by Cathy MacRae
Hilarity at last under control, Arbela rose and accepted Caelen’s binding kiss.
“Go in peace to glorify God with yer life,” came Father Sachairi’s dismissal.
The gathered crowd replied, “Thanks be to God.”
The skirl of pipes once again filled the air and people encircled the couple, congratulating them and ushering them outside. Children scampered about as small coins were tossed in the air. The mood was jubilantly festive, and Arbela’s heart lifted. Bram marched at her side, clutching her gown as they crossed the yard to the open doors of the keep.
Cut flowers spilled from swaths of fabric draped from pillar to post. More bouquets graced large vessels on the tables, their sweet scent mingling with the aroma of roasted meats. Arbela sat in the chair Caelen offered, the wooden back draped with more garlands of the sweet-smelling flowers. Bram gave her a hopeful look, and she invited him to share her seat. He climbed up and leaned against her, his sweet weight going straight to Arbela’s heart.
If nothing else, I will have the joy of raising his child. Encouraged, she hugged Bram against her briefly, then released him to his exploration of the laden table.
Tray after tray was brought to the table, adding to the already crowded surface. Arbela filled her plate and Bram’s, and she noted Caelen’s attempt to sample a few of her favorite dishes. Pleased, she turned her attention to the tumblers in the center of the room.
“Have ye tried that particular stunt?” Alex’s voice unexpectedly filled her ear. She looked up to find her brother standing at her shoulder. He grinned and indicated the agile men who tumbled about. “Remember the time ye spent with our uncle?”
Arbela shushed him and glanced quickly at her father who was far too busy regaling Laird MacHugh to pay heed to Alex.
“Until father found out, ye mean,” she said, her words for Alex’s ears only. “To answer your question, I perfected the forward roll on a tightly strung rope. Our tumbler today is somewhat more secure on the pole his two assistants are holding.”
“Ye always were agile,” Alex commented.
“Were?” Arbela arched a brow at him. “I still am agile, brother.”
“Who knew our uncle’s castle was a safe retreat for members of the Hashashin order?” mused Alex. “As the area was in a bit of upheaval, he amused himself by allowing ye to train alongside his recruits. In disguise, of course.”
“Ye and Philippe were too busy becoming knights to bother with how your sister spent her time. Ye were glad to have me away from Batroun,” Arbela teased.
“We thought ye safe enough with Mother’s family,” Alex frowned.
“I was,” Arbela claimed. “Amid a cult trained in the use of poison, stealth and disguise, I could not have been safer.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “The tumblers made me think of yer special skills. I’d forgotten how upset father was when he discovered Uncle was training ye to be an Asasiyun.”
“He forbade me from visiting there again. But I have kept my skills honed, never fear.”
The performer in the center of the room exchanged his horizontal pole for an upright one and scurried to the top. Alex and Arbela shared a look.
“Easy,” Arbela scoffed.
Alex shook his head. “Ye should have little need to continue these skills, sister,” he said. A frown crossed his face.
“What is it?” Arbela asked, sensing his disquiet.
“Ye know MacGillonay attacked whilst I was at Dunfaileas.”
“Aye. Father has taken great care to have ye see to the defenses in the past weeks.”
Alex nodded, his face grim. “The man is vicious, Arbela. Should he attempt to breech the walls of Dunfaileas, waste no mercy on him. He will have none for ye.”
* * *
Caelen held back from the free-flowing wine and whisky. He walked among his new clan by marriage, accepting the toasts and accolades, his bride on his arm, his blood little tainted by alcohol. He had no desire to enter his marriage a drunkard. The night ahead already held too many questions for him to willingly add to the discomfort and regrets.
A wedding night was anticipated by the guests and family. What did Arbela expect?
Bloodied sheets would be displayed on the morrow. Whose blood would it be?
