The Sinclair Jewels Books One-Three: A Scottish Medieval Romance Series Bundle

by Caroline Lee

  But regardless of his appearance, that wasn’t why his soon-to-be-wife would abhor him. He’d lost his honor long ago, and no woman deserved to be yoked to a man like him.

  Before he could possibly find words to explain, his aunt clucked her tongue again and turned toward the door, her gown billowing around her.

  “She’ll no’ hate me or ye, Jaimie. Before the year is out, she’ll thank me for arranging this marriage.” With one hand on the door, she threw a smirk over her shoulder. “And so will ye.”

  Long after she left, long after he heard the noise of supper preparations filtering up from the great hall, Jaimie sat and stared at the damn map. The Sinclair holding stood at the northern tip of the Highlands, and an alliance with them was smart indeed. David had probably made the contract fully aware of what it meant.

  But Jaimie had spent years making much more informal alliances for much more informal reasons. Touch. Pleasure. Passion. He’d always assumed if he’d marry, it would be for one—or all—of those.

  He’d been foolish enough to believe in love. But he’d been a different man then, a man who deserved love. A whole man. Now, the best he could manage was marrying for duty. But he wouldn’t be pleased about it.

  And no matter what Aunt Jean said, he knew Lady Agata wouldn’t either.

  Chapter Three

  The same chapel. The same priest. The difference was that for this wedding, no one was in attendance.

  Agata tightened her grip on the little bouquet of rosemary to hide her shaking hands and did her best to stop comparing her two weddings. It had been early last year when she’d stood in this small chapel within the walls of the Mackenzie keep, and pledged herself to David, the Mackenzie. He’d been strong and stoic, and Agata had soon realized it was no act; she and her new husband were ill-suited.

  “’Twill be fine, lass.”

  The whispered comfort came from Lady Jean Mackenzie, her husband’s aunt. Or her soon-to-be-husband’s aunt. Sweet Mother Mary, but it would be hard not to compare Jaimie to his older brother. She’d been near frantic over the thought since discovering her fate in the form of the contract in Da’s solar. But no matter how nervous she was, she hadn’t objected to the match for three very good reasons:

  One: She’d been raised as a lady, and knew her purpose in life was to make alliances and have bairns. She could do neither sitting at home, taking no chances.

  Two: The marriage contract was a convenient way to return to the Mackenzies, which would allow her time and opportunity to hunt for either the Sinclair jewels, or more clues to their whereabouts. Whoever made that tapestry—and Elspeth had been unable to help them, only knowing Da’s mother had passed it to her before the older woman’s death—had seen fit to include the Mackenzie name in it. Therefore, a clue—or the jewels themselves!—must be found here at the Mackenzie holding.

  And three: Callan. In the months since she’d said her goodbyes to her husband’s son, she’d felt as if her heart wasn’t whole. Although they’d had less than a year together when she’d been married to David, she thought of Callan as her own. Leaving him so soon after his father’s death had been cruel.

  So Agata took a deep breath, forced a tight smile, and nodded to Jean. “Aye,” she whispered. “I ken.”

  Everything would be fine. No matter if her new husband was like his brother. She’d survived marriage to David, and she’d survive marriage to Jaimie. And in doing so, she’d have an opportunity to help save her clan, and she’d be with Callan. What more could she want?

  Swallowing, she tamped down the traitorous little voice which whispered “love” in the back of her mind. Callan loved her, and that would be enough.

  When Jean smiled, the old woman’s face was transformed. She’d been such a comfort during Agata’s first stay with the Mackenzies and had welcomed the younger woman back with open arms. Although she’d never married, Jean was as loving as any mother. And during Agata’s first marriage, Jean had been the one to care for her and answer her questions about her husband’s family.

  “Ye’ll find yer south-land treasure, I ken it.”

  The old saying was one she hadn’t heard since returning home. In fact, she’d only heard it here on Mackenzie lands, from Jean and David and a few others, and it seemed to mean something different to each person. To Jean, it was always an encouragement and meant the dear lady truly wanted the best for Agata.

