Page 9 of The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (The Highlander’s Bride #3)

Sleepy stable lads collected the spent horses as they entered the bailey at Ard Castle. Ryan gritted his teeth and grasped his father’s upper arm. Laird Macraig whirled, his face a dark mask.

Ryan held his ground. “I wish to speak with ye.” Ryan’s clipped, almost-civil tone deceived no one. Men hunched their shoulders and found things to do elsewhere.

The Macraig inclined his head. “In my chamber.”

Guttering candles cast faint illumination around the great hall. Men and a few women lay scattered about, the sounds of their rest punctuated by the brisk thud of booted feet. Several heads lifted, but quickly lowered as the laird and Ryan passed.

The small room just off the main hall was pitch dark. No fire had been laid on the hearth in the laird’s absence. Ryan stepped back to the hall and jerked a candle from a nearby sconce, using it to light the others in the room. Finished, he tossed the taper onto the hearth and the tang of smoldering peat rose in the air.

He faced his father. The laird returned his stare with hooded eyes, his jaw clenched tight. Ryan recognized the same stubbornness he’d had occasion to regret in himself. It would be difficult to get unbiased information from his father tonight, and downright impossible to garner any concessions.

Ryan took a deep breath to steady his voice, struggling to keep censure from his tone. “Would ye care to tell me what happened at the meeting? ”

Laird Macraig waved a hand dismissingly in the air and yanked his chair from beneath his desk. “The Macrory is not a friend of ours.”

“Why, then, did ye even attend the meeting?”

“I wanted to hear about the pirates and to see what other kiss-ma-luif men hopped to do the Macrory’s bidding.”

Scorn for such sycophant behavior slurred the laird’s voice. Ryan clenched his fists, holding tight to his temper. “If Acair MacEwen is as dangerous as Laird Macrory says, we may need their help ’ere this is over.”

The Macraig slammed the palms of his hands on the desktop. An inkwell and several rolls of parchment skittered on the wooden surface. “Nae!”

Ryan’s heart thudded in his chest, but he did not falter. “Ye must set aside this trouble that has brewed between ye for these past years. I am sorry the auld laird dinnae approve of a match between ye and his daughter. But she is wed and ’tis in the past.”

The Macraig’s skin blanched, his look haunted. “Ye dinnae know what ye speak. ’Twould have been a good match and benefited both our clans.”

“Da, we can still correct this. We can still forge an alliance between the Macraigs and the Macrorys. The laird’s daughter, Gilda—”

“Nae!”

Ryan recoiled at the force of his sire’s response. “Why—”

“Dinnae bring this up again. There will never be an alliance between us.” His father sank into his chair. “Besides, ye are betrothed to Laird MacLaurey’s daughter, Mairead.”

Ryan’s heart clutched. He was well-acquainted with Conn’s sister, older by nearly a year. Mairead had never outgrown her childish resentment of feeling as if she’d lost her parent’s favor to their son and heir. Very little pleased her and she’d made Ryan and Conn’s lives miserable as lads. Repaying her constant carping with boyish pranks had landed them in repeated trouble.

Had his da lost his mind?

Ryan cleared his throat, alarm drying up all moisture. “Ye cannae be serious.”

“Aye. The Macraigs make their own alliances.”

“Da, that woman is a menace. I spent ten years around her and I willnae marry the targe .”

“Ye will. I began negotiations with Laird MacLaurey in the packet I sent with my soldiers who escorted ye home. ”

“There is no love or even kindness between Mairead and me. I tell ye, I willnae do this.”

His da’s face contorted with rage. “Ye think to marry for love? I suppose ye have yer eye on Laird Macrory’s bastard daughter?” His voice rose shrilly. “She isnae good enough for ye!”

Ryan's face blanched. “What are ye saying?”

"The Macrory isnae her da. She was four when he wed her ma, and Riona wouldnae name the sire.”

Ryan’s ears rang and his mind faltered at the unexpected, vicious words spewing from his father’s mouth. “I would have no trouble choosing between an evil-tongued woman of certain parentage and a sweet-tempered lass without her father’s name,” he shot back.

“Ye have no choice. Yer betrothed will be here within the month.”

* * *

Ryan slung his cloak across the room with enough force to send it skimming across the top of the chair to land in a rumpled heap at the foot of his bed.

What the hell was he going to do? Ryan glared at Conn. His friend nudged the door closed with a foot and propped his shoulders against the sturdy portal.

“What has ye more worked up? The fact the Macraigs will have to deal with the pirates on their own, or the fact ye willnae have a chance in hell of seeing the red-headed lass again?”

“Shut up, Conn.” As soon as the snarl left his lips, Ryan gestured wearily. “I’m sorry. I’m nae angry with ye. I need to think.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I dinnae know what to do.”

