Chapter Eight
Fiona forced her feet to walk calmly around the screen. She stood there out of sight for several moments and listened while her father and her betrothed planned her future.
It will be a hard journey.
This Fiona did not doubt, although she felt in her heart Laird MacLeod spoke not just of their journey to his home, but of her life the moment she was bound to him.
When she heard her fierce betrothed leave the great hall, her resolve vanished. The emotions she had been suppressing rushed to the fore. Her hands flew to her face to smother the sob, barreling up her throat. She raced through the solar, then up the stairs. Tears blurred her vision, causing her to stumble twice on the narrow, circular steps.
She was heartsore and so very afraid that she could hardly draw breath. Her mind betrayed her, flashing with images of his cruel eyes and blood-streaked face. He was a monster—a massive, snarling monster.
And her new betrothed.
A fresh sob tore from her lips. Was it all real? Had the fearsome laird of the MacLeod walked through their gate and propositioned her father for her hand? And had her father truly given his consent? Or was it all a horrible nightmare, from which she might wake?
She knew the truth, of course as much as she wished she could wake up and have the horrible events of the past fortnight be nothing more than a dream.
Her betrothal to the MacLeod was as real as the danger she now knew she was in. Fury and fear pulsed through her. Still, she couldn’t blame her father. He took no joy in handing her over to the likes of Jamie MacLeod. He only did so to protect their clan.
But how had it come to this?
Not a month ago, she had looked forward to a fortunate match with Adam MacKenzie.
Her heart ached as Adam’s youthful eyes and soft smile filled her mind. He had been so gentle and kind. His body had not been made for heroics, but he never would have raised his hand against a soul; whereas, everything about Jamie spoke of hardness—from his fiery eyes to his brute strength. He was a man used to being obeyed. Story after story assailed her mind. Ever since she was a wee lass, she had heard of the cruelty of the Clan MacLeod. They beat their women and starved their children. They raided her lands, forcing her father’s hand to retaliate in kind. This is what she knew of the man who now held her wellbeing, her very life in his hands.
Soon, Laird MacLeod would own her. Even her father’s will would come second to her husband’s.
It was all too much.
She swung open the door to her chamber.
Esme and Abby were sitting in highbacked chairs in front of the hearth. When she entered, they both shot to their feet.
“My lady, whatever has happened?” Esme exclaimed as she rushed forward with her arms open.
Fiona didn’t hesitate. She fell into her maid’s comforting embrace. Her shoulders wracked with sobs she now released in full force. Her heart, nay, her very soul was broken and riddled with a fear so vast, she could hardly breathe.
After she cried her fill, she knelt on the ground, enclosed within Esme and Abby’s arms.
Slowly, she untangled her limbs and swiped at her eyes.
“What has happened?” Esme beseeched. “What has caused ye so much distress? Ye didn’t carry on so even after Adam MacKenzie died.”
Abby sucked in a sharp breath. “Was there another attack?” Tears flooded the young lass’s eyes. “Please let it be nay. I cannot handle news of more death.”
Fiona reached out and squeezed Abby’s hand. “Nay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “No one has died.”
“Then, what is it?” Esme insisted.
Fiona took a deep breath and tried to utter the words, but she could not. Her hands flew to her face once more. “I cannot say!”
“Ye must,” Esme snapped. “Forgive me, my lady, but my imagination runs wild with fear of what has happened.”
Fiona took a deep breath and nodded. She needed to pull herself together. She swiped tears from her cheeks. “My father has consented that I wed…” she paused, swallowing hard, “the MacLeod.”
“Nay,” Esme cried. “Surely not!”
“My lady, do not jest so,” Abby admonished.
“I assure ye, I would make no such jest.”
Fiona slowly dragged herself to her feet and slumped into one of the chairs, shaking her head. “What am I to do?”
“I do not ken what ye should do,” Abby said in a rush. “But I know what ye can’t do, and that’s marry the MacLeod!”
Fiona had no reply for Abby. She shifted her gaze to Esme whose face had turned pale. Within Esme’s eyes, Fiona glimpsed the undeniable and horrible truth—something she needed to explain to Abby.
“I have no choice,” she told the lass.
Abby frantically shook her head and rushed to Fiona’s side, kneeling at her feet. “Ye know the cruelty of the MacLeod. The screams of their beaten women echo through the halls of Castle Làidir.”
Fiona pressed her hands to her ears. “Ye must stop. Say no more!”
Abby’s face crumpled as tears poured down her cheeks.
“There, there, love,” Fiona crooned, wrapping her arms around her maid. “My fate is sealed. There is naught I can do.”
“That isn’t true,” Abby exclaimed, pushing Fiona away. She hastened to the wardrobe on the other side of the room, swung open the door, and gathered an armful of Fiona’s clothes. “Ye can run away. Ye can seek protection elsewhere, another clan perhaps?”
“And where shall she go, Abby?” Esme said softly. “To the MacKenzie? If ye recall, his land surrounds ours. Our world has changed. There are no safe places, not anymore.”
Abby shook her head. “That’s not true. If she can make it past the MacKenzie, then she can go farther inland to the Sutherlands or Clan Ross like her grandmother before her.”
“And what of my people?” Fiona asked. “When my grandmother fled the MacLeod’s keep and broke their betrothal, our clan faced no other enemies. What happened just now in the great hall was no simple alliance. My father does not do this to assuage the MacLeod and to bring peace between our two clans. He is trying to save our clan from total destruction.”
“And ye’re the sacrificial lamb,” Abby muttered, her shoulders sagging in defeat.
Fiona swallowed hard. “It would seem that I am.”
“But that isn’t fair,” Abby cried. Esme pulled her sister close.
“Of course it isn’t fair,” Fiona muttered, crossing to stand at the open casement. “I am the laird’s daughter. Despite my father’s affection, I am a tool—this I’ve always known. Certainly, I favored the match with Adam. He was young and gentle. He would have read to me more than made love to me. His affections were as soft and unobtrusive as he was. I counted myself lucky, but I was never in love with him. Our betrothal was made for the alliance.”
She stared down at the courtyard, quiet at that hour. Then her gaze shifted beyond the outer curtain to the village and rolling moorland beyond. She knew one day she would have to leave Castle Creagan, but never in her wildest nightmares did she think it would be for Castle Làidir.
“It is almost as if ye’ve resigned yerself to the match,” Abby said, accusingly. “There must be another way to make peace between our clans that does not involve ye marrying that beastly man.”
Esme expelled an impatient sigh. “Peace has been impossible for more than a century. What are we going to hatch up here in this room to fix what none could do before us?”
Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She needed to find her courage. She would not put her own well-being above that of her people. Whatever ill future awaited her, she would be able to withstand any horror knowing that her people were safe.
She stood tall and addressed her maids. “The correct decision has been made. We will not speak on this matter again. Now, then, we must discuss preparations as I leave the morrow after next.”
“We cannot be ready so soon,” Esme cried. “That isn’t nearly enough time!”
Fiona held out a pacifying hand. “Calm yerself. Only I leave at that time. Ye and Abby will travel when ye’re ready, and ye’ll be guarded by our warriors.”
Once again, Abby clasped Fiona’s hands. “Please don’t give up, my lady. Surely, yer father’s mind can be changed.”
Fiona closed her eyes, steeling her heart against her young maid’s pleas. “My laird is no longer my father.” A well of emotion filled her throat. “My laird is now Jamie MacLeod.”