all ken how ye feel about Bree. And no one can blame ye, fer she is a bonny lass. I still say she be a bit young fer the likes of ye, but ’tis no’ my place to decide such things.”

  Nial’s jaw continued to twitch. Angus remained silent, watching Caelen with a scrutinizing glare.

  “Angus, I think ye be so determined to be right that ye canna see nor hear what we be tryin’ to tell ye about Gillon Randolph,” Caelen said as he placed his hands on the table and leaned over to look his friend directly in the eye.

  “Yer so determined to have the seven clans join in peace that yer willin’ to set aside the good advice we be givin’ ye. I tell ye this as a friend to ye and to yer wife and yer family. Ye ken that I think of Bree as a sister and ye ken well that I’ve no romantic inclinations toward yer daughter. ’Tis only Bree’s safety and happiness that concerns me.”

  Caelen paused for a moment, letting Angus and Nial think over what he had said. “I ken ye trust Bree’s judgment, but I believe Nial is right. The lass has no experience in matters of the heart and she’s only kent honorable men such as ye and those of yer clan. She has no experience with men who are no’ as inclined to be kind and gentle. I warn ye this now,” Caelen stood upright, with his shoulders back. “Ye be makin’ a grave mistake in allowin’ this.”

  What Caelen did not tell his good friend was that he and Nial would be watching Gillon Randolph very closely over the next days. If the lad did anything to hurt Bree, there would be no one on this earth who could stop either one of them from seeking retribution.

  Twenty

  Rowan Graham had known for weeks that his father, and most likely his mother, would be attending the festival and games at Castle Gregor. Knowing it did not make things any easier.

  It wasn’t that Andrew Graham was a mean man. On the contrary, Andrew Graham was one of the most noble and honorable men that Rowan had ever known. That was the problem. If you made a promise, you kept it. You put your clan first, above all else.

  And if your father happened to arrange a marriage for you at the ripe old age of ten and one? Well, you swallowed
your pride and accepted your fate, like a man, like a warrior, like a good Scot. No matter how homely and gangly the five-year old girl you were betrothed to might have been.

  It was his mother that annoyed him to no end. Enndolynn Graham was a force of nature. Aye, she was a kind woman to most people. Where his father may have been more lenient and ready to shrug off most of Rowan’s antics as a young boy, his mother was not quite so inclined.

  Growing up, he had received many more thumps on his head and spankings from his mother than from his father. He had no doubt that his mother loved him. However, she was a woman who took her role as mother and wife of a clan chief very seriously.

  She was convinced that she was doing God’s will in making sure her children grew up strong, independent, and moral. Rowan was certain her favorite biblical passage was ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ for she would oft recite it while warming his rear end with a stick, a strap, or her hand.

  The thought of having to spend more than a few minutes with the woman set his teeth on edge.

  Rowan had been told of his parents’ arrival late in the morning. The games would not start until the morrow so he had been on the training fields with the other MacDougall men when a runner had been sent for him. His presence in the gathering room was immediately demanded. Knowing it was a command and not a request, he instinctively knew his mother was with his father and it had been her who had sent the young boy to find him.

  Andrew would have sent word to join them when he was done with his morning training session. His mother wouldn’t have cared if he were in a battle for his life, in the middle of his wedding night, or on his deathbed. Patience could not be counted as one of her virtues.

  The command caught Black Richard’s attention. With his curiosity piqued by the way Rowan’s face paled when he’d received the command, Black Richard could not resist the urge to accompany Rowan to the gathering room. Black Richard had never met Enndolynn Graham but he’d heard much about her over the years.

  He reckoned, as they walked toward the castle, that only two entities on this earth frightened Rowan: Satan and Enndolynn Graham. From the way Rowan muttered and cursed under his breath, his sagging shoulders, and colorless face, Black Richard supposed his friend would have preferred to be heading toward a meeting with Satan.

  Covered in sweat and grime from their sparring on the field, Rowan and Black Richard walked the long hallway that led to the gathering room. As they rounded the corner, Angus’ laughter filtered out into the hallway.

  Though the morning meal had been cleared away hours ago, the trestle tables were set again. Breads, cheeses, meats, fruits and ale had been spread out. Laird Andrew Graham sat at the long high table with Angus, apparently amused at something Angus had just told him.

  Rowan breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his mother was not in attendance. He felt like a man given the reprieve from a death sentence. He’d live a few minutes more.

  Rowan knew, unequivocally, that his father was here for more than just the festival and games. Andrew had sent a letter weeks ago, informing Rowan that the time had finally come when he would meet his betrothed again.

  His mother sent her own message informing him that if he did not set a wedding date before the end of the games, she would beat him within an inch of his life. She was not pleased that he had been delaying the inevitable for three years. She would give him no more time.

  Rowan weighed his options. He could flee, like a coward, head north and never been seen or heard from again. But that would be shirking his responsibilities as eldest son. His father would hunt him down like a wild animal and run him through. You did not break your word. You did not run and hide like a coward. And after his death, his mother would filet him like a freshly caught fish. There would be nothing left of him for the living to bury or the scavengers to feast upon.

  “Rowan!”

  Black Richard took note of Rowan’s clenched jaw and the tiny beads of sweat that had begun to form on his forehead. He had the look of a man heading to the gallows and it was all Black Richard could do to contain his amusement.

