Chapter Two

Ye’re a whoreson, James, for playing at such an intrigue. But this infernal lass, with the glossy voice of an angel belying her barbed words—and the Highland clans called him a devil—had given him an opportunity he desperately needed that he never thought he’d get. He desired his inheritance. And thanks to restrictions thrust upon him, more like a curse, the only way to claim four hundred pounds was to take a Grant wife and conquer Grant lands by his twenty-fifth birthday—which happened to fall upon Twelfth Night. Best never let her ken that I’m desperate for a wife, or she’ll be sure to rib me mercilessly.

The people of the western isles and Highlands feared him as a warlord dominating the MacDonalds of Clanranald, who’d claimed the Earldom of Ross. They needn’t know that while his castle coffers were rich, his personal ones were not, thanks to his stepmother—

Enough about that.

The silence in the wake of his demand was deafening. Grant wouldn’t marry a sister to him. Still, he chewed the unleavened bread, swallowed, tore off another bite, and chewed, remaining impassive even though the spark that had ignited in Lady Aileana’s eyes intrigued him further. He’d heard that Clan Grant bred fetching women, but this one… He’d been unable to look away from Aileana’s untamed beauty since she’d squared off with him, her chin high, her auburn waves bonny on the breeze.

What fool had allowed her to think herself plain? Aye, she was fresh-faced, unpainted by makeup, but she looked like Scotland would look as a person. Wild. Unyielding. Proud. Beautiful around every curve, every edge, as the crags and straths appeared in the glowing sunset.

“Too bad ye’ll never ken a whit about my tongue…” Christ above, didn’t Lady Aileana know a remark like that would do nothing but pique a man’s curiosity and heat his blood for a challenge? Add brazen to her list of qualities. That comment had repeated in his mind like a bell tolling. He couldn’t shake it away. What gently bred woman spoke like that, challenging him to pick up his sword of words and parry with her?

Yet wouldnae that be the ultimate conquest? To determine more than a whit about her tongue for myself?

No. He’d never been one to play at intrigues with women. In fact, being raised a bastard had instilled fear in him. How could he ever be flagrant with his male urges and make bairns out of wedlock on a woman, shattering her reputation and shrouding his seed in a lifetime of shame, to be raised in the shadow of criticisms, whispers, and gossip, as he’d been raised?

“Mine ears must have misheard ye, friend,” Laird Grant said, seething.

Ha! Friend indeed. More like a knife in me back the first moment I turn around.

Aileana snorted, too. Damned lass. “Aye, a friend who leaves wreckage in his wake.”

“Ye want to act like a victim, lady?” James challenged, taking the bait, and did he hope for her rebuttal? “Yer brother rode on Tioram Castle and helped the Frasers evict me to instate their own choice of chief, a cousin of mine so distant, and with so thin a claim to the lairdship he was easy enough to quell, thank God—”

“I willnae dare believe yer accusations that Seamus is guilty of the cruelties ye’ve bestowed on others. And it nay changes the fact that ye reaved against us, stealing our cattle, our stores of grain—”

“Aileana, for bloody’s sake—”

“Aye, as was deserved.” James cut off Seamus’s attempt to interrupt the argument. “Because yer brother rode on us, too, stealing ours,” he retorted.

“And ’twas yer faither who maimed mine,” she seethed, sitting forward in her seat as if she wished to claw her way across the damned table into his lap to scratch at him. He wouldn’t mind her in his lap. “He—”

“Enough, both of ye!” thundered Seamus, shooting to his feet.

Aileana jumped at her brother’s outburst, and again, the strange protectiveness that had afflicted him when he’d watched Seamus scold Aileana outdoors flared in his stomach. Why? Because of Marjorie… Nay, Aileana could clearly hold her own. He was daft to fear for this hellion, who would just as soon see a dirk lodged in his heart at first chance.

Grant jerked his belts straight and eased back into his seat.

“Yer ears have nay misheard me,” James finally replied. “I need a woman. Ye have two sisters, Seamus, neither of whom ye can afford.”

Horror dropped Peigi’s mouth wide, as it did to the silent Lady Elizabeth. Aileana gaped at him.

