Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  “My lady?” questioned the guard manning the door. “Are ye well?”

  “Quite, I thank thee. I have need to speak with my—” She still tripped on the word husband, for it was a lie. A temporary situation…wasn’t it? “My husband.”

  The guard opened the door for her, and she stepped outside. The sharp winter chill pierced her skin and froze her slipperless toes upon the stone step, and she tightened the tartan around her shoulders. Sakes, it was MacDonald plaid, and she’d barely noticed it as she’d flung it on. The carts were rolling, driven by two horses each. James, mounted on his massive destrier, was lumbering toward the portcullis, too far for her to catch up to him and too far for her to call without shouting like a harpy.

  “Anxious to see yer husband off with a favor or a boon?” Brighde teased at her back, and she turned to see James’s sister. Her cheeky smile dropped. “Whatever is wrong?”

  “Oh, Lady Brighde. Why is James going reaving? At Christmas, no less? Pray I’m wrong and he’s no.’”

  Brighde’s brow furrowed further, and she shook her head. “Who told ye he goes a-reaving?”

  “The supply carts and the cattle, and he’s armed to the teeth and demands they bait someone to the field with the sight of his tartan. I thought he—I thought…”

  Aileana trailed off as confusion shown bright on Brighde’s face. “Aileana, I ken nay of what ye speak. He goes to give aid to a clan in need.”

  He what?

  Brighde smiled at Aileana’s perplexity. “Did he nay tell ye?”

  Embarrassment assailed her now. Nay, he hadn’t even come to say goodbye to his wife.

  “He’ll be gone for two days, possibly three, depending on how long it takes to drive the cattle and wagons. Did he nay say farewell to ye when he woke?”

  Blush infused Aileana’s cheeks with such heat, she feared they looked wind-chapped. If only her shawl would swallow her within and make her disappear.

  “I admit, he passes his nights elsewhere.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

  She cleared her throat, glancing James’s way again to realize he’d stopped. He was looking over his shoulder, watching her, so much to say on his face and yet not returning to say it. To whom was he gifting all these things? Cattle and goods? What sort of goods? Blast him! To steal from her people and give to others. She’d thought he’d begun to care about her. He seemed to be looking her over from her toes to her head and back down again, taking in her state of undress, and instead of shrinking, this time she lifted her chin, unclenching her tartan to let it relax. As if to challenge him to keep looking. As if she wished him to return and sweep her back into his arms the way he had in the cemetery—

  He sucked in a hard breath, his chest rising sharply, and quickly turned around to rejoin his contingent leading the procession of carts. Rejection nipped at her, and her shoulders slumped.

  “What is all of this?” she asked.

  “Grains for bread, seed stock, jerked meat and baskets of dried fruits, valuables, a household’s worth of stock.”

  Everything a castle would need to survive until the spring. Everything my people need, everything we’ve begged the Crown for.

  “Who—who does he give it to?” she croaked, gooseflesh rising on her arms, as if a premonition to the answer she wanted.

  Brighde lay a gentle hand on her arm, squeezing it. “Why, yer brother, Laird Seamus Grant.”

  Aileana’s stomach dropped and her tongue tied, unable to find the right thing to say. That rejection ebbed away as a chill of knowing prickled up her spine. Surely her brother’s request for a recompense had finally come in. Surely James had been so ordered to give these things back. Perhaps a messenger had come, which was why James had practically ignored her these past days. Surely the man who fed foxes and tousled wee bairns’ hair wasn’t benevolent enough to bestow these things out of the goodness of his heart…was he?

  “Did a messenger arrive from the Crown?” she whispered, for it was the only way her voice would work.

  Brighde gave her a quizzical look. “I do nay ken what ye mean? We’ve nay had a visitor since the MacLeods attacked us from the sea this past summer.”

  Rooted to the spot, Aileana rubbed her arms, suddenly anxious to ask James why he’d done it. For if he hadn’t been ordered, it meant he was doing it of his own volition. And if he was doing it of his own volition, then what did it mean about his intentions toward her?

