Chapter Five

Guardsmen patrolling Tioram Castle’s parapets winched up the portcullis, like the opening jaw of a hungry lion. James trotted Devil onto the promontory leading across the peninsula, passing rows of balingers and smaller currachs tipped on their sides with snow pillows atop their hulls. A wan smile tugged at Aileana’s mouth as she imagined James at the helm of a watercraft, dragging the sheets against the wind and dominating the cresting waves. So long of leg and blond like his Norse ancestors, he would probably look magnificent.

Lively with folk, noise arose from within Tioram’s portcullis as servants went about their jobs, making Aileana’s fate real.

“Jesu…” she whispered, sucking in air as if it were drink and she, thirsty.

In truth, she was. Her mouth was chalky, her body racked with shivers, her skin clammy.

James’s broad hand squeezed her trembling ones. Goodness! The gesture was brief. But much like it had been during their handfast, it was reassuring now, and she rested her cheek between his shoulder blades to steady what she feared was becoming a feverous mind.

“I train warriors who fight at my bidding,” he said. “But my people will harm ye none. Fret no’.”

The knot in her gut eased an increment.

“The laird has returned!” called a sentry atop the curtain wall, and a general clattering of people preparing for their laird’s arrival ensued.

The knot tightened again. James raised a hand in greeting to them.

“Good afternoon, my laird!” shouted another as they rode under the archway. “We wondered when ye’d arrive back! Sir Angus is preparing a search party. Did ye catch the thief?”

“Who’s the lass?” asked another.

“I did indeed catch the thief!” James replied, his voice booming. “And the woman is Lady Aileana Grant!”

God in heaven, he was going to oust her to his people! After the moments of gentleness that had passed betwixt them?

Curious faces turned to stare as they entered the bailey, now consumed within the belly of this stronghold, as maidservants gathered dutifully on the steps. Soldiers leaned warily over the walls to catch a glance of her. Her face burned with heat. Surely they were all making opinions of her. Surely they hated her, or judged her plainness for themselves.

“Ye bring the enemy?” called down a ranking soldier who wore a sparkling brooch. Was he James’s first-in-command?

“Lady Aileana isnae our enemy, Angus man,” he replied in defense of her.

“The Grants are our friends now, is that it?” the man named Angus replied to a rumbling of chuckles. “The scar on me arm begs to differ!”

He must rank high to talk back so freely. Aileana clenched James, her mind swaying now. She blinked to clear the headiness and lifted her chin, ever defiant. What was I thinking, agreeing to come here?

“What be the lady’s business?” came a feminine voice in a much kinder tone.

A woman with soft blonde hair swept back in beaded netting and a braid of hair looped over her head like a crown stood regally at the steps, a MacDonald tartan wrapped around her back and clutched in the crooks of her elbows. Her eyes were a pretty blue, and her looks favored James’s. Was this his sister, Brighde? And then Aileana’s gaze migrated to the dangling bobbles at the woman’s ears. Pearls embedded in gold in such a distinctive design, it would be hard to mimic. My mother’s earrings bequeathed to me…that had been stolen. Aileana had coveted those precious gifts. James had gifted them to this woman!

“She comes with no business,” James replied, coming to a halt and addressing the gathering. “She’s my wife.”

Gasps resonated. Wide eyes loomed around them, and someone, somewhere, dropped their burden with a clattering of metal. Sweat trickled down Aileana’s temples, nerves chewed mercilessly at her stomach. And the fever she feared had taken root threatened to get the better of her. She focused on the one thing that wasn’t starting to spin: the other lady’s earrings. To know this man who she was beginning to feel fondness for had stolen them was one thing, but to see the spoils of his raid flaunted before her now stung. Her distress, held at bay by a thread, overpowered her.

“My earrings,” she murmured, and she blinked desperately to clear her foggy mind but tipped off the horse, grappling fruitlessly to hold onto James’s waist as her vision swirled, as she fell, fell…and lurched hard.

…

26th of December

Pounding. Aileana winced. Her head was pounding. She was so tired. But as her head lolled on the pillow…

A pillow!

It was soft and lush. The linen covering it was finely woven and smooth against her cheek. It smelled of lavender, a faint waft meeting her nose each time she moved. Ah, heaven, such a scent. It had been so long since the Grants could afford so fine a fragrance as lavender. And she was warm.

