Chapter Five

What the—?

Fiona gripped the armrests, the fanciful carvings digging into her palms as shock zapped her as if she sat in an electric chair, not some seventeenth-century antique. Marriage?

In this time, marriages were contracted for reasons other than love—she knew that—but Jesus. It was one thing to read about it in some history book, but—shock thump-thump-thumped her heart rate, making her lightheaded—it was quite another to experience it.

And to be viewed as valuable like that. So weird.

Her gaze flicked to Malcolm. Good-looking—yeah. Kind—he seemed so. But they weren’t in love.

He confirmed it. “I believe in being honest.” He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “Marrying the sister of the chieftain’s wife will raise my status with the clan. It will tie our clans closer together for mutual benefit, and I will be a part of that, along with Margery, Iain’s sister. We’re both healthy and young, and I believe in time we will care for one another.”

Well, the man was blunt. She’d give him that.

She broke her resolve. Both Traci and Iain followed her gaze. Maybe she was imagining it, but the air seemed weighted with expectation. And with more than just hers.

If Duncan objected at all, though, he didn’t show it. Not even a tightening of the mouth or a tick in his jaw. He was just…silent. And while he was finally looking at her, he appeared wholly unconcerned. Closed off.

Hurt she had no business feeling pierced her chest. She quickly blinked to stem some betraying eye moisture.

Malcolm nodded to Traci. “Your sister assures me your family has not any hereditary sickness in body or soul.”

Whaaat? Fiona barely stifled a snort, Duncan’s hurtful silence momentarily overshadowed. Especially when a quick glimpse at Traci showed her eyes round, in an I-know-can-you-believe-it way, barely holding back her own laughter. Which died quickly enough when Fiona’s gaze landed again on Duncan. And the enormity of the situation made her feel every bit like the smallest, weakest person in the room that she was.

As all eyes turned to him—and Duncan watched as Fiona heard Malcolm’s proposal—he was struck by the oddest sensation. A memory flashed. One he’d not dwelled upon in ages. The lure of an unexplored wing of his family’s castle when he was but a lad of seven summers. A rare rug from foreign lands stretched across the center—an enticing, colorful island his bare toes itched to run across. The sensation as he sprinted, wee arms pumping in excitement toward that tempting island, then his toes learning the plush burn as he reached the rug, the glee, then the loud crack.

The brief stomach-dropping sensation of falling and then jolting to a stop as he fell only partway through the rotten flooring.

How he’d let out one sharp cry of pain as the decaying wood cut into his ribs, an involuntary sob, and then clamped his mouth shut and breathed through the pain, waiting for hours until found, passed out and bleeding.

Once he’d healed, he’d been sent to foster with Iain’s clan. A while it had taken him to trust his surroundings again—trust his senses—but now? The same skittishness suffused him. The inability to judge whether he could proceed. Questioning his senses for the first time in ages.

Senses which urged him to step forward and give voice to the words screaming inside him. No. She’s mine.

“How legally binding is a handfast?” Fiona’s voice jarred him back to the moment.

Duncan went very, very still.

Iain’s brow furrowed. “Why do ye ask?”

Very quickly—so quickly he almost missed it—her gaze flicked to his before returning her attention to Iain. He doubted anyone else noticed. “Just curious.”

Iain crossed his arms. “It’s legally binding as long as both parties attest to the event taking place. But we’ll not be doing a handfasting. Times are changing, and if you don’t object, we’ll be having it solemnized by a priest.” Iain leaned forward, arms uncrossing, and Duncan had the inexplicable urge to swat him on the back of the head for misunderstanding. While honor prevented him from forcing her to acknowledge their handfast, a selfish part wished for an innocent party to force her hand. The way she worded her question gave him little hope she’d do so on her own. But like a fool, he grasped that thread of hope.

Iain laid his palms flat on the table and continued, “And this is where I must be clear. In our society, you have rights. You need not marry Malcolm, even if I stated I wish it. The decision is yours and yours alone.”

The decision is yours, Fiona.

Time seemed to stretch as he awaited her answer, hope riding him hard.

Fiona squirmed in her chair. “Do I have to make the decision now?”

While that wasn’t exactly what he wished her to say, he’d take it.

Iain answered her. “You do not. In fact, I requested you be allowed to accompany their party to Dunvegan castle for a short visit. A contingent of our own clan will go as well, including several friends of Margery’s, to ensure your virtue. However, I repeat, the decision to remain and form an alliance with the MacLeods resides with you and you alone.” He took in the two MacLeod warriors. “I make no promises that such an alliance will occur. I also will have your assurance that she will be protected as if she were a member of your own clan.”

Iain kept his gaze leveled on the MacLeods, unwavering, until both Malcolm and Torquil nodded.

