Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  “The boats arrive!” shouted a guard. “They turn the tables and push back the laird’s line!”

  Aileana froze in the doorway to the keep as more orders were shouted. Is Jamie okay?

  “Is the gun powder on its way?” Angus demanded. “Be damned, we need it! Make haste!”

  Gun powder? Tioram Castle has a cannon?

  “Hurry, Aileana,” she muttered to herself, tamping down the fear for James that gripped her. She had to help, and if she let worry cripple her, who would treat the injured?

  Still, fear gnawed at her as she dashed indoors. Brighde stood at the hearth, quaking, as several serving wenches corralled the children within their huddle. She ran to Aileana, grasping her in a hug.

  “Oh, Aileana! Is it true what they say?” she begged. “That ye were trapped outside and nearly perished?”

  “Indeed it is,” breathed Aileana, returning the embrace, then pulling back. “Where might I find bandages and salves?”

  “In the pantry by the kitchen, mi lady,” said one of her maids with a curtsy. “We keep all manner of healing supplies there.”

  “My thanks. Now come, all of ye. I’m ordered to secure ye and the bairns in the buttery.”

  The women hurried the children with them, and Aileana snatched up wee Maudie’s hand, who trembled, still wearing her lopsided crown of twigs. “Come, child. We cannae have our abbess left unsafe.”

  They wound through the corridor to the kitchens and detoured down the narrow stone stairs to the buttery, where the women huddled against the casks along the back wall, entombed within.

  “Is anyone missing?” Aileana demanded, and after a moment, accepted the shakes of the head and turned to leave.

  “Aileana, wait!” Brighde snagged her hand. “Ye must remain safe with us whilst the menfolk withstand the bombardment.”

  “Nay! Our men need a healer, and I’ve vowed to Angus to set up a surgery!” Aileana pried her hands free from her sister-of-marriage, but Brighde snatched her again.

  “Ye cannae go outside! What if a stray arrow should clear the wall and strike ye down? Sakes, sister, are ye nay frightened? This enemy has been known to capture women and force them to wife. They nearly killed ye!”

  Sister? Brighde accepted her as a sister through marriage? She summoned her resolve. Now was not the time to succumb to fear or sentiments.

  “But they didnae,” Aileana argued. “I’ve been in the fray more than once in my life, for yer own brother sacked Urquhart, or did ye forget?”

  Shame darkened Brighde’s fair visage.

  Aileana took her hands, squeezing them. “I shall be fine, and will flee to safety should the enemy gain the bailey. Bar the door behind me, and open it for no one but our own.”

  She disengaged her hand once more from Brighde’s delicate grip, ignoring the sting her remarks about James might have made upon the woman, pushing away what a claim to sisterhood might truly mean.

  “But James will be furious that ye put yerself in harm’s way. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to ye. The MacLeods killed Marjorie, and if they kill ye, he’ll no’ recover, for he’s falling for ye.”

  The words hung in the air, suspended like icicles upon an eave. No, nay dwell on emotions. Nay when lives are at stake.

  “James should ken well by now that I do what I must when I deem I must. ‘Stand fast, stand sure.’ That is the Grant way and is imbued in Grant men and women alike. Fear no’ for me.”

  She pushed shut the door and was heartened to hear a bar slide across it. Hoisting up her skirts once more, she ran up the steps and emerged into the silent corridor, racing to the pantry. She scrambled for a basket and began dumping sun-bleached bandages, clay vessels of salves, needle and catgut, various bits of equipment, and soaps into the wide bottom.

  With her arms laden down, she hurried through the abandoned hall to the door. The sound of weapons and shouting filled her ears. The bailey, mostly empty now except for the alarmed horses, was surrounded by MacDonald laymen and soldiers alike atop the walls, all able bodies ready to assist. Aileana waved to a pair of lads in homespun tunics, summoning them. They scrambled down the ladder and hurried to her.

  “Bring me the pot of boiling water from the kitchens, and find me a flask of whiskybae.”

