By God's Grace

by Felicia Rogers

  “Aye, I know.”

  A white, bushy eyebrow rose, and Duncan mumbled an apology. Minutes passed before the elder continued. “Of course, ye know. Every laird knows he must produce an heir to lead the clan in case of his demise. Yer brother was warned, but he didn’t listen. Now his line is dead, and yer line will lead us.” Duncan started to interject again, but the leader waved away the interruption. “Since ye are now laird, we will no longer concern ourselves with the past. We will look to the future. Ye will marry and produce an heir as soon as possible. The elders have decreed it.”

  “Verra well.” Duncan would never have agreed to such presumption five years ago. But after spending time with little Thomas Duncan, the desire to settle down and start a family of his own weighed upon him. At this time in his life, he was more than ready to share himself and his newfound faith with a lifelong companion.

  Lyall stepped forward and whispered to one of the elders. The elder in turn whispered down the line to the spokesman. When the leader received the message, his head lifted, directing a questioning stare at Lyall. She nodded. The elder hesitated.

  Wrinkled hands worried one another atop the table as the man spoke. “Lyall has suggested she marry ye and provide an heir.”

  Duncan laughed, the loud noise echoed off the high ceiling. “Why would I marry a woman who is either barren or doesn’t wish to satisfy a man? I have no need for a woman such as her.”

  The impressed elder smiled. “Duncan is correct. Ye have had five years to produce an heir, and ye have failed. The council and I believe it would be a detriment to the clan to force Duncan to wed ye.”

  Lyall bowed and backed out of the room. Relief filled him to see the strumpet leave. The woman’s presence made him uncomfortable.

  Marry her indeed! The woman had denied Cainneach marital relations for the whole of their marriage. There was no way Duncan would be stupid enough to place himself in a similar situation.

  “Now that Lyall has left, let us discuss our plan.”

  “Ye have a plan? Since when do I need a plan to acquire a woman?”

  The elder laughed. “Yer prowess is duly noted, Duncan, but we have a plan ye shall follow nonetheless.”

  Duncan’s shoulders shrugged with feigned indifference while waiting for the elder to continue.

  “It is good ye have no objections. Our plan for ye will take place at the feast of St. Michael. We will have a tournament inviting all the neighboring clans. Each clan will bring their best females, and ye will choose one for a wife.”

  Duncan considered refusing the elders' method of wife hunting, but decided it might be more interesting to play their game and see what happened. Who knows? He might meet someone to love.

  “Aye. It will be as ye say.”

  Duncan attempted to leave, but one of the council yelled, “Stop!”

  Duncan swiveled. “Aye?”

  “We weren’t exactly finished. If for some reason ye fail to choose a wife from those offered to ye, then the winning clan at the tournament will gain the honor of choosing a wife for ye.”

  Now Duncan was upset. The elders were determined he have no say in the matter of his bride. These same five elders had helped choose Lyall for Cainneach, and as far as he was concerned, their choice left a lot to be desired. Their meddling would be allowed for now, but in the end he would do as he wished.

  A fake smile tugged the corner of his full lips as he walked backward out of the room. “Verra well.”

  Congratulations permeated the air.

  Chapter Five

  “Mistress Lyall, the parade of single ladies is about to begin.”

  Lyall nodded in acknowledgement.

  She had never been so embarrassed in her whole life. The day Duncan arrived at the keep and shunned her in front of the elders still rankled.

  In the dark corner of the room, Lyall had listened. What would Duncan do when the council announced their plans? No doubt a rage would ensue. Enough rumors of Duncan’s temper had flowed over the grapevine and reached her ears. The man was notorious for fits of righteous indignation.

  But all she heard were words of agreement. Taking this as her chance, she rose off the wall and stepped forward. Everything had been laid on the line. It took audacity to present one to the council in such a forthright manner. The only response they could give to such a bold move would be yes. Then came the denial. The opportunity she offered was refused. Head held high, Lyall had left the room, ran to her quarters, and fell on the bed. Sobs racked her body.

