by Raina Wilde
He was silent again and she moved the blade, still glowing, to the man's open hand. He screamed. She lifted it.
“I...I work for Harry McGuire. I...was...his squire. Now I am...an ensign in his household guard.”
“Good.” Her lips moved, a savage smile. “Then you know about the events of the September Raid?”
“I...I...”
She moved the knife to his hand again. He backed away from her.
“No!” His voice was urgent.
“Tell me.”
And he did. All of it. How he was told to wait for her father's party. The Laird of McGuire was with them that morning, but did not take part. It was done on his orders, though, and was all his idea. They were to wait on the border of the land for her father's party, returning from a raid on land further down the boundary.
They were to dress in red, the color of the Learys. They were to attack and to kill as many men as possible, leaving only one alive to tell the tale of murder.
At the end of it, she sat back.
Brian was across the circle, still with the horses. His eyes met hers. Hers were deep and knowing, and carried so many things. Confirmation, peace. He nodded.
“Your hand will be tended at the kitchen.” Aigneis said it, level. She held no anger towards him. Revulsion, perhaps. The whole story repelled her. But anger? No. That was dead now. Out of her life.
In that moment she became resolved to set things right. As they should be. She released him. He stood, glanced at Brian, stumbled back and ran. Aigneis stood. Every part of her ached with weariness.
Brian went to join her. She leaned against her horse, and put her hand on his shoulder. She was weary. He bent forward, and kissed her. It held so many things, that kiss: desire, caring, a closeness beyond all of that.
“We should get back.” Her voice was low.
“Yes.” he agreed.
They mounted, exhausted, and began the long, slow ride back to the fortress. They rode close together, and when they arrived, they stabled the horses and went together to her room.
It was a long night, and when they awoke, the sun slanting pale through the curtains and onto the linen of their bed, they kissed. There was no feud to stand between them now.
Nothing stood between them: only love.
THE END
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Bonus 5: The Rebellious Highlander Bride
Highland feuds are brutal. And sometimes their resolutions are just as devastating.
At eighteen, Isabeal McNott—only daughter of the grimly powerful warlord Daniel McNott—is given in marriage to a man she has never met, in exchange for land, titles and a truce with their enemy.
Feisty, and determined make her loathsome new husband's life miserable, Isabeal finds herself tossed into a world of dark secrets, hidden intrigues, and powerful men who stop at nothing to achieve their ends.
But, in the midst of all the chaos is a growing tenderness for the man she has been bound to so reluctantly. Her new husband, the son of her father's enemy, turns out to be the extremely handsome yet diffident Callum MacLennan. And as she gets to know him, she finds that Callum, too, has resentments and dark secrets held against his own family.
Will Isabeal and Callum rise above the pain and danger of their childhoods, clearing their own path in this dangerous world? And will Isabeal choose to love this man, or will her vow to dissent against her father win out over true love?
The Rebellious Highlander Bride
The wind whipped back through Isabeal's hair as she rode. It was a good feeling, a clean feeling. The Highlands were cold, and on that spring day they were almost at their coldest, but Isabeal did not care. She was furious, and fury keeps you warm.
“Father!”
She yelled it as a challenge, with only the rocky outcrops and the trees to hear. Her voice, pure and thin and clear, echoed back across the plain.
She had every reason for her anger.
That morning, walking innocently past the kitchen on her way to the stable, Isabeal had overheard the cook, talking to the housemaid. Planning her wedding. A wedding she had not even known was to take place.
Isabeal recalled the words, furious, the wind whipping her pale cheeks to redness even as the words seared into her mind. The affront and the hurt of it cut into her with each remembered word.
“She's young yet, and bonnie...no wonder he wants a big celebration.”
“Aye. And it won't hurt to show those MacLeannans a thing or two.”
“Well...who's giving his daughter? Master still looks like the losing side to me.”
There was a pause in the conversation as the two women put their heads together, considering.