  The children ran off to do her bidding, and she carried her supplies to the shed in hopes that the thatching would protect her from stray arrows. The injured archer lay within, writhing in pain. Her pot of boiling water was brought outside soon after, each boy lifting it by a handle and walking it carefully so it didn’t spill.

  “They attack! They attack!” Angus shouted. “Gunners! Prepare a fire!”

  Aileana closed her eyes, crossing herself, and offered up a Pater Noster as a shiver skittered over her skin. Not even Urquhart had a cannon, and the idea of one seeded terror in her gut.

  The unified whirling of arrows sprang from MacDonald bows, and Aileana peered out from beneath the shed to see another archer fall backward with a cry, an arrow embedded in his arm. Aileana gasped, throwing her hand over her mouth. A fire arrow landed in the bailey, and servant boys tasked with extinguishing them dashed to douse it in water.

  “Take him down to Lady Aileana!” a man at arms shouted, and the wounded archer was carried along the wall to the nearest ladder to be brought down, the arrow protruding from him.

  “Over here!” Aileana called, and the men hauled him to her shelter.

  She whirled away to treat the first man, an arrow in his shoulder, and rummaged for an arrow spoon among the supplies in her basket, finding one. Blast these sleeves! She ripped at the ties at her shoulder, slipping the folds from her arms and discarding them on the ground. So much for the beautiful dress. Rolling up her chemise, she held each arm out for the page boys to tie off with spare ribbons from her pockets and draped a sheet of bandage around her waist as a makeshift apron.

  The arrow-shot man, groaning, was hustled in.

  “Lay him over there; we’ll start in the back and fill in to the front,” Aileana directed, then knelt beside the first injury and called to the boys, “What are yer names, lads?”

  “I’m Will, and this is Harris, mi lady.”

  “All right, Will, Harris. I’m going to need ye to assist. Can ye manage the sight of blood?”

  They nodded earnestly, excited to help the lady of the castle. She turned to the two soldiers who had yet to leave. “I need ye to hold this one down, for I must get the arrow out and he is sure to thrash.”

  “Aye, mi lady,” they replied, and Aileana washed the arrow spoon in boiling water.

  “Master Will, run to the smithy and bring me a hot iron.”

  The child sprinted away, and Aileana readied to begin the grueling task of inserting the spoon into his wound to clamp around the arrow and drag it free.

  She worked diligently, forming a routine with the two lads—

  The cannon on the walls blasted. The report echoed.

  Aileana closed her eyes and swallowed hard as the outbuildings tremored.

  The second injured man, still waiting to be treated, groaned, sitting up. “I must rejoin the others.”

  “Sakes, nay. Lie down. Ye’re in no condition to stand,” she snapped, realizing he was the one they called Sir Lewis. “Harris, reheat the iron so I might burn shut his injury. Then, good sir,” she said to the stubborn MacDonald archer, bracing his good shoulder to force him back down, “ye may rejoin the skirmish, if ye choose. But I warn ye, ye’ll do Sir Angus no good by permanently crippling a wound that could heal easily with rest.”

  The archer grudgingly complied as he picked up her hand and swiftly kissed it.

  “Mi lady, I owe ye my gratitude. I was among the laird’s contingent that attacked Urquhart Castle two years ago. I nay deserve yer kindness.”

  She froze, felt her stomach plummet, then for
ced a smile, unable to spare the time such a declaration was owed.

  The boy returned, the iron hot and ready.

  Patting Lewis’s arm gently, she said, “Rest, and I will help ye with haste.”

  He nodded, wincing at the pain, and settled backward.

  Blood marred her apron. She cauterized the first man’s wound, and as he screamed in pain, she smeared a salve upon it and wrapped it in bandaging. She moved on to Lewis, taking the same swift care, as her hair, styled fetchingly in her netting and beaded band, fell loose in wisps around her face, sticking to her sweaty skin, as another injured man was brought groaning into the shelter. Yet still, she worked. Never ceasing as the injuries mounted.

  …

  Fury, roaring through James’s blood at the sight of Aileana under attack, had long since turned to distress. Had she been shot? Would Seamus ever forgive him if she had? How did a man focus on thwarting an enemy when all he could do was worry about his woman? How dare Laird Tormund MacLeod launch an attack while he was away and his bride was vulnerable out of doors? And for what purpose?