  So Agata smiled in return, a real smile. She forced herself to forget her fears and focus on the benefits of this marriage, and made sure that excitement showed through.

  When Jean placed a hand on her forearm, Agata wasn’t sure if she’d succeeded or not.

  “Jaimie isnae like his brother, Agata,” Jean whispered.

  She’d said that before, but was it a good thing or a bad thing?

  Agata nodded and turned her attention to the priest once more. “Aye, ’tis obvious. For one thing, David was always prompt.”

  She’d arrived that morning with her escort, and even now, Da’s commander Dougal scowled as he stood with his arms crossed by the door to the small chapel. He, the priest, Jean, and the old seneschal—who’d waved happily to see her, but now stood quietly with Callan beside the tall windows—were the only witnesses. During her last wedding, the chapel and the steps had been packed with Mackenzies—

  No.

  No, she would not compare her weddings.

  “No doubt he’s been delayed,” was all Jean offered.

  Delayed? What could possibly have delayed him on his wedding day? He hadn’t been among the small group to welcome her back to the Mackenzie holding; he hadn’t been there when Callan had thrown himself at her and they’d hugged until she thought her ribs would snap. He hadn’t been there when she’d come down from refreshing herself in her old chamber. And now she stood in front of the priest, with only an old woman for company.

  Where was her bridegroom?

  As if in answer, the heavy door swung open. Dougal stepped out of the way, but made no move to welcome the newcomer—he’d been in a grumpy mood since they’d left home. But Agata wasn’t watching him; her eyes were on the man with his hand braced heavily on the door.

  When he stepped away from it, she realized he’d been using it to hold himself upright. He stumbled into the aisle, paused, and righted himself. That’s when she got the first good look at him, and knew this was her bridegroom.

  Where David had been broad and blonde, Jaimie was tall and lithe, with long black hair. He wore the Mackenzie tartan, but it was rumpled, as if he’d donned it in the dark, or had fallen on his way to the chapel. And the way he stood, swaying in the aisle, caused his hair to fall in front of his face in greasy strands.

  Agata swallowed, unsure if she was relieved he looked nothing like David or disgusted by his appearance.

  Then Jaimie took a step, swayed further, and seemed in danger of falling. Without thinking, Agata hiked up her skirts and rushed toward him, intent on keeping him from falling on his face.

  When she reached him, she instinctively clasped his forearm, to keep him upright. In doing so, her gaze landed on his hand.

  As an artist, she’d always been intrigued by men’s hands—so strong and powerful, holding so much potential. Jaimie’s hand had a sprinkling of dark hairs across the back, and all four of his fingers ended above the third knuckle. As she stared down at it in confusion, he muttered a curse and curled his fingers and thumb into a fist.

  To hide them from her? The thought made her stomach flip, hating to have caused him pain, and she loosened her hold on him to stroke her fingers along his forearm in comfort.

  She might as well have branded him. With a snarl, her intended reared back, jerking away from her and turning horrified eyes on her, and she got her first real look at him.

  He was hideous.

  What had happened to cause such a scar across the left side of his face? It wasn’t a burn and didn’t appear to be a result of a disease. But the skin under his eye, across his cheek and back
toward his ear and down his jaw was red and hard-looking. It almost appeared melted. It pulled his left eye down and made him look sadder.

  But his eyes—the same dark blue David, Jean, and Callan shared—were full of anger as he glared at her.

  With a gasp, she pulled her hand away from him, taking a step back altogether to allow him some space. After a moment, she watched his nostrils flare and his shoulders straighten as the fury in his gaze slowly dissipated. Fury? Because she’d touched him?

  They hadn’t been properly introduced, but they were to be married. Agata glanced toward the altar, where Jean stood, her hands clasped in front of her, a faint smile on her lips. If she wasn’t going to do anything about this strange meeting, it was clear no one else was either. It was up to Agata.

  Still holding the bunch of rosemary—for remembrance, she thought wryly—she dipped a curtsey. “Milord,” she murmured, not dropping her eyes from his.