  “Come, Aileana. Let’s go inside. Ye’re in naught but yer chemise and will surely catch yer death. Ye’ll see James soon enough.”

  Aileana let Brighde guide her away, back through the hall. Embarrassment pulsed through her, and she straightened her back to grasp at confidence she didn’t feel. Everyone was staring at the display she’d made, flitting about the castle in such a state.

  But the need to see James overpowered her, and she had to wait two, mayhap three, days for him to come home?

  Home…

  The declaration caught her off guard. Home. And yet she’d thought about what it would be like to call this beautiful wild place her home many a time, thought about how hard it would be to win the trust of his people only to vanish back to Urquhart at the end of Christmas. Her heart clenched at the thought of trading Urquhart for Tioram. But her heart also clenched at the thought of leaving Tioram for Urquhart. And if James was doing as Brighde said he was, then she wouldn’t need to worry about her people overly much if she stayed.

  Yet after James’s silent treatment, the question now seemed, did he still want her to stay, as he’d professed more than once? Or had he given up on pursuing a marriage? Or worse yet, had he changed his mind?

  …

  31st of December

  James blew into his hands as wind whipped through the glen. He watched the Grant guards scrambling across the outer walls, listened to the calls ringing down the line of men, and the portcullis chain lifting the massive gate. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney, but no festive sounds or merrymaking met his ears. The cattle, huddled together as flurries swirled around them, were herded into the outer pastureland, and the carts—and horses—were parked upon what was normally a high road when the world wasn’t covered in white.

  “Retreat, men!” James called, and his drovers and guardsmen, farther up the glen, turned their horses.

  He certainly had no wish to speak to a Grant and have it revealed in front of his men that his marriage would leave nothing but egg on his face come his birthday.

  “We’ll make camp for the night just south of Carn Eige and Loch Affric,” he said, indicating the mountain and lake west of Urquhart.

  As his party trotted off, James remained, waiting to see who would emerge from the gate. It was dusk, and already he had to squint to determine the details of the men he watched. Wind ruffled the fur across his shoulders and caused his braids to tap against his neck. A horseman finally trotted across the drawbridge. The Laird Grant, Aileana’s older brother.

  Good. There’d be no question that the laird saw him and knew who’d brought these things. Grant would know he’d returned what had been stolen. James pulled the reins around to join his men, urging his beast into a trot. The nerves that always pulsed through his blood when he readied for a skirmish skittered through him now. He hadn’t come to make war or retaliate, and yet talks with the Grants always felt confrontational.

  “Ho there, MacDonald!” called Seamus.

  He ignored him and kept climbing through the glen.

  “James! I ken ye can hear me!”

  Be damned. James pulled back the reins, frowning, and dragged his horse back around.

  “What are ye doing?” Grant demanded, a hand cupped around his mouth as he cantered through the snow to catch up.

  “What does it look like?” snapped James.

  “I’ve yet to receive word from the Crown about my recompense,” Seamus replied as he
rode closer, surveying the robust herd of shaggy cows, their brown-and-tan fur a splash of color on the landscape. “Unless the royal messenger came to ye instead and demanded ye return all that ye stole!”

  “I’ve no’ received a messenger,” James replied, his jaw pumping, as he sensed he’d soon be admitting he was smitten with Seamus’s sister and wished only to please her enough that she might give their handfast a chance.

  “Then why?” Seamus gestured to the bounty around him. “Why give back when ye’ve never cared a whit about fairness before.”

  James clenched his teeth, and he quelled the ingrained reaction to lash out at Grant’s challenging jibe. As if Seamus cared about fairness himself. Instead, he readjusted his reins.

  “I’ll see ye on Twelfth Night when I return yer sister.”

  Seamus held his peace a moment, sizing him up with a calculated squint. “How fares my sister? Unmolested by yer greedy hands, I pray?”

  Again, James swallowed a biting reply, grinding his teeth and clutching the reins so hard, surely his knuckles beneath his gauntlets were white. Aileana had been kept in the finest care, and he was certain she and Brighde were becoming close, too.