  Rowan walked toward the table and did indeed feel like a man being led to the gallows. For that was what he thought of marriage: ’twas a death sentence. Especially when you were betrothed to a quiet, mousy, homely girl.

  Andrew Graham stepped from behind the table with a broad smile and met Rowan half way. Before Rowan could react, his father, a man built like a fortress wall and just as strong and formidable, wrapped him in a tight hug.

  “’Tis good to see you, son!” Andrew’s deep voice was like a barrel rolling across a room full of logs—deep, rumbling, and a bit overwhelming.

  “’Tis good to see you as well, father.” Rowan managed to speak, though it was quite difficult with his father’s strong arms wrapped around him so tightly. ’Twas also a bit difficult to breathe.

  Andrew Graham pulled away, but kept his hands on his son’s shoulders. The two of them stood appraising each other, for it had been six years since they’d last laid eyes on one another. Rowan took note that his father’s dark hair now held strands of gray. There were lines on his forehead and around his still bright eyes. He’d aged, but he had aged well.

  “Ye look well, father,” Rowan told him.

  “And ye’ve grown into a fine man! But I kent that ye would, fer ye take after me and not yer mother.”

  Rowan cringed inwardly. His mother reminded him of a berserker -- sweet and quiet one moment, but let her get the scent of fear? An involuntary shudder washed over him. He’d rather fight Satan than argue with his mother. Satan could be beaten, his mother, not likely.

  “Angus has been tellin’ me how well ye’ve done here, lad. It does a father’s heart good to ken his son has acquired good fightin’ skills as well as a good head fer strategy. Ye do a father proud, lad!” He slapped Rowan’s back and led him toward the table.

  “I’m sure ye can guess why we’re here, this day, lad,” Andrew asked as they stood next to the table. Angus was smiling down at him from the high table, looking as though he were enjoying himself immensely. Rowan’s gut tightened and he turned back to his father.

  His father was never one to beat around the bush. Rowan swallowed hard. He could feel the imaginary hangman’s noose being draped around his neck. “Aye,” he answered, at a loss for anything else intelligent to say.

  “Good! The wedding will take place at Castle Áit na Síochána within a fortnight after we return from the festival and games.” Rowan thought fondly whenever the name of his birthplace was mentioned. The castle was aptly named Place of Peace, after Rowan’s great-grandfather settled there in the late thirteenth century. Legend has it that when Torcadall Graham and his brethren made their way out of the dark and dense forest that bordered to the north, a sense of peace came over each man, woman and child. They knew they’d found their home.

  Apparently, Rowan would not be allowed to choose the date of his own death. His mind raced for a way out of the betrothal. Other than literally dying, he could not think of any.

  “Rowan!”

  His stomach lurched when he heard the sound of his mother’s voice calling his name.

  Rowan turned to see a group of women heading toward him, his mother front and center. Enndolynn Graham looked regal and elegant, as always. Her blonde hair was plated around her head and covered with a whisper soft veil. She wore a dress of crimson silk and he thought the color quite befitting considering she could verbally castrate him in the blink of an eye.

  “Mother,” Rowan said as he walked toward her. She had the look of a very pleased woman who had just received a fine gift. Smiling, she wrapped Rowan in a warm embrace.

  “Rowan,” she smiled at him. “It is good to see ye.”

  “And ye as well, mother,” he said when they broke their embrace.

  She offered him a very slight smile that said she knew her son was lying. “I’ve not received any letters from you in quite some time, Rowan,” she admonished him.
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br />   “Please forgive me,” Rowan said. “I have been verra busy of late.”

  She eyed him up and down, quirked an eyebrow that said she didn’t appreciate his falsehood. “Too busy to send a letter to yer own mother? I think no’.” She took a step closer and leaned in to whisper to him. “I think ye be avoidin’ the inevitable. Verra unbecoming a warrior.”

  His ballocks contracted and he swallowed hard. Suddenly, the thought of running like a coward didn’t seem such a bad idea. At least he could keep possession of his manhood. Cowardice had to be better than emasculation.

  She gave him no time to respond. “Because ye refused to come home when summoned, we were forced to come to retrieve you. I trust yer father has informed ye that the date has been set fer yer weddin’?”

  Hanging was more like it. “Aye,” he said. “He’s told me.”

  “Good,” she said. Her knowing smile never left her face.

  “And ye are prepared to do yer duty to yer family?” she asked, her voice dripping with false warmth and curiosity.

  For a fleeting moment, Rowan thought of telling his mother than he’d been wounded in battle and had been left impotent. Knowing she’d find it neither amusing, nor important, he merely nodded his head and said, “Aye.” A promise had been made years ago and Rowan would not be allowed to worm his way out of it.

  Enndolynn studied him for a brief moment before turning to face one of the women behind her. “Rowan, I am sure you remember your betrothed?” she said as she bowed her head and waved a hand toward the group.

  His mother knew damned well he wouldn’t know Kate Carruthers if she came up and slapped him. His eyes scanned over the group. He was looking for a gangly, homely lass with red-blonde locks and dull green eyes. Most of the lasses were of the same height and average build. One was a bit on the heavy side, but comely none-the-less. It mattered not which one of these lasses was Kate Carruthers. A hanging was a hanging was a hanging.