Still Duncan said nothing, though the words still pushed against him—No. She’s mine.

Iain threaded his fingers together on the table. “Their party leaves on the morn. Do ye wish to accompany them?”

Though her throat was slender and delicate, Duncan saw it move with a hard swallow. She appeared as if she were about to protest, and hope surged. Hope he had no right to feel. But when she glanced at her sister, a look of confusion crossed her face. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Crossed her arms, her smooth forehead wrinkling, and nodded.

Good lord, she’s going. The fledgling hope guttered and died.

Truth be told, Duncan’s emotions were in a turmoil. Being a man of honesty, he’d grudgingly admit a thread of jealousy coursed through him.

He huffed a laugh. A thread? More like a rope. A rope intertwined with the realization that she would not honor their handfast.

At least he was clear on that score.

Iain regarded her for a moment. And then he nodded as well. “Then it’s settled. You’ll leave in the morn.”

She can’t marry Malcolm.

Duncan clenched and stretched his fingers. To be sure, she’d be safe with whomever Iain picked, and the ladies would ensure her virtue, but Duncan would make damn certain. Criosd. Just the idea of Malcolm, or anyone, touching her made him want to punch something. Anyone. Especially Malcolm.

His unusual reaction sobered him.

Think.

If he accompanied them, he could discover what Margery wanted. Otherwise, knowing her, she’d keep persisting, complicating the situation further. He had no desire to have her hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, ready to destroy any semblance of contentment he managed.

Fiona’s slight but strong form—shoulders proud and straight, hips curved and enticing—disappeared through the arched doorway, and what light existed to brighten the dim surroundings fled.

Aye, seeing Margery could pound it through his thick skull that danger lay in opening his heart to women. ’Twas obvious he required the reminder, for he’d again trusted his senses in error. But it’d give him an excuse to travel with the party and ensure Fiona’s safety.

Iain’s throat cleared. Criosd. All were gone but Iain, and Duncan had been staring at the wall like some lost fool. His face flushed with heat. He stood, his chair legs jolting against the stone floor. He should pack.

Iain grabbed his arm, staying him. “Will ye join the party?”

Duncan glanced at Iain, ready to say, Of course.

But Iain seemed to feel Duncan needed persuading, for he forged ahead. “It would please me greatly if ye do. Gavin will be going as my formal emissary, but I wish to place you in especial charge of Fiona and this marriage proposal. I trust ye to keep Fiona safe during the trip. And I’d like to know how my beloved sister fares with the MacLeods.”

Duncan gave a short nod. “I’d be honored. I will keep Fiona safe, I assure you.” Lochloinn had expressed surprise at Gavin being placed as the head warrior of Iain’s lucht-taeh, but Duncan had felt no such surprise. Aye, the bonds of friendship were stronger between himself and Iain than they were with Gavin, but Gavin had seniority and had been groomed for this role. Such a wise decision, untainted by emotion, was one of the reasons Iain would make a fine chieftain.

Now, however, his best friend’s eyes narrowed. “We never discussed what happened two years ago with Margery. I know ye had…hopes.” He shifted in his seat. “If I’d been chieftain, I would not have had it happen thusly.”

Mo Chreach. Margery. Iain still believed he cared?

Duncan flicked his hand. “What happened two years ago is long past. Trust me.”

“And do ye…? What about Fiona?”

Duncan clenched his jaw but forced it to unlock. Now Iain struck closer. “What about her?”

“I will be straightforward. I’d rather you marry Fiona.”

“Why?”

Iain stood abruptly and rounded the table to pace to the center of the room and back. “It’ll be hard on Traci to be separated from her sister. I’m sure Fiona would feel the same way.” He stepped closer and crossed his arms. “In case it matters, I know enough about Fiona and the…manners and attitudes of her family to say…that I doubt she’ll marry Malcolm. She was raised to marry for love, not for political alliance.”

Duncan tried not to take heart at that, until he realized she’d only marry for love. “Then why not reject his suit?”

Iain dug a hand into his hair, an aggravated sound emerging from his chest. “Aye, but the MacLeods put me in an awkward position. They know I don’t have the power to refuse. I had a devil of a word-dance with them to secure this much of a concession. I promised my wife, however, that Fiona would have a final say, though how we’ll manage that without inviting their wrath, I know not.”

He stopped his pacing and pointed at Duncan, his normally jovial face serious. “You must act for me in this regard—find some way to allow Fiona’s wishes to prevail without making an enemy of the MacLeods.”

A formidable task. Criosd. But at least Iain had bought time. “You have my word.”

