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But in those next minutes before his friend appeared, his thoughts were filled not with alliances and treaties, but with the image of one woman who tried very hard not to let her true appearance show through.
And he knew not even her name.
Marian cursed herself a fool as she tried to catch her breath. In spite of her attempts to remain calm, her heart raced and her chest hurt from the fear. Not of Laren, who truly was more a nuisance than a danger, but of the stranger who’d stepped in to save her from harm. Before she could think on his dark gaze and tall stature, a small voice cried out to her.
“Mama!” her daughter cried before running into her skirts and wrapping her small arms around her legs. “Mama…” The words drifted off and were replaced by sobs.
“Ciara, my sweet,” she soothed, peeling her daughter loose and pulling her into her arms. “We are well, my love,” she whispered, smoothing the pale hair back and out of her eyes. Marian sat down, arranged Ciara on her lap and rocked her until she stopped crying.
When Laren surprised her while she worked in her garden, Marian had ordered Ciara inside. They had practiced such a thing from the time they’d returned to Dunalastair from her father’s distant holdings in the south. Living apart from her family, alone without the protection of a husband or father, could present dangers of a sort she wished to avoid. Even if most had not realized who she was, a woman alone with a child could be a dangerous thing to be.
Ciara knew to run into the cottage and hide next to the cupboard, if need be. Marian had always prayed it would not be necessary, but today had shown her she could probably not escape her past. Ciara quieted in her arms and Marian loosened her hold just a bit. Kissing her on the head, she whispered to her of her love and her pride that Ciara had followed her instructions. So, her daughter’s words came as a surprise and reminded her of that which she was trying to avoid thinking on—the stranger who had come to her aid.
“Mama, who was the man?” Ciara asked, rubbing her eyes and lifting her head from Marian’s chest. “Is he gone?”
“That was Laren, my sweet, and yes he is gone. He will not bother us again, I think,” she said, trying to reassure the child.
“Not him, Mama. The nice one who smiled at me.”
Marian lost her words, for she would not have thought the man who stepped forward to help her could smile or be nice. His face was filled with stern, angry eyes and chiseled, masculine angles that had no softness and certainly no smiles. With his huge dagger drawn and dark expression she feared she would be his target once he’d disposed of Laren. He’d stood taller than even her older brother Iain and was broader in the shoulders than even Ranald the blacksmith here in the village. A shiver raced through her.
Formidable might be a more accurate way to describe him.
Yet, even at the moment when she knew he was aware of her fear, she did not feel in danger. His sheer physical presence overwhelmed her, but not a sense that he would attack her. ‘Twas obvious that her daughter was simply having the fanciful thoughts that young children seemed to have at times.
“I dinna ken him,” she whispered to Ciara, whose head began to drop against her.
Growing fast, but still a bairn in so many ways, her daughter still napped most days. Now that the excitement was past, Ciara began sliding into sleep in her arms. Marian gathered her back close and hummed a soft tune to guide her way to sleep. A few minutes later, she carried her to the bed and laid her on it. After watching Ciara settle in and covering her with a woolen blanket, Marian lifted the bar on the door and went back outside to make certain no one was there.
The late summer breezes moved through the trees, but there was a hint of something cooler in the air. In just a few weeks, the clan would prepare to harvest most of the crops they’d planted in the surrounding fields and the drovers would plan which herds would be moved from the hills to winter grazing and which would be slaughtered or sold. Marian looked over at her own garden plot and knew she would be busy picking and drying the herbs she grew for use in the coming winter.
Walking around the perimeter of her small cottage and garden plot, she looked for any signs of incursion, or of the stranger who has walked in and out of her life so quickly. Nothing looked amiss, her garden lay peaceful and no sign of trampling appeared. Marian lifted her head and listened to the sounds of the day as it passed. Birds flew overhead, trees rustled in the wind, clouds floated across the sky, just as they should on this September day.
If not for the racing of her heart and the blood pounding through her veins, even she would have thought it a usual day in Dunalastair. Marian tried to concentrate on those tasks she still needed to complete, but all she could do was think of the stranger who had stepped in to protect her.
All she could see in her mind were his eyes—so dark to be almost black—gleaming in anger at Laren and then with intensity at her when he mentioned seeing to her daughter inside the cottage. And it was those expressions along with his strong and masculine stature that now made it difficult to breathe.
