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Still holding my arm, he drew me closer, until I was pressed up against the hard warmth of his body. He was so dark, this phantom, so utterly unseeable. Yet the solidity of him fed me an encouraging comfort. It was a mercurial comfort, the kind that might only be found in a hidden, clandestine garden, void of light and sound, save the faraway beacon of an untouchable reality. We were frozen in an unexpected and timeless moment.
His other arm wrapped silently around me and I could feel the silky graze of his hair against my neck. I gasped at the intimacy of it, the caressing softness that stirred me in ways I had never known.
Then, under the dark cover of a moonless sky, the stranger’s parted lips touched mine, brushing slowly before settling in with gentle, deliberate pressure. My mind went blank and my knees gave out, but his stronghold was such that it mattered not. The soft exploration of his tongue sent channels of warmth into my body, lingering and curling, reaching deep. The taste of his kiss, so unexpected, so sweet, invited me to open to his supple demands, to take more of him, to let him in.
I had been kissed only once before by my shy and boyish Caleb: a very brief, barely-there touch. This was something else altogether. There was nothing shy or boyish about this kiss. This kiss pulled me in directions I, in a saner moment, would never have dared. Wild, relentless sensation spooled into me darkly as the stranger’s kiss deepened. His hand held my jaw with infinite care. A vague internal warning was swept away by the billowing, immediate urge my body had become. The effects of his tongue’s touch traveled lightly to the tips of my breasts and the softening secreted place between my legs, which piqued and moistened with an awakening want. I wanted his mouth on my skin, everywhere, and his hands to grip me and hold me down with all the promise of their brutal-gentle strength. I wanted to lose myself in this stranger completely, to drink him in, such was the intoxication of him.
From somewhere outside our tumbling, succulent connection, a voice called.
My name. And again.
It was Ann’s voice, and it was enough to shock me back into a shadowed awareness.
Slowly, reluctantly, the stranger pulled back.
Into this small distance between us, my regrets spilled. Regrets, I was amazed to realize, that were not about what I had done with this phantom lover, but what I had not done. The potency of him had wholly captivated me, and even now I wanted more of him. I wanted him to kiss me again, to soothe and stoke the burning need he had lit within me.
Here, under an overcast night and still in the dark stranger’s enveloping embrace, I had the disconcerting feeling that I had changed. That this place and this kiss would forever haunt me. That nothing would ever satisfy me until I could feel an approximation of this, of him. Again, and always, I would seek the beauty of this sudden and forbidden intimacy.
If this was what rebellion felt like, then I wanted more of it.
The distant calls continued.
My conscious mind insisted I disengage from him, and make a hasty retreat toward the manor. Yet I couldn’t move. Who was he? Would I ever find him again, to be touched and tasted and held close to his elusive, sheltering heat?
The stranger moved, and spoke. The roughened notes of his soft, deep voice sent quickening warmth to my secret places, which had become swollen with a sweet ache that caused me to gasp lightly. I would have done anything that voice asked me to do. Anything.
“Hold on to me,” he said. “Let me take you.”
For a tiny moment, a wicked excitement lurked in the cravings of my body that were new to me, but then I realized what he meant: he would take me back to the manor.
His muscled arm was looped around me, encompassing me in his male-spiced scent. I grasped onto his clothing, and further, reaching my arms around his waist. I could feel the hardness and warmth of his body even through the layers of fabric, and I imagined what his skin might feel like under my fingertips. My fingers curled around the leather of his belt, and I could feel the bone handle of a large knife strung to it.
He began to lead me, supporting my weight easily. He was surefooted, even in the darkness, and he navigated our path without difficulty. And then he stopped. We were still some distance from the lit outskirts of the courtyard, but the path was faintly visible now, straight and smooth. He withdrew his embrace carefully, as though to ensure that I wouldn’t topple over without his support. And the air felt cool and stark at the sudden removal of his body against mine.
He stood against the darkness and I could see no more of him than I had until now, just his solid and very black silhouette. He leaned his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “I will taste more of you, Stella. I have not had nearly enough. I want you as my own.”
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
SHAKEN AS MUCH by the stranger’s sudden departure as I had been by all that had taken place before it, I walked unsteadily back to the courtyard. Ann, Agnes and Bonnie were there, and they rushed up to me as soon as I stepped into the light.
