First Meeting
While Ewan was still abed scheming, Fynn poached the three lake trout David had caught before dawn.
Drawn to the table by the tempting aroma, Ewan grasped the fish’s tail and pulled. The skeleton peeled away from the tender flesh.
“Right,” he told them, licking the sweet taste of the first bite from his fingers, “this is the plan when we reach Creag Castle.”
Fynn raised an eyebrow.
Lines of concentration furrowed David’s forehead.
“We’re all Mackinloch, nay Shaw, nor Macintyre. I dinna want the MacCarrons to harbor any doots about our unity.”
He preferred not to dwell on the fact no Mackinloch kin had been willing to accompany him, and both men nodded their understanding of his instructions without apparent malice.
“Day…Day…David Mm…Mmm…Mac…”
“Mackinloch,” Fynn shouted, banging his fist on the table. “’Tis simple enough.”
“Aye,” David replied. “Simple for ye.” His face reddened as he turned his attention to extracting bones from his half-eaten fish. Apparently, his retort had surprised him as much as Ewan and Fynn.
However, there were more important matters to tend to. “I want to size up yon MacCarron lass afore finding myself in a trap I canna escape, so when we first arrive, Fynn will play the role of the intended groom.”
Fynn’s face turned the same color as the grey stubble on his head. “Nay, laddie. Ye’re asking for trouble.”
“On the contrary, I seek to avoid a lifetime of it.”
“They’ll ken something’s awry. I’m too old to be ye.”
Ewan winked. “Let’s hope my bride thinks her intended groom is a greybeard.”
“She might fa…fa…fall in lo…lo…lo…love with Fy…Fy…”
Fynn’s sullen scowl turned to a snigger of amusement at such a nonsensical idea. “I see yer plan,” he said. “Ye’re hoping the lass will reject ye. Er, I mean me. Then the blame will rest on the MacCarrons and nay us. I mean ye.”
David scratched his head.
Ewan rose from the table and laid a hand on his man’s shoulder. “Exactly. Now let’s away.”
He’d more or less convinced himself his plan was sound when they reined to a halt a few hours later in sight of their destination. “’Tis strange to be in the place where the feud began hundreds o’ years ago,” he remarked, pointing to the massive tower. “The MacCarrons added on yon show of strength after they seized the castle from us, the rightful owners.”
“They cl…cl…claim it was deser…desert…deserted.”
“Bollocks,” Ewan exclaimed.
“Weel, they’ve agreed to pay now,” Fynn replied, “and we’re here to make sure they do.”
Heart pounding in his ears, Ewan stared at the castle wherein dwelt the woman he’d been shackled to, unless their ruse worked. “We’re clear on the plan?” he asked.
“Aye,” David said softly.
“’Tis lunacy if ye ask me,” Fynn added.
They rode unchallenged through the open gates and into the bailey.
“Lax,” Ewan remarked with disgust. “Just as I expected.”
Fynn stood in the stirrups and scanned the wide but almost deserted courtyard. “Odd, I’d say, that no one has come to greet us.”
As he spoke, a youth sauntered out from the keep, picking up his pace when he saw them. “My lords,” he panted, his eyes darting from Ewan to Fynn and then to David. “Forgive me. Our laird has been injured and I went inside for only a moment to see how he fares.”
Evidently taking his best guess as to the identity of the nobleman, he addressed Ewan. “Ye be the Mackinloch we’ve been expecting?”
Irritated when his confederate didn’t correct the error, Ewan was forced to do so. “Nay,” he explained, gesturing to Fynn. “This gentleman is the Mackinloch.”
The lad recoiled at the sight of Fynn’s stump. “I’ll see to yer mount, er…” He hesitated, clearly uncertain how to take reins from a man with one hand.
Fynn dismounted and let the leather dangle. “Yer laird is in bad fettle?”
Ewan cringed as he slid from Liath’s back. He hadn’t factored Fynn’s brogue into the plan.
“Aye,” the lad replied, taking the reins of the three horses. “’Oss throwed him. Shattered ’is leg and they think there’s summat wrong wi’ ’is back an all.”
“Hee…hee…he must…bee…bee…in bed then,” David said.
The youth’s puzzled stare was predictable.
Fynn shifted his weight, plainly unsure what to say or do next. Ewan inhaled deeply. So far the only thing to go right was the horror on the boy’s face when he realized the MacCarron lass had been betrothed to a man with one hand. “Mayhap ye’ll inform someone my laird has arrived,” he said to the gaping boy.
“Reet away, soon as I’ve seen to yer ’osses.”
He left them standing in the bailey.
“Wha…wha…what…”
“Apparently, we wait,” Ewan muttered, gripping the hilt of his claymore, ready to scythe down any MacCarron who dared cross their paths.
“Here comes someone now,” Fynn growled, nodding to the door of the keep.
Ewan’s fury fled when he espied a tall lass approaching from the castle. The stiff breeze that lent a healthy glow to her cheeks also threatened to lift her skirts, but it was powerless to dislodge even a hair of the long, long golden glory that crowned her head.