For not once had she, the Robertson Harlot, ever found a man to be so intriguing to her. Never had she let down her guard in the last five years and allowed herself to be affected by a man. ‘Twas so much danger in even considering such a lapse in control to occur that it never occurred to her to be on guard against such a thing.
She’d expected the nuisances of men such as Laren, at least once the news of who she really was got out. Her brother would give orders that would frighten away any serious approaches.
But she’d never expected the danger to come from such a stranger, and, after looking into his deep, dark eyes, she knew he was more dangerous than any who had come before him and any who would come after. It was the memory of his eyes that plagued her all through the day.
Chapter Two
Duncan spied the bridge as they rode toward it on the road and his stomach tightened. ‘Twas the way of it when he approached a new series of negotiations. His gut was ever his weakness, but his thoughts were clear and focused for now. His two days of visiting and talking with Ranald revealed no surprises that should cause problems with the laird.
Indeed, he discovered that the Robertsons were as strong and well-managed as his reports had said. Word was out now that once this alliance was in place, the laird would seek a new wife from the northern clans to further cement and strengthen their position as the guardians of Scotland. Some worrisome rumors still floated about regarding the new laird some years ago—while his father still lived—and, as Duncan knew from his own laird’s experience, rumor and innuendo could destroy a reputation quickly. So, a move toward a new marriage, after his first one ended in the death of his wife in childbirth, was a good one on the laird’s part.
One of his men called out and Duncan looked at the road ahead of them. A contingent of heavily armed Robertson warriors awaited them on the other side of the bridge. Straightening up on his own mount, he warned his men before going on.
“You have your orders and know the importance of what we do here. From here on, report anything untoward to me. Bring your questions to me. Agree to nothing in Connor’s name.”
“Do we need yer permission to piss then, too, Duncan?” asked Hamish from behind.
“Aye, Hamish, e’en that,” he replied without breaking a smile. “More importantly, watch your drink and watch out for the lasses. Those two things can cause a man more trouble than almost anything else.”
He took their grumbling as assent and nudged his horse forward. Adjusting the tartan and badge on his shoulder, Duncan led the MacLeries over the bridge and into Dunalastair. The Robertson’s man greeted them formally and invited them to follow to the entrance of the keep still some distance away and Duncan nodded and accepted the welcome.
It was only as he found himself searching the faces of the villagers who’d gathered to watch their arrival that he realized he was looking for her.
He’d carefully controlled the growing curiosity within himself to ask about her when he stayed with Ranald. He did not stray from Ranald’s croft or smithy and did not seek out neighbors or villagers in order to remain anonymous. But, the urge to know more about her increased until now he found himself examining the face of everyone who stood watching along the path.
And not finding her.
Cursing himself for not remaining on task, he realized he’d slowed his pace while he had gawked. Caelan, the Robertson who led them, turned back to say something, but his gaze moved off to something in the shadows along one of the other paths. Following it, Duncan discovered the woman he’d been thinking about and the little girl. They stood back, away from the other villagers, far enough to be out of the way, yet close enough to see what had drawn the Robertson soldiers to the village.
The girl was tucked deeply into her mother’s skirts, only her head was visible as she said something to the woman. The woman leaned down and answered the child without ever taking her eyes off Caelan. Glancing back at the laird’s younger brother, Duncan noticed the protective gaze and began to wonder if the woman was Caelan’s leman. Just a few moments after he’d found her, she disappeared into the maze of cottages, dismissed by just a nod from Caelan.
If he’d forgotten his own instructions, he found himself reminded of them by a very distinctive clearing of the throat by Hamish. The others took it up for only a second, but he knew that his attention to the woman had been noticed by them, too. He quelled the minor rebellion with a glance of his own and then quickened the pace to move along the path faster.
Forcing his thoughts on what awaited them at the keep, Duncan was able to think on numbers of men the clan could call on in battle and the number of cattle the Robertson clan owned and how many meetings and talks faced him in the next few weeks. And he would later pride himself that he only thought about the woman with the pain in her gaze and the lovely child at her feet once during the ride to the keep.
Holy Mother, protect her!