Weeks ago, they’d set the tone of their marriage—a business arrangement only. Neither was attracted to the other, and he had no desire for more children. Arbela had made clear her wish for no physical relations between them, and other than forcing the role on her of broodmare and a convenient body on which to slake his lusts, there was no reason to visit her chamber after this night. And he did not believe himself such a brute.
But this night….
Her perfume drifted to his nose. Something he could not place. Ruthie had favored heavy floral scents, but Arbela’s was earthier, warm, spicy and intoxicating. Sensual.
Caelen risked a look at his bride. She faced away, speaking to one of her da’s knights. A pang shot through Caelen’s midsection. Jealousy? Ridiculous. The man had likely known her all her life. ’Twas natural they spoke together.
Candlelight glinted on her blue-black hair. She’d set her veil aside some time ago, and her heavy locks hung below her waist, inviting him to gather it in his hands. Her gown sparkled with beads and gold embroidery. Caelen scarcely knew whether to describe the gown as red or gold. Below the gauzy sleeves, her painted hands made gestures in the air as she spoke.
Caelen had no idea what to think of his new wife.
The noise level of the crowd grew and Arbela glanced up. For an instant, Caelen imagined a look of panic crossed her face. He leaned down, his lips beside her ear, ignoring her intoxicating scent.
“How do I get to yer room?” he whispered.
The look she sent him confirmed his suspicion. There was something in this world that frightened Arbela MacLean. The thought of bedding him. He squeezed her fingers.
“If ye dinnae wish us both paraded to yer room before the wedding guests, we must separate. I will tarry near the privy and ye will find a way to yer room alone. Unless ye think I should ask yer da how to find ye, ye need to tell me now.”
“Third level. Last door.” The lines marring her brow vanished as she faced her fears without complaint or question.
Caelen took a casual step toward the table, dropping her hand to reach for a tankard. He downed the contents and moved further away, putting distance between them, dividing the crowd’s attention. Someone spoke to Arbela and she laughed. Beckoning the woman to accompany her, she strolled unhurriedly from the room. Wending his way through the crowd, Caelen marked his path with jokes on finding the privy.
Alone at last, he quickly ducked around a pillar and edged toward the stairs. The couples partly cloaked in the shadows paid no attention as he slipped past. Within moments he found himself at Arbela’s door.
He tapped on the doorframe and she allowed him inside, closing and latching the door securely behind him. He stared at her, enigmatic in her wedding finery, clothing meant to draw a man’s eye. The scooped neckline was demure, but she’d removed the fantastic ruby necklace, and her skin glowed, bare and heaving gently as she breathed.
“How do we go from here?” she asked. “Shall we endure one another’s company and present bloodied sheets on the morrow? I do not mind a lanced finger.”
“Is that yer wish?” he asked, disappointment surprising him with its prick.
Arbela arched a brow. “What do ye ask of me? Allow ye into my bed this night and never think on it again? Do ye chafe against our agreement so soon?”
Her words slammed into him, rejection an emotion he was all too familiar with. “I dinnae enter this marriage to add discord in the form of a nagging wife,” he growled. “Keep yer bloody virtue. I have nae need for it.”
Her eyes flashed. “I ask only the manner of man ye are. ’Tis in our best interest for each to speak our mind. This night, no matter how we spend it, will set the tone for the rest of our lives.”
�
��The two of us alone, this entire night?” Caelen cocked his head. “When we last spoke, we agreed only on the manner in which we would live our lives once wed. I havenae changed my mind. We dinnae specifically agree on this night where the expectations arenae entirely our own.”
“They should be,” Arbela pointed out. “What others think of us should not influence how we live our lives, or how we treat each other.”
“I had no expectation of bedding ye,” Caelen replied bluntly. “I will admit the thought crossed my mind, but I leave the matter to ye.”
A noise akin to thunder rumbled through the heavy door as fists pounded the boards, demanding entrance.
“The guests have noticed our absence,” he said. “’Twill be some time before they admit their disappointment and return to their drinking.” He glanced at the door, reminding himself Arbela had latched it. “What is yer wish, Arbela? How would ye prefer to spend our first night together?”