  Now days later, it was time for the tournament. She smoothed a wayward strand of hair and pinched her cheeks to add color. Using the looking glass, she surveyed herself. What was wrong with her?

  Cainneach was physically attracted to her, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. Their marriage was one of convenience. As a young daughter of a powerful Scottish laird, the choice for her husband came from others. The elders picked her to marry Cainneach purely to increase Sinclair lands and to produce an heir. Whatever their intent in the end, all Cainneach received was a piece of paper promising land at her father’s demise. The heir never came. The servants believed Lyall kept to herself because Cainneach had a mistress, but this wasn’t the way of things. She was the one who loved another. Never would she betray him with Cainneach.

  Cainneach hadn’t pushed. He believed there was time to convince Lyall to bear a son. This was not the case. Unexpected death claimed him.

  The servant interrupted her reverie. “Mistress, the festivities are starting.”

  A sprig of wisteria placed behind her ear, Lyall smiled at her good fortune.

  ****

  Grant and Bryce flanked their new laird as the parade of young lasses commenced. The tournament’s events were set to take place on the morrow. The lasses coming forward were to give Duncan ample time to choose a future bride.

  A large shelter was erected outside the castle walls. In the middle sat Duncan in a red velvet, high-backed chair. He fumed. When this method of acquiring a bride had been agreed upon, he hadn’t realized every clan in the Highlands would bring every unwed lass in their keep!

  Before an eligible woman stepped forward, their clan was announced in a loud, booming voice. “Clan McKinnon.” Clan this, clan that, every name and word blended together. The announcer’s voice grated on the nerves.

  Each time a girl passed, Grant would ask, “What do ye think, my laird?”

  “I think she is too thin,” Duncan responded.

  Then another lass would step on the block to be inspected, and Grant would ask, “What do ye think, my laird?”

  “I think she is too meaty.” On and on it went with each proceeding girl.

  “Too many teeth.”

  “Not enough teeth.”

  “Her nose looks like a bird’s beak.”

  “Way too short.”

  “Way too tall.”

  “Way too much hair on her face.”

  “Not enough hair on her head.”

  “Her head is way too large.”

  “Her head is too small.”

  “Way too muscular.”

  “Way too puny.”

  “Way too smelly.”

  “Not smelly enough.”

  Excuses rolled on and on.

  There was a recurring theme. Duncan had no intentions of marrying any of these women of his own free will. As the afternoon progressed, Duncan’s anger increased. His palm smacked against the chair arm. “This is ridiculous. They have brought me nothing but blemished lambs.”

  When the endless parade of women ceased, Duncan left and returned to the keep, heading to Cainneach’s old quarters. The words said to Grant and Bryce about the women from today had not been entirely true. Some rare gems had been in the group. While the adorned women marched in front of him, he was assaulted with the fact that he wanted more than what they offered.

  Lyall had physical beauty. Tall and reed thin. Hair the color of golden wheat, eyes a pale blue, and skin like alabaster. As much as be
auty intrigued him, he wanted more. Someone like Sarra, who was not only beautiful on the outside but beautiful on the inside as well. An intelligent and giving woman. A woman who could share his faith.

  To imitate the relationship between Cedric and Sarra with his own bride would be ideal. A woman with whom to have intelligent and rewarding conversations. One to discuss household issues with. A woman who wouldn’t be intimidated to express her opinion. A woman who wouldn’t be afraid to own a copy of God’s word and display it proudly in her home.

  As Duncan mused, there was a knock on the door. Opening the door revealed Lyall. No longer dressed in black mourning clothes, she now wore a vibrant red dress. The front cut at a deep angle, hanging too low for a recent widow.

  Duncan shifted his body to block the entrance. “Ah, Lyall. How may I help ye?”

  Leaning forward, Lyall’s peculiar scent wafted through the air. “I understand ye found no one to yer likin’ today. What a shame.”