“Stella!” Ann exclaimed. “What’s happened? We’ve been calling you. Where have you been?”
I smoothed my hair with my hands, hoping I didn’t look as wild and wanton as I felt. “’Twas nothing,” I said lightly, laughing it off. “I went for a stroll in the gardens.”
The three of them stared at me, knowing full well we weren’t allowed such larkish pursuits, especially alone and in the dark of night. I watched their eyes register my flushed cheeks, my curled and windblown hair, my wide eyes. I was fervently thankful they couldn’t detect the more profound changes in me, or at least I hoped it.
“Whatever for?” asked Agnes.
“I needed some air,” I said. “I wandered too far and the wind blew out the candles. It took me some time to find my way back, is all. I’m fine.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” commented Bonnie, leading me back inside, where the noise and light was very nearly overwhelming.
Not a ghost, nay. A phantom.
A phantom, I only now realized, who knew me. He’d called me by my name. This detail felt significant. Had he known who I was, even before my sisters called out to me? He’d said he wanted to see me, to find me—nay, to taste me—once again. I hoped desperately that he would succeed in his pursuit.
But even now, in my sisters’ familiar company, surrounded by people’s chatter and full-on brightness, my encounter with the hidden stranger felt unreal. Had he merely been a figment of my ever-hopeful romantic mind? Maybe I’d dreamed him in response to the heartbreak of recent days. I could justify my revelation as such, even if I could still taste him on my tongue and feel the effects of his touch to my very core. I knew, too, that this memory—real or not—had nothing to do with Caleb. The phantom lover had been too different, in every way. Already, Caleb’s face had faded by the slightest degree. More forcefully, the phantom’s looming outline dominated all thoughts. His tamed strength, his intoxicating scent: these details alone were enough to inspire a lush craving deep within me that very nearly made me moan aloud.
What was happening to me? Had I finally had enough of being put down and held back by my overbearing father, and was reacting with bold, bizarre belligerence? Already, I yearned for more of the stranger, as I had known I would. I felt like running back outside to the secluded garden and calling him back to me.
Instead, I took a deep breath and attempted to calm myself. Passionate, temperamental behavior was punished in our family. The only exceptions to this rule were specific indiscretions that might succeed in landing one of us a wealthy and well-bred husband. Aside from that one allowance, obedience, compliance and reserve were the order of the day. And I had carried out my role with suitable deference, for the most part. My life was predictable and comfortable enough, as these things went. I acted as I was expected to act—as I was forced to act—even if my heart questioned the orders. Why I felt the urge to wander, to run, to shout and to kiss mysterious strangers now, I didn’t know. The steady ground of my world, of late, seemed to be taking on a new inconsistency that possessed all the solidity of quicksand.
With effort, I took my place in my sisters’ circle as we reentered the grand hall. I sipped a cool drink of water and felt better for it. Still, I felt removed somehow. My eyes restlessly surveyed the crowd, measuring, hoping. Was he here in this room? Quite possibly. I studied one man, then the next. But none of them seemed the perfect fit. And, disappointingly, I noticed that almost every single man in attendance wore a belt with a knife strapped to it. These men were warriors. Knives and swords weren’t just their tools; they were their fashion accessories. They were their comfort, their necessity and their way of life. If I was to find my phantom, I would need more helpful clues than a belt with a knife, and a physique that was tall and broad-shouldered. So I was not to get off so lightly.
Still, my eyes roved.
I was distracted then by Maisie as she returned to our group, accompanied by Wilkie, her pale arm weaved decisively through his brown, brawny one. I had not met Wilkie before. And although I didn’t know much about him, I could detect that he seemed tense. His expression appeared agitated, as if his concentration was elsewhere. Maisie’s insistent attention did little to engage him, but Maisie was nothing if not persistent. Admirably so, I thought. She fawned and flirted, softly touching his hair and his face until he relented somewhat, an exhibition I found mildly fascinating. In fact, I was so immersed in watching the exchange that I didn’t immediately notice that someone was speaking to me. I very nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw who it was.