Marian clasped Ciara’s hand in hers and practically ran toward her cottage. Making it a game so her daughter would not object, she sang a ditty and counted the stones along the way. The words sounded strange to her, but it was the beating of her heart that almost blocked out every sound around her.
Caelan! Caelan was there!
She’d mistook him for someone else as he rode by the place where she stood, backed enough into the shadows of the surrounding crofts to be unnoticeable to anyone. The noise of the soldiers’ arrival at the bridge, the excitement of the news of the MacLerie’s man’s entrance into the village and the purpose of his presence all fueled the gossip that swirled through the small village.
Visitors were always of interest, but a man who carried with him the tidings and power of the one still called, though in whispered tones, the Beast of the Highlands, was something that would stir anticipation and storytelling for weeks to come. Curious, Marian had followed some of the women to observe their arrival.
Then, the first shock had hit her.
The man who led the MacLerie soldiers was the stranger who’d chased Laren away just three days past! Oh, he was dressed better now, with his clan badge gleaming on the plaid he wore over his shoulder, but she would have recognized that face and those eyes anywhere. Now he had eight warriors at his back as he rode into Dunalastair. He had not seen her yet, so she ducked back a bit, drawing Ciara with her.
Then the second shock of the day—her youngest brother Caelan led the soldiers to the keep. She’d heard he had returned recently but had not seen him anywhere near the village. Her father had sent him off to foster with a cousin near Skye about three years before…before…before everything had happened five years ago. He must have nigh on ten-and-six years now and be almost a man. Iain must have great faith and trust in Caelan to allow him the honor of escorting such a guest into Dunalastair.
Marian reached her cottage and sat down on a stool she kept near the entrance to her garden. Usually a place for her to clean the plants she harvested or the cuttings she culled, she plopped down and tried to calm her racing heart. When Ciara touched her wet cheek and asked why she was sad, Marian realized she’d been crying all the way from the road when she first saw Caelan. Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she took in a deep breath and let out a ragged one before she even tried to speak.
“I am not sad, my sweet,” she said, pasting on a smile she neither wanted nor felt. “‘Twas simply the excitement of seeing so many horses and men and everyone gathering around.”
“Did you see the big black horse?” Ciara asked. “It was the biggest horse I have ever seen!”
Marian laughed then, for Ciara loved horses. In spite of not having one at her disposal as she had in her father’s house, she’d passed her love of them down to her daughter just by stories and sightings.
“He did seem to be the largest one.” Marian wiped the last of the moisture off her cheeks and smiled then. “I thought brown was your favorite color?”
“I used to like brown,” she answered, her eyes bright with merriment as she talked about something she liked. “But I think black is the prettiest now.”
Marian paused and realized that there had been only one black horse among all of them, and that had been his horse. The MacLerie’s man. Now she knew who he was but still had no name for him.
Ciara began to chatter about horses, and that horse, and Marian took up her shovel and began where she had stopped before they’d gone to watch the soldiers cross the bridge. Digging into the dirt, she lost herself in her work and tried not to think about the man on the black horse and what trouble he could bring to her doorstep.
Duncan lifted the satchel of parchment scrolls, charts and sheets from the back of his horse and searched for a certain one before turning back to follow Caelan into the keep where the laird awaited him. Handing the leather bag to Hamish to carry, they walked inside and up the stone steps to the second floor where the corridor led to a large chamber. Those waiting on their arrival milled around the whole of the room, which was about half the size of the one at Lairig Dubh.
Still, it was clean and tapestries depicting folk tales and myths of their country’s past covered the walls. A huge hearth stood at one side and next to it was a dais with a long table that ran its length. In front of the table, at the top of the steps leading to it, sat a huge wooden chair, engraved and carved with symbols, he knew, from the Robertson clan badge. And in it sat Iain the Bold, son of Stout Duncan and now second chief of the Clan Donnachaidh or Robertson as they preferred to be called.
Standing behind him and at his side were the other three remaining sons of Stout Duncan—Caelan, Padruig and Graem—as well as other clan elders and councillors. With Hamish at his own side and the others behind them, he walked quickly to meet the laird. All conversation stopped as they approached the dais.
“Greetings, my lord,” he began with a deep bow. “I bring regards and a personal message from the MacLerie.” Duncan moved closer and held out the scroll.