“Aye. I've always liked Isabeal. She's a good lass. Bonnie. I hope he'll be a kind man.”
“Well...you never know, with these MacLennans...”
“I'd not be a Laird's daughter.”
At that point, Isabeal had not known whether she should confront them or walk past. She had decided on the latter, drawing herself up to her full, diminutive height and walking across the door, past the open-mouthed women, with trembling dignity. She had walked, straight-backed, directly to the stable, saddled Raven with her hands shaking with fury, and ridden out to the moors. The pale light reflected off her hair, making each golden strand shine where it framed her wind-flushed face with bouncing curls. Isabeal was always slight, after her mother's delicate bones, covered now, at eighteen years old, with the full curves and voluptuous form of a lovely young woman.
Her body was sweat-soaked by the time she finally reined in, opposite her favourite view across the valley, panting and gasping with exertion, cheeks stinging with the icy wind. Then, the tears of anger could finally run down her cheeks as she stopped to think.
As she sat there, the sweat running down her back beneath her cream riding dress, Isabeal let her mind stop and piece together the story. It made a picture even more hideous than she had imagined.
Her father, Laird of the surrounding land, had always been an acquisitive man. He had been raiding across the furthest border of his own lands for years, and into the land of the grimly powerful MacLennans for years—without success. The Laird MacLennan had something of a reputation for ruthless warfare, as acquisitive and power-hungry as her own father.
It seemed to Isabeal that day that they had settled on an agreement. Her, for the son of the MacLennans, in exchange for peace.
How could he?
She had never thought about marriage. She loved riding, reading and singing, in that order. She loved her solitary, wild existence. Her father hardly knew her and she spent all day with her tutor, reading, singing or riding. She was only eighteen. And to marry her off to the son of a hated enemy, a man responsible for the death of her own cousin and uncle? A complete, grim stranger she had never even seen, let alone met? Without even asking her, or telling her!
Isabeal breathed in, her breath constricting in her chest with anger. When would this wedding happen? Today? Tomorrow? When would the arrogant, high-handed man even deign to summon her and inform her? Just before the priest arrived? She felt a great shout, part anger, part revulsion, work its way to her chest and through her lips.
“No!”
Under her, her horse, Raven, whickered and bunched her muscles for a full-on gallop across the field. The bone-jerking wildness of the ride, the wind and the demands simply of staying on were everything, then. After half an hour of that, Isabeal felt her anger start to melt, and felt only the exhilaration of the ride.
It was late when she finally returned home to the castle, the lamps already lit in the stable yard and shining through the early spring dusk. Isabeal walked past the gaping groom and straight to her own chambers in the west tower, locking the door behind her. If she wept that night, no one was there to hear.
***
Isabeal stood in the centre of her room. She was not crying now. It was three days later. She was beyond tears, part of her frozen.
; Beside her, her maid pinned the lace collar into place, while another maid, silent, arranged her hair in elaborate curls. The room smelt of flowers, cold and sadness; a perfect scene of silence, white morning light and frozen tears.
I am icy. I am still. I am unmoved.
Isabeal's mind was empty of everything but that chant, her face cold and tear-tracked, pale skin lovely in the morning light. Then the maids were stepping back and she was walking forward, out into the corridor and to the church.
The words echoed around Isabeal's head as she walked. Tomorrow is your troth-plighting. You will stand beside Laird MacLennan's son and you will pledge yourself in marriage. For this family. For your dignity. And for my honour. Then her father was walking to his desk, dismissive, and she was walking to her room in shock; green velvet dress dark in the evening shadows.
She walked out into the white light of a spring morning and into the chapel, lined with flowers. The representatives of both families were there, the witnesses and the parish priest. All she saw, walking up the grey-white aisle, was her prospective husband's back.