She glanced about the room, her attention lighting on a small leather box on a nearby table. Laughter lit her eyes and curled her lips as she lifted her gaze to his.
“Someone brought this here, though I gave it to Bram earlier. Should I teach ye the game of Fierges?”
Caelen gently rested the back of his hand on the soft curve of her cheek. “Mayhap there is a better game I could teach ye?”
Chapter 16
A streak of longing shot unexpectedly through Arbela, leading her—where? She could not deny the appeal of Caelen’s muscular charm, his air of complete confidence—though her challenge of the wedding night activities appeared to deliver a slight blow to his composure. Playing a board game on one’s wedding night likely was not commonly done.
She did not care to give her body where her heart did not lie. Though, as of only a few hours ago, she no longer had the privilege of choosing another path for her heart. She had spoken her wedding vows, and the consummation was as much a part of the ceremony as any words of binding.
“I will stand by our agreement,” she finally said. “I will not intrude on your life after this day, as I know ye will not intrude on mine.” She lifted her chin as Caelen’s hand fell away. “And yet, to begin our marriage with the lie of consummation—even if ’tis my blood on the sheets—is distasteful to me.”
Caelen’s eyebrows jerked skyward. “Ye agree to the bedding?”
Panic chased cold through her veins and she drew a firm breath against it. “Aye. However, mayhap we could get to know one another a bit first?”
With a nod, Caelen indicated the cushioned chairs by the hearth. Arbela arranged her wedding finery about her, using the tactile distraction to ground herself, preparing for the hours ahead.
“Tell me about Bram,” she coaxed, seeking to fill the silence with a topic of interest to them both.
“The lad has five summers,” Caelen replied.
“He will be in my charge, will he not?” Arbela asked, disappointed in his blunt answer. “Ye can give me a better answer.”
“His mother’s da is a bastard who wishes to take him from me,” Caelen bit out. Clearly the subject of his former father by marriage vexed him. But he warmed to the subject. “If—or rather, when—he decides he has destroyed enough of Clan MacKern, he will arrive at Dunfaileas for Bram.” His challenging look struck a chord in her warrior’s heart.
“Ye willnae give the lad to him, no matter the cost,” Caelen ground between clenched teeth. “Should it mean yer life, ye willnae give the lad over.”
“I once told ye I do not harm children,” Arbela reminded him softly, though the ring of steel vibrated through her words. “As long as Bram is in my care, he will remain safe.”
Caelen regarded her, apparently finding her assurance acceptable. He leaned forward and clasped his hands, forearms on his knees. “Within the laird’s—my—chamber is a secret passage. ’Tis hidden behind a tapestry and ye must be able to move the chest that sits before it.” He tilted his head then gave a confident nod. “Ye can do it. There must be a signal between us, one that ye willnae disobey, to take Bram through the passage. None others remain alive who know of the secret, other than Rory, and he willnae speak of it. But I will have yer promise to leave whatever is brewing and save Bram.”
Arbela considered the request. “I will not say I approve this plan,” she began, holding a palm up for silence when Caelen’s face darkened and he opened his mouth.
“But, if I see no other course, I will do as ye bid. And I will place Bram’s safety above all other considerations.”
Caelen’s jaw clenched and his brows jammed together in withheld argument.
“My brother told me of what he witnessed whilst at Dunfaileas and what MacGillonay is capable of,” Arbela continued. “I also know he told ye I have a quick mind—though he is more likely to tease me than praise me for it. Strategy is something that comes quickly and clearly to me.” She lightly touched his hands. “And I do not fear death.”
“What shall the word between us be?” Calen asked. “The one which tells ye to flee with Bram.”
“If I imagine the situation correctly, ’twill be when I am uncertain the path to take. If we are blatantly attacked, ye will be free to command I flee with the child—indeed, ’twill be expected. Our concern is the time treachery is involved and codes are necessary to keep others from guessing what we truly mean.”