  Duncan was in no mood for petty games. “Lyall, straighten up and act right. Ye are a widow of only a few months. Ye shouldn’t be flaunting yerself around like the town harlot.”

  Ignoring Duncan, she said, “Oh Duncan, don’t try to fool me. I seen how ye looked at those parcels put before ye. Ye are refusing to accept a wife among the women brought to ye. My only issue is I can’t figure out why.”

  “It is none of yer concern.”

  Her hand rose. Using her finger she traced the exposed skin at the open V of his tunic. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “That is where ye are grossly mistaken. Ye see, once ye take a wife, I will no longer be mistress of the keep. Therefore, I have a vested interested in who ye choose to take my place.”

  Duncan grasped her hand, twisting it in a rough grasp. “Ye will never touch me in such a manner again. Do ye understand?”

  She pulled her hand to her bosom and replied in a tone of pain. “Aye.”

  “As for my wife-to-be, it is of no concern to ye who I choose.” He moved in closer, speaking in a harsh whisper. “And know this, it shall never, and I repeat never be ye!”

  Stepping into the room, he slammed the door, shutting out her surprised face.

  ****

  Lyall retired. Once in private, she undressed. The red dress flew across the room, landing in a heap. Pacing back and forth, her fingers spread wide over her naked stomach as a plan was formulated.

  Chapter Six

  Ladies marched into Duncan’s tent, smiles plastered upon their faces, and came out the other side wearing huge frowns. A few were in tears. Arbella was happy she wasn’t one of the women in the line of doom. All afternoon they poured in and out. Just as Jamus predicted, Duncan found fault with every one.

  The dressing screen in the tent hid her attire for tomorrow’s tournament. She stroked the headpiece. Annot had designed the covering, assuring both Jamus and Arbella her identity would remain a secret until she was ready to reveal it.

  Tavis, Tavish, and Arbella trained for weeks on the various events expected at the St. Michael’s tournament. Every muscle ached from their efforts. The twins were relentless in their pursuit of her excellence.

  “Lass, ye must run faster. And when ye get to the end, ye must have enough energy to pick up the rock and throw it.”

  Arbella fought the urge to strike. Chest heaving, she answered, “Tavis, I’m doing the best I can.”

  “I am Tavish.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” she yelled. Tears formed and ran down her face.

  After Tavish finished abusing her, she plopped on a bench, removed her tight shoes, and rubbed her aching feet.

  No sooner had she finished with her self-ministrations, than Tavis appeared at her shoulder, holding a musical pipe. “You must be jesting.”

  “Nay, lass. There are few events ye actually have a prospect of winning. We must make sure ye are ready for the ones ye have a chance in.”

  “Ah, I know this well. Give me the infernal pipe.”

  After the piping lesson came horseback riding. Fortunately for the twins, Arbella was a quick study. Within a fortnight, Arbella was as prepared as she could be, which was good, because the time for physical training was over.

  Annot, Uncle Jamus’s sister-in-law, was still working on making Arbella more feminine. She was graceful and determined Arbella would be the same way. After the passing of Jamus’s wife, Annot had instructed all of his daughters in the art of how to be a good wife and a proper lady. Therefore she would teach grace and pose to Arbella if it killed her.

  “Nay, nay, nay, child, not that way. You must follow my lead.” Annot’s hands were placed upon her head, ready to pull out her graying hair. “You can learn to ride a horse with one hand, you can jump farther than most rabbits, and you can copy any tune put to you on the pipe, but this you cannot do!”

  “Annot, please tell me why a Scottish lass would ever have to stand straight enough to keep a book from toppling off her head. I believe I would fit into Duncan’s world more if I burped and made other rude bodily noises.”

  The elderly woman slapped her forehead with exasperation “You are not a Scottish lass, my dear. You are a fine English lady.”

  “Maybe I should return to Jonas and Martha’s house then. Because I am sure the elders are looking for a Scottish lass for Duncan, and they will be none too pleased if they discover I’m otherwise.”

  “Humph… you are Scottish enough.”