The Robertson laird stood and walked down the steps instead of summoning him forward. He took the scroll and tucked it inside his shirt and then held out his arm in greeting. “Welcome to Dunalastair Keep, Duncan.” The laird’s grasp was strong and sure as they clasped arms and shook. “I offer you and your men the hospitality of my home and hearth as we discuss the future of the alliance between the Robertsons and the MacLeries.”
As clapping and cheering exploded throughout the hall at his words, Duncan took a moment to assess the laird. The reports he’d received were very close to the reality of the man. The laird was a tall man, nearly as tall as he, and a young man, too, having followed his father into the high chair of the clan at only five-and-twenty years old. Young, yes, but clearly well-liked and secure in his clan’s backing. Duncan sensed no hesitation or divide among those at the laird’s side and had learned of none in his investigations.
A servant came forward with a mug of ale and offered some to his men as well. The Robertson climbed the steps so that he could be seen by all in the hall and raised a cup of his own. Duncan waited, preparing his own words.
“I welcome you, Duncan MacLerie, and bid you to be at ease in my hall, my keep and my village. You and your men are welcome to move freely among the Robertsons as the talks commence that will surely make us allies and friends.”
Duncan smiled and met Hamish’s gaze. No sign of suspicion there, a good omen then, for Hamish had the instincts of a fox in seeking out any sign of subterfuge or dishonesty. The laird came down the steps, leaned over and spoke close to his ear, so he could hear it above the din.
“Your reputation is quite well-known here. Duncan the Peacemaker you are called for all the times you have averted war and battle between factions, clans, even countries. I am honored by your presence in this matter.”
That was not expected. Duncan nodded his head, accepting the compliment without allowing it to swell his head. He recognized it for the strategy it was. When the cheering quieted, Duncan raised his own mug as did his men.
“On behalf of Connor MacLerie, Earl of Douran and chief of the Clan MacLerie, I thank you for your welcome and the hospitality you offer and promise to use all good counsel so that our clans may be united in the bond of friendship and treaty.” Raising his cup higher, he called out, “A Robertson! A Robertson!” His men joined in and then so did everyone else in the hall, which echoed with the chant for several minutes.
The laird smiled and drank deeply of his cup. Waving Duncan onto the dais, he brought him and the others to the long table. Trays and platters of food, breads, cheeses, fruits and cooked meats filled the table and the laird directed them to stools around it. Once they had gained their seats, servants circled the table and the guests, filling cups, serving food and seeing to their needs.
“Your journey was a good one, Duncan?”
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, tearing off a piece of bread. “The weather held and the winds, when we needed them, were fair and strong.”
“Did you come directly here from Lairig Dubh?”
The question was asked in a convivial tone, but it was a test nonetheless. The Robertsons wanted to know who else he was negotiating with and who their competition was. The truth was the easiest way.
“Nay, my lord. We traveled to both Glasgow and Edinburgh on the earl’s business before heading north to Dunalastair.” Duncan caught Hamish’s eye as he took a mouthful of ale from his cup.
“So you having been traveling since…?”
“Since midsummer’s day, my lord.”
“We are friends, or are soon to be friends. Please call me Iain, as those in the clan do,” the laird offered.
He passed the test, apparently, for the laird nodded to several of his councillors.
“As you wish, Iain,” he replied.
“Let me make you known to my brothers, the sons of Duncan the Stout. This one you have met—” he patted the man next to him on the shoulder “—my youngest brother Caelan.” Duncan nodded as Iain continued, “He has only just recently returned from his fostering with the MacLeans.”
Point taken—an established relationship with the powerful MacLean clan of the isles.
Duncan watched Caelan and realized he was much too young to be husband or lover to the woman he’d met…and he was gone when the child was conceived, if Duncan knew anything about calculations. The little girl was nigh on five which meant she could not be his. Not certain why this was important to him, Duncan turned to the man seated next to him as the laird continued the introductions.
“That is my brother Padruig and his betrothed next to him, Iseabail of the MacKendimens.”
The MacKendimens were a small, but not inconsequential clan near Dalmally, not far from Lairig Dubh. Another connection made and acknowledged. Duncan the Stout would have been proud of Iain’s neat handling of showing their strength without ever raising a weapon. With a nod to both of them, Duncan waited for the last brother to be introduced.