“Are you enjoying your evening, Miss Morrison?” Kade Mackenzie’s voice was deep and inflected with raw, dark energy. Of course I couldn’t help considering the shape and height of him, to compare it against the fresh memory of my hidden stranger. But he was too tall, I thought. And something about his movements seemed too quick.
He couldn’t be the one, I felt certain. The scent wasn’t quite right, mingled and subdued by the pressing crowd. And he hadn’t used my first name. He probably had no idea which Morrison I was.
Instead of the enveloping calm I’d experienced in the stranger’s embrace, and despite the relaxed, festive mood of the scene, the air between us felt charged, as though laced with a barely restrained warning. I could sense even more strongly at this close proximity that Kade was a man with an unpredictable nature. The glint in his eyes seemed to confirm my estimations while also suggesting he was having no difficulty reading every nuance of my tangled unease. Again I thought about fleeing somewhere, anywhere, as quickly as I could. But it was this almost-teasing edge to his manner that held me in place. I felt mildly irked by the nudging humor in him, as though the obvious fact that he was making me nervous was entertaining to him.
He had asked me a question, and was waiting for my reply. I had to concentrate for a moment to recall it. A simple, meaningless pleasantry. Are you enjoying your evening, Miss Morrison? The polite thing to do would have been to lie, especially considering it was his family that was hosting the event. Instead, I heard myself saying, “Not particularly.”
It was then that Kade Mackenzie smiled, just slightly, at my response. And it occurred to me at that moment that, while Wilkie was the famously good-looking brother, Kade was equally striking but somehow too complicated in expression to be conventionally handsome. His looks were dominated by reckless layers of the unknown. “She has a seraphic face,” he commented, “a body that could reduce a grown man to tears, a corralled feistiness that shines through nonetheless, lightning-quick reflexes—if what is heard is to be believed—yet her manners leave something to be desired. How very interesting. I’ll admit, you’re not quite what I was expecting.”
Despite my layered reservations, I almost smiled, simultaneously miffed and flattered by his offhand description. I couldn’t help asking it: “And what were you expecting?” The admission that he had been expecting anything at all seemed to confirm that Kade Mackenzie had gone out of his way to approach me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. Apprehensive, certainly. The thought of being conquered by this specimen of virile ferocity was more than I could grasp in my current state.
He took a moment to respond, and when he did, I noticed the deep, distinctive huskiness of his voice as he spoke. Oddly, there was a comforting edge to the rough, quiet timbre of it that was not dissimilar, I couldn’t help but consider, to the hushed murmur of my hidden stranger. Let me take you. “What I was expecting was a quaint, moderately pleasing heiress with a penchant for insolence. The insolence is true enough. Heiress, aye, although the wealth on offer is somewhat overstated, we have reason to believe. As for the other details of the expectation, trust me when I assure you they were entirely inaccurate. Absurdly so.”
I could only stare at him, agog at his confessions. I thought he might have just given me a very solicitous compliment even as he also might have insulted me, but, in fact, I couldn’t be entirely sure either way. Whatever his meaning, it was clear enough that he was taking pleasure in his attempt to confuse me. And he was coming quite close to succeeding. But I was already riled enough by the recent difficulties of the life I was being forced to lead. So I decided not to give him the satisfaction. “If you find me quaint and insolent, then perhaps you should seek out the conversation of someone more pleasing to you.”
At this, he smiled widely, his white teeth gleaming against the bronze glow of his face and his hair. He folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned a shoulder against the stone wall in a languid, insouciant movement that brought to light his sparked arrogance and his easy confidence. He possessed an odd combination of wicked appeal and pronounced, daring impulsiveness that infused me with an unusual anxious thrill. His eyes never left me. “On the contrary, I find insolence in women very intriguing—it happens to be an affliction that I’m able to cure almost entirely under the right circumstances. And if you’d been paying attention, you would understand that I find you quite the opposite of quaint. I can think of several other words I might use to describe you, aye, but even those seem lacking. Give me a minute to think of something more precise.”
