Page 34 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)
CHAPTER ONE
T he flames blazed in the kiln, heat pouring out of the fire in waves that suffused the air around them. Smoke, black and thick like storm clouds, erupted from the coals that burned bright, settling heavy in Tiernan’s lungs. Though he wore nothing but a thin undershirt and trews, sweat coated his skin, drops of it dripping from his brow and nose as he labored over the steel, bringing the mallet down again and again to harden the blade in his hand.
He had always known he would go to hell; he simply didn’t think he would be getting a taste of its flames in this lifetime.
Cannae complain. Better than stealin’.
It was good, honest work. It was physically demanding, too, and Tiernan enjoyed both the ache in his muscles which spoke of a job well done and the mind-numbing simplicity and repetition of hitting the steel repeatedly until it morphed into the shape in his head. He could lose himself to the rhythm of the mallet against the steel, the continuous, flowing movement of his arm, the clanging sounds and the steady drip of sweat. Everything else melted away, leaving his mind peacefully blank, at least for the hours he spent in the forge.
He was in the middle of a swing when he noticed a presence behind him. Years of being continuously alert had left him with what he could only describe as a sixth sense, a way of knowing when he was not alone. Though he didn’t turn to look, he was certain of the identity of the intruder, just by her steps and the energy she seemed to exude.
He wanted to see what she would do. A part of him thought that maybe she would turn around and leave, too timid to approach him herself, while another couldn’t help but believe that, stubborn as she often was, she would stay by the door until he finally acknowledged her.
Isabeau did neither. In the end, she walked towards him and though she was a little hesitant, her fingers tugging at the fabric of her dress and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, she came close, ignoring the flames and the heat that licked at her skin.
Had someone asked Tiernan what colors someone around him was wearing, he would be unable to answer them. But he knew Isabeau’s dress was a deep forest green that complimented her green eyes, a nice contrast to her pale, freckled skin. He knew that her hair, pulled up in an elegant updo, was the color of ink, dark and lustrous, and that when she let it down, it was almost long enough to reach her waist.
He didn’t dwell long on his knowledge of such facts or on what this knowledge said about him. Isabeau MacGregor was not the kind of woman he could ever have—the laird’s sister, raised with silver spoons by gentle hands, a being so pure Tiernan feared being too close to her in case he sullied her with his own questionable character.
He knew Isabeau feared him, and though he had no intention of hurting her—or anyone else ever again—he figured it was better that way. The more she feared him, the farther away from him she would stay, and the farther away from him she stayed, the smaller the temptation would be.
When Tiernan finally turned around to face her, Isabeau stopped dead in her tracks, freezing like a deer that had taken notice of a predator. She was a slender young woman, taller than most Tiernan had ever met, but there was a doll-like quality to her features that afforded her a sense of innocence. Nervously, she adjusted her dress once more, wringing the fabric between her fingers.
Her nervousness, however, did not show on her face. Her expression was blank, almost resolute, as though she had made the decision to be near Tiernan despite her fear and was determined to stick to it. Tiernan couldn’t take offence at any of this; he knew what he looked like, with the battle scars that covered his face and arms, his height, and the nose that had been crooked ever since he had broken it in a particularly vicious altercation. If that wasn’t enough, Isabeau knew of his past. A brigand, a mercenary. Who wouldn’t fear him, especially when they had been raised away from violence and crime?
Still, it was fun to tease her and Tiernan couldn’t help himself. When she took a deep breath and approached once more, he shifted his stance, standing up a little straighter, with his shoulders back, as he stared down at her. It was the kind of look that was enough to make a man flee, and indeed, Isabeau hesitated again, her breath hitching ever so slightly. But then, a determined look passed over her face and she approached, jamming an accusatory finger against his chest.
“Ye’re nae a brigand anymore,” she said. “Dinnae look at me like that. I’m nae afraid o’ ye.”
A lie, but one Tiernan could appreciate. Though Isabeau was afraid of him, she did her best to not let it show and to conquer her fear, stubbornness winning over everything else, and Tiernan couldn’t help but be impressed by her tenacity.
Laughing softly, Tiernan stepped aside to let her get closer to the workbench, where he had laid out the daggers Isabeau had commissioned from him—one for each of her brothers as a gift. Isabeau shot him an unimpressed look, clearly annoyed by his antics, but she said nothing as she examined the daggers, eyes gleaming under the light of the flames.
Tiernan had put all of his mastery into those daggers. The blades were short but sharp, curving ever so slightly at the ends, and the hilts were lavishly decorated with nature motifs. Each dagger had a jewel embedded in the grip, blue for the laird, Evan, and green for her other brother, Alaric, as per her request.
Isabeau’s hand hovered right over the blades, as though she was fearful to touch them. “They’re so bonnie,” she said. “I cannae believe ye managed tae dae this.”
“Is it so unbelievable?” Tiernan asked, his tone light and teasing, but Isabeau was quick to backtrack, eyes widening.
“Nay!” she said. “I didnae mean that… I only meant?—”
Panic gripped her at the mere thought that she may have offended Tiernan, and he couldn’t help but laugh. He was not the kind of man to get easily offended, and at the same time, he didn’t think a woman like her should be so concerned about offending a man like him, but Isabeau was nothing if not courteous and gentle with everyone around her. Tiernan had seen her in action plenty of times, marveling at the way she could diffuse tense situations with nothing but a few sweet words and a clever distraction.
Once again, the look she gave him was one of annoyance when she realized he was only joking and teasing her. She dragged her gaze back to the daggers quickly, taking in every small detail about them, but never once letting her hands touch them.
“I took some liberties with the design,” he said, just to fill the silence between them. “I thought Alaric may enjoy somethin’ that reminds him o’ nature.”