Conn shoved away from the wall and strode to a chair. He folded his tall frame into the seat and propped his feet on the hearth, motioning to a flask on a small nearby table. “Pour us both a drink and sit down before ye damage something.”

Ryan stalked to the table and splashed whisky into a mug. He stared into the amber depths for a moment then tossed back the fiery liquid. With a grimace, he prepared a second libation for himself and one for Conn. Sketching a mocking salute with his mug, Ryan downed the contents in one gulp.

“Ye will rot yer gullet drinking like that,” Conn observed, raising an eyebrow in mild rebuke .

Heat spread through Ryan as the whisky bounded through his blood. He shrugged, uncaring.

“What did yer da say that has ye so riled?” Conn wondered.

“My sire has seen fit to form an alliance between our clans by marriage.”

Conn eyed him askance. “Between which clans?”

“Why, the Macraigs and the MacLaureys, of course.”

Conn’s eyes widened. “Whose marriage?”

Ryan bit back a curse. “Mine. To Mairead.”

Conn gave a low whistle. “And ye agreed?”

“Are ye daft? There are no two people I can think of less suited for marriage.” He set his mug on the table with a thud. “I refused.”

Conn nodded. “A wise move, but can ye?”

“I willnae wed the targe .” He cast an apologetic look at Conn. “Ye know how she is. I cannae think a forced marriage to me will improve her disposition.”

“Nae. That one needs the firm hand of someone who doesnae know her childhood secrets. Not one of the pliskie lads who pulled pranks on her.”

Ryan crossed to the bed and flopped face-up on the coverlet with a sigh. “I dinnae expect to talk of marriage so soon. But I offered an alliance between us and the Macrorys.”

Conn chuckled. “I can imagine yer da’s response to that.”

Ryan remembered his da’s words condemning Gilda as a bastard, but couldn’t bring himself to share the information with Conn. “He wasnae interested in hearing my thoughts on the subject.”

On the hearth, the peat crackled and a flame shot into the air. Red and gold lights danced across the worn stone of the hearth, conjuring the memory of Gilda’s fiery hair in the moonlight. Ryan’s thoughts swept back to soft, pale skin trembling beneath his touch, and trusting, silver eyes as he claimed her lips in a kiss. He groaned.

Two stubborn old men stood between him and Gilda. And to discover his da had signed a contract binding him to Mairead?

Conn rose to his feet and stretched. “Good night, then. I’ll leave ye to decide if yer groans are for the thought of marriage to my sister or for the red-haired Macrory lass ye cannae have.”

* * *

Gilda forced the sweetest smile she could muster, the strain pulling at her cheeks. “Ma, it has been nearly a sennight, and no pirates have been seen. May I please go outside and take Fia for a ride?”

Her mother looked up from her conversation with Cook, a frown on her lips. Gilda took a quick breath, forestalling any obvious denial. “Please, Ma. I will take auld Fergus with me and willnae go far. Only to the beach—I could even visit a bit with Tavia.”

The mention of her mother’s old nurse had the desired effect. Though Tavia spent a good deal of time at the castle, she insisted her home was the cottage on the beach, and had declared the pirates daft should they think to harm a seer woman. No one had seen Tavia in nearly three days.

Her ma sighed. “Yer da isnae here to decide.”

“But Ma, he only said I had to tell one of ye before I left the castle, and with nothing amiss on the borders, surely he wouldnae mind if I left for a wee bit?” Gilda tried for charm, pasting what she considered a winsome smile on her face. She could sense her mother’s waver.

A crash of metal and wood on the stone-flagged floor caused everyone to jump. Riona whirled about and Gilda snatched her skirts to one side as two small forms darted past.

“Ye wee louns !” Cook shouted, shaking her fist at the lads who chortled with glee, a pastry in each chubby hand. With practiced ease, Gilda and her mother each grabbed a twin by their collar, halting their dash for freedom.

“Lemme go!” Finn twisted in Gilda’s grasp. Jamie eyed his mother and dared say nothing.

“Put those pastries . . .” Riona’s gaze lit on the stout fingers buried in the flaky crusts and the purple juices running down the lads’ bare arms. She sighed and turned to Gilda.

“Ye may go down to the beach, but ye will take the twins with ye.”

Gilda’s eyes widened in protest. “But, Ma! Ye cannae be serious?”

Her mother nodded firmly. “Aye. The lads are needing a bit of time away from the castle as much as ye.”

What a disaster! Gilda’s mind whirled. “It would hardly be fair to ask auld Fergus to mind the lads.”

“Fergus willnae be minding the lads. It is up to ye to keep them out of trouble. Fergus has the job of keeping ye safe.”

“Ma! ”

Gilda followed her mother’s attention to the lads who had stopped squirming, their interest on the conversation.

“We willnae get into trouble.”

“We want to go to the beach.”

Gilda shot her mother a final pleading look, to no avail.

“What pirate would approach ye with the twins nearby?” her ma reasoned, an innocent smile lighting her challenge.