I wanted to ask him what those words were, of course, but I could see that he was playing with me, and expecting my curiosity to get the better of me, so I waited, watching him study my face. Disconcertingly, the effects of his comments and his smile burrowed into me, touching the shadowy, sensual effects of my encounter with the garden stranger. I tried desperately to distract myself, to tone down or ignore the light swell and the heat of my most private vulnerabilities, but my body had other ideas. I felt my cheeks flush and my breath quicken, and I looked away from him. I was surely going mad. I took a deep breath, willing myself not to burn under the heat of his blazing attentions.
“Am I making you nervous?” he asked softly, his lingering smile irritatingly perceptive.
“Nay,” I said somewhat indignantly, albeit breathless, although he clearly was.
I met his eyes with cautious curiosity. I wanted to disengage myself from his arresting countenance but could not. Inexplicably, he was devastating me with a tumult of crashing, unknowable regrets and empty wishes. The search of his focus seemed to illuminate everything I had ever aspired to but had never, either through circumstance or from fear, been able to attain. Freedom. Choice. Love. Real happiness. I could not explain how this rugged stranger was able to expose such deep, suppressed feelings in me, as though he held the key to hidden recesses of my psyche that even I had not explored. Kade Mackenzie frightened me, aye, but there was more to it than that; his effect on me was acute, as though his own reckless tendencies were impacting me, and guiding me. Under the animated weight of his attentions, I felt I was losing control.
“Or am I affecting you in some other way?” he said, leaning closer. “Some wholly unexpected, visceral inclination that has you, in this very moment, questioning all your powers of resistance?”
How did he know that?
It wasn’t him I felt the need to resist, I assured myself. I was overcome by my encounter in the secluded garden. I was suffering under the effects of the ale perhaps, or I was flushed and disoriented from the night air.
Kade continued, his voice low, his words meant exclusively for me. I watched his enigmatic, seraphic face as he spoke, with undue absorption. “And that’s not the extent of it, I’m guessing. There’s more to it, is there not? A wandering, restless hunger newly inspired, as it just so happens, here and now. As soon as you saw me, it would appear.”
“You flatter yourself,” I said quickly, hoping to break this connection in any way I could. Through rudeness, or any other means—it didn’t matter, as long as I could somehow contain my composure and stop myself from doing something entirely inappropriate, like taking his hand and leading him into a quiet alcove. To let his influence arrest me and free me in any way it would. But I would only have been trying to recreate my illicit encounter with the garden phantom, I knew. Either way, I clasped my hands together behind me and made a point of neither reaching for nor even appreciating the invitingly thick locks of his richly colored dark hair that hung almost to his shoulders in shiny disarray.
He was toying with me, overflowing with charm, assured as he was of his own allure. An allure, to be sure, I wanted nothing to do with.
Kade’s flashing eyes, as though reading my thoughts and finding reason to believe he was responsible for them, gave the impression that he was similarly affected, as though he might strike out at any moment, or indulge a wicked temper or start a fight. Each prospect, to me, was more daunting than the last. And even if I had seen a glimmer of amusement in him that I might not have expected and was undeniably drawn to, I couldn’t shake the desire to distance myself from him, and quickly. He was too intense, too fiery, too confident, too masculine, too everything.
Fortunately, a commotion caused our circle to disperse. It was Wilkie who was causing a scene. He had, at some point during my distraction, removed himself from Maisie’s grasp. Now he was some distance away, and holding the arm of Angus Munro in a viselike grip, pure fury written on his face. And Wilkie’s other arm was slung possessively around a young woman I did not recognize. She had white-blond hair and eyes that were green even from a distance, attributes that made it clear that she hailed neither from the Mackenzie clan nor Munro. Her look was decidedly foreign, exotic even, and she was—it had to be said—devastatingly beautiful. I couldn’t help but marvel at the shimmery fair colors of her, emphasized further not only by the pastel-pink shades of her dress, but also by Wilkie’s black-haired and stormy-eyed counterpoint. Her slender body was pushed up scandalously close to Wilkie’s, and her face, as she gazed up at him, clearly shone with a complete and unwavering adoration.
Angus was released and dismissed by Wilkie, and took his leave, retreating to the buffet table, still rubbing his wrist. And any questions the crowd might have had about the fair-haired girl were written most painfully across Maisie’s face. Who was she? And why was Wilkie embracing her in this way and with a look on his face as though he was not only enraged and somehow anguished, but also utterly love-struck?