  He was the one to look away first, the right side of his face flushing slightly as his tongue flicked out over his lower lip. “Lady Agata,” he finally acknowledged, staring over her shoulder.

  When he spoke, Agata smelled the spirits on his breath, and did her best not to recoil. He was drunk! He was drunk on their wedding day!

  No wonder he was late.

  For the first time, Agata wondered if Jaimie Mackenzie wanted to be married to her. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Jean that?

  This marriage was the right thing for Agata; her arms ached to hold Callan again. But if her husband was against it from the start, would their alliance ever have a chance of success?

  She swallowed, knowing she’d have to address this before they said their vows. But quietly, so Jean—and Dougal—couldn’t overhear.

  “Milord?” Suppressing her revulsion of his drunkenness, she leaned in closer, trying not to be offended when he leaned away from her. “Milord, are ye—are ye…?”

  “Drunk?” he rasped. “Aye, frequently.”

  She frowned, and wondered if he’d intended to offend her. “Nay. I meant, is this alliance of yer choosing? Jean made the arrangements with my father, and I ken—”

  To her surprise, he burst into laughter.

  When the fumes rolled over her, she clamped her lips shut, part in disgust and part in humiliation.

  His laughter wasn’t nice. Nay, there was a desperate edge to it, and the longer it went on, the more uncomfortable she became. Jean didn’t help; merely watched. Finally, Agata, irritated at being the butt of his humor and yet somehow aching to hear his attempts at merriment, snapped.

  “Ye’re laughing at yer bride, milord?”

  He sobered instantly, swaying in place. “I’m laughing because my bride thinks to save me from our marriage. I’m laughing because I’ve fallen so low, I need a woman to fight my battles now.”

  The words sounded flippant, but there was a pain in those dark blue eyes which made her think they were the truth.

  This man was nothing like David.

  He hesitated where David was strong. He doubted where David was sure.

  And despite Jaimie’s apparent need to get drunk on his wedding day, despite the fumes coming off him, and the grease in his hair, seeing the pain in his eyes made him infinitely more appealing than David.

  “I willnae fight yer battles for ye, Jaimie,” she said gently. “But I will stand beside ye as ye fight them yerself.”

  Looking stunned, the man shook his head and looked away. Then, muttering a curse, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll marry ye willingly, lady. My aunt assures me ’tis for the best, and ye’re not—”

  When he growled and pressed his lips together, Agata found herself left wanting. She wasn’t, what? Suitable? Ugly? Undesirable? Had he been about to insult her or compliment her?

  They stood in the center of the chapel, their small audience looking on, but likely unable to hear what had passed between them. Agata’s hands shook again, so she clasped the bouquet in front of her to keep from touching him.

  To keep from comforting him when he obviously wanted no comfort from her.

  “’Tis glad I am to hear it, milord,” she murmured with a false smile. “Our marriage will be a strong match and good for our clans.”

  She paused, hoping he’d say something—anything—in agreement.

  When he didn’t, she forced herself to go on in an overly cheerful manner. “And after our journey of the last few days, I look forward to the wedding feast I’m sure Edward has arranged with the kitchens.” She knew she was babbling now, but couldn’t seem to make herself stop. “But I do hope ye’ll bathe before coming to my bed tonight, milord,” she teased.

  His eyes snapped to her once more, and the look in them made her step back in protection. Part rage, part hurt, part disgust—she’d made him feel all those with her careless words?

  “There will be no bedding, lass,” he growled, stepping toward her for the first time. He lowered his chin as he glared. “I’ll marry ye, but donae expect me to bed ye.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs at his unexpected declaration. Mayhap it was her surprise which emboldened her, because she shifted forward once more, until they were mere inches apart.

  “Ye will bed me,” she surprised herself by declaring. “As my husband, ’tis yer duty.”

  The right side of his lips curled as his nostrils flared. She didn’t know what that expression meant, but from the look in his eyes, it wasn’t good. “Ye donae ken what ye demand, woman.”