He braced his legs, momentarily dizzied by a vision of wrapping himself in those incredible tresses, her shapely breasts filling his hands. If this was the lass he was to wed, all was well with the world.
But she was too fair of face to be a MacCarron.
She frowned. “Ye’re the Mackinloch?” she asked Ewan.
“We’re all…all…Mac…Mackinlochs,” David said with a grin, looking too pleased with himself for Ewan’s liking.
Evidently as smitten with the golden-haired beauty as he was, Fynn chose that moment to extend his good hand and play his role. “Nay, I’m the son o’ the Mackinloch laird.”
Did the idiot nay ken a mon doesna shake a lady’s hand?
The color drained from the lass’s face as her eyes traveled from the stump to the grey hair and wrinkled features. Holding her breath, she touched her fingertips to Fynn’s then snatched her hand away as if she’d been bitten by a snake.
Ewan was about to come clean about the ridiculous ruse, but she spoke to Fynn. “Welcome,” she said hoarsely. “I’m Lady Jeannie, sister to The Camron, our chief. ’Tis my niece ye’ve come to wed. Follow me and I’ll show ye to yer chamber. The castle is full of kin who’ve gathered to keep vigil with my brother. Yer men will have to sleep in the stable.”
“Near to deeth is he?” Fynn asked.
Ewan rolled his eyes.
The laird’s sister gasped. “We pray he’ll recover, but his injuries are serious right enough.”
He watched her lead Fynn into the keep, his eyes fixed on the tempting bottom that would never be his to touch. ’Twas incredible that the MacCarron laird had such a bonnie sister—and feisty. There’d been no apology for expecting the Mackinloch escorts to sleep in the stable. The notion of getting to know such a proud and comely lass was appealing. However, pursuing her would complicate matters further.
More disconcerting was the news the MacCarron laird lay gravely injured. From what little Ewan knew of the clan, the man had only recently inherited the lairdship from his older brother. Apparently not expecting to be laird, he’d never married and had no sons. It was possible there’d be a dispute over the succession.
Ewan hadn’t slept in a stable since he was a lad when he’d hidden from the licking Da intended to give him for some youthful prank.
“Mac…Mac…MacCarron lasses are bonn…bonn…”
“Aye, bonnie,” he muttered, clinging to a faint hope his intended was perhaps even more lovely than the lass with blonde hair. But she was about to meet a man with one hand who was probably old enough to be her father.
*
Shona clenched her fists in the fabric of her skirts, wrinkling her nose at the odor of horse and leather emanating from the Mackinloch following her. What was her uncle thinking, wedding her to a man with one hand who was old enough to be her father? If Kendric wasn’t dead by the time she next visited his chamber, she’d be mightily tempted to throttle him.
To make matters worse, she’d almost thrown herself at his kinsman whose commanding presence and rich attire had persuaded her he was the intended groom.
Now there was a bonnie man. Tall, broad-shouldered, well muscled, and hair of a color she couldn’t quite describe—shiny and brown like the shell of a chestnut.
She had no time for any of the MacCarron clansmen who pursued her, but one look at the newcomer filled her head with carnal images involving the removal of all clothing. In a few brief moments he’d roused wanton emotions and needs she was unaware she harbored. Foolish to be gobsmacked by a man whose name she hadn’t yet learned and whose station was far beneath hers.
She conjured a vision of dimples if he smiled, though she’d only seen him scowl.
“Mayhap we should come another time,” the one-handed man suggested, jolting her back to reality.
A hundred years from now.
Outside the door to the guest chamber, she hesitated, torn between grasping the lifeline he offered and possibly plunging the clan into more conflict with the Mackinlochs. If Kendric died, there’d be trouble. She sensed intrigue already brewing among the kin who’d gathered like buzzards to pick apart the corpse.
She had to convince her aunt to go along with the ruse.
“I must tend my brother,” she said coldly. “Ye’re welcome to eat in the hall later, but my niece and I willna be there. Ye understand.”
“Aye,” he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Dinna fash. I’ll sup wi’ ma men.”
Fuming, she shoved open the door and withdrew without extending the customary hospitality of asking if the chamber was to his satisfaction. She’d always thought the Mackinlochs a wealthy clan, yet their laird’s son spoke like an uneducated peasant.
She’d be damned if she’d allow herself to be shackled to such a man.
Anger gave her feet wings as she hastened down the hallway to her uncle’s chamber.
Her aunt startled when she burst through the door. “Hush, child,” she admonished. “He needs sleep.”
Shona approached the bed, hands fisted at her sides, and stared at the wretch who’d ruined her life. “I’m going to kill him anyway.”
Jeannie sighed. “I take it ye’ve met yer intended husband?”
Shona inhaled deeply and pulled her aunt away from the sickbed. “Aye,” she hissed. “He’s old enough to be my father.”
“Nay,” Jeannie replied. “How can that be? Laird Mackinloch isna in his dotage.”
“I dinna ken, but that isna the worst of it.”
She swallowed hard, not certain she could explain the rest without weeping.
Jeannie put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Tell me,” she whispered sympathetically.
“I shouldna fault a warrior for it, but he’s missing a hand,” she murmured into her aunt’s breast.