It was dressed in dark green, the clan colour of the MacLennans. The jacket molded fully to his shoulders and he stood straight, a slight curve to the slim waist where the trousers started, covering long and muscled legs. Isabeal could not help but stare stonily at that back as she walked up the aisle. She did not see anything else.
I hate you, she thought, coldly. I hate you.
Then she realized she did not know his name.
It was too late for disassembly, then. She was standing beside him. She looked at the priest, stonily. She resisted the urge to turn round, to look at her prospective husband.
Beside her, she could feel a strange, almost welcoming feeling. Whoever stood there was not hard or cruel, it seemed. He did not stand there stiffly, but stood a little leant to the side, as if afraid of encroaching on her space or scaring her. That surprised her. She had expected a callous boor, or perhaps a cruel warlord, icy and distant; her father in a younger guise. This gentle reticence was completely unexpected.
I will not look at you, she willed herself.
“And do you plight your troth to marrying this man?”
“I. Do.” Isabeal said the words mechanically, coldly. Flat, hard syllables that echoed round the church.
I have said it. Are you pleased, father? Her face was cold, her lips curved in a sardonic grimace completely at odds with her fair beauty.
“Callum MacLennan and Isabeal McNott declare their firm intention to be joined in matrimony. This will take place on a day henceforth. In the name of Our Lord and in the witness of this congregation, I hear and accept their solemn vow.”
Callum. Isabeal felt the name. It shivered its way down to her toes. A nice name. She felt her hand clench beside her, almost as if it desired to touch the one of his closest to it, fighting against her.
Foolishness! Isabeal bit her lip. I will not look. I will not. I hate him.
Behind her, she felt her father's eyes on her. The thought of him stiffened her resolve. I am not his chattel. He can give my body, but no one but I can give my heart. She stiffened her back and walked down the aisle, looking straight ahead.
At the door, she stopped. The household chapel was small, built a hundred years ago. The door was only big enough for one. She stopped. Beside her, her betrothed also stopped. There was a pause. Hesitant, shy. He stepped back. She turned round. Eyes, hazel-brown, looked down into hers. A warm, hesitant smile lifted one corner of a perfect mouth. Hair a shade darker than the eyes, and glossy, framed a handsome face with high aristocratic cheekbones. Isabeal felt her blood rise. She looked up, longing warring with shyness. Then she turned, stiffened her back and walked past him, blood rising in her face. Behind her, she felt the same hesitant shyness. She clamped her teeth into her bottom lip to stop herself turning round. He is nothing to me. I am cold. I do not care. It is my heart. Then she was walking through the coldness of the courtyard, and into the bright-lit hall of the castle.
The rest of the evening was a blur, and then she was alone in her chamber. The day before the wedding.
In bed, Isabeal curled up, shivering with the cold despite the fire Bess, her maid, had lit in her chamber. She felt feverish, her body hot and cold and running with new emotions.
I will not care for him. I will not want to know him. My heart is mine to give. And I will keep it.
Her worried mind gave way to the sheer exhaustion before she knew it, blue eyes closed and long lashes resting on a still, porcelain cheek.
***
The castle was decked as it never had been before. The dark green banners of the MacLennans and the grey of the McNotts hung together for the first time in history. The scents were of roasting deer, the rich warmth of spices and the sweetness of beeswax tapers.
The music of the best musicians lifted to the rafters where they stood in the gallery, freshly polished with beeswax. All the best families were there, and the conversation was light. Daniel McNott was showing the MacLennans and all the district that he was a man of substance. Elegance and conviviality were everywhere.
Within this elegant and smiling milieu, there was one cold spot. At the middle table, where Isabeal sat beside her husband, there were no smiles. Isabeal sat there like cut glass: Brittle, cold and hard. Her lovely, heart-shaped face was framed with gold curls, her pale skin flushed at cheeks and throat, her voluptuous body curving the finest white linen, gossamer-thin and edged with Brussels lace. Her expression was blank, cold and frozen.
“A fine gathering, is it not?”