  Lifting the rosemary, she stopped herself just short of poking him in the chest with it, and instead, shook the fragrant herb under his nose. “I do. I was lady of this keep once before, and I’ll be again, Jaimie Mackenzie. Ye’ll no’ keep me from my rightful place.”

  Aye. Her rightful place. If he refused to bed her, refused to consummate the marriage, then she wouldn’t really be lady of the keep. Their marriage alliance would keep the peace, but without consummation, it would ruin any chance she had of maintaining order in her home.

  When he blinked, it was obvious he hadn’t considered those ramifications. Now he looked…unsure. Did he doubt her? Or doubt her reasons?

  Or did he doubt she wanted him to touch her?

  Well, she’d endured David’s touch. The marriage bed hadn’t been pleasurable, but after the first few times, it wasn’t horrible or painful either. Oh, she’d answered her sisters’ questions, and knew how to bring herself to pleasure, but such frivolity hadn’t mattered to David. How many nights had he grunted above her until the act was complete, then he left her to pray his seed would take root? How many nights had she been left aching and empty and alone because he’d cared nothing for her experience?

  Well, after that, she could endure being bedded by Jaimie as well.

  Sucking in a deep breath through her teeth, she straightened to her full height—although she still had to look up into his eyes—and thrust out her chin. “If ye marry me, Jaimie, ye’ll bed me as well.” Before he had time to respond—if he was going to respond—she gave him her shoulder. “If ye kneel before Father Simon with me, ye’re pledging to do both. And the decision is yers.”

  Without looking at him, she marched toward the altar, where the priest had been waiting patiently. With a nod to him and Jean, Agata sunk to her knees and forced a serene expression, as if nothing was wrong. As if her heart wasn’t beating in terror. Would her gamble pay off?

  Had she just ruined her chance at a future, her chance to find the jewels, her chance with Callan by making such a demand?

  A million heartbeats seemed to pass, each breath harder than the last. Jean shifted impatiently, and Agata squeezed her eyes shut on a silent prayer.

  Please God, donae let me die of embarrassment. Let me hug Callan as his mother again.

  Maybe it was her prayer. Maybe the man had just seen sense. Either way, an eon later, Agata heard the rustle of fabric behind her, and her eyes flew open. With a grunt, her foul-smelling, bedraggled bridegroom sunk to his knees beside her, and nodded
once to the priest.

  “Get on with it,” he muttered.

  They weren’t words of love or affection. It wasn’t even heartening. But as Father Simon began to intone the blessing in Latin, Agata felt the tension around her heart ease in relief.

  She was marrying the Mackenzie regent.

  God’s blood, but he was thirsty.

  That blasted priest had droned on for what felt like an hour, and Jaimie had been near parched by the time the man had waved his hands for the final blessing. Then, Aunt Jean had hugged Jaimie and his bride, tears in her eyes, and dragged them to the great hall for the wedding feast.

  When David had wed Aileen, Jaimie had made himself scarce, retreating to court for over four years. But even then, he assumed the wedding feast had been more festive than this one. Hell, a funeral would have been more festive.

  Jaimie had sat in his brother’s chair, one leg hooked over the arm and a cup of uisge-beatha in his hand, and watched his new wife preside over a subdued crowd. Subdued, that is, until Callan joined them.

  “Agata!” the lad had squealed, the joy in his voice evident as his expression lit up. “Ye’re back!”

  And his bride had lit up as well.

  He’d known she was beautiful. She must be, if David had consented to marry her. But coming face-to-face with her in that chapel had made Jaimie want to vomit. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was…well, his muddled thoughts couldn’t come up with anything better than beautiful, so that was that. But she was.

  He took another gulp, appreciating the way it burned his throat on the way down.

  She’d been beautiful, and he wasn’t. Not anymore. He knew that, and had thought he’d come to terms with it. But when he’d realized she was looking at his ruined hands, and had responded not with revulsion, but with sympathy—at least, he assumed that’s what her touch meant—he’d…

  Jaimie hadn’t realized he could still get so angry. He thought his anger had died the same night Aileen had. He thought he’d drowned it in self-pity.