Before any such questions could even be asked and without so much as a backward glance, Wilkie disappeared with his willing captive up the grand staircase of the Mackenzie manor.
Maisie wasn’t the only one who was distraught at this unexpected turn of events. The gravity of Wilkie’s connection to the mysterious young woman had been apparent to all of us. And, while none of us knew quite what to make of the scene we had just witnessed, I had a distinct feeling that the consequences of that scene would extend beyond Wilkie, beyond Maisie and somehow to me. As though to confirm my anxious suspicion, Kade Mackenzie’s narrowed and unyielding stare speared me with its thoughtful, wicked intensity, and I could read there my worst fears.
CHAPTER THREE
I WAS DREAMING. I knew this even as I drifted willingly into the sweet, comforting fantasy. Caleb’s cool hand reached for mine, the touch light and welcoming. He helped me from the carriage, taking me close to his slim, warm body, ushering me into a back-alley stables. Sounds of the city filled the rain-soaked night—men’s voices, the sharp, rhythmic clopping strikes of a horse’s feet on cobblestones, a woman’s distant laughter, drifting piano notes—and there was relief in the warmth of the enclosed hay-strewn haven, even if it smelled of burning coal and damp wool. Caleb smoothed the wet strands of my hair from my face. “’Tis not much,” he said, “but we’re out of the rain. I’ve some bread and water. And we’re together. ’Tis all that matters.”
Yet looming wide-shouldered shapes were emerging from the limitless shadows, swallowing Caleb, closing in. I recognized one of them from the distinctive lithe, predatory countenance of him and the glinting devil-blue glow of his eyes. His gold-and-silver weapons were strung across his restless body, bright splintered shards that cut the night. A twisting, edgy appeal to this danger held me and touched my body in a light, sultry caress, but the promise of pleasure was laced with unknowable darkness.
I fled, hiding, seeking refuge in a secluded garden that grew out of the gloom. I was comforted by the country air, the warm, rose-scented breeze. I knew he was there. I could feel him before I could see him. He had returned to me, my garden phantom, as I knew he would, to hold me and lead me to safety. He drew me to his body, enveloping me in his night-fevered embrace until there was nothing but the bold, rising sensation of his touch. His long fingers cupped my jaw. His mouth took mine in a gently demanding kiss and I was transformed. I had become a vessel to be filled, quivering with primal, aching need. His strong, masculine hands roamed my body, lighting the fire I had become. The waves rose, the beauty licked wherever his touch caressed me, I was falling, dying with pleasure, almost reaching the ecstatic peak of my every desire...
“Stella.”
...so close...
“Stella.”
Bonnie’s voice. And Ann’s. They were shaking me gently.
I opened my eyes to find them gathered around me, both regarding me with a look of amused concern. “Stella. Wake up.”
As my dream faded, I noticed that my sheets were wrapped around my legs in a twisted coil. My skin was covered in a light dewy sweat. My shift had bunched up and was barely concealing my body. The warm, dream-laced throb was dissipating and I was left wanting and bereft in its aftermath.
“Whatever were you dreaming about?” asked Ann, her eyes glimmering with curiosity.
“You were moaning and pleading,” commented Bonnie with equal fascination. “He must have been some dream.”
I sat up.
“Are you all right, Stella?” Ann smoothed my unruly hair. It was Ann, more than any of the others, with her rich brown eyes and kind heart, who understood my sorrow most of all; she’d always been more attuned with her own compassion than anyone else I knew. Ann’s hair was the fairest of all of us and curled around her face in loose ringlets. The light splashes of pink that colored her cheeks gave her a fresh, youthful appearance. Her character was prone to innocence and naiveté, traits that made her seem even younger than her eighteen years. The glint of her understanding almost brought me to tears now, after the rush of my entangled dreams. I held her offered hand for a moment before straightening my shift and rising from the bed.
“I’m fine. It was just a dream. Where are the others?” I asked, noticing fully only then that they were the only two in attendance.
“They’ve gone to watch the men. There’s some sort of swordplay competition going on.”