Ye, James mouthed at her so boldly, it was a wonder he wasn’t a randy stag who regularly bedded wenches.

Her eyes widened farther. Why does needling the lass please me so? Aye, his curiosity was piqued. He watched sunbursts erupt on her creamy cheeks, sprinkled with endearing freckles… “Fairies’ wee kisses,” Marjorie had always told him when he was a lad and his own face had been plagued with freckles—now faded. He swallowed at the stab of pain thoughts of his oldest half sister always induced, willing the memory away. Why hadn’t anyone made Aileana believe the truth? That they made her beautiful? His blood stirred at the mere thought of pecking kisses upon each one. A man would think them kissable, until she opens her mouth and tells him off. He harrumphed to himself.

“I’ll consider the debt owed me paid. It would ease yer purse strings to have one less mouth to feed.”

Seamus harrumphed now, too. “Try again, man. Why the hell would I give a beloved sister to such a bastard?”

James swallowed the anger that flared at the insult and sat still.

“Surely ye would be cruel to her out of spite,” Grant added.

Hell, he’d never been cruel to a woman in his life. He thought of Marjorie again, one of the two older sisters who’d doted on him, despite their mother’s hatred of him. She’d been married off to that brute… In sooth, Marjorie’s lot had made him think closely about his. Would he be able to remain tempered? Careful? Rational? With a woman of his own? Or did all men turn into unfaithful husbands like his father or violent beasts like Marjorie’s?

“The absolute horror,” whispered Peigi to Aileana, whose hazel-green eyes were still wide.

His brow knitted. Shock and surprise were understandable. But horror? He knew these people disliked him, but was he really so repulsive, too? Still, he felt an ounce of satisfaction. So it is possible to render this hellion Aileana speechless. The satisfaction induced a fleeting smile he tried miserably to suppress as he filled his mouth with another bite of bread.

“And besides, what does needing a wife have to do with anything?” Seamus Grant growled, rising slowly from his seat. “My sister stole vegetables. Coin is a sufficient compensation. She ought no’ pay with her life.”

“That’s a fatal way of putting it,” James replied. “No one aims to send her to the gallows. I seek an accord, ’tis all. Yer clan wronged mine. I need a wife. Ye have two unmarried sisters with no dowries, no doubt.” He eyed Lady Aileana again. “And I’d never harm a woman—”

“Because ye stole them from us!” she exclaimed, slamming her goblet down like a man at a tavern and jumping to her feet. “And as to yer claim that ye’d never harm a woman, true, yer reputation for benevolence and compassion are known throughout the land,” she said with a dramatic sweep of the hand, as if entertaining a court.

She was trying to piss him off, and succeeding. He mustn’t give her the satisfaction of winning. “I speak truth, woman,” he drawled, his mouth tugging up so that he knew a divot creased his cheek. “Nary a complaint I’ve heard from the maids yet.”

“So smug,” Aileana muttered under her breath. “And they are no doubt women with poor taste if they lie with the likes of ye—”

“Sister, I demand ye stop.” Seamus’s reminder for silence, however, still didn’t seem to affect Aileana, for she lifted her chin, then lifted her goblet and took a measured sip, her hazel eyes never leaving his, as if daring him for a rebuttal.

James’s blood burned for the challenge. Aileana had better be the bargain bride Seamus chose for him.

“I stole no dowries,” he scoffed, leaning back.

“Aye, man, ye did,” Seamus rumbled, defending her. “Ye stole Aileana’s jewels, and ye stole the purses set aside for their marriages.”

Jewelry. James took in the plainness of Aileana’s appearance. No jewels about her neck, nor bobbles hanging from her ears. Mayhap she wore none because she no longer had any. And at Peigi’s ears, he now noticed a pair of pearls inlaid in gold suspiciously like the ones his men had presented to him after their reave of Urquhart two years ago… Shite.

What had he just asked of these women? For the sake of fulfilling obligations for his inheritance, when he’d stolen theirs? And Aileana might be desperate and altruistic enough to accept his demand, to help her people, even if her bold tongue’s retribution would likely lash him at every opportunity for the rest of his days.

Aileana’s lips finally parted to argue, but Seamus held his hand to her for silence.

