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‘Because you were in my bedroom,’ she pointed out. ‘Ah, I’ve been blind. You’ve done it over and over. Here, starving people, here is some food. Here, Clan Fergusson, here’s the promise of sheep and a strong alliance.’
Her words cut too close to the truth. ‘Careful, Fergusson. Who is twisting words now? The deal we made was a matter of diplomacy between your father and me, made by consenting parties—’
‘We’re not consenting. You merely starve our bellies until we feel as if the starvation is somehow our fault! These games you suggest aren’t a compromise, they’re coercion!’
‘I am Colquhoun. I am laird. I do not coerce!’
She smiled. ‘Of course you wouldn’t, how silly of me. We are only here for your pleasure.’
Shaking his head, he looked around. Their words were not going unnoticed. They were outside the gates now, past the camp and too near the village. There were no benches and tables here, but freshly cooked food lay on carts. Many villagers were taking the food and carrying it to the communal tables. Too many villagers who walked slowly and could hear their every heated word.
Bram ran his hand through his hair. Frustrating Fergusson! Did she not know women were meant to be gentle? To smile? To be meek? That was what was needed today, a biddable female. She was unexpected. And he was constantly guessing with her. It wasn’t only her beauty he couldn’t ignore, it was the mystery of her. How she hesitated around her siblings and clan.
How she ignored his status as laird and his coaxing smiles. How she angered at his reasoning. Frustrating female!
He was again brought to a point he didn’t want to be with her. So quick to lose his patience. She put him in a position of defence again and he would not have it. ‘Are you saying you doona want this competition?’
Lioslath pointed to the village. ‘Aren’t we walking so I can show you what you so generously want to improve?’
He’d get no further with her. Stubbornness. She might have eaten, but he hadn’t. He eyed their offered food, but the colour of the pottage wasn’t appetising, so he grabbed two of their rolls and some boar.
Following Lioslath, he took a bite of the bread and quickly spat it out lest he risk breaking a tooth.
‘Bread not fresh enough for you?’
‘Nae, ’tis fine.’ No bread should have stones and pottage shouldn’t be grey. But he wouldn’t admit that. She believed he liked easy and thought him pampered. Confirming this idea wouldn’t get her agreement to the rest of his intentions for today.
The feast was only the beginning of mending relations with this clan. It would take the games event to truly achieve cooperation. Then his plan to remain for the winter would be secure.
As if she knew he lied about the bread, Lioslath smirked and hurried her steps towards the village.
* * *
Restless, agitated and still too far away from her forest, Lioslath wanted the afternoon to end. It wasn’t only Bram and his demands, it was their clans observing each other, observing her and Bram. Though she was outside, she felt trapped. Trapped by the role here that she didn’t know how to do and trapped by her longing to be better.
Barely keeping her temper, she pointed to the roofs, and to the wood rot. Talked of the ploughing still to do in the fields and the trenching through the village. All needing to be done before the dirt froze.
Bram asked questions, and she knew he missed nothing. She felt the familiar prick to her pride. Fergusson keep and land were falling apart.
It hadn’t always been so. When she was a child, her parents had worked tirelessly and the keep had been beautiful; the clan had been prosperous.
Then the wolves had come and raided the village right before a sudden frost descended. The wheat harvesting hadn’t yet been completed and most of the bales of oats and barley hadn’t been stored properly. They suffered too much as the harsh winter continued. Suffered more with her mother’s cough and sudden death.
They’d never suffered a winter like that again, but they never recovered from it either. Her father most of all.
As the years went by her father took riskier chances. Desperation to recover what they lost engulfed his every action. The marriage to the Colquhoun clan was simply another attempt. When the letters of agreement occurred, when her father left to secure his bride, he regained some pride. His sense of purpose, of optimism, returning.
But Clan Fergusson was cursed. For when her father returned from that fateful trip to Colquhoun land, he had no bride. Determined, desperate, he left again and never returned. Then Bram sent his letter offering help, but he never came. When the English garrison stormed the keep in July, they’d been too vulnerable to withstand the demands. The English caused far worse damage than an ice storm. They arrived just as the barley was harvested and they stayed to harvest the oats and wheat before burning the rest.
The clan was gleaning for remains when the Colquhouns arrived. Lioslath had had enough.
She was tired of being told she didn’t understand. She was sick of feeling as though she didn’t understand. She did understand. Laird Colquhoun wrote a letter saying he’d come with aid, but then days, weeks, months had gone by.
So it was up to her to help her clan. She hunted; she provided food. She confronted the English until they left and she intended to confront Bram until he left as well.
She thought closing the gates would be enough. She thought giving supplies to the English would be enough. She failed on both accounts. She wasn’t ruthless like her father, or gentle like her mother. Bram’s very presence was a bitter reminder of how inadequate she was.
