Secrets Of A Highland Warrior

скачать книгу бесплатно


All the conjecture led to one conclusion: to marry Ailsa was superfluous.

A half-step more and her gown brushed his legs again. This time there was no movement from her to indicate her impatience or frustration. Her gown was still, like she was before him. Confusion, yes, he saw it in her eyes and the barely discernible way her body tensed. But there was something else now...an awareness that perhaps matched his own.

Could it be she felt as he did? After all, she had agreed to marry him. ‘Perhaps you persuaded me, Ailsa, that the marriage is necessary to ensure no more bloodshed.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

He wanted privacy so he could gain some answers to this day. To understand or at least appreciate Frederick’s bargaining his only child. Nothing was clear, except this moment. Right now.

There were falsehoods here, but Ailsa and her need to heal was not one of them. She actually...cared. How that was relevant or whether it should be, he didn’t know. But something eased within him.

‘You know, we could marry and our clans could still war. There’s the probability it could make matters worse. What you want to prevent may come about by our joining.’

She exhaled roughly. ‘I told you that our animosity runs deep. I understand that. I also know the land is already yours by a king’s decree. Marrying me could solve nothing. And yet... I know that the way matters are between our clans is of no benefit either.

‘I lost...’ She canted her head and raised her hand. For one infinitesimal moment, he thought she’d lay it on his chest, right on his heart that suddenly beat uncontrollably.

Then the moment was gone. A stuttering of her fingers as if she realised what she was about to do before she lowered and clasped it before her. ‘All I want is the possibility of something different.’

A possibility. Her words were another punch to his battered body. Everything here was a possibility. For her the lives saved. For him...power. Control. The chance for more for his clan and hers, for a family of his own, children. He’d have a wife who cared for others with a fierceness he didn’t realise he’d wanted until he met her.

Impossible, these possibilities. All the more so for the other pressing reason he shouldn’t marry her. They believed him to be the Chief’s son and if it ever came to light that he wasn’t, what then?

Yet, a possibility for a future he didn’t dare dream of... Any warrior, any man, would lie and steal for that dream. Maybe he didn’t have to go that far. In truth, he was at least named a Lochmore. His mother might have lain with another, but it must have been done in great secret given the truth had never been revealed in all these years. As a result, their marriage would still be a Lochmore marrying a McCrieff and maybe that was enough.

Unless the Tanist discovered the truth one day and took it as an insult. So many possible possibilities. But once something was done, it couldn’t be undone. He was proof of that. Marriage and their children were permanent despite his fears of his past.

Thuds and roars from behind the door. They both froze, until goblets thumped on heavy oak tables and laughter rang out.

An offer of marriage.

Marriage. He returned his gaze to Ailsa, who gazed back unwaveringly at him. He admired her again. More so because he’d refused her and she’d replied with reason and pride.

Such fire within her veins and it called to his own. But it was a reminder as well. No matter his dreams or hopes, there was no talk of a happy marriage or children from her. She talked of preventing bloodshed, not peace. She cared, but she didn’t say she cared for him. This wasn’t personal for her and it shouldn’t be for him.

And yet, if this was a trap, they had made the prize too dear not to reach for it. All he needed to do was agree and the possibility of more would be his. But the possibilities of a better future wasn’t what pummelled through his chest and coursed hotly through his veins because his body didn’t concern itself with property or power. His body believed Ailsa was the prize. Thus, she was his right not as a ruler, but as a man.

He’d take her.

‘Say my name, Ailsa. Say it and that possibility you want will be so.’

She straightened, seemingly to brace herself. ‘Rory.’

Victory and far sweeter than he had envisioned for this day. Two strides to the door, he flung it open to see Frederick on the other side with his sword out. At Rory’s glance, Frederick sheathed it.

A moment of hesitation and a truth rang out. Frederick was guarding the door. But his expression showed something else. Gone was father and warrior, now he carried only the expression of a politician.

A wife who didn’t care for him. A father-in-law that had an agenda he knew nothing about. Still, the possibility of more... ‘I, as representative of Clan Lochmore, as son of Chief Lochmore, agree to this offer.’

Frederick’s eyes switched to his daughter and held. Whatever he saw there, it was enough for him to say, ‘As my daughter is witness, it is made in good faith.’