  “Annot, do you truly believe this will get Duncan’s attention? I am sure someone runs his household. And he doesn’t need me to have a stiff back. In fact, I am pretty sure the only thing he needs me for is to bear children. Now if you want to teach me how to perform such an act and enjoy it, then I am sure it would be a more useful skill.”

  Annot‘s mouth dropped open, her hand flying to cover it. Then without warning, the woman threw her hands up in the air and started talking to herself about mouthy children speaking out of turn. Before Arbella knew what happened, Annot left the room, and she was alone.

  A few weeks later, and she was here at a festival hosted by the Sinclair clan. Arbella Kincade, the girl with the banned Scottish father and the singing English mother. The girl who had been sent off to live with an uncle when her Scottish father perished. The girl whose mother left this world the moment she’d entered it.

  Even with all this stacked against her, it was hard to complain. Raised by her Uncle Jonas and Aunt Martha, who had had no children of their own, she was treated well. After a time, the love provided to her felt like she was their own. They shared their faith and their love of the Lord Jesus with her. In turn she worked hard to make them proud. When they perished, she was left alone once more.

  What good would it do for Duncan to fall in love with her? Her love was like the kiss of death. Everyone who loved her perished. Jamus was the only one left. To love Duncan was to doom him.

  Until darkness descended, she wondered the tent full of worry. A pile of pillows situated to the side of the structure beckoned. With her head resting on a fluffy square, Arbella settled in for the night.

  Chapter Seven

  The day of the tournament started bright and early. Each clan paraded through the middle of the playing field, carrying their colors and shouting their name.

  Duncan’s red velvet chair had been moved outside and placed under a special awning so the entire playing field could be seen in one glance. All the eligible maidens dismissed the day before sat in chairs surrounding the new laird. Mortified by his rude behavior toward the ladies, Duncan faced forward, unable to meet their eyes.

  There was a certain kind of relationship he wanted with a future wife — one which would last and not be a one-time bedding just to have an heir. This important of a decision could not be made just by looking at a woman for five seconds.

  “Grant, do I have to sit here?” whispered Duncan, shifting in his chair and looking up under veiled lids. This current situation gave him the appearance of a king.

  “Aye, my laird,
ye must stay where ye can see the games. This day, ye will know who yer wife will be.”

  Duncan sighed. There was no way out. Perhaps he would be better off to pick one of the initial offerings. How many of the tournament participants held a grudge against him? How many couldn’t wait to pick his future bride?

  Motioning Grant closer, he asked, “What will happen first?”

  “I believe each clan will introduce the warrior who will compete on their behalf.”

  “Verra well. Let’s get this over with.”

  As each tournament player stepped forward and was introduced, comments could be heard from the spectators in the crowd.

  “He’s huge!”

  “Look how scary he looks.”

  “Look at those legs! Why they are as big as a tree trunk!”

  “Look at those arms! They would be perfect for wrestling or for crushin’ a man in half.”

  “Look at his chest. It looks like a barrel!”

  The comments followed uninhibited until a warrior for clan Kincade stepped forward and presented himself as Aonghas. Short in stature, he wore a head covering which looked big enough to fell him. The comments ended abruptly while the lad introduced himself, then a new sound was heard. It was slow, but soon encompassed every individual spectator. It was unbridled laughter.

  Someone shouted, “Look at his legs. They’re as smooth as a babe’s buttock!”

  Another picked up the thread. “Wonder if the lad is old enough for armpit hair.”

  And yet another added, “Mayhap he still suckles at his ma’s teat!”

  The laughter continued. A red hue climbed up Aonghas cheeks, his hands forming fists at his side.

  The young lad was no doubt attempting to control a rising temper. Duncan reasoned that compared to the behemoths strutting around the grounds, the lad was on the small side, but what right did the others have to insult him? He stood and slammed his hands on the armrests, the sound reverberating across the field as he yelled, “Enough! Clan Kincade is allowed to choose whomever they desire to compete on their behalf.”