“And that is Graem,” Iain began, with a tilt of his head at the last brother who was seated opposite of Hamish, “who has been invited by the Bishop of Dunkeld to take up studies under his tutelage.”
And that was the final connection—to one of the most powerful and important bishops in Scotland, giving the clan a link to the Church. The sons of Duncan the Stout were well-established and connected to important clans, big and small, throughout Scotland. And the clan was one of the oldest families in the land, tracing their heritage back to the Celtic lords of Atholl. Their heraldry and position had been announced more effectively than calling the roll of ancestors. Duncan admired the efficiency with which Iain had established their position.
Iain may only have been laird for just over two years, but he was firmly in command and knew his mind. From the expressions of the others seated at the table, they were proud of him as well and would back his efforts and decisions.
Duncan recognized a challenge made and he could feel the blood in his veins begin to pulse in anticipation of a good fight. He relished nothing more than a worthy adversary across the negotiating table and now knew that the next few weeks would test his abilities on every front.
“We will begin on the morrow, if that suits you, Duncan?” Iain asked.
“Aye, ‘tis fine.” Duncan was anxious to get into the thick of battle.
“My steward will see to your comfort,” he said. An older man came forward and stood at Iain’s side. “If there is anything you need, Struan will see to it.” Struan bowed and, after asking about their preferences for rooming, left to make the arrangements.
The rest of the meal passed pleasurably, but Duncan discovered he did not even remember what he ate or drank, though the latter was sparsely done. He wanted and needed time to make his final review of the possibilities and their offer before night fell. He could not wait for the thrill of the process. And like a child with a wrapped gift sitting before him, Duncan found that he could not wait for the day to be over and the negotiations to begin.
Duncan would look back, at some time later, and laugh over his misbegotten anticipation and excitement of what was to come. And five days later, in the middle of a heated discussion, and for the first time in all the treaties he’d negotiated, Duncan the Peacemaker lost his temper.
Chapter Three
“You cannot be serious,” Duncan shouted as his fists pounded on the table, scattering documents and scrolls in the wake. “You already agreed with that provision nearly two days ago!”
He sensed his control slipping and could not pull himself back. Never had he felt as though the very ground beneath him lay coated with oil and his feet could find no purchase. Hamish glared at him…again. The Robertsons’s chief negotiator glared again. Even the laird, who usually stood by silently and watched the proceedings, glared. The thing that Duncan did not understand was what had sent him down such a course that resulted in his anger.
“I was under the impression, sir, that all matters were still negotiable until the laird signs the final treaty. Is that no longer the way we are proceeding?” Symon asked, turning to Iain, again, for confirmation.
Duncan leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He gathered and straightened the documents and scrolls he’d scattered and decided that what he needed most was a short time away from Symon before his control snapped completely, for he feared Symon’s neck would be the next thing in the room to snap. Having made the decision, he pushed back from the table, bowed in Iain’s direction and walked to the door.
“The weather has cleared and I feel that a short break now might clear my head. With your permission, Iain?”
Without waiting for permission, Duncan pulled open the door, followed the corridor and then the steps down to the lower floor and made his way to the stables. He had spoken the truth, for the last four days had been one torrential rainstorm, complete with winds and lightning that split the sky and rumbled over Dunalastair with fierce power. This morn had dawned clear and crisp as though the storm had raged only in their imaginations. And mayhap it had?
He reached the stables and his horse greeted him with the same snorts and stamping he’d just offered to Symon, telling Duncan that they both needed a good run to burn off some of the tension that built within them. Readying the horse himself, it was only a short time before they both raced toward the keep’s gate and out through the village. Crossing the bridge, Duncan let the horse have his head for a short time. Using muscles that had been too long unused, Duncan brought the mount under control and laughed as the exertion revived his body and his spirits. A short time and distance later, he turned around and headed back to the keep.
As he rode, he tumbled this morn’s work over and over in his head, searching for the problem. There had been significant progress and then he felt as though they hit a stone wall. Each word, each provision was contested. Reviewing it brought him no clarity and he continued to assess the strengths and weaknesses in his offer. When next he looked up, he was sitting on the path that led to the woman’s cottage without any knowledge of how he’d gotten there.
He knew he should leave and return to his duties and to the keep where others waited on his return.