‘That won’t be good enough,’ Rory said.

‘Ah, yes, this calls for a formal announcement.’

Chapter Five (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)

Frederick strode to the door leading to the Hall and opened it. Rory held back and looked at the woman who would soon be his wife. Her face was as implacable as her father’s. She, too, was a warrior in her own right.

He didn’t touch her, nor did he speak, but when she walked quietly up to him he approved. When they left this room, they would be side by side. The image of them both as one entity would be solidified, the words that needed pronouncement almost redundant.

Their entrance quieted the Hall. All his men were hale, hearty, Paiden’s keen alertness showing though he lounged as if he was relaxed in his own home. He was up to something as usual.

Then Frederick was saying the words with the necessary reverence and Rory ensured his own gaze locked on to as many clansmen as possible in the cramped quarters. There was surprise by his own clansmen and by McCrieffs. There was also hostility and defiance, which meant Frederick had kept this secret not only from his daughter, but also from his own clansmen. The underlying sense of wrongness again clamoured inside Rory. It was one matter to surprise the Lochmores with an arranged marriage, but such an alliance would have, under normal circumstances, been discussed from every angle with the elders of a clan. Why would Frederick keep it secret from them?

A trap, but he obtained the prize. He and Ailsa’s marriage had been announced to all and could not be undone. If he had to sleep with one eye open and keep a guard at his door, if he had to threaten every clansman from now until his death, he would ensure the future he wanted. Because now that hope he’d been trying to contain expanded inside him. He’d made this deal on his own, without his family’s approval. Without his father’s approval. He would argue that he did it for the clan, to secure the land. He knew the truth—he did it for himself.

When Frederick shoved his hand into the pouch around his waist and cupped dirt in his palm, Rory, without hesitation, accepted the transfer of it to his hand. The dirt was not mere dirt, but McCrieff soil.

More formalities would have to be done, more announcements and ceremonies. So many more customs to uphold, but this Tanist had the foresight to gather dirt to make the legal gesture of transferring McCrieff land to Lochmore. By accepting the dried clods, the transfer of land was complete and binding.

Wily warrior. Frederick had expected Rory to agree to his offer and had gathered the soil before the meeting. But what man wouldn’t agree to it? He almost hadn’t. He still shouldn’t. Frederick had planned for his daughter to marry the Lochmore Chief’s son, but Rory alone knew that Lochmore’s blood did not flow in his veins and that should have been enough to stop him from marrying now.

Servants were bustling in with freshly filled flagons. Paiden swiped a flagon and a new goblet off the tray to extravagantly pour the contents of a deep rich wine.

His eyes held Rory’s, a mixture of all their years of friendship. There was no confusion or surprise in Paiden’s eyes. There was true admiration because Paiden understood the struggle Rory had to prove his worth to his father and to his clan. He’d been there all the years, had seen his disappointment and regrets.

He’d been by his side today and didn’t flinch when Rory entered the courtyard. Paiden knew why Rory did it. The question would come later if his father and clan would approve the match. And Paiden, with a smirk just under the surface as he gave his congratulations, appeared to already relish the upcoming battles.

The rest of the men he’d brought today were divided in loyalty to him and his father, but Paiden would watch his back in the days and weeks to come.

So when Paiden finished his speech and gulped deep from his goblet, Rory raised his cup as well. But this moment wasn’t only about Paiden or his clan, it was about the two people still standing by his side and Rory turned to his soon-to-be wife and her father. Frederick was still gazing at the crowd. Ailsa’s gaze, however, was on him.

Steady. Sure. There was hesitancy, but no fear there. In private, she’d given an impassioned speech as to why they should marry and now, after the announcement, it seemed she had not changed her mind.

At that moment, he should have turned again to the crowd, to his clansmen, who were watching, but Ailsa’s gaze did not turn away from him and he was loath to look away.

She seemed to be assessing him, watching him as steadily as he wanted to watch her. He could feel the pull of her in that moment, like a man aware that the sun rose and set, but unable to perceive moment by moment how the day changed from day to night.

Her hair might have been what caught his eye, but it was the emotion in her eyes that snared him. His eyes kept to hers and he didn’t know when the assessment of each other turned from political to personal, but his body felt it. His soul felt it and he could do nothing to stop it.