Something flashed in Caelen’s eyes. A slight narrowing of his lids telling her he’d just changed some assessment of her. He inclined his head. “Go on.”
“In such a time as I should remove Bram from a potentially dangerous situation, ye should bid me take him to his room and keep him entertained.” She glanced at the board game resting on the table. “Fierges was created from an Egyptian game called Alquerque. Tell me to teach Bram Alquerque. Call it a damned board game if ye wish. ’Twill call less attention to the action if ye dinnae appear to approve.”
Caelen’s slow nod increased to full acceptance of her idea. “Alquerque.” He gave her a wry smile. “And if I dinnae recall the name, I shall simply call it that damned game.”
“’Tis the beauty of the code. It has a plausible backup.”
Silence fell, hanging between them as fragile as the bond they sought to forge. With a heavy sigh, Caelen straightened in his chair, drawing his hands away. A peculiar sense of loss rippled beneath Arbela’s fingertips. Caelen listed to the side, elbow on the chair arm, chin in his palm.
“Tell me of this beast named Ari ye wish to give my son.”
Will he not be my son as well? But Arbela shelved the question for another time, anxious to move them into a more lighthearted conversation.
“Ari, which means brave in Armenian, was a child’s pony for many years. When the youngest child outgrew him, rather than give him over to taxing work as a draft animal, or simply turn him loose to make his own way, he was given to a shepherd.”
Arbela wove her tale of the one-eared pony, pleased to see the interest spark in Caelen’s eyes. “I allowed Bram to sit on Ari’s back only after he requested it and I saw him to be sincere.”
“Ye must ask me first,” Caelen said, pleasure in the story waning in the frown that crossed his lips. “I have not yet given him a pony. He is too young.”
Arbela raised a brow in contest. “Bram has five summers. He should be caring for his own pony.”
“I will raise him as I see fit,” Caelen stated. “Ye will teach him his numbers and letters. I will teach him the things of a warrior. If it is yer wish, ye may bring the pony along. Contact with such a sturdy beast will do Bram no harm.”
His narrowed look warned her from argument. He may have married her, and he may expect her to exchange her life for Bram’s, but Caelen clearly did not trust her—her ways. She tightened her lips and neither promised nor denied.
Caelen ran a hand over his close-shorn head. His gaze lit on the game board on the table and he motioned toward the case.
“Teach me this game ye call Fierges.”
Relief from
the change in topic washed over her and she seated herself next to the table and waved at Caelen to join her. Opening the leather case, she quickly showed him how to arrange the pieces and recited the simple rules. He studied the board carefully before each move, saying little as she coached him.
She bested him in fewer than twenty moves.
He scowled at her and she offered a slight grin of apology. “I am not very good at losing,” she admitted.
“Yer brother said ye were verra good at strategy,” Caelen muttered, but his mouth quirked in a half-smile as he reset the board. He waved at the markers. “Again.”
Arbela rose. “I must remove this outer gown,” she said, stepping through the beaded doorway. “’Tis stiff and uncomfortable.”
“Ye dinnae wish to be distracted,” Caelen called. “Or I will certainly win this game.”
Arbela muffled a laugh as she released the fasteners on her heavy outer robe of stiffened brocade, embroidery and precious stones. She draped the fabric over the edge of the empty tub with a sigh and quickly slipped out of the silk underdress as well. Exchanging it for the satin-lined velvet dressing gown was an enormous relief. Finger-combing her hair, she pulled it into a loose braid and tied a ribbon around the end. Tossing the braid over her shoulder, she pushed through the beaded curtain.
“I am much relieved—at hearing your arrogance at supposing I am that easy to best, and also to be rid of that gown.”
Caelen’s eyes stopped her in her tracks. His intense stare resembled a lion’s determined gaze before it pounced on an unsuspecting lamb. Blood iced in her veins, then roared with heat, leaving her lightheaded and confused. Caelen rose to his feet.
“Do ye wish another game?” he asked, his voice husky and low.