A chill wind, sharp enough to sting the ears and inflame the cheeks, blew in from the sea. Worse, a fine drizzle hurtled in with it, clinging to hair and clothing like spiderwebs. Ewan cast his gaze over the three weather-beaten visitors before him, his attention lingering a little longer on the young woman seated astride a dappled pony.
Alastair MacAulay’s arrival had been announced at the onset of dinner, just as Ewan had taken his seat in the great hall. As usual, the man was accompanied by his boorish henchman, whose face seemed to be moulded into a permanent scowl. But this time they’d brought a lass as well. And Ewan knew, without being told, who she was.
“Given what happened to your brother, I didnae think you’d be too keen on coming to Dunraven, so I’ve brought the lass to you.” Alastair MacAulay, without prompting, dismounted and gestured toward his charge. “My sister, Elspeth Kirstie MacAulay, pledged to the laird of the MacKellar clan. She comes from fine MacAulay stock.” He sniffed and eyed Ewan up and down. “I guarantee she’ll make you a good wife once you toss that Templar garb aside.”
Duncan, who stood by the gate, gave an exaggerated cough. Ewan ignored him. Instead, prompted by Alastair’s bold announcement, he studied the lass who had been promised to his brother.
Her face, what little Ewan could see of it, appeared pale to the point of ghostly. A pair of wide, dark eyes gazed out from folds of her hood, the finer details of her features further obscured by the gloom of late evening. Her bare hands, small and equally pale, grasped the reins, knuckles tight, implying nervousness. Her slumped shoulders spoke plainly of misery and fatigue.
The lass returned Ewan’s gaze, unflinching at first, but lowering her eyes moments later. Whether the response was prompted by his scarred features or simple modesty, Ewan couldn’t tell. Nor did he really care. The audacity of the situation had aroused his ire to the point of making his sword-hand twitch.
Standing at Ewan’s side, Morag gave a quiet snort. Ewan threw her a brief, warning glance and then shifted his attention back to his uninvited, unexpected, and unwanted visitors. Decorum demanded he greet them; especially the lass, whom he’d never met. But obstinacy and a good measure of resentment pushed any kind of cordial greeting back down his throat.
“I’ve havenae agreed to marry anyone, MacAulay,” Ewan said, grappling with an urge to toss them out on their wet arses. “You should have taken the time to discuss this with me before bringing the lass all this way. It would have saved time and embarrassment.”
“There’s naught to discuss,” Alastair replied, appearing nonplussed. “A dray horse, a half-dozen cattle, and a dozen sheep. ’Tis the price already paid for Elspeth’s hand. So, the agreement still stands as far as I’m concerned. And since we have come all this way, a warm fire and a goblet of spiced wine wouldnae go amiss about now. In case you havenae noticed, the weather is shite, and my wee sister is weary and half-frozen.”
Ewan eyed the lass once more and surrendered to chivalry. “Come in, then, and warm yourselves.” He nodded toward the stables. “Hammett and Niall will see to your horses. I’ll wait for you inside.”
Ewan turned on his heel, grasping Morag’s elbow just as she opened her mouth. “Hold your tongue, lass,” he muttered, dragging her along with him. “Just let it be.”
“You dinnae ken what I was about to say,” she said, tugging her elbow free and scowling up at him.
“Was it a pleasantry of some sort?”
The scowl disappeared as her mouth twisted. “Not precisely.”
“I thought as much.” Blinking wind-driven tears from his eyes, Ewan entered the keep, unfastened his mantle, and shook the drops from it. “Dinnae provoke the man, Morag. ’Tis bad enough that he’s here.”
“Aye, when barely a month has passed since we lost Ruaidri.” She slid her cloak from her shoulders too, and gave it a vigorous shake, sending drops flying. “I cannae fathom why he’s in such a hurry to marry off the lass.”
Ewan grunted. “No doubt he has his mad reasons.”
“Will you honour the agreement?” she asked, without inference or undertone.
“The agreement was made with Ruaidri, not me.”
“That doesnae answer the question.”
“I’m still a Templar, Morag.” He gave her a sober glance. “Does that answer the question?”
“I dinnae see how you can be both, Ewan, marriage alliance or no’,” Morag said, following him into the hall. “The clan needs a laird. A man they can trust. Our father is gone. Ruaidri is gone. To you, then, falls the obligation.”
