Chapter One
1263
Dunstaffnage
A static charge filled the air of the great hall. Men shifted on their feet, servants skittered about. Sitting between his mother on one side and his grandmother on the other at the dais table, Dirk MacDougall, Lord of the Isles, felt an uncomfortable tingle along his limbs.
They waited for the arrival of the bride he was to deliver to his distant cousin and enemy.
The reason he was chosen for the chore was obvious, but still a major pain in the arse. Alas, he would do his duty to his bloodline and for the peace of his people.
Dirk was descended of King Somerled, and as Lord of the Isles, he was allied to King Alexander III of Scotland. His distant cousin, Magnus Olafsson, was descended from the rival Crovan dynasty, styling himself King of Mann and the Isles, and loyal to King Haakon of Norway. Needless to say, it made family gatherings non-existent. In fact, they were more prone to fighting for lands and power.
Each of Dirk’s twenty-nine years so far had been one battle after another. His father, Torquil and his grandfather, Beiste, had done all they could to try and unite the clans and remain loyal to their king. Moreover, they’d both died in great battles doing just that, and now it was up to Dirk to see their legacies continued.
All leading up to this very dreaded day.
In a deal made to keep the peace, Dirk had agreed to deliver to his distant cousin, a woman of worth, of beauty, and strength of blood from his own lands. A treaty that might help unite Scotland and the Isles—if only for a short time. At the very least, put an end to the plundering from King Haakon.
“She has arrived.” The excited announcement traveled through the great hall reaching the dais table.
Dirk stood to exit the great hall, to greet his ward. For the next sennight, they would traverse the Highlands to the Isle of Bute where Olafsson was currently staging court—at a holding that had once belonged to Dirk’s Scottish ally. ’Twas agreed that Olafsson would return the castle and lands to the Steward of Scotland as soon as he was wed to his Highland bride.
A gentle hand on Dirk’s elbow had him turning toward his seanmhair (grandmother), Lady Elle. Even at seventy-seven summers, she was still quite a beauty to behold. Though there was a sadness about her eyes at having lost her husband and her son, she thrived more than most women half her age. His seanmhair had been a great source of support for Dirk’s mother, Lady Fenella, after the loss of his father.
Together, these women were formidable, and Dirk respected them a great deal.
“Let her come to ye,” Lady Elle said.
“Why?”
“It will give her a moment to compose herself.” This time it was his own mother who spoke, her voice quiet as she sat in contemplation. He could not forget that thirty years before Lady Fenella had been gifted to his father Torquil in a clan alliance with the MacArthurs.
Dirk frowned. “Why should she need a moment?”
A soft smile covered his grandmother’s lips. “Trust us, my laird. We would not steer ye wrong.”
Dirk nodded and sat back down, easily accepting their advice rather than contemplate a female’s needs or mental state. Too complicated. Anytime he’d tried his head only started to pound.
“Be kind to her,” Lady Elle whispered, sitting back down beside him. “The lass does her duty to her country. But she will likely not be pleased with being a bargaining pawn.”
Dirk tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, trying to hide his irritation. “We all have to do our duty, seanmhair.”
“Aye, but we are not always pleased with it.” Her gaze floated away, somewhere distant, and he had the overwhelming desire to ask her where she’d just gone, but the doors to the great hall opened and a vision glided through them.
So elegant. Hands folded at her waist. Head held high, a crown of raven-colored braids around the top, piercing blue eyes met his, startling him from his chain of thought. Creamy skin with nary a blemish covered high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose and small, oval jaw. Heart-shaped lips remained flat, hiding any emotion. The lass could have been carved from marble.
“Saints,” his grandmother whispered beside him. “But she is exquisite.”
“I had forgotten,” his mother replied.
And Dirk had never known. He’d sent out his men to scour the lands and neighboring clans for a woman of worth, of beauty, and strength of blood, and then he’d left the final decision up to his grandmother and mother, but…
Never did he imagine upon seeing her that…
Dirk cleared his throat.
The lass was tall, reaching nearly the height of his Master of the Gate, and second-in-command, Gunnar, a man descended of many of the same name. Her back was straight, rigid. She wore a plain, simple gown of light blue, no woven clan colors or plaid, as his grandmother had likely instructed her, so as not to offend Olafsson. Her husband would decide her wardrobe, once married.
Dirk found himself scowling once more as he studied her, his thoughts on such a beautiful and strong female being sent to marry his cousin who would likely not appreciate her as much as—
Nay, nay, nay, he could not go along that path, thinking himself a better match.
First of all, this was an alliance to gain back lands and fortresses his cousin had stolen, and also a guarantee that others would not be seized for as many years. Cousin. How he disliked the word and how it linked him to that man, however distant.
The lass waited by the doors, intelligent eyes sliding from his to scan those in the room. Taking it all in. This was no simpering lass. No fool. Dirk found her inquisitiveness to be rather charming.
