Page 1 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

Chapter One

Urquhart Castle; Scottish Highlands; 24th of December, 1545

“A little farther, man,” Aileana encouraged her brother’s horse as she rode hard through the snowy glen.

The beastly stallion panted, leaping over drifts with fringed hooves. She leaned over his neck, which lunged and retracted with each bound while his mane blew wildly in her face, her hands close to the bit. Her bundle, wedged between her belly and the saddle pommel, threatened to jostle loose. She pressed her stomach into it to keep the stolen goods in place and glanced over her shoulder, fearful of her pursuer.

“Mayhap we’ve lost the cretin.”

The snow was falling in thick gusts by the time she thundered across the bridge to Urquhart Castle’s gatehouse, blazing beneath the portcullis. Her brother’s head guardsman came out of the gatehouse to investigate.

“’Tis only me, Sir Donegal!” she called, sweating, and pulled the reins back to stop the horse short.

“Lady Aileana? Why arrive in such haste? And dressed in trews?” Sir Donegal asked as soldiers craned their necks through the merlons atop the curtain wall to see if danger lurked in the hills beyond.

Aye, she wore pants, a tunic, a cloak, and boots. With her hair pulled back tightly and hidden in the neckline of her cloak, she likely looked like a skinny lad.

“No reason,” she replied. “I thought to give the horse a good romp considering he’s been cooped up due to our fine weather.” A lie, but Aileana flashed a confident smile as she gestured to the falling snow as dusk darkened the already-gray sky looming over the fabled Loch Ness. Fine weather indeed.

She shrugged nonchalantly for good measure and draped a hand over her bundle of thieved vegetables, holding it steady while she flung her cloak over her shoulder and dismounted, though her heart pumped from the exertion. Fear at being caught trickled through her blood like spring snowmelt down a mountain and was just as icy. This food, pilfered from that bastard Laird James Moidartach MacDonald—the once-outlawed Earl of Ross—would feed Urquhart’s inhabitants for one night, and a thin broth it would make at that. But her people were desperate, thanks to the Devil MacDonald’s aggression toward them, and scant nourishment was better than none.

These vegetables are the least the ruthless MacDonald can do for us.

Life had been lean since the MacDonalds’ last raid two years ago, which had seen her people evicted. Laird MacDonald had occupied Urquhart, and it had been thanks to the Earl of Huntly himself for demanding the laird relinquish the stronghold back to her brother, Laird Grant. But not before he and his ruffians had depleted their buttery, packed away their livestock, and devastated their seed stock for planting, meaning the last two harvests had been paltry at best, in spite of the meager grains her brother had bartered from the Frasers. And to add insult to injury, this last growing season had been unseasonably wet. They’d reaped an even worse harvest than before. Their petition for a recompense from the MacDonalds still sat before the Crown, and if it wasn’t awarded soon, they would surely starve this winter.

“Are ye sure ye’re being honest, Lady Aileana?” Donegal persisted as she passed off the reins to their lone stable groom, the seneschal’s son.

Trepidation ate at her. She’d barely escaped MacDonald’s hunting camp, for his men had made chase as she stole away to the glen at the base of Carn Eige, where she’d stashed her horse for her flight home. She glanced over her shoulder again. The hills that loomed over Urquhart were shrouded in fog from the snowflakes falling down onto the frozen banks of the loch—

Her stomach dropped.

A shape emerged from the fog, like a death knell, the thudding of hooves growing louder. Bright, tightly woven red plaid, blond hair—in part flowing free, in part braided—and shoulders shielded in fur, rode out of the hills atop a leathery-black destrier. Damn the man! He’d followed her trail.

“Of course I’m being honest,” she croaked to Sir Donegal, who leveled a glare at her. She lifted her chin, having claimed the lie and knowing she must own it. “I, eh, must depart.”

She hurried away, clutching the vegetables.

“Look lively!” a sentry called while Grant soldiers clattered to positions.

“Drop the portcullis!” shouted another, and the chains ground on the winches, the forces of Earth pulling it down to land with a rattling pound.

“Ready at arms! It’s Devil MacDonald! Inform the laird! Archers! To the walls!”

Aileana jogged through the yard sodden by cart wheels and ducked through the kitchen