“Why aren’t you with them?” I knew Bonnie’s secret lover, Jamie, was among our visiting troops, as he had recently been made a junior officer. Bonnie, although a year younger than I, had an adventurous nature and an outlook that made her seem more worldly than the rest of us. Being the niece rather than the daughter of our clan’s laird had given her and her sister, Lottie, a freedom that we lacked. Although they were not allowed to marry until at least one of us had secured a favorable match, they escaped much of the tyranny of our father. That, he reserved for us. And Bonnie, especially, took full advantage of her position. She took risks that the rest of us found forbidding. I knew, for one, that she often crept out the window of our chambers at night, climbing down a rickety ivy trellis, to spend secret hours with Jamie in the stable loft.
“We were waiting for you to wake,” said Bonnie.
Bonnie and Ann helped me dress, brushing my hair back into some semblance of order after my fitful sleep. I wore a bright jewel-green dress and the gold chain necklace that was as much a part of me as the strands of my hair or the light amber color of my eyes. In a spirit of generosity I had not personally witnessed in my father, he had given my mother a gift of jewelry at the birth of each one of her five daughters. She died when we were very young children, and each of us inherited the individual pieces that corresponded with our own births. The year of my birth must have been a prosperous one, and my sisters agreed that my gift was the most prized of all. It was made of hammered rose gold, small and simple oval rings strung together in a long chain I could slip over my head if I choose to. But I rarely took it off and wore it as a much now as a talisman as I did as a tribute to my mother’s memory. The necklace also served as a reminder that my father had once possessed love, and enough of it to bestow lavish, thoughtful gifts; I wondered if he’d loved her so much that he’d used all his love up. He certainly didn’t seem to have much of it left for us. If anything, my mother’s death had twisted my father’s love into something resembling bitterness, as though he blamed us. And I, the daughter most like her in looks and in character, seemed to inspire the most fervent of this vengeful ire. He was angry at her for leaving him. He was angry at us for somehow stealing the life from her. I embodied all of his resentment, which had festered with each passing year.
We walked through the halls of the Mackenzie manor and it was clear by the cleanliness and vibrant artistry of the decorating that diligent care was commonplace at Kinloch. I admired the attention to detail that was obviously practiced in all areas of upkeep.
Our own keep, it had to be said, was not nearly so meticulously and lovingly cared for. I doubted many were. Mackenzie workers of all stations appeared to be not only dedicated to their tasks but also enjoying themselves. We passed several servants who were laughing as they paid particular attention to the correct placement of a flower arrangement, clearly enjoying each other’s company as they worked, and allowed to do so.
Then, as we strolled through a picturesque garden on our way to the training grounds, we stopped to watch one of the gardeners give a demonstration. He was explaining the mechanics of a clever new watering device, and each of us was as engrossed by his enthusiasm as the other gardeners were.
I rarely saw that kind of camaraderie among our own staff, and wondered at the difference. My father’s ruling overseers took care of all the duties of our keep, including the grounds and the upkeep of the manor itself. He had not thought to pass those duties on to his daughters—something I hadn’t paused to consider before now. My father had sequestered us too much, maybe, or thought us not up to the task of managing the manor and all its labor. In fact, we had few duties to perform and found ourselves idle much of the time. As I watched this inventive, engaging gardener and his audience, I thought it might be nice to find such satisfaction in work and in having something truly useful to offer.
After recent events, I wouldn’t have dared to bring up any subject other than marriage to a nobleman to my father, but it occurred to me that I could perhaps discuss it with Maisie; if her bid to marry to Wilkie was successful, Maisie would, in time, become the new Lady of Glenlochie. She would have some say in the workings of the clan, and would therefore be able to—if Wilkie agreed—allow us certain leniencies. Perhaps more than we’d ever had. The thought lent a nimble note of optimism to the day.
We neared the training grounds, and we could hear the shouts and commotion of the men’s activity. Dust rose in the sun-drenched light.
Reaching the place where a small crowd had converged to watch the sparring, we found Clementine, Agnes, Lottie and Maisie. My light mood faded slightly at the sight of Maisie’s troubled expression, and I recalled Wilkie’s disappearance with the exotic blonde stranger last night. I went to my sister, who I’d always been close to despite her high-strung nature, and linked my arm through hers, reading her thoughts. “Laird Mackenzie is as dedicated to sealing the alliance between our clans as Father is,” I said, reading her concerns.