Gunnar cleared his throat. “May I present to ye, my laird, Lady Lilias of Clan Cameron. She is the eldest of Chief Cameron’s daughters. Well versed in the duties she’d be responsible for as lady of the castle, having been trained extensively by her late mother, Lady Cameron. She was also educated by the same tutors as her brothers.”
Dirk raised a brow. A woman of worth indeed. There were not very many women so well educated. A detail that might intimidate a lesser man, but which Dirk found exceedingly appealing.
Nay! Not appealing. She was not for him.
At least he would have someone interesting to speak with on the long journey rather than a muddle-headed simpleton.
A light pink blush covered Lady Lilias’s sculpted cheeks at the not so humble introduction. Ah, so she was modest, too. Saints, but his mother and grandmother had done a very good job at finding a bride for his cousin. Bastard wouldn’t appreciate her in the least. All the light he saw in her eyes would likely dim within the first few months of marriage. Her natural curiosity would be squashed, and she’d look out blankly at those in her court rather than meeting anyone in the eye.
No matter. His duty was to deliver her. Not to worry about her future. And as such, he needed to present the betrothal documents to her sire for signing.
“Where is Chief Cameron?” Dirk asked.
At this, Lady Lilias’s face grew a deeper shade of red. Her lips thinned, and the hands she clutched before her turned white at the knuckles.
Gunnar looked as though he’d rather run from the great hall.
“My father,” Lilias started, her voice trembling, “was unable to accompany me. But I have brought my brother in his stead.”
A young man, perhaps in his twenty-fifth year, stood slightly behind Gunnar, his dark hair and blue eyes similar enough to hers that Dirk drew the connection.
“Why was he unable to attend?” Dirk studied them all, waiting for an explanation that had better be damned good.
“My father was… overwrought,” Lilias answered, her chin thrusting upward.
“Overwrought?” Dirk ran his fingers over his chin. “How so?”
Keeping her gaze steady on his, she said, “Grief, my laird.”
“My condolences for any loss your family must have suffered,” Dirk offered, assuming his grief was for his late wife.
Anger flashed on her face, but was quickly replaced by a flat, expressionless visage.
The lass’s moods appeared to change moment to moment. Perhaps he’d been wrong about the upcoming travel being interesting. From what he could tell, it was going to be… unpleasantly unpredictable.
Time to get this over with. Provisions had already been packed, and the sooner they departed the better. “Approach the dais, Lady Lilias.”
Despite that flash of defiance returning, the lass did as he ordered, taking slow, measured steps toward the dais. Her hips swayed gently as she approached, the hem of her skirt swirling delicately around the tips of her leather boots. Something twitched in Dirk’s gut as he watched one tip thrust out from beneath her skirts after another.
Her brother tried to follow but Gunnar held him back, and Dirk made no move to contradict his gate master.
“Cameron, go with Gunnar to sign the betrothal documents.” The man nodded and followed Gunnar up to Dirk’s library.
Lilias stopped in the center of the great hall. Her gaze followed her brother out, a bit mournfully, before she returned her scrutiny to Dirk. He was again struck by her beauty and boldness.
Men and women murmured from where they stood on the outskirts of the vast chamber. Assessing. Judging.
His grandmother’s words came back to him then. She will likely not be pleased with being a bargaining pawn… He understood what she might mean by that now. The lass was like a prized cow on display. Was she beautiful enough? Smart enough? Poised enough? Were her hips rounded enough to birth a child? Was she taller than Olafsson? Was her hair too dark? Skin too pale? Would the marriage successfully keep them safe from further raids?
The questions were disturbing to say the least, but the fact that he could hear them, meant that she could too, and judging by the rising flames in her cheeks, the way her neck had taken on a heated tone, she was mortified.
And yet, shouldn’t she be honored to be chosen? There were dozens of other prospects, but she was found to be the most valuable. Certainly, that had to be a source of pride for her.
Dirk sat forward in his chair, the great hall going silent, and the creaking of the wood and leather of his belt echoing in the sudden quiet.
Beside him, his grandmother and mother waited on baited breath. Did they fear what he’d say? Were they worried he was not pleased with their choice?
On the contrary… He was exceedingly impressed. A pang of jealousy sprang to his belly, and the consideration recurred to him that Olafsson did not deserve Lilias of Clan Cameron. He was consoled with the belief that Olafsson did not deserve anyone.
“Ye’ve been chosen,” Dirk said gruffly to her.
The lass stiffened, did not look down at the planked floorboards as he expected she would—as she should. As she would know was expected for being so well educated. Instead, defiantly, she met his gaze head on, challenging him for a single breath, before she did indeed cast her ice-blue eyes to the floor.
Mo chreach, but his gut tightened.
There was no doubt that Dirk MacDougall loved a challenge. A gauntlet thrown. And this was exactly what the lass offered.
He grinned.