  Affronted in a way he’d never felt before, he kicked up powder, his poor mount already weary from the three-day trek and now wet from the loch, oblivious to his men’s victorious cheering, for the skirmish had been quelled and the enemy sent fleeing.

  “Raise the gate! The laird approaches!” a sentry called as James thundered upon the causeway headed toward the portcullis.

  He stampeded beneath the prongs, ducking, for the metal was still being lifted, and threw himself down from the saddle as his contingent straggled in behind him. One of his grooms raced out to take the stallion.

  “He’s been in the loch, lad. Make sure ye rub down his muscles good and hard and drape him in a coat.”

  “Aye, mi laird,” the boy said, leading away the panting horse.

  Angus hopped off a ladder to the wall walk, striding over to him.

  “We’ve driven them back, cousin. A good day to celebrate—”

  “Where are the bairns and womenfolk?” he demanded, undeterred, as he wiped a smear of blood oozing down his ear. He had to ensure that Aileana was well. He had to vanquish the images that had swirled to life and tormented him since the moment he’d seen her cowering behind the currachs, of Aileana hiding in a trunk, a wee child afraid for her life.

  “In the buttery, safe and sound, thanks to Lady Aileana.”

  A wave of relief rolled over him. He dashed into the castle and across the great hall, jingling down the corridor, and descended the stairway to the buttery, testing the door. Barred.

  “’Tis me! Yer laird returned!” he called, banging it with his fist, and the bar within slid away.

  The door opened. “Oh, brother! Why do they continue to do this?” Brighde threw herself against him, and he wrapped her in an embrace.

  He frowned. The MacLeods claimed to dominate all of these waters and vied to steal this land to secure their holdings of the Hebrides…just as he’d sought over the years to unify his own birthright from the Grants. Blast it all. That, and the MacLeods had never forgiven him for exacting revenge against Marjorie’s husband.

  His gaze darted over the women, alarm reigniting his blood. “Where’s my wife?”

  Brighde pulled back. “James, she wouldnae hear reason. I’ve no idea where she is, other than that she was setting up a surgery for the wounded.”

  James pulled back. A surgery? Of course, her family had made mention that she was a skilled healer. “But was she injured?”

  Brighde shook her head and shrugged. “I do nay think so. Yet I ken no’ if it would have deterred her if she was. She was determined.”

  A smile twitched his lips, if only for a moment. Aye, he could envision Aileana stanching her wound, then picking up tools to help another.

  “The danger has passed, sister. ’Tis safe for ye to come out.”

  He jogged back up the steps, leaving the womenfolk, and dashed back into the hall. Where had she set up surgery? The hall was abandoned, save his pair of wolfhounds pacing and whining. He shoved back through the castle doors and scanned the yard. There, beneath a shed, he saw his reluctant bride, arms deep in tending an injury. Her hair was mussed from her labor, her sleeves removed, blood upon her fingers and wrists, yet she worked diligently and doled out instructions to two of his serving lads. Relief, once more, assailed him, and he exhaled hard to see that she seemed well. And nay hiding in terror, but strong and bonny. What a boon for him. A woman like her poured forth her passion in spades.

  As if sensing his stare, she lifted her gaze to his, noticing him…and smiled. A big, broad smile of relief that lit her face with such natural beauty, the madness of the skirmish faded. And did he see her chest convulse? Was she shedding tears? He swallowed hard, to know she was pleased with his return. Aye, so she was well—in body, at least—but the skirmish had upset her. He nodded to her, smiling back, and was landing his stride to go to her when Angus jogged up, intercepting him.

  “We took out two balingers,” Angus finished. “Before MacLeod found his sense and retreated.”

  “Good. Have the men secure our boats ashore so as to keep thieving MacLeod hands from sneaking back tonight and stealing what we sank.” He clasped his cousin’s shoulder. “I ken ye were nay keen on my wife when I first brought her home, but I thank ye for carrying her to safety.”