  “She’s well. She keeps reminding me that this union will end soon, which should make ye proud.”

  He’d keep their kisses to himself. Seamus would surely draw his sword if he found out James’s tongue had danced with Aileana’s and that he hadn’t wanted to stop.

  Seamus scratched his head. “Then I admit, I’m baffled. Where has yer sudden burst of generosity come from? Unless…”

  “Unless what?” James growled in Seamus’s silence.

  “Unless my sister has shamed ye enough to feel remorse or…” Surprise seemed to capture his brow. His eyes widened. “Or unless ye actually like her.”

  Christ. Was he so easy to read? Or had Aileana torn down his natural defenses? Liking Aileana was too benign a statement. Besotted was more a fitting term. Regardless, he said nothing to refute or validate the statement, and blast it, but Seamus’s mouth was curling into a knowing smile.

  “Aye, that’s it, is it nay? Ye like her, and ye wish to make peace to impress her, in hopes that she might like ye in return.”

  Nay, on this account, Seamus was wrong. James didn’t do this to impress her. He’d resolved himself to do this, to make his soul right with the maker again. He’d done it for Aileana, too, but nay in hopes it might score him points and make her love him. Whether she stayed or returned home, James had needed to do this for his conscience.

  He pulled the reins around and nudged his horse into a trot, leaving Seamus behind, calling, “Ye’ll have Aileana back as promised!”

  “Unless she decides to remain with a bastard like ye!” Seamus shouted at his retreating back. “She’s always loved a challenge!”

  James stopped at Seamus’s now-friendly taunt, Devil dancing at the bit for his master to make up his mind. Sakes, he’d always loved one, too. “I’ve conquered much in my life! But she’s a conquest I fear I’ll never claim!”

  He rode off, certain he could hear Seamus chuckling at his expense. And Seamus calls me a bastard. But the truth hurt. Aileana had softened to him since he’d first packed her away from Urquhart. But she would never forgive him enough to stay with him and perhaps, someday, love him. Would she?

  Chapter Eleven

  2nd of January, 1546

  Aileana frowned, walking along the frozen bank of Loch Moidart, gazing at the MacDonald horses rooting lazily through the snow for hidden grasses. James had been gone two nights, a third day had approached, and confusion had gnawed at her the entire time. What would she say to him when he returned? Surely he’d arrive home soon, wouldn’t he?

  Home. Such a strange way to think of Tioram, and yet the idea was growing strength in her heart. She meandered among the currachs and stacks of dormant fishing traps as her new burgundy damask gown swished around her. Such luxury. Such skilled tailoring. The seamstress had worked a piece of art in this beautiful dress. She was smoothing her mitten over the rich fabric when a disturbance along the walls caught her attention. She shielded her eyes against the sun to look at guardsmen blinking between the merlons.

  “My lady!” Angus called down to her. “Come within! Make haste!”

  She furrowed her brow, pulling her cloak tight, and watched the soldiers gathering for orders.

  “Now, lady! MacLeod balingers!” Angus shouted. “On the loch! ’Tis no longer safe to be outside!”

  Aileana squinted onto the water. In the distance, several boats ran fast toward the castle, their sails filled with air. She dashed across the frozen ground as grooms hastened outside to round up the horses and herd them back around the castle through the portcullis.

  “Run, lady! This isnae the place to be with MacLeods approaching!” a groom shouted to her. “They always assail us from these waters!”

  She lifted her skirts, running, slipping upon the icy bank and collapsing to her knees. The boats were gaining on them. She shoved back to her feet, disentangling her legs from the infernal gown, when she saw movement in the copse that strung along the shore.

  An arrow sailed past her.

  Jesu! They were already among the trees. Had they feigned a water approach to distract the guards from spotting them taking position?

  She hoisted up her skirts once more to run, screaming, “They’re in the trees!”

  Another arrow whirled near, and she dropped down again, shielding her head.

  “Drop the portcullis! The horses are within!” a sentry announced.

  “We have to retrieve the lady!” Angus shouted from above as the chains released and the portcullis jarred the earth with a bone-rattling pound.