He didn’t respond to Morag’s observation, but it had merit, of course. Ewan knew where his obligations now lay. Indeed, he had assumed the role of laird in his head—but not yet in his heart. To give up the mantle was not easy. To rescind the vows that had transformed his life and given him purpose felt like a betrayal. Thus far, he’d clung obstinately to his doctrine, unchallenged by those who looked to him for leadership. But it couldn’t last. He knew everyone, including Jacques and Gabriel, were simply giving him time to grieve the loss of his brother. Time to adjust.
Six weeks had passed since the Templars had been condemned by the French king. So far, there had been no news from that country. The fate of those arrested had yet to be learned, but it would likely not bode well. And nearly a month had passed since Ewan had stood on a mountainside and watched blood drip like red rain from his brother’s saturated cloak.
Consequently, Ewan’s purpose, whether he liked it or not, had changed.
“You have the look of a burdened man,” Gabriel said as they retook their seats at the table. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Ewan replied, thinking the exact opposite as he reached for the bread. “It seems MacAulay has taken it upon himself to bring me a bride, but since I have nae need of one, he’s wasted his time. I’ve offered them shelter for the night, but they’ll be on their way on the morrow.”
A ripple of surprise spread through those present as Alastair, Tasgall, and the lass entered the hall.
“Ruaidri’s bride?” Jacques asked, watching as they approached.
“Ewan’s bride now.” Morag said. “Alastair reckons the agreement still stands.”
“And does it?” Gabriel leaned forward. “Is it binding?”
“Nay.” Ewan frowned into his goblet and took a gulp of wine. “I dinnae want a wife.”
“MacKellar!” Alastair’s voice rang out as he drew near. “Your bride is cold and hungry and needs food and rest. Some clan hospitality would be welcome here.”
The remark, obviously calculated, hit its intended target. The low hum of conversation ceased as more than a dozen pairs of questioning eyes turned toward Ewan.
“Damn his bones,” Ewan muttered, gritting his teeth as he rose to his feet. Then, “I’m nae certain of whom you speak, MacAulay,” he replied, his voice now carrying clear and strong, “but if it’s your wee sister you’re referring to, we’ll make sure she’s made comfortable. Leave your wet cloaks by the fire to dry.” He gestured to a nearby table. “Then be seated, please, and help yourselves.”
The lass, standing between Alastair and Tasgall, looked down as if embarrassed. Alastair assumed a smug smile and glanced around the room as he shrugged off his wet cloak. Despite Ewan’s refute, the seed of a possible upcoming marriage had been planted. The damage done. A soft hum of conversation began again, little more than a purr of shared whispers.
Ewan hardened his jaw and retook his seat.
“The lass is quite bonny, actually,” Morag mumbled from behind her goblet. “Looks naught like Alastair, fortunately. It makes me a wee bit sad to see her, Ewan.”
Ewan threw his sister a puzzled glance. “Why?”
“Because I was worried she might be homely, but I think Ru would have approved.” She heaved a sigh. “’Tis of no consequence now, though, since she’ll never be our brother’s bride.”
“Dinnae upset yourself,” Ewan said, his gaze settling on the lass who had also shrugged off her cloak and now sat between Alastair and Tasgall. He quietly agreed with Morag. Though no great beauty, the lass was not at all unpleasant to look upon.
Of slight build, she nevertheless had a womanly shape, her slender curves evident beneath her blue kirtle and white shift. Her near-black hair hung over one shoulder in a thick, plaited rope, and a flush of colour now sat upon her previously pale face. A heart-shaped face, beset with large eyes of an indefinable hue and graced with an unremarkable nose and solemn mouth.
“She looks young,” he murmured.
“She’s seventeen summers, same as me,” Morag said. “She’s Brochan’s twin.”
“Aye, I do have some recollection of them.” Ewan frowned. “Father took Ruaidri and me on a hunting trip to Dunraven one time, and I have a vague memory of folks there fussing over two wee bairns.”
“Chosen by God,” Morag muttered.
Ewan looked at her. “What is?”
“That’s what her name means,” Morag replied. “Elspeth. Chosen by God.”
“Are you suggesting that is somehow relevant?”
“Nay.” She shrugged and tore off a morsel of bread. “Just saying.”