A heavy blanket was draped upon her, cocooning her to the firmly stuffed mattress. She basked in the sensation until curiosity got the better of her, and she dared to blink awake. Where was she, and what had happened? The chamber encompassing her was dim but, my, so fine. Bed curtains of deep-red velvet were drawn back to reveal a hearty fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of the peat both pungent and comforting. When was the last time they’d had such a fire at Urquhart? The Grants only burned one when they needed it. Otherwise, their drafty hearths remained cold.

She pushed onto her elbow and brought her fingers to her forehead to feel the source of the pounding. Surely she’d bruised herself. How? Slowly, as the memories of her arrival to Tioram Castle filtered back through her groggy mind, she recalled the sensation: feverish, shivering, vision going black, body drifting…

She bolted upright. Pain throbbed through her head. “Goodness, I fainted dead away, off his horse.”

She waited for the sensation to ease and pushed back the covers to stand.

“Ohh,” she groaned, and she dropped back to her rear, bracing her forehead again.

As the swirling sensation settled, she glanced around her chamber at the tapestries hung over the window shutters, wooden furnishings polished to shining with embroidered pillows upon the chairs at the table. Anger at Urquhart being so deprived of these things swarmed her thoughts like angry wasps, and she moved to the hearth to kneel before the heat. The floorboards were coarse under her bare feet, save the soft rugs before the hearth.

Bare feet.

She looked down. She was bare footed and in a chemise! She hadn’t been wearing one before, only her tunic beneath her gown.

Clenching the neck hole to her throat as her sleeves billowed to her elbows, she huddled at the fire and looked about for a robe. The trunk beside the dressing table seemed the likeliest place for a robe to be stored, though it sat draped in a silken cloth, with baskets of bobbles and a mint box atop it. Who had undressed her? Dear God, had James done so himself?

The door opened. She whirled around to look over her shoulder, her chemise still clutched at her throat, and, speak of the devil, the Devil MacDonald. James pushed through the door. He froze, his hand in midthrust. His eyes widened an increment, traveled down her body, and lingered upon her for longer than was gentlemanly before traveling over her hands clutched beneath her chin.

“My dress,” she croaked, snapping his attention back to her face.

Propelled to action, he closed the door and cleared his throat.

“Ye were burning up. Ye fainted. Yer attendants assisted ye, and thankfully, yer fever broke whilst ye slept, or else I fear it might have become something worse. Then Seamus would have had my head upon his pike.”

The distress in her stomach unclenched at his admission. He strode within and plucked a garment from a chair to hold up like proof of wrongdoing at Court—his jaw freshly shaven, clamped tightly—and thinned his lips.

“Why were ye traveling in a wet tunic? As a woman whose family claims ye to be a skilled healer, I’d think ye would have more wisdom. Were ye trying to catch yer death?”

She grinned sweetly. “Aye, anything to see the MacDonald’s head upon my brother’s pike.”

He huffed an unexpected chuckle at her jest and lifted his eyes heavenward.

“It’s no’ as if I planned to be whisked away upon a handfast, James,” she added more seriously. “I wore what I had on.”

He dropped the tunic and shook his head but seemed to let his rebuttal go. “I thought ye were still asleep. Are ye well?” he asked.

She shrugged, a wash of forlornness blooming in her chest. She was alone. Without Peigi and without Seamus. Who sold his sister to the wolves.

“My forehead hurts, but I shall endure. Did I hit it?”

As if she’d given him purpose, he came to her, a slow progression, his gaze seized upon hers. Each step increased his height, until he loomed above her. She craned her neck back to look up at him and tried to stand, but he squatted down, his hand resting on her shoulder and urging her back down to her knees. His palms spanned her cheeks, and his thumbs parted the hair draped across her forehead. Once more, he lay the backs of his fingers against her brow as if to check for fever. Her skin tingled. For such a merciless warrior, his touch was, once again, surprisingly delicate, as was his demeanor.

“Aye, a wee bruise ye’ve got. I barely caught ye, but ye still landed hard.” His thumb caressed her cheeks, his gaze dropping to her lips with such intensity, it made butterflies flit through her belly again. His eyes dipped down her chemise as if an unconscious reflex, but they quickly bounced away. “I’ll, eh, fetch yer maids.”