  “They’ll use her as bait!” another cried.

  More arrows followed. So many, she feared standing, for it seemed as if they missed her on purpose. Heart racing, she sucked in hard, trying to clear her mind, and scrambled on hands and knees behind the hull of a currach. If they weren’t going to shoot her—on purpose—were they trying to lure MacDonald men outside the walls to aid her so they could strike them instead? Sakes, the Grants fought like gentlemen at a May faire compared to these MacLeods. She eased out from her hiding place, curling back upon herself as another volley of arrows sought to hold her in place.

  “I’m coming, lady!”

  Upon Angus’s new plea from another direction, she looked up to see him outside the walls, withdrawn around the corner of the curtain wall. He inched out, making a dash with his targe shield guarding him, when the shooting kicked up once more, forcing him to retreat.

  “Go back, Sir Angus!” she called. “They aim for ye!”

  “James will have my bollocks if I do nay come for ye, lady!” he replied, peering back around the corner. “He charged me with yer safety in his absence!”

  Again, Angus made a dash for her. Again, an arrow assault forced him back, and when a roar so piercing, so terrifying, lifted on the air, she froze. Her stomach dropped. Galloping thundered, and a string of warriors charged down the hill from inland, through the cemetery, a man in the lead with his claymore drawn, feral blond braids blazing upon the wind, red tartan a harbinger of retaliation. His drovers and guardsmen fanned out, metal gleaming high. This was not the gentle man who had confided about his sister’s death but the warlord whom she’d feared ever since his attack on Urquhart.

  She shivered at the sight of her husband, the famed, fearless Devil.

  His fur lifted and settled with each bound. He expertly steered Devil with his knees, and as an arrow plummeted toward him, he thrust out his round targe to catch the projectile without a flinch. Moments later, MacLeod men jumped from the trees into the frigid water to swim toward the balingers. No way could they survive. Could they? Such relief poured like overturned casks through her. She sat stunned. Jamie was fierce, and with him arrived, surely they would be
safe—

  “Get ye inside, woman!” James shouted at her, snapping her back to reality.

  She scrambled back to her feet, catching his gaze, as his chest rose and fell from exertion while he lifted his sword, his distant face shrouded in fury.

  “Run, Allie! Run if ye can!” he bellowed.

  Devil leaped into the trees and moments later, splashed onto the shore, into the water as the MacLeod archers swam hard. She ran as he demanded, this time unimpeded, for the assailants were now on the run. Angus dashed outside under his laird’s cover, scooping her over his shoulder like a sack of grains, running her within. She gasped with each jar to her stomach.

  “Lady!” Angus exclaimed as a sentry whinged opened the narrow gate for the two of them to squeeze through the gatehouse. He dropped her back to her feet, taking up her hand to kiss it. “God above! I thought they’d shoot ye!”

  “I shall be fine—”

  “I’ll summon a maid to get ye abed,” he interrupted.

  “Sir Angus,” she demanded, pulling free her hand. Now that the shock had subsided, how could she consider swooning abed whilst a maid pandered to her? “I’m unharmed. I’ve withstood a reave or two in my day and need no’ a swig of whisky and a lady’s maid to pat my hand. I would rather be useful. I must—”

  “Christ, lady, ye nearly died. Ye’ll do no such thing—”

  “All hands can be useful,” she snapped. “How can mine serve a purpose?”

  An archer on the wall cried out, collapsing from sight. Angus eyed the wall walk with worry, then her.

  “Go on, man,” she chastised him. “As yer lady, I order it. Go to yer men and bring any injured down here to…” She looked about. “That shed. I shall round up medicinals and prepare a surgery. I can, and will, do more than whimper in a corner when there’s work to be done.”

  Angus nodded stoutly, relenting to her order. “Account for the women and children as well, and hurry them to the buttery…”

  Intent on getting to work, she dashed through the melee of servants securing sheds, stashing goods, and dousing the thatched outbuildings with water drawn vigorously from the well to prevent a blazing arrow from taking hold should it be lobbed.