*
“’Tis an honour to meet you, Laird MacKellar.”
Blue. Elspeth MacAulay’s eyes were blue. But dark, like indigo, not bright, like the summer sky. Candlelight reflected in their depths. That, and perhaps a glint of fear, its spark evident just before the lass lowered her gaze. Ewan wondered if she feared him or the way he looked. Maybe both.
Not that it really mattered, in truth. The lass had been promised to Ruaidri, not him. Ewan had no intention of wedding Elspeth MacAulay.
“Likewise, my lady. Sit, please.” His response caused the lass to regard him once more. A timid, fleeting glance, accompanied by the hint of a smile as she took her seat.
“She’s a wee bit shy.” Goblet in hand, Alastair dropped into a chair and released a soft belch. “But she’ll warm your bed, MacKellar, right enough. It was a fine meal, by the way. My thanks.”
The lass’s cheeks flared, as did Ewan’s ire, and he tamped down a desire to rebuke his uncouth guest. “Naught has been discussed, Alastair.”
“Then let us discuss it.” Alastair lounged back and crossed his feet at the ankles. At his behest, they had retired to the laird’s private chamber at the end of the evening meal.
“I would prefer to do so without the lady present,” Ewan replied.
“Why? This concerns her.” Alastair took a gulp of wine. “I would prefer the ceremony be performed as soon as possible. I dinnae like being away from Dunraven for too long. You have a priest here, I trust?”
Ewan firmed both jaw and resolve. “There will be no ceremony, MacAulay.”
Alastair gave a mild grunt. “Maybe I should point out that the MacKellar clan is vulnerable,” he said, “allied with no one of import since your grandmother died. Your father didnae even send out his sons to foster. A bizarre lapse of tradition, and most unwise. I spent my boyhood with the MacLean’s, who are my grandmother’s kin. Because of that, I have the ear of some powerful Highland chiefs. What of you? Who would you call upon for help if obliged to do so? The Templars?” He scoffed. “I think not. You were away when the ague hit. It cut down both our clans, but yours suffered more than mine. You need this alliance more than I do, MacKellar, you cannae deny it. More than that, you need heirs. Some strong sons. And Elspeth, here, will give you those.”
Despite Ewan’s resolve, much of what Alastair said had a ring of truth to it. Still, he could not – would not – be pushed into a marriage he didn’t want. Especially so soon after Ruaidri’s death.
“My brother has been dead not even a month,” Ewan said. “’Tis a little early to be handing over his promised bride to the new laird.”
“Bollocks.” Alastair sniffed. “Ruaidri’s death has left your clan vulnerable. You’re the only remaining heir. ’Tis as well you returned when you did. God’s will, perhaps. ’Tis time to take off that mantle and—”
“Enough!” Ewan’s lip twisted. “I’m neither prepared nor willing to take a wife, especially the one meant for my brother.” He shifted his gaze to the lass, who sat in grave silence. “Forgive me, my lady. My refusal of your hand is entirely a result of circumstance. I dinnae mean to offend.”
She shook her head. “I’m nae offended in the least,” she said, casting a sideways glance at Alastair. “You’ve been more than gracious, Laird MacKellar. And I’m truly sorry about the loss of your brother. It was tragic.”
“My thanks.” Ewan replied, impressed with her gentle reply. Unlike her brother, the lass at least possessed a modicum of grace.
Alastair grunted, downed the contents of his goblet, and then raked a narrow-eyed gaze over Ewan. “I’m curious, MacKellar. Why are you still wearing that Templar garb? You cannae be laird and Templar both. Perhaps, then, ’tis nae so much Ruaidri’s death which influences your decision, but a misplaced allegiance.”
The remark, if Alastair did but know it, struck an invisible target on Ewan’s conscience. Still, he maintained a benign expression. “I ken where my allegiance lies, Alastair, and I dinnae need a wife to prove it.” He rose to his feet. “That being so, I see no point in continuing with this. The discussion is over.”
Alastair’s facial pallor darkened till it matched the dregs in his goblet. He pushed himself upright. “Refusing the lass will be a mistake,” he muttered, through gritted teeth. “I suggest you think more on it before morning.”
Ewan strode over to the door and opened it. “I will, undoubtedly,” he replied, “but dinnae expect my answer to change. I bid you good night, both, and trust you’ll sleep well.”