Iain watched him a moment before speaking. “Very well then. Thank ye. I’ll leave ye to make ready for your trip. I need to be returning to Dundee. He and his party will be accompanying you, at least as far as the coast. This will afford him better protection, which would make us all rest easier. The MacLeods are in agreement, though they still remain neutral.”

Fiona dashed a stray tear from the corner of her eye and pushed the few belongings she’d accrued into her cloth sack. In the corner, the sickly peat fire emitted a soft glow but little warmth. She ignored the hurt that Duncan hadn’t protested one iota to this marriage alliance business. Well, she tried. Hence the eye leakage.

But along with the hurt was a good dose of WTF-Traci? Her sister had better have a damn good reason for signaling her to accept this trip. In front of everyone, Fiona had gone along with her sister, but she’d protest when it came down to it, because she couldn’t leave Duncan’s side if she were to fulfill the legend.

Duncan, at some point soon, would attempt to kill her ancestor. To prevent this—and fulfill the legend—she needed to stick close. She couldn’t be off gallivanting to Dunvegan Castle, because as a devourer of all things Scottish, she knew Dunvegan was on the Isle of Skye, far away from where the legend was to unfold: Urquhart Castle.

And fulfilling the legend is everything.

It’s what gave her purpose, significance. Made her more than the I-have-no-idea-what-to-do-with-my-life Fiona she’d been.

A knock pulled her from her thoughts. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” came Traci’s voice from the other side of the heavy oak door.

Good. She braced herself. “Come in.”

Her sister poked her head in. “Thought I’d help you pack.” Without waiting for an answer, she strolled into Fiona’s room and pushed the door closed.

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Better be for more than that. What the hell, Traci?”

“Malcolm’s proposal?”

She blew out a breath and tossed her bag onto the bed. “You think?”

“Yeah.” Traci came into the room’s center. “Can you believe him? ‘Your sister assures me,’ ” she said in a mock-deep tone, “ ‘your family has not any hereditary sickness in body or soul.’ ” She snickered.

At the time, it had been funny, but now everything else pushed that levity into a foreign place. She forced a laugh though. “Yeah. So weird. But why did you signal for me to agree to go on this trip?”

Traci stepped up onto the big-ass bed and plopped down with an exasperated sigh. “Sorry about that.”

Despite herself, some of her anger ebbed. She leaned her hip against the mattress. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll have you know, I was given no time to warn you. What time I had was spent pitching a fit with Iain. You’re not a pawn in any Highland chess match he’s playing. I made that clear.”

“Thanks.”

“Well. Didn’t do me much good. He sympathized but said this was the compromise he’d struck. Jesus, it’s cold in here.” She slid down the side of the bed, her skirts catching on the crevice between post and mattress.

“Compromise?”

“Yeah.” She yanked her skirt loose and strode to the flickering peat fire. “Apparently they were insisting they just have you and Malcolm marry in the morning.”

Dread made the room seem colder right then. “Can they do that?”

Traci knelt at the fireplace and looked back over her shoulder. “In spirit, their laws say no—a woman has to consent. But in practice? They can put a lot of pressure on a woman.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of pressure could they put on me though?”

Traci stacked more peat blocks and kindling into the fireplace. “The safety and standing of Iain’s clan.”

“Really?” That gave her pause.

“Yeah. We—especially you”—she stopped futzing with the peat and pointed a finger—“romanticize these guys, but they’re basically war lords. And, well, not all war lords are equal. There’s a hierarchy. With Iain being a new chieftain of a very minor clan, he’s not at all at the top of the totem pole.”

God. Fiona thought she might be sick. The way Traci said that—it brought home that, really, there were no laws out here in this time. Except those enforced by muscle. Or quick thinking. She shivered. “And the MacLeods are on top.”

“Yep. Their chief, Iain Breac, is one of the more powerful, along the lines of Cameron of Lochiel. It’s why it’s such a big deal that he hasn’t joined the rebellion.” With that, she struck a flint and held it to the kindling, blowing lightly.

“Jesus. So basically I have to go because of politics? Why can’t I just say thanks but no thanks, since my consent is needed?”

Satisfied with the fire apparently, Traci stood and faced her. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s to help save face for Iain. He would never force you, but he can’t show weakness to the MacLeods—that he can’t control his womenz.” She air quoted the last word. “He felt like this was the only concession he could grab—to at least give you a chance to see their home, give you time to get to know Malcolm before you decided.”

The pungent smell of peat filled the room as her fire took hold. Seriously, the stuff smelled like scotch. Which made sense.

“So he worked out a delay for me. But that’s all it is, Traci. Sounds like he feels as if I need to marry him for the good of the clan.”

“Don’t underestimate Iain. He has an ulterior motive.” She strode back to the bed, a conspiratorial smile on her face.

“What’s that?” Fiona asked, instantly wary.

“Duncan.”