“Yes, very fine.” Isabeal's voice was cold, her words clipped.
“You feel well?”
“Yes, perfectly well.”
The light music wound its way through the hall. Many of the guests danced. The young bride took to the floor only once, when custom obliged it, stiff and wooden. Beside her, her bridegroom, handsome with his auburn hair glowing and a cape of rich wool hanging from muscled shoulders, looked earnestly concerned.
“You would like to dance?”
“No. I am tired.”
She kept her face turned from him, looking out across the floor from the dais where the top table was set. Her voice was stony. Inside, she could feel the rhythm of the drums and the soaring notes of the pipes claiming her. She wanted, so much, to dance. To hold his hand. How could she? She used anger like a flail. This was her father's doing. This man was her enemy. And she would not yield.
“I...would you like to retire...to bed?” Her bridegroom's voice was throaty, a hasty swallow on the last syllable confirming his desire and his need; also, to keep it in check, to avoid disconcerting her.
Isabeal was moved. And she felt her body warm to his, ache to touch his...to...she did not know what. But she felt a stab of warmth inside her, aching and pulsing like a fire. I...do not...want this. The voice of her mind was iron, then. Her teeth clamped on her lip.
“I will retire later.”
“Of course.”
Isabeal felt then as if she had put a knife in her own chest, when she had meant to put one in his.
I hate you. Her mind was not sure about that. Beside her, she felt the warmth of his hand. It moved, to gently squeeze hers. Her body felt as if she would melt. Yes... Each fibre of her being sang it and she felt her eyes close and her body soften as it leaned in towards his.
No! She stiffened her fingers, tensed her arm. Slid her hand out from under his and to her lap.
“I should greet the guests. Lord and Lady Wyatt are leaving.”
She stood and walked stiffly from the dais. Her husband stood to let her pass, and looked after her, his handsome face a picture of desire and rueful gentleness.
Later she found herself in the main chambers. Not her own bedroom, with its soft linen coverlet and the sweet scents of rosemary and flowers, but the main bedchamber of the castle, which her parents must have shared on their wedding night.
The room was decorated with flowers and with the
dark grey of McNott. The only light came from the fire, burning low and hot in the grate, dyeing the room in streaks of vibrant orange, shadowed with wavering black shapes.
Isabeal undressed quickly, on one side of the bed, with her maid, Bess to attend her. Bess helped her on with her silk nightgown, and then retired. She heard the click of the wooden door, and then she was alone. With her new husband.
She slipped under the coverlet and waited, sitting rigidly, for him to climb in beside her.
“Isabeal?” He breathed. His voice ached with longing.
A fine-boned hand cupped her face, and gentle, ardent lips kissed her own. His mouth tasted of apples and spices. A warm taste. She almost lost control then, as his lips parted on hers and his hand, gentle, cupped her shoulder and moved down, slowly, to her waist.
“Isabeal.”
She felt her body soften to his and let him push her back, gently, to the soft pillows.
No. Father wants me to do this. My wedding night will be his. His victory. I will not let him sell my body to another.
“No...” It was a small, incoherent moan. But her new husband heard it.
“Isabeal...you are unwell? You don't want this?” He sat up, looking down at her in the wavering light, his face a picture of concern.
She looked up at him then, fully. The rich orange of the firelight showed his fine-boned face, framed with feathered hair as dark as night. His eyes, brown pools, were liquid in the candlelight, and soft with concern.
“I...no...”
“We will wait.”
His voice was gentle, tender. Rueful, too. Isabeal could hear the throaty choke, as if he held himself in check.
He leaned over then, and lightly kissed her brow.
“Goodnight, my Isabeal.”
Isabeal felt her stomach clench and ache, as if she had swallowed a stone. She rolled over, and turned her back to him. Her heart ached, and she felt wretched.
No, her mind said, its tireless litany. No.
Why do things have to be so complicated? She fell, after an hour or so, into a restless, weary sleep.