And he felt himself being lost as he lifted his cup to his lips to acknowledge Paiden’s words when her expression changed. Suddenly. Violently.

Still trapped in the flood of heat in his body, and the tenacious fixation of his thoughts, it took him far too long to register the moment a cry rang out in the Hall and there was a heavy thud. When he swung his gaze to the tables, his own goblet was knocked from his hands.

But the lost goblet didn’t matter because the sound and cry wasn’t of an oak bench tumbling over by the weight of people. It was Paiden, whose body was crumpled to the ground, and the wild circle of both his clansmen and McCrieffs already forming.

On instinct, Rory pounded to the nearest McCrieff, stealing his weapon. Then, with sword drawn, he stood at his friend’s side.

* * *

It wasn’t happening. Any of this. All of this. Ailsa couldn’t comprehend what had happened before the Lochmore clansman collapsed to the ground, but the instant his goblet slipped from his grip and his pallor drew white, she did. Utterly and absolutely.

A Lochmore, the one with an easy smile, had swiped a flagon of wine and poured it before the servants finished their service. He’d been first to swallow and first to collapse.

Then chaos. Shouts. Violence erupted in that already strained room. She shoved Rory’s goblet to the ground, her father’s next as she yelled out to the crowd to not drink any. She didn’t know if she was heard, but she’d done all she could for others, it was the man who fell who was her only concern now.

Rory was there standing over him. The sword he’d seized cut a wide vengeful swathe around him. The closest to him were the rest of the Lochmore clan. Her own clansmen were standing back, a few with weapons and more reaching for theirs.

McCrieffs and Lochmores in battle in her very home at her very hearth with children around them. She had to reason with them and quick. The collapsed man was prone, panting, his skin beginning to glisten.

Rotten food did not cause this. Poison did. Whatever was given to him was fast, and dangerous, and the small pouch around her waist held no roots to induce vomiting. There was only one way to help him now, but that meant she needed access to him. That meant she needed to argue with a madman.

Rory wasn’t the reasoning giant she’d verbally sparred with just moments before. He was a man, a beast. Thick of bone and looking not quite human. Not the man who had been watching her while her father proposed marriage. Nor the man who courteously escorted her to stand before their clans.

This man was feral and full of rage. She snapped her eyes away from him and surveyed the room. Her father was already issuing orders, demanding for his men to stand down. Half of the McCrieffs lowered their swords, but there were a few who kept theirs out and pointed. Those men did not follow her father’s orders, something that alarmed her, but she had no time for that now.

The man dying on the ground had no time for swords or politics. She had no more moments to waste, but grabbed a servant and demanded boiling water and salt to be brought immediately. By the time it reached her it would have cooled enough to pour down the man’s throat.

A few Lochmores had swords. She ignored them all and put herself between two Lochmores who stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘Let me through!’

No one was listening to her. She shoved the nearest one, but he stayed firm. That man would die without her. ‘Lochmore!’

Eyes flashed to hers. She’d seen animals caught in faulty traps that didn’t kill. Everything about this man reminded her of a tortured animal.

‘Never,’ he vowed.

‘He’ll die.’

‘You intended that, McCrieff. You invited us here. Lowered our guard with fake promises of peace. Fed us poison to destroy us.’

‘Nothing is false here,’ Frederick said. ‘Our truce is true.’

‘My friend at my feet proves your lies.’

The man groaned, clutching his stomach. She only had moments to spare him. She shoved herself forward and made it through the Lochmores, who were taken by surprise.

Rory lifted his sword and stared her straight in the eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

‘You point a sword at a woman?’ Frederick roared.

‘I point at an enemy.’

Ailsa had enough. ‘While you point that sword, he’s dying. I’m not a woman or an enemy right now, Lochmore.’ She indicated the pouch around her waist and spied the water bearer enter the room. ‘I am a healer and his only chance.’

This was ridiculous. She’d been ordered around enough tonight. Keeping her eyes on him, she moved around the sword, knelt and froze again as she felt the prick of a sword at her neck. She ignored it. She didn’t care, it wasn’t what concerned her. Whether she lived or died was a matter of fear, whether this man lived or died was up to her.

Shoving with all her weight to move his body on to his side, she retorted, ‘You can stab me all you want, but I will save this man.’