  “Of course, cousin.” Angus dipped his head curtly. “I will say, I misjudged the lass based on her surname and saw yer handfast as a delightful political retaliation.”

  James shifted uncomfortably, glancing to his woman, who was consumed by work once more. “In a way, it was, but…” He let whatever sentiment he might utter go. Words couldn’t express what her actions today meant, that she would help save the lives of men who had attacked Urquhart.

  “Lady Aileana makes a fine chatelaine for our people. Five men were wounded. Thanks to her, they’ll live to see another sunrise, for Sir Lewis took an arrow to a blood vessel and risked bleeding out.”

  James’s chest puffed up proudly, a reaction he couldn’t help. In fact, it looked like his man, Lewis, his trusted archer and guardsman that she stitched now, was gazing up at her, smiling in spite of the pain. “She makes me proud to call her my wife.”

  “And we’re proud to call her our lady,” Angus replied, solemn faced. “Truly. Grant or no.”

  Grant or no. Fok, but he’d been caught up in this illusion again, thinking of her as his own when he’d finally forced himself to accept the reality that she was going to leave. She wasn’t his woman. He’d not even spoken more than a handful of words to her since they’d lain together in the snow, their emotions, hurt, and need to be close intertwining them in a long, unending kiss, wishing he could summon her to his chambers or visit hers, as a husband truly would, while trying hard to prime his mind for her inevitable departure.

  She peered out of the shed with such anxiousness on her face, it compelled him toward her. And that fear he’d felt when he’d seen her cowering on the shore, knowing one stray arrow would be enough to kill her, hastened his step until he jogged. He needed to see and touch her with his own eyes and hands, to know that she was well and hadn’t lied to their people about being injured to avoid sympathy.

  Her skirts were dirty, a makeshift apron around her waist smeared with blood and grime. And on her face, she wore distress. For him? He arrived at the shed, his men lined up and bandaged, and snagged her around the waist, twirling her backward against a support, barely registering the tears brimming her eyes, and sank into a desperate kiss before he could think otherwise. His tongue pushed boldly into her mouth, his gauntlets gripping her head and waist possessively, and he shuddered with relief when she returned the desperate grip upon him. Carried upon the wave of initial panic, they allowed it to ease to simmering, and he pulled back to rest his forehead to hers.

  “Angus reports that ye’ve m
ade me proud, woman,” he growled.

  She swallowed hard, her brow marred with sweat. “Ye needed a healer, duties of which I can perform.”

  He kissed her nose, her fairie kisses, feeling such tenderness overwhelm him, feeling her sighs against his cheek, and he proceeded to kiss each one, gently, with painstaking care.

  “Why did ye nay tell me ye’d be leaving and for the purpose that ye did?” she whispered, returning gentle pecks to his cheek.

  He searched for an answer. Frowned.

  “I remember a lass who ran from me with tears in her eyes after I kissed her, and when I heard yer grievance about my sire’s attack on Urquhart…” He cleared his throat. “I knew I had no right to ever ask ye to stay again. And it stung me to be near ye and no’ be able to kiss ye again for fear that my heart was on the line. I ken the terms of our handfast are real, lass, and it stabs my pride to be reminded of it, that ye’d choose to go home over me.”

  She opened her mouth to launch an argument, but he talked over her, quelling her, “Ye have good reason. I never should have forced yer hand to begin with. Regardless, I still wish to end this turmoil betwixt our people, and offering back what I stole was the first step toward establishing that.”

  Confusion marred her face. “Even if I go home?”

  He nodded.

  “Even though my brother raided ye, too?”

  He swallowed hard, unable to answer honestly. He’d not done it for Seamus Grant. He’d done it because it was right.

  “Why now, of all times?”

  He closed his eyes, forehead still pressed to hers, and forced a response through tightened lips. “I’ve come to ken ye. I’ve come to understand that the origin of our clans’ feud has no relevance today. I’ve come to understand, by hearing yer anger and hurt, that yer lands were never mine, and I was wrong to vie for them, as was my faither. And blast it, but seeing ye upon the shore, as the MacLeods attacked…”