“I would speak, brother,” she argued anyway.

How did she do that? Speak such commands with softness in her voice? It was misleading, and it had the power to transfix a man right before she struck her target true.

“He’s coercing ye. He’s nay going to run to the Earl of Huntly over vegetables, nor is he going to run to the king. I say we call his threat what it is—a bluff—and send him on his way. I can keep helping the crofters and tending our sick, and if ye continue to hunt and barter, we’ll find a way to make it through and pray our recompense is awarded. Peigi’s piecework brings in some coin, too, during the convent’s seasonal faires. Bollocks to this tyrant.”

A twinge of guilt assailed James for insulting her outside, for right now, her face pinched with distress like it had then, as if her strength were an ugliness that made her repulsive, made her more suited to help haul hay, wearing a lad’s trews instead of a lady’s kirtle. And if she’d been the thief who’d successfully raided him, she was an expert horsewoman, who would no doubt love to gallop the hills with him—

Do nay be an eejit, man. The woman would spit in yer porridge with gladness.

“Ye can call it what ye like, lass, but my request is genuine, and I’ll turn a blind eye to the theft.”

“Nay, and that’s final,” Seamus growled. “My sisters are nay free for bartering.”

James leaned back in his chair, haughty as a monarch, and slung his arm over the back. At one point in time, his ancestors had truly been monarchs of this land. “I understand that the king might indeed rule in yer favor and order me to pay ye a handsome sum. Three hundred head of cattle and bundles of commodities? But if I bring a grievance before the court, I dare say yer sister’s thievery might put yer sterling reputation in jeopardy.”

“I offer ye hospitality and an honest wish to make amends, and ye would blackmail me into giving ye a sister? As if she were naught but a cow for bargaining?” Seamus’s voice rumbled, and now he unsheathed his dirk from his belt.

“Nay,” James said, shoving to his feet, too, and withdrawing his dirk.

Soldiers clattered forth.

“Drop yer weapon, MacDonald,” the man named Donegal said. “Ye forget yer place right now.”

James, his chest rising and falling, fuming, sheathed his dirk. He instead withdrew his riding gloves and shoved aside his chair.

“Ye all act wounded, as if yer clan has done no wrong to me. As if my anger is unwarranted. As if my raid on ye wasnae to resupply everything that yer clan stole from us when ye evicted me. Except I didnae go crying to the king like a bairn throwing a tantrum. I handled it and moved on. Fine. I care naught at all if she stole a pile of vegetables, or a bundle of coin. I go to complain and play dirty the way ye do.”

He stalked down the dais.

“I want my sword,” he called over his shoulder.

“He’s nay bluffing, sister,” he heard the Lady Peigi whisper through the silence.

He was nearly to the door beneath the censuring gazes of Urquhart’s inhabitants when Seamus called, “Stop!”

He stopped, pivoted over his shoulder, and grabbed the latch, for the guard at the door seemed disinclined to assist him.

“Please. Return to the board. Let us barter with words instead of weapons.”

Aye, Seamus Grant the peacemaker, the one to first draw his blade. James snorted.

He took his time deciding a course of action, then lumbered back to the dais. Aileana’s gaze was fixed on him. He assessed her, watched her sip more wine, watched the moisture make her lower lip glisten, watched her tongue run along the flesh to clean the remnants of drink. That tongue. He wanted to know much more than a whit about it. He wanted to silence it with his.

He, too, scooped up his drink to take another sip, still standing. “She’d be taken care of in a rich house, would want for nothing, and would have a position of rank. And yer debt to me would be paid.”

Seamus scoffed, but it was obvious by the thoughtful furrow capturing his brow that he was beginning to consider the merits of the offer. Seamus sighed. “I’ll need to discuss the matter with my sisters—”

“Ye cannae be serious!” Aileana exclaimed. “Did ye nay hear a word that I said? The nàmhaid is coercing ye!”

Her wild hair was fraying in wisps about her face, and her pert nose wrinkled. She’d be a handful as a wife, for certain. Peigi would make a more agreeable woman, and she was clearly a cultivated beauty who would do her duty. But James’s eyes remained trained on Aileana.