Gilda’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Do I have to bring them back?”

* * *

Holding Fia to a slow jog was a supreme act of skill when both horse and rider longed to run. The twins’ sturdy ponies trotted gamely behind with auld Fergus’s mount bringing up the rear. They passed regular groups of sentries posted along the cliffs above the beach, and Gilda knew more scoured the woods for signs of miscreants. Though she’d been raised on the heart-quickening tales of pirates along the coast, Scaurness was amply protected and Gilda had always felt safe.

Cool breezes off the water lifted her hair and she raised her face to the gentle caress, the sound of the twins’ chatter fading blissfully away. She urged Fia into a canter, relishing the cleansing rush of the wind. She leaned forward, strands of her horse’s mane streaming over her hands.

“Gilda!”

Reality jerked at her and Gilda wished she could ignore the summons, but she did not want her mother to refuse her request the next time if she vexed Fergus now. With a sigh, she obediently reined Fia to a walk and glanced behind her. To her surprise, Fergus and Jamie were many lengths behind, though Finn’s pony trotted hard to catch up with her. She saw Fergus bend over, his hand on Jamie’s pony’s leg. Had he picked up a stone or done himself a more sinister injury?

Finn pulled his fat pony to a halt. “Jamie’s pony tripped.”

“Tripped or stepped on a stone?”

Finn shrugged. “I dinnae see. We ran fast as the wind to catch ye.”

Gilda smiled at Finn’s description of his mount’s stubby-legged actions. “Ye spurred him on, aye? ”

Her little brother nodded vigorously and patted his pony’s stout neck. “Jock is a braw lad, but I’m almost too big for him, aren’t I, Gilda?” He cast a hopeful look her way. Gilda lifted an eyebrow and eyed the pair. In truth, Finn’s legs no longer stuck out awkwardly over the well-sprung barrel.

“Ye might ask Da about a bigger pony when he gets back,” she allowed. Finn shot her a grateful grin, and Gilda was taken aback at the sweetness of his smile.

She turned to Fergus and raised her voice. “Finn and I will look for shells.” She pointed up the beach as Fergus straightened to listen. “We will be careful.”

Auld Fergus hesitated then waved a hand to indicate he’d heard her. Gilda saw Jamie stomp his foot, but knew Fergus would keep the lad to attend his injured pony.

“Come on, Finn. Let us see what has washed up on shore today.”

* * *

Lissa’s eyes threatened to spill tears down her cheeks. “Ryan, ye promised.”

She turned a pleading look to Conn, and he fidgeted beneath her gaze.

“Och, take the lass outside. Yer da lifted the ban yesterday, and I, for one, could use the exercise.”

Ryan indicated the stairs with a jerk of his head. “Change into something ye can ride in, and be quick, mind ye. We dinnae have time to waste on pampering a lass.”

Lissa’s face lit with happiness and she sprang up on her toes to give each of them a quick kiss before darting to the stairs.

As she flew up the steps, Ryan turned to Conn with a frown. “Ye seem to champion her whims. Dinnae spoil her.”

Conn shrugged. “’Tis easy to say aye when asked so sweetly.”

“She is but ten summers and has already learned to twist ye around her finger,” Ryan observed dampeningly.

“At least she doesnae carp and whine.”

“Aye.” Ryan shuddered.

Conn clamped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Dinnae worry. If ye have to marry Mairead, ye can still put a few croaking puddies in her bed instead of climbing in there yerself. ”

Ryan knocked Conn’s hand from his shoulder with a muttered curse. “ Haud yer wheesht . I tell ye, I willnae marry Mairead.”

“Braw words. I hope ye can keep them, my friend.”

Lissa reappeared on the stairs, her boots clattering on the stone. She waved her cloak in the air. “I am coming!”

* * *

“Watch close.” Gilda took the smooth, flat stone between her fingers and with a flick of her wrist, sent the pebble skipping across the surface of the tidal pool.

Finn fisted his hands on his hips and scowled. “Why dinnae mine do that?”

“Ye have to pick a flat stone, not the round ones, and toss it sideways. Here. Let me help ye.”

Gilda circled, searching for a perfect rock. Movement on the rise behind them caught her attention. Shielding her eyes, she forced her heart to a normal rhythm and studied the three riders on the ridge. Two were men, their size and bulk unmistakable. But the third appeared small enough to be a child, and Gilda let out a sigh of relief. Surely pirates would not have a bairn with them.

A second look caused her heart to thrum. She shoved a slim rock into Finn’s chubby, sand-encrusted hand.

“Go show Fergus yer new trick.” Gilda took her brother’s shoulders and turned him toward his pony.

Finn’s head snapped around, a defiant scowl on his face. “I dinnae want . . .” His eyes grew round as he caught sight of the three riders coming toward them. “Look!”

Gilda bit her lip. What would she say to Ryan?