He dropped his hands and stood, rummaging within his sporran. The draft through the shutters, though dampened by the tapestry, still filled the chamber with a chill, for the heat of the fire only radiated so far, and she dropped her hands from her throat to rub her arms.

“Aileana…”

Whatever he’d wished to say, he trailed off, such firmness overtaking his brow she wasn’t sure if he was angry or not. Her guard spiked high, prepared to defend herself.

But he bent for her hand, pulled it outward, and dropped a trinket into her palm. Reflexively, she clenched her fist, like a child trying to resist, and watched his back retreat to the door.

“Yuletide ceremony will abound today, considering yesterday was the first day of Christmastide,” he said gruffly, his voice strained and his broad shoulders tense as he gripped the latch. “If ye feel well enough, I wish ye to join me for an excursion, and to sit at my side this eve, to celebrate with us. It might ease my people’s confusion over ye.”

She opened her fist and looked down. Her breath caught.

“My earrings…” She inhaled deeply as trembling consumed her.

Still, he remained, his back to her and his hand on the door, as if unable to pull it back. Aileana dashed to him, embracing him so swiftly she could scarcely believe she’d done it. But to hold those precious relics again, when she’d been so certain they were lost forever, filled her with emotion. He tensed, his muscles twitching, and then he pivoted to face her, and his arms came around her, clenching her in return, holding her head to his chest and dipping his nose to her hair. It felt so blessedly good—his arms, strong; his smell of riding leathers; his soap; his unique male scent.

“They were a gift from my late mither,” she continued. “She had two pairs crafted. One for me. One for my sister.” Silence stretched between them, pregnant with uncertainly, though his grip tightened. “Mine were stolen the day yer men raided us. It was all I had left of her. And the day I sat before her grave and confessed to her that they were lost…’twas silly that doing such felt so monumental, but my mither was always a good listener, and it felt as if I’d finally lost everything.”

He seemed game to listen, his chest rising and falling in measured, steadfast breaths, so she continued as the sad memories locked in her heart fought to wedge a crack so they might leak out.

“Peigi always told me to wear my earrings and look the part of a lady, but I was too afraid to lose one. I was certain they’d be safer tucked in my trunks. My sister has always been the envy of many a woman. She’s had many suitors, but my brother lacks the promise of a dowry, which eventually sends the suitors away in search of richer prospects… These were part of our dowries, and without them, I have no prospects at all.”

He didn’t seem inclined to let go, but she pulled away, and he dropped his embrace, clearing his throat.

“I could be a pros—” He cut himself off but not before Aileana suspected the direction of his remark.

She didn’t consider James to be a realistic prospect…did she? And why did he want a permanent marriage? Surely he wasn’t so pious and moralistic.

His gaze, aimed over her head to stare at nothing on the opposite wall, didn’t drop to meet hers, and upon the lips he chewed, he seemed to stifle further rebuttal. She examined him in the firelight while the shadows played upon his tunic, the lacing loosened to reveal the muscle beneath, his features bronzed in the soft, dancing light upon his smooth face.

“My thanks for returning them.”

An inkling of guilt contorted his brow, and she might do well to continue fostering this peace between them instead of spitting at him like an adder. Perhaps not only could they form a truce over Christmastide, but she could work out some benefits for her clan, too. A twinkle lit his eyes, and his mouth curved up. Not a smile, but seeming amusement, and he dug beneath the cuff at his wrist. He dragged free a white cloth and shook it out, handing it to her.

She furrowed her brow. “A kerchief?” Like a favor an eligible lady would give to her favored knight at a tourney? A curious smile captured her lips. “Are ye bestowing yer maidenly favors upon me, James MacDonald?”

A husky laugh rumbled unexpectedly up his throat. “’Tis my white flag of truce, lass.” He made a concerted effort to inspect it for blemishes. “Eh, as ye can see, I’ve nay wiped my boots upon it.”

The jest induced a giggle. A giggle! What am I, an enamored lass? And yet his meaning was clear. He was committed to giving this friendship an honest try and not devolving into parries about whose fault what was. And something about his determination warmed her.

He dragged back the door with a grin and strode out. “My wife is awake,” he said to someone, followed by something inaudible, then, “See her dressed and ready for today’s outing.”