“I’d never make either of ye marry a man who ye didnae wish to wed,” Seamus said, trying to placate Aileana, though Peigi, to her credit, looked just as mortified.

“Come, sisters, let’s leave the Devil to his meal for a moment—”

Ah. “Devil.” They use the ugly moniker, dubbed me by my enemies, right in front of me.

“I’d like to speak with ye privately. Wife? Will ye see to the laird’s companionship whilst I’m away?”

Grant’s eyes flitted to the man, Sir Donegal, at his back, more the intended companion than his wife, James assumed. He shifted in his seat to keep an eye on the guardsman’s blades.

Lady Elizabeth frowned but nodded once in acquiescence, and Seamus led his sisters down the servant hallway that led to the kitchens. James sipped from his goblet, glancing at the pregnant lady who took measured bites and did nothing to engage him, rather, sat stiffly like a statue. He scooped up a spoon of the watery broth, letting it dribble pathetically back into the bowl. Was this honestly all that the Grants had to offer a guest? True, they liked him about as much as they liked cattle dung cached to their boots, but customs of hospitality were never shirked, and the best meal a laird could provide was always offered.

Which meant these people had naught. Except for a couple chunks of carrots and spring onions that looked suspiciously like the ones stolen from his camp, the flavorless liquid was barely salted with a sparse sprinkling of venison. A glimmer of the desperation Aileana felt infiltrated his mind, as did memories of the raid that had seen him evicted, his cattle stolen, his goods depleted before he could fight his way back within and chase away the usurper that Seamus Grant had helped to instate.

Damnation, but if it wasn’t the MacLeods of Skye bombarding him from the water, it was this bloody clan attacking by land.

He ought to feel more pissed than he did. He certainly shouldn’t feel guilty for turning back on the Grants what they’d turned on him. Christ, he needed to let this sympathy go to hell where it belonged. A laird had no use for it regarding his enemies. Being firm, bold, direct, and unapologetic were the qualities that held up a man’s continued repute.

“How could ye, Seamus?” Aileana whined from within the bowels of the corridor, before her voice fell muffled again.

A whine? This woman wouldn’t whine unless she felt desperate. He strained to listen, since Lady Elizabeth was disinclined to speak and sat trembling like a leaf in his company. Seamus’s voice rose, too. Clearly, they were in disagreement.

“And sweet Peigi? What on earth has she done to deserve such a sentence?”

“If our brother asks it of me, then I must do it out of duty,” Lady Peigi replied, though James noted the forlornness in her voice. “We’ve erred, and yer skills would be missed here—”

“As has he! He eats the very food we cannae afford to spare, after he put us in this position of poverty,” Aileana argued.

“Yer brashness isnae helping, sister. And I dare say, if I agreed to marry ye to him, ye’d start an all-out war before the sennight’s end. Peigi is the better choice.”

Disappointment caused a tumble in James’s stomach. Grant was going to give him Peigi?

“Ye cannae mean this,” Aileana now said, though her whisper was so impassioned, her voice bounced off the stone. “Seamus, what ye propose is cruel, especially when it was my fault. James lies. A man like him would be just as cruel to a woman when she errs as he is to an adversary. Peigi would never survive.”

A swell of irritation bloomed in James’s chest. He’d taunted Aileana about women, but he’d spoken the truth. MacDonald women were kept well, and sweet Marjorie, who had not been so loved by her husband…had been avenged. He couldn’t abide a man who lorded over the fairer sex, for in truth, it was only weakness in the man’s heart that compelled him to do so.

“Sister, I ken no’ what else to do, and—sister? Aileana, come back—”

Aileana blazed out from the corridor to James’s side so quickly, he jolted with surprise and instinctively reached for his dagger.

“I’ll do it,” she breathed.

“I accept.” He nodded.

A strange wave of relief overtook him. Aileana’s bonny eyes were resigned, and rimmed with…redness. Hell, was the lass going to cry? This was a business deal. But the fear he saw on her face made more guilt nip at his conscience. Force the enemy woman to marry him so he could claim his inheritance? Except… Ah, he was daft. Why had he not thought about this before?