When they turned a corner and she saw her siblings playing with Donaldo’s children, she couldn’t go any further. She couldn’t walk through her land with the weight of Bram’s pity on her shoulders like this. It would only be worse if he saw she couldn’t talk properly to her siblings as well.
‘I’m leaving!’ she said, turning away from the villagers and their clans. Turning away from the decimated fields and the derelict keep, and a Colquhoun laird who noticed everything.
His eyes widened in warning, but she marched around him. She didn’t need to see him to know he followed her. It was simply that awareness. Like when he spoke, the low timbre of his voice. It was something that curled inside her. She hated her acute awareness of him almost as much as she hated his accusations and pity.
All day she walked beside him, answered his questions and talked to her clan. All day she watched him. As a huntress, she admired how a man his size strode so stealthily, so deadly and silently.
She shivered. Why was she noticing him? Of everyone she had ever known, why did she feel this...desire for him?
She couldn’t avoid it now. It wasn’t hunger and it wasn’t weakness. Her body was acutely aware of him. After all those weeks of watching him, she knew that her eyes were no longer filled with hate, but something like admiration. For Laird Colquhoun!
* * *
She was almost out of breath by the time they reached the forest on the south side. The forest was deeper and darker here. It was her favourite part of her land and one she could not see from the Fergusson keep.
A few steps inward and she smelled the musty earth and the sharp bite of autumn’s leaves. The smell was freedom and home. Bram might have thought he trapped her in her home with his siege. In truth, he kept her away from her home, which she always found in her forest.
Bram remained silent, but his will was a force she could feel and its force was ruining her sanctuary. Bram practically hovered as he walked beside her and he almost blocked the sky through the trees. He looked wrong in her forest.
The brightness of his hair didn’t blend, the broadness of his shoulders and bulk of his build like a boulder that suddenly appeared amongst the tall and graceful tree trunks.
He was wrong to be here as well. This forest was hers. Clan Colquhoun had no place here. But he was there, like a storm that kept battering against her.
Her hand fluttering to the hidden blade at her waist, she rounded on him. ‘I showed you what you wanted to see. Why did you follow me?’
‘We were in front of your clan and mine. My not leaving the village with you would have looked like a slight. So I strolled out with you as if we wished to talk privately.’
Stroll, she had practically ran here, but he kept his pace with her and wasn’t out of breath. To everyone, they probably did look as though they walked away from the village. Again, she made a foolish choice. She was unused to wondering what others thought or what appearances should be.
She had been hidden away most of her life, and for the rest of it, she hid herself away. She was hiding now, but the Colquhoun wouldn’t leave her alone. She clenched the blade she’d hidden in her clothes.
‘So we talked privately and now you can go!’
‘Nae, we must truly talk. We must come to an agreement.’
The competition again. His tone changed until it was as blunt as hers. It wouldn’t make her change her mind on its futility, especially when he used the word ‘must’. The very word curbed her freedom. She had heard it from her stepmother and in the end from her father.
She knew he would continue to argue about the games until she couldn’t refuse. However, what Bram couldn’t control was how the competition would go.
Bram might bring his food and his supplies. He might order this competition. But she would choose who the winner would be.
Bram didn’t move. He didn’t even realise he needed to move, until she threw the knife just past his left ear.
She knew he hadn’t seen the blade, but there was no mistaking the fury and the shock in his eyes when he heard the thunk of it embedding in the tree behind him.
Brutal silence as storm-grey eyes stared at her.
Lioslath smiled. ‘That’s my agreement to your competition. Satisfied, Colquhoun?’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_b395dbb6-1da4-5c0a-8c5b-7854a892285f)
Trying to remember it would all be over soon, Lioslath suffered through the hanging of tabards and flags. She grimaced as her clansmen built hay men and targets, as they argued on markers and where to pin them to trees. It was all so wasteful.
Dog reappeared and walked next to her, his keen eyes taking everything in. Unlike her, he seemed happy about the proceedings. Probably because he was finally fed and had roamed the forest last night.
She wished she was as content as him. But she continued to feel yesterday’s turmoil of telling her clan about the competition and waiting for Bram to surprise her in the night.
Needing to remain calm, she knelt, keeping her head just above Dog’s, and waited until he leaned into her so she could put her arms around him. She never squeezed, though she wanted to. She never forgot he was a wild animal, so she kept their hugs brief and infrequent. But she needed it and was glad he gave it. He was her familiar when everything around her was unfamiliar.
Standing again, she noticed her brothers busily making hay men. At least Eoin made them, while Gillean undid them. There wasn’t enough hay for large ones. She knew it had to have been a Colquhoun who suggested using the hay. The Fergusson clan knew they needed it. Every stalk would have to be picked up and stored before winter.
The cold would be upon them soon. This was a day wasted when her clan needed to work, not to play.
Her clan. Only since her father’s death had she started to think of them this way. Amongst all her Fergussons, the Colquhouns stood out. Not only because they were strangers. It was because of the sharp contrast between the clans.