A moment later, two maidservants entered the chamber, followed by a small serving girl, bobbing in their curtsies, their arms bundled in masses of fabrics and baskets of supplies.

“We are to be yer personal maids. The laird requests ye be dressed for the morning’s celebrations,” the first maid said, though she regarded Aileana warily. “A traveling party goes without the walls to find the perfect Yule log and haul it back to begin burning tomorrow eve.”

Morning? Disoriented, she moved to a tapestry, peeling it back and peeking through the crack in the shutters. Stark, early light leaked through. Soldiers gathered for training in the yard. Moments later, James emerged from beneath her window, slipping into a training jerkin and gauntlets and snagging the hilt of a practice sword his man, Angus, tossed to him.

“Did I sleep the whole night?” she asked as James’s orders rang out into the bailey and his men took formations to begin sparring.

“Aye, mi lady,” the woman said, her tone curt. “Ye passed out. The laird had ye put to bed and sat by yer side until yer fever broke.”

James had done what?

“Ye’ll join him for the countryside jaunt if ye feel to rights,” said the other, just as warily.

She spied MacDonald tartan draped over the maid’s arm. A garment for her to wear? Presumptuous on their parts to assume she’d be willing to don such colors. Unless…James hadn’t told them about their marriage’s lack of permanence. Why? Did he intend to dishonor his agreement to return her home by Twelfth Night? And lay complete claim to her?

A daft, impulsive reaction. She looked down at the earrings in one hand, the kerchief in her other, running her thumb across it, then out the window at him as he drilled his men, deflected his partner’s blows, and shouted pointers. His muscled legs and torqued body, hugged by the jerkin, really was a thing of beauty. Nay, he’d been sweet just now, forging further goodwill and returning her most-valued possession. Could she keep taking a nàmhaid at his word?

The maids flitted about the chamber while the serving girl, no more than six or seven, closed the door and sat down beside it. They tucked in her bed linens, fluffed her pillows, and laid out their bundle of fabrics. Dark sapphire blue, rich hunting green, soft mauve. And that damning red plaid.

Such beautiful, rich gowns. Her heart squeezed to think of Clan Grant having gone without for so long, while Clan MacDonald seemed to have so much.

“The seamstress will visit this afternoon to take yer measurements,” the first maid spoke again as she smoothed the wrinkles from the garments. “The laird has ordered a new wardrobe made, but until that can be done, these gowns might suit. The Lady Brighde has kindly offered them.”

That suspicion niggled again. A new wardrobe would be costly and time consuming. Why would James invest such an expense in a temporary handfast?

“We’re to see ye break yer fast, per his lairdship’s request.”

Not a single smile warmed their faces. Instead, they kept their eyes averted, avoiding coming too close to her.

“Come sit, mi lady,” the first maid said, an air of irritation to her voice as she placed a tray of savory smells upon the fireside table, pulling out her chair. “Maudie, bring that basket of hair adornments here.”

The little girl hurried from the door with a basket on her hand, bobbing in a quick curtsy.

“Ribbons for yer hair, mi lady,” the girl said, eyes wide and brown, red hair curling out from beneath her linen bonnet tied beneath her chin. “The blue will be most comely on ye.”

Aileana took in her expectant face and bent lower to smile, though even the child shied back from her. Were they worried she’d bite? She straightened, her smile falling.

“Have I offended?” Aileana asked, glancing at the maid who intended to style her hair, and sat.

The other servant, still tidying the chamber, stopped and glanced at her.

“The laird tells us ye’re sister to Laird Seamus Grant, mi lady.” The maid tugged Aileana’s hair straight.

“I am. I’m his youngest sister,” Aileana replied.

The maid swallowed stiffly, and as Aileana faced the tray before her, the maid took to running a comb through her hair, yanking upon her tangles with little gentleness. “Yer brother’s men killed my husband four years ago when he and the Frasers sacked Tioram and sent his lairdship fleeing.”

Aileana gasped. Winded. As if she’d taken a pummel to her gut. Her clan had done what? She’d always thought her brother’s campaign to help the Fraser’s instate a new laird had been due to a legitimate claim to the Earldom of Ross. Mayhap all of what James had said was true. And it had affected these innocent people’s lives.