I can either marry an enemy Grant by this Twelfth Night or unite these lands to gain it. Would this marriage sufficiently satisfy both conditions for his inheritance in one swoop? He’d always thought the MacDonalds must conquer Grant land, but now that he thought about it, nothing in the documents said a whit about ruling Urquhart—only uniting it with MacDonald lands. This could work. And was far less violent than a raid.

It felt strangely right.

Seamus emerged behind Aileana and then Peigi, whose cheeks were damp with tears.

Seamus squared Aileana in front of him while the hall stared raptly at the dais. “Aileana, this is folly, and as yer laird, I forbid it. Renounce what ye’ve just offered—”

“Nay, ye cannae sentence Peigi to a life with this brute when it was my fault. Since ye’re bent on gaining yer recompense from the Crown, as ye should be, I’ll…” She took a deep breath and extricated herself from Seamus’s hold, summoning that stubbornness James realized he expected from her, and rolled back her shoulders. “I’ll take the punishment,” she said, much gentler this time.

Gasps and murmurs rattled the hall, breaking the silence like a split of lightning.

Punishment? James smarted. He hadn’t intended it to be a punishment…or had he? If anything, it was justice. This marriage was a bargain, but it wasn’t intended to be a life sentence of misery.

“Are ye certain?” Seamus asked, also more gently, taking her by both shoulders again, refusing to be cast off. “Sister, this isnae what I wished for ye.”

She shrugged. “Be honest. I burden ye, and with nothing for a dowry—”

“Nothing yet,” Seamus emphasized. “But when the king’s ruling comes back to me and I’m awarded, I’d have much for a dowry, and yer prospects would change. The Fraser laird’s nephew is seeking a woman and leads a powerful stronghold. He’d be pleased to consider ye.”

“Aye, and he’s already had two wives who’ve preceded him in death. Is he as old as faither? Or nearly as old?” she replied with dry sarcasm. Seamus sighed. “At least James is a far cry better look—”

She snapped shut her mouth, but James heard the direction of her remark, and a silly bout of excitement lurched in his chest at the knowledge that she found him handsome.

Seamus rubbed the bridge of his nose, heaving a hand to his hip. “Do ye ever think before ye speak?”

Aileana looked down at her hands, subdued by her brother’s censure. “Mither was right. I’m hopeless as a lady.”

The dejection in her voice made James uncomfortable. Hopeless? Nay, she was bonny, strong, skilled, and she loved her people enough to steal—and not just from anyone. From him.

Drifting in thought, James twisted the stem of his cup. In truth, Seamus was right. She’d only stolen some vegetables, nay his coin or valuables. He was doing this just as much to lord his command over the Grants as he was to gain his inheritance.

“How old are ye, lass?” James asked.

Aileana frowned at him. “I have nine and ten years.”

His thoughts deepened. Nineteen was certainly older than many a maiden upon their marriage.

“If Aileana continues to be stubborn about this, then I’ll agree to betroth her to ye,” Seamus began. “We can send for a priest, for we havenae a regular holy man, and this will give us time to post the banns—”

“Nay, we’ll handfast. She comes with me now,” James replied.

More gasping. More shocked utterances.

“Ye would deny a lady of rank, no matter how penniless, her kirk wedding?” Seamus demanded, this time, rage ringing unchecked in his remark.

“I dare say ye cannae afford the priest’s fee or the cost of hosting guests,” James replied.

He glanced from Peigi’s grief-stricken face to her hands clenching Aileana to her red-rimmed eyes. Aileana gripped her stomach, pulling away. Was she about to swoon? Fall ill?

He ought to back out of this now. But stubbornness or greed for his money—or perhaps…desire to learn more about this enigma of a woman—refused to topple his stance. A warrior would be weak to make demands and then wave them off as whimsy.

“It’s all right, brother,” Aileana croaked. “Let us please just…get this over with.”

“But ye must have a stake in this bargain, too,” Seamus replied, then turned on James again. “I must demand that if Aileana do this, that she be given a degree of latitude or else there’s no deal and I’ll await my chance to defend her against yer formal complaint.”

“What are yer terms?” James quirked his brow.