The Colquhouns were properly dressed, their shoes worn to comfortableness, their clean weapons at their sides. Her own clansmen were too thin from the siege and English greed, and what bows and arrows they had left were greatly mismatched.
Even if this was a friendly competition, it was not fair. Already Bram’s clansmen had the advantage and she seethed with the comparisons.
‘Aren’t these celebrations fine, sister?’ Fyfa skipped to her.
Fyfa glowed with an eagerness and shyness to her eyes and voice. Even while she was skipping, her mannerisms were ladylike and full of grace.
‘These aren’t celebrations.’ Lioslath watched Dog slowly walk away. He was as unused to her siblings as she was.
‘There are flags and hay men. I’m told there will be music afterwards and Donaldo is already making her sweetened oatcakes.’ She sighed exaggeratedly. ‘I’ve heard tales of faires like this.’
‘It’s not a faire.’ To be a faire, there would need to be trade and commerce. They had nothing but air to give away here, and with all the people, even that seemed precious little. Now Donaldo made her honeyed oatcakes, which had to be using the last of their hidden supplies. They’d fall to further ruin before the day was over.
‘Where are your brothers?’ Lioslath asked instead.
‘Our brothers are arguing and muddying themselves as usual.’
‘Have you talked to them?’
Lioslath knew Gillean couldn’t possibly have said anything about what he wanted from Laird Colquhoun in return for keeping quiet. Whilst she knew little of them, she was sure the children couldn’t have forgotten the bribe. But if Bram had given the children their gifts, Fyfa would surely be beaming with the news. Bram probably had ribbons hidden in his camp for just such a manipulating purpose. Just as he hid that well-calculated feast.
‘As little as possible now that we’re free.’
Lioslath felt a pang. The confinement had been hard on her. At Fyfa’s age, it would have been unbearable. Still, she hadn’t expected her siblings to feel the same way. She thought them too different from her. But Bram said they wanted to scamper... Bram, again, and his too-observing eyes. ‘We’re not free while the Colquhouns plague us.’
‘Plague, when there’s a feast and festivities? Although I will have to bring Eoin and Gillean under my wing again. I’ve told them the dangers of stilt walking, but I do believe they weren’t taking me seriously.’
Oh, Fyfa and her flourishing speeches. She acted very much like the lady of the manor. No doubt when she was grown, she’d make a fine lady.
It was one of her father’s dearest wishes. One of the reasons Busby married the Colquhoun’s sister had been to obtain a mother for Fyfa. One who would raise her gently to be a lady.
But Gaira fled and their father was killed. Looking at Fyfa only reminded her of the loss of her own mother and the horrible years of pain and banishment in between.
‘You need to find work,’ she retorted. ‘You and the boys are too idle.’
She worked when she was their age. What did they think made anything better? Hard work. That was what she’d done all her life. All she got was meagre results, but she got them. Play earned nothing. These festivities were as useless.
Fyfa’s expression fell flat and the light died in her eye. ‘Work again.’
‘Aye, work again.’ Even as Lioslath said the words, there was something in her heart that ached as Fyfa’s smile faltered.
‘Someone has been stealing my oatcakes.’ Donaldo took great strides towards them.
Fyfa’s expression immediately changed to outrage. Clenching fists to her sides, she declared, ‘Those boys! I haven’t had any!’ Without looking back, Fyfa stomped away.
‘Did those boys truly steal oatcakes?’ Lioslath asked.
‘Do you think they’d dare?’ Donaldo said.
No, they wouldn’t have dared cross broad-shouldered, broad-hipped Donaldo. No one would.
Donaldo had been Lioslath’s mother’s closest friend, and while she couldn’t call Donaldo a friend, she didn’t feel as awkward with her as she did with the rest of her clan. When Lioslath’s father died, it was Donaldo who had first given her loyalty to Lioslath, who stood beside her when the English came. She was always fierce, but now Donaldo’s usual scowl was deeper.
Lioslath felt a fissure of worry. ‘What has happened?’
‘Preparations for the celebrations are going well.’
‘That isn’t it.’ Lioslath couldn’t care less about the celebrations and Donaldo would know that. ‘What didn’t you want Fyfa to hear?’
‘All day he’s been watching you.’
Lioslath knew what she meant. She knew Bram was watching her, just as she kept watching him. Had their watching become a habit because of the siege? No, it felt different this time. She wasn’t only observing him from a distance. This close, she felt as though she participated in his preparations.
Everything about him was vibrant, his smile ever ready. He talked with his clansmen, attempted to talk to hers. There was an energy about him she’d never felt before. A purpose.
She frowned. He had a purpose she admired. But she wouldn’t admire the Colquhoun. His purpose here was to play foolish games.
She shrugged. ‘Should it matter?’
‘Aye, it matters when he gazes at you like a man does a woman,’ Donaldo said.
‘He’s probably only checking to see if I’m going to stop the competition.’
‘Are you?’ Donaldo knew her well.