He had spent much of his life in nature, after all, since he had served as a scout for Clan MacGregor for most of his adult life. Now that he had married Lucia, it had been a while since he had last gone on a mission, and Tiernan thought he might enjoy having something of the forest with him at all times.
He wondered if Alaric would ever return to those duties or if his life was now in the keep, helping his brother, Laird MacGregor, with the everyday tasks of running a clan. He and Lucia never seemed to him as the type of people to stay in one place for too long—Lucia especially, her life as a member of a band of brigands taking her from place to place. But this life was behind her, as it was for Tiernan. He wasn’t a brigand anymore and he had come to appreciate the simple joys of having a place to stay and an honest, steady profession.
Tiernan reached for the daggers at the same time Isabeau did, their fingers brushing for a single moment before she pulled her hand back abruptly. That one moment, though, was enough to make his skin burn hotter than any flame ever could, a tingle travelling up his arm at the contact. Silence stretched between them, long and heavy in the air around them, and Tiernan held her gaze, idly wondering what she would do next. She, too, stared at him, refusing to look away, but what was at first a simple look soon turned into a glare, her frustration rising to the surface.
He couldn’t blame her; he really did enjoy riling her up like this.
With a frustrated sigh, Isabeau reached for the daggers once more, this time holding them both in her hands. Her fingers curled tightly around the hilts, her knuckles turning white under the pressure, and for a moment, he could have sworn that she considered the possibility of simply stabbing him to death and getting this over with.
It wouldnae be so bad, dyin’ by the hand o’ a bonnie lass.
Tiernan had always thought he would die without spectacle and without a good reason, struck dead by a soldier or taken to the gallows. He had always thought he would meet his end without any dignity and without much fear; that had dissipated a long time ago, ever since he had joined the gang of brigands he had been a part of for years – Ravencloaks. But as a newly honest man, he began to think he would very much like to die peacefully, in his sleep, because of old age.
Being killed by Isabeau would be a close second.
He let out a short, rough laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought. He doubted Isabeau was capable of hurting a spider, let alone a person. She was working hard to become a healer, after all, and that was the exact opposite of hurting people.
At the sound of his laughter, a flash of irritation crossed Isabeau’s gaze and her hands gripped the daggers even tighter, her lips pursing into a thin line. Though she would never directly confront him, since she was not that kind of person, Tiernan could tell he was in for a scathing remark, one that would be as clever as it would be cutting while still somehow remaining polite, and so he gave her an easy grin, taking a few steps back to break the tension between them. It had the intended effect; Isabeau relaxed, even if only just slightly, but the remark came regardless.
“I dae hope ye’re nae havin’ trouble adjustin’ here,” she said with no genuine concern in her voice, though someone who didn’t know her well could mistake her tone for worry. “Dae these knives remind ye too much o’ yer life as a brigand? Perhaps ye would be better suited tae forgin’ shields.”
Tiernan couldn’t help but laugh again, the sound loud and unrefined. “I think I’m alright, Miss MacGregor, but I appreciate the concern,” he said, deciding it was more amusing to play along. “I think I’ve been here long enough tae have adjusted by now.”
“Ye could have fooled me,” said Isabeau, but Tiernan didn’t miss the way her lips curled up into just the barest hint of a smile for a moment. She, too, was enjoying this, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise, and that was precisely what was so dangerous about their situation, Tiernan thought.
They could match each other with ease. For every teasing comment he made, Isabeau had a retort prepared and ready to go. Her wit was unmatched, her tongue quick, and her words sweet and deadly at the same time, and Tiernan’s traitorous heart skipped a beat every time she let that side of herself shine through.
Before he could respond, a sudden sound echoed around the room; a thud, loud and jarring, which caught both of their attentions as they turned to face the door. Then there was another thud and another, which soon turned into a cacophony of footsteps that approached the forge.
Instinctively, Tiernan took a few steps towards the door, blocking it from Isabeau’s view. His hand reached for his dagger, which was strapped around his waist, fingers curling securely around it, and though he hoped it was nothing but a few passing soldiers of the MacGregor Clan, he could never be too careful.
When the door to the forge burst open, he knew it wasn’t soldiers. A glance at Isabeau was enough to confirm her fear, the humor having entirely vanished from her gaze, the blood draining from her face to leave her pallid. Three men stood there, and though their faces were obscured by the hoods they wore, he knew they had to be men from his past—perhaps someone he had wronged or someone he had attacked while being with the Ravencloaks. A life of crime and violence was difficult to escape, and even now, after months of working for Laird MacGregor, it had followed him all the way here, to the castle.
Immediately, Tiernan pushed Isabeau behind him, using his body as a shield between her and the men. There was no other means of escape; she could jump through a window, perhaps, but there was no guarantee she would manage to escape those men. Tiernan’s only hope was that they were there for him and would leave Isabeau alone, but he couldn’t count on that. He knew brigands well; he knew that when they saw a pretty girl like Isabeau, there was only one thing on their minds.
He couldn’t let them touch her. He couldn’t let them take away everything that was so pure about her.
As the men stomped inside, the room seemed to close in on Tiernan. He was skilled with a blade, but the odds were stacked against him. These were no ordinary men; they were brigands, too, and they made a living out of harming people. Any skill he had, they had as well.
Tiernan took a deep breath. Behind him, he could feel Isabeau press in close, her entire body shaking, and he reached for her, gently pushing her back so she wouldn’t get caught up in the fight. The men came closer and closer, drawing their weapons, looming ahead like great shadows. Tiernan would only have one chance to kill them all before they could lay their hands on Isabeau, and he was prepared to take it, even if it brought on his own demise.
Blades flashing in the light of the flames, the men attacked, and a battle cry tore itself from Tiernan’s throat as he threw himself at them, ready for whatever may come.