“I…I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didnae ken.”

The maid scoffed.

“Anag,” snapped the other, flashing the woman at her hair a warning look and silencing her.

Aileana winced at the rough combing, but sat quietly, her appetite once again thwarted. She could eat once the maids left. She’d harbored such anger at James these past two years. Anger at how he’d wronged them. But blast it, the truth of who’d started the feud was murky, hidden deeply in a past lost to time. Her conviction solidified as she looked down at the kerchief once more. This bad blood would never be leeched away until both sides decided to cut their losses and move on. And that was hard for maids such as this one, who’d lost their loved ones because of it.

Her hair finally complete, the maid began to pack her bits and bobs into the basket again and swept it onto her arm, but Aileana snagged her hand.

“Anag, is it?” she asked as the maid looked down at her with surprise.

She nodded curtly.

“I truly am sorry. The menfolk make war, but the women oft suffer the damages.”

Anag’s face softened, and her gaze dropped to her feet.

“Is that how ye ended up married to our laird, mi lady?” Anag asked.

Aileana swallowed, standing and turning away from them. “I was given in a trade.”

Had James told them about her thievery? Sakes, the embarrassment…

“Our hunting party returned the day before, cursing about a lad who’d thieved from their camp,” the maid said. “His lairdship announced at board last night that he’d caught the lad, a Grant, and that to make reparations, yer brother promised ye to him.”

Aileana’s heart clenched. So James had kept her thievery secret?

“My people are desperate. From Laird MacD—from my husband’s conquest of Urquhart. We havenae much food or provisions. But it was wrong, the thieving, and yer laird demanded a wife as compensation. It was either me or my sweet sister. We only knew yer laird as a warlord against us, and my sister was so frightened…”

Should she tell them this arrangement was only temporary? For some strange reason she couldn’t push the truth over her lips. She had no illusions about remaining here. Did she?

The maid dipped in curtsy to her. “Ye needn’t fear Laird MacDonald. He’s a good man who sees to his people’s well-being. And whilst he might be able to strike down a Grant soldier, he’d never strike a lady. Indeed, we wondered if he’d ever marry, for he’ll be five and twenty aye soon, and ought to have sown several children by now, but until ye arrived here, he’d refused.”

Aileana squeezed her hand as thoughts of Lady Marjorie and the pain that had consumed James’s visage when he’d confided his sister’s fate in her came to mind. No, she was safe in his charge—of that, she was becoming certain. And yet still, his demands for marriage and desire for wedded permanence in the face of his refusal to marry until now sent a prickle of confusion over her skin of which she couldn’t make sense.

The other maid guided her to her dressing table with a kirtle and bodice upon her arm, summoning wee Maudie again to pour the ewer of water upon it into the bowl. The maid saturated a cloth, wringing it, and handed it to her to wash. Goodness, it smelled of roses. Such elegant water. Peigi would have loved this luxury.

Next, the maid helped her step into her stockings, tying them over the knees with ribbons, and draped the creamy kirtle over her head, dragging it down to her waist to secure the fastenings. Her bodice was next, and lastly, the rich sapphire gown and sleeves, which hung in billows of loose trumpeted fabric that bunched in her elbows. She caressed the heavy velvet, awed and wistful. Here she was, wrapped in such finery, while her people scraped by, one breath away from starvation.

“Yer style is finished,” said Anag. “What thinks ye?”

She held out a looking glass. Aileana’s wistfulness abated as she inspected her reflection and slowly lifted her hand to finger the hairstyle.

For a split second, it seemed Peigi’s reflection stared back at her.

“My.” She sighed. “Ye’ve done a fine job…I ken it’s unruly.”

“Nay mi lady,” wee Maudie now said, dropping her head to her feet. “Yer hair is so beautiful. I should hope mine darkens like yers when I’m grown. For right now, it’s such an unsightly ginger.”

“Yers is quite bonny, child,” Aileana countered, lifting her chin. “And let no’ a soul tell ye otherwise. My thanks for yer assistance this morn. It has made me feel welcome.”

The girl beamed at the compliment and curtsied.

Aileana glanced back at her reflection in the mirror. A true glass mirror! Not bronze. Her hair had never been so fashionable, even when Clan Grant had had the resources, and she touched the net at the back of her neck, beaded with seed pearls, edged in rich sapphire velvet. Her mother and Peigi would be proud to see her looking like this now.