“If ye handfast her, I demand that she be given until Twelfth Night to decide if she’d like to remain as the Lady of Tioram Castle, or if she’s too miserable as yer trophy of humiliation and wishes to return home, that the handfast be severed. Promise me this, as an official term for everyone in this hall to bear witness to, or else we have no accord.”

Grant sliced the air to emphasize his point.

James swallowed. The leaden weight that dropped in his gut caught him off guard. Be damned, but he needed this marriage to be permanent. He should have opted for a kirk wedding and scrounged up a priest. For if she left him on Twelfth Night—as she undoubtedly would—he would miss his chance at the money. What was the point, then? And yet, if Seamus called him on his threat to lodge his complaint with the Crown, Twelfth Night would come and go before his grievance was even heard, making a quest for compensation moot. He huffed and eyed Aileana. He’d felt the stirring of lust for her each time they’d parried with words, and he knew he’d have no issue feeling passion for such a woman. But would she reciprocate in time? Could he achieve the ultimate conquest and convince her to stay?

Damn, but this was the only chance he had now. His plan had ricocheted back on him. He took a deep breath. He’d always loved a challenge. He had a mountain of one now.

“All right. I agree to yer terms, Grant. I’ll return Lady Aileana, the handfast revoked, with yer full rights as her laird to marry her to another as it pleases Clan Grant, by Twelfth Night”—his eyes cut to hers—“if she so chooses.”

“What of yer recompense for my thievery if I leave?” she asked, that haughty lift of her chin a tough expression on an increasingly fragile face; that voice, so barbed with words and yet so smoothly spoken. A defense, he realized. Aye. She wasn’t really so tough, and this handfast frightened her.

He nodded once. “I’ll consider it repaid, lass.”

His statement hung in the ensuing silence, until Peigi’s sniffling became too much for her to contain. She threw her arms around Aileana, who stood stone still like a tree trunk. “But my dearest sister! He’ll strip yer innocence!”

James frowned. Did they think he’d force Aileana to his bed? He wasn’t like his horrid brother-in-law, who now resided in the fiery pits of hell, where he belonged. He’d never stripped a woman of anything she didn’t want to be stripped of. And besides, a handfast was as legitimate as a wedding registered in a kirk. There was no shame in lying with one another if they’d handfasted with an agreed set of terms.

Seamus placed a hand on Peigi’s back but glared at him. “Do ye aim to punish me by putting one of my sisters in yer bed only to give her back when yer amusement abates?”

Peigi gasped at the lewdness of Seamus’s statement.

“I’m a compassionate man,” James replied.

“Sure. Ye attacked our walls when I and my strongest contingent were away and now play nice with neighborly alliances. Compassionate. And the Loch Ness Monster comes ashore to dance jigs at the faire. I smell a deeper motive for demanding a woman in exchange for a potful of vegetables, and I do nay doubt ye’d find pleasure in returning my sister at Christmastide’s end with her reputation in tatters.”

James took a deep breath, anger mounting at being so likened to Marjorie’s husband, and snarled, “Ye suggested terms, nay me. I merely agreed to them. I’d prefer any marriage I enter to be for life.”

“Ye do nay strike me as the type to have care for a lady’s honor,” Seamus taunted.

“Then ye ken nothing about me,” James muttered, so low and soft, he saw a flicker of surprise cross Grant’s face, as if he believed him.

Hope seemed to light Aileana’s face, too, but shrewd disbelief captured Seamus’s brow now.

“I ken what ye really want, James MacDonald: my lands. And this nay doubt is part of a scheme.”

James didn’t deny it. No one else knew about his inheritance, trapped in the care of Fearn Abbey thanks to his stepmother’s conditions that he earn it, first—a task she’d thought would be impossible, which was why she’d stipulated it. He shrugged.

“I can come home on Twelfth Night, brother, for there’s no circumstance under which I’d choose to remain,” Aileana said softly, taking her brother’s arm. “Laird MacDonald is simply like a hunter toying with his quarry, but I’ll be no victim. Fear no’ for me. I’m strong. I can withstand this and will return home. This, I vow. Even if I have to claw my way back.”

Peigi sobbed even harder now, clinging to her and drawing a kerchief to her nose. “But he’ll bed ye, and then ye’ll have shed yer maidenhood for naught.”