“I know,” she agreed with some despondency, adding quietly, “Wilkie hasn’t appeared yet this morning.” Nor had she—the blonde stranger—this was clear from my sister’s expression. My eyes scanned the crowd in a silent confirmation.
At the far end of the sparring arena, Laird Mackenzie and our father were deep in discussion. I thought that a good sign.
“The negotiations for your wedding to Wilkie are already well under way,” I said in an attempt to console her. “You know that. They’re likely discussing it now. ’Tis why we’re here, after all. We’ve all heard Father say it often enough—the Mackenzie alliance is crucial to our military position and can only be secured irrevocably by the bonds of marriage.”
“’Tis true,” agreed Agnes, overhearing and adjusting a curl of Maisie’s hair. “They’re probably finalizing the arrangement. You might even be wed as soon as tomorrow.”
Bonnie’s eyes followed Jamie, her betrothed. He entered the ring to face off against one of the lower-ranked Mackenzie officers. Without taking her eyes from Jamie, Bonnie prodded Maisie gently. “When Wilkie becomes laird, our new lady will have only the best interests of her sisters and cousins in mind, to be sure.”
We watched Jamie take his place, and I couldn’t help reflecting on Jamie’s similarities to his younger brother. His hair was a slightly darker shade than Caleb’s. And in his soldier’s stance I could see he was taller and broader; Jamie’s was a more imposing stature. The distinct family resemblance only succeeded in reminding me of my lingering heartbreak, which had faded by the mildest degree. Maybe it was the bright sunlight or the bustling, charged activity of the scene, but I felt less sorrowful than I had in several weeks—since Caleb’s hasty departure, in fact.
“Aye,” Clementine, my eldest sister, whose tone was laced with an edge of resigned woe, added. “Eventually, our new laird might even allow us to marry whoever we choose to.”
Poor Clementine. True to his character, our father had forced Clementine to make the choices she had made, regarding the men who had humiliated her. Twice she’d been engaged and twice she’d been shunted at the altar, a series of events that had finally convinced her that her true path was to join a convent. She was due to leave soon after the harvest. It occurred to me then that maybe the men had deserted her because they’d been forced into marriage against their will, and had been unable to follow through at the crucial moment. I knew Clementine would never have complained in the face of my father’s decisions; we’d been trained all our lives to treat our father’s decisions as gospel. And if we ever protested, he had no reservations about using the back of his hand—or his whip, less frequently—to quiet our insolence. He was laird, after all: all-powerful, and with the larger needs of the clan to consider, rather than the only selfish desires of his children. But with all that had recently transpired, my blood boiled at the injustice of it.
I hadn’t thought of it before, but my sisters were right. Once Wilkie wed Maisie, he would be in line to take over the title of Laird Morrison, after the passing of my father. As much as I feared my father, I didn’t wish him dead, yet I knew his illness to be worsening. And I couldn’t help thinking past his reign. Wilkie might not be averse to letting us choose our own husbands. Caleb might be allowed to return, though I knew better than to hope for such a thing.
“Aye.” I barely heard Maisie’s reply through the haze of my thoughts. “And I also have my own interests to consider. Of that I’m afraid I’ll need to be most definite. My first order of business, as Wilkie’s wife, will be to make sure he has no visiting...distractions.” She didn’t need to name her concern to be understood: the blonde distraction she was referring to would not be welcomed by the impending Lady of Glenlochie.
“I’m sure that’s a reasonable request,” Agnes said. Agnes, so unlike her twin, spoke with an ingrained authority on every subject. While Ann possessed a gentle, elegant beauty, Agnes was more petite, with pale skin and knowing brown eyes. She made up for her lack of physicality by ensuring that her opinion was always heard. “Wilkie will no doubt agree.”
I hoped, for Maisie’s sake, that he would.
Jamie’s small battle came to an abrupt end when his sword was knocked from his hands by his opponent’s decisive swipe. There was some laughter from the men as the young Mackenzie warrior jeered.
Clementine tried to reassure Bonnie. “I’ve heard it said that the Mackenzies are particularly well trained. They compete well against even the strongest of men.”