Then her gaze settled on her face. Her smile fell. Her freckles had always been such a blemish, even if her mother had tried to downplay them by uplifting her other attributes. “Too much time in the sun, my dear… Ye’ll freckle if ye insist upon riding so much…”

“The dark blue is fine with yer auburn coloring.” The maid curtsied once more. “Surely his lairdship will be pleased.”

“What normally pleases him?” she asked, before biting her tongue. Why care about what looks or fashions please James?

“We ken nay,” the maid replied. “The laird has never made known a leman or a betrothed. Ye’re the first woman that he’s announced.”

Had he spoken the truth beside their campfire, that he’d kept no women before? Surely there had been at least one to slink from his chambers in the wee hours of morning, her chemise barely clinging to her arms. A man of his prestige and fine appearance would have his selection of women any night he chose.

The maid continued, “But he chose ye, mi lady, so we ken ye’re to his liking.”

Blush burned up Aileana’s neck and stained her cheeks. James hadn’t chosen her—she’d sacrificed herself to save Peigi. Aye, he did want me. He mouthed to me in Urquhart’s hall. She’d thought at the time it was because he’d wanted to punish her, not because he’d been attracted to her. Perhaps he’d been motivated on both accounts.

“How could any man no’ turn his head when ye walk into a chamber, enemy or nay? ’Tis obvious why the laird wanted ye over yer sister, even if ye’re thin. A good month at Tioram will put some softness back on yer bones.”

She froze. A month? Then they truly didn’t know she’d be gone in a fortnight—the moment Epiphany was upon them on Twelfth Night? And yet emotions swirled like an eddy, confusion and guilt chief among them. Guilt, that she was about to partake of a meal so hearty as this, when poor Peigi and Elizabeth had nothing, and further confusion at the thought of never returning home.

Why has James nay told them about Twelfth Night?

His pride? Mayhap hope that she would choose to stay? Why would she want to when her cold reception with Anag, whose husband had been slain by Grant men, was surely not the only frosty reception she would receive today? Besides, she’d been clear about her intent to go home. She’d promised her family and her people that she would.

And yet I refused his offer to return home when I had the chance.

She quelled her conscience. It mattered not that James was turning out to be much more complicated. The maids departed, and Maudie, feeling more at ease around her now that the maids weren’t so wary, waved discreetly as she slipped through the door.

Aileana smiled, returning the wave with a wiggle of her fingers, then turned to her tray as they secured the door shut behind them. A hearty stew awaited her beneath the lid, savory smells of salt and saffron wafting to her nostrils. Her mouth watered and her appetite, patchy as of late, surged quickly with desire to taste the rich meal. She took up the accompanying knife and swirled a piece of venison around the trencher, plump and oily. It wasn’t the watery broth and pathetic floating bits that they’d treated James to at Urquhart. Nor was the bread beside it flat and bland. It was a soft, thick cut, with an artfully whipped blossom of butter. She touched it. And still warm! And there was cheese… She hadn’t had cheese in so long, for to have cheese one needed cows. And dried apples. Apples!

She placed the morsel on her knife between her teeth, indulging in the venison’s hearty taste, the urge to stuff it down her throat overpowering. Bite after bite, she devoured the stew, then the pieces of apples, having forgotten what it felt like to be so sated. Slow down, Aileana, her conscience admonished her. ’Twill do no good to overload an empty stomach and make yerself ill—

Guilt jarred her again so suddenly, she froze.

Her family ate watery broth, not soft breads and cheeses, and Elizabeth, of all people, was carrying a child and needed sustenance far more than anyone else. What they would do for a meal like this… She set the knife aside and slid the trencher away as emotion pricked her eyes. Unable to go on eating, she lifted the white kerchief to her eyes and dabbed them. Standing, she walked to the hearth. Why must she find pleasure here? Why was it no longer so simple as hating an enemy but, perchance, empathizing with them, too? For it was becoming clear, her people might be suffering, but one look at Anag and it was obvious that this clan had suffered as well. Clan Grant wasn’t as innocent as she’d always thought them to be.

And perhaps that was the hardest revelation to swallow.