A blush captured Aileana’s cheeks—to have something so intimate discussed so openly—and she cast her hazel gaze askance. James inhaled long and slow. This pity was growing strength in his gut. He’d stolen all from these people in the name of conquest. True, they’d stolen from him, too. And back and forth the rivalry had seemed to always swing. But these people were suffering and might not last the winter, and now that he was catching a glimmer of the Grants at the supper board instead of at the point of a sword, he thought, Does this fighting need to persist? At some point, someone would need to cut their losses. Could he be the one to finally lay down his sword and wave a white flag of truce? In his older years, James’s sire had seemed to tire of fighting, and he had set aside his armor and sword. He’d been anxious to see his daughter marry an enemy man, in hopes it would bring peace between their clans.

Mayhap peace would have better results than warfare. Mayhap the terms of his inheritance had been put in place at his stepmother’s insistence, but his father had never crafted them to be about conquering at all.

He pushed to standing.

“I’ll add a further term, then, to put Lady Peigi’s heart at ease.” Peigi looked up at him with splotchy cheeks and a sniffle, though Aileana, still standing stone still, stared stoically at his chest as if he were a reaper come for her. “No consummation unless she chooses to remain.”

“How can I trust yer word?” Seamus growled.

Sakes, but this might be the only time he acquiesced to touching Seamus Grant without it being to drive a blade into the man’s ribs. He thrust out his hand to shake wrists. Seamus frowned but finally accepted the offering.

Aileana swallowed so hard, he heard the gulp, and she pushed back her wild wisps of hair that seemed determined to irritate her eyes. James watched the trail of her slender finger across her cheek, over her ears, a sweet gesture from an otherwise confounding creature. He withdrew his sgian achlais from beneath his shoulder where it was sheathed. Seamus tensed and whipped loose his blade at his hip once more.

“Ye invite trouble?” Seamus said. “Ye might overpower us with sheer numbers, but I’ll remind ye that right now, ye’re the one alone.”

His gaze never wavering from Grant’s, James fished up the hem of his mantle tucked through his belts and sliced away a strip of red MacDonald tartan, then sheathed his blade once more.

“Give me yer hand, lass,” he said to Aileana.

Her eyes dipped to her feet. Was it possible for this feisty woman to feel sheepish? Or was she merely reluctant? Still, unceremonious or nay, it was best to get on with the custom and ensure she’d promise herself to him for the next fortnight, even if the coercion now left distaste in his mouth. A maiden and lady deserved a celebration, with finery and a delicately beaded gown, with feasting and bards and dancing. Nay this.

I can still release her of this trap. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to say those words.

Aileana finally looked him squarely in the eye before lifting the end of her tartan shawl and withdrawing her own dagger from her bodice, slicing off her own strip of plaid. She held out her hand with the cut of Grant fabric, her chin raised high. She’d made her point. She wasn’t owned by MacDonald colors, and she wasn’t owned by him.

He took the offered tartan and handed both cuts to Seamus, who ran his thumbs over the enemy plaid thoughtfully.

“If I hear of abuses toward my wee sister,” Seamus finally said, his eyes dark with intent and a low rumble to the back of his throat, “I’ll nay give one shite about a royal recompense. I’ll kill ye. Ye can count on it.”

“She’s safe,” James replied, and swallowed hard at the grief he felt for sweet Marjorie, who had not been safe.

Solemnity overcame him. It might only be a handfast, but he’d never been married. And he hadn’t come here with a marriage proposal on his mind. But now that he pondered it, it felt…sacred. In this exact moment, a stranger was giving herself to him, even if it was just for a fortnight, trusting that he would take care and uphold his honor when he’d never been honorable to Clan Grant, nor them to him. There were neither altars nor blood of Christ to sip nor words of wisdom for a newly wedded couple. In this moment, as he picked up Aileana’s trembling fingers, he felt another wedge of compassion infiltrate his heart.

He set his brow. “I give ye my word.”

In spite of the lack of fanfare and celebration, the impact of the moment rocked him. How brave of Aileana to commit herself to the unknown. What an arse he was for demanding it. His people were going to be stunned.