Several Months Later

Spring, 1263

Dunstaffnage Castle

A static charge filled the air of the great hall. Men shifted on their feet, servants skittered about. At the dais, sitting between his mother on one side and his grandmother on the other, Dirk MacDougall, Lord of the Isles, felt an uncomfortable tingle along his limbs.

They’d moved their chairs in front of the table, as they so often did when holding court for those under his command, as he didn’t like having a barrier between him and his people. ’Twas less intimidating to present himself to his people plainly. However, at that moment, they were not holding court. Instead, they waited for the arrival of the bride he was to deliver to his distant cousin and enemy.

A woman his grandmother, mother and a select few of his men had praised highly of since winter.

A fire crackled in the massive hearth, warding off the chilly draft. His two hounds lay at his feet, their ears perked as if they, too, waited expectantly for something exciting to happen. Though it was just before noon, the room was only filled with the hazy, dim light of a few candelabras and the hearth fire, since dark clouds covered the sun, barely filtering in any light through the few scattered windows.

Today had been put into motion months ago, and though he’d had that long to think about it, didn’t make the chore any less a pain in the arse. Alas, he would do his duty to his bloodline and for the peace of his people. And he’d not be made to feel guilty over it. A mantra he continued to repeat hoping it would do some good.

This was a treaty that, in essence, would 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 and his rat Olafsson.

“She has arrived.” The excited announcement traveled through the great hall reaching the dais.

The warriors lining the walls stood taller, the servants stilled, the women whispered and the children stood up on tiptoes trying to get the first peek at the exalted bride. Beside him, his mother and grandmother both fell silent.

The air within the great hall thickened, as if they expected some otherworldly goddess to come floating through their doors. For months, there had been so much buildup to this very moment. Dirk had never met the woman. But had been assured she was perfect. What, exactly, did perfection look like?

Dirk stood to exit the great hall, to greet his temporary ward in the courtyard, rather than waiting for her to enter. He found he, too, was just as anxious to see her as the rest of them were. After all, he’d left the assessing up to his elders, and trusted that they would choose well, but what if they hadn’t?

Curiosity appeared to be getting the better of him.

For the next sennight, he would traverse with the lass and a retinue through 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. So, when she stilled him, he allowed it.

“Let her come to ye,” Lady Elle said, shifting her gaze behind Dirk toward the double doors.

That didn’t make any sense. “Why?”

“It will give her a moment to compose herself.” This time it was his 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. But what did that have to do with this?

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 begrudgingly sat back down. He supposed it was easier to accept their advice rather than contemplate a female’s needs or thoughts. Too complicated. Anytime he’d tried in the past, his head only started to pound. ’Twas one reason he no longer kept a leman, he didn’t need a woman attached to him, nor the responsibilities that came with it, even if she was just a mistress. Nay, he preferred to keep his lovers well away from any semblance of attachment.

“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.” He ignored that niggling burn of guilt that had been eating at him for months. This was about duty and peace. She’d not be the first lass married off for the sake of forming alliances.

“Aye, but we are not always pleased with it.” Lady Elle’s 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 an incredible vision glided through.

Dirk sat up taller.

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.

She was… Perfect.

“Just look at her,” his grandmother whispered beside him. “She is exquisite.”

“I had forgotten,” his mother replied, with a hint of awe.

Dirk was stunned—a rarity to be certain.

Never did he imagine upon seeing her that…

Dirk cleared his throat, unable to form a solid thought. She literally took his breath.

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, who stood at her right. Her back was straight, rigid. Two tiny, pert breasts pressed against the fabric of a plain, simple gown of light blue that also managed to accentuate the gentle swell of her hips. Judging from where the gown curved at her hips, and just how far up from the tips of her boots that was, he bet her legs went on forever. The gown was all one color, 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, and is talented in all manners of things.”

All manners. Dirk’s gaze slid to her mouth. Perfect, lush red. Aye, she would be talented in affairs she didn’t even realize just yet.

Dirk cleared his throat, feeling a tightening in his groin. A woman of worth indeed. There were not very many women so beautiful, so elegant, so well educated. The last of which was a detail that might intimidate a lesser man, but Dirk found it exceedingly appealing. Hell, he found all of her to be exceedingly appealing.

Nay! Not appealing. She was not for him.

This woman was a means to an end.

And yet, he found himself having thoughts such as, 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. Too damn bad it was for his cousin. Not that Dirk was in the market, far from it! But that bastard wouldn’t appreciate her in the least. All the light he saw in her eyes would likely dim within the first few months, if not weeks, 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. That was, if she was allowed at Olafsson’s court. Whatever talent or education she had would be wasted on his barbaric relation.

But he couldn’t pity her.

His duty was to deliver her. Not to worry about her future. As such, he needed to present the betrothal documents to her sire for signing. And he needed to stop staring at her mouth.

“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, who still stood beside her, looked as though he’d rather run from the great hall.

’Twas an odd reaction from them both. Dirk didn’t move a muscle, simply waiting for one of them to speak.

“My father,” Lilias started, her voice trembling. She took a deep breath, and then spoke with a bit more strength, “was unable to accompany me. But I have brought my brother in his stead, whom your men have bade stay outside.”

At that, Gunnar left the great hall and returned less than a minute later. A young man, perhaps in his twenty-third year, stood slightly behind Gunnar, his dark hair and blue eyes similar enough to hers that Dirk drew the connection.

“Why was Chief Cameron unable to attend?” Dirk studied them all, waiting for an explanation that had better be damned good. To not escort his own daughter, to not come and sign the documents that would bring their lands peace was a great slight to Dirk.

“My father was… overwrought,” Lilias answered, her chin thrusting upward.

“Overwrought?” Dirk ran his fingers over his chin, working hard to hide his irritation. “How so?”

Keeping her gaze steady on his, she said, “Grief, my laird.”

“Grief? At losing a daughter?”

Anger flashed on her face, but was quickly replaced by a flat, expressionless visage. “Nay. My mother.”

“My condolences for your loss,” Dirk offered.

She ducked her face and mumbled her gratitude.

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 he dismissed her the sooner he could move on with the signing of the contract, the feast and then to catch some sleep before they left at dawn. “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. Never before had he found a woman’s toes to be so tantalizing, and they were covered in thick leather, for heaven’s sake!

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. If the Chief of Cameron could send a proxy to see to the papers, then Dirk could, too.

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, even if it meant she was being sacrificed for the good of many.

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 bated 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 some emotion, green and vile, sprang to his belly. Dirk was not one to experience jealousy, and he didn’t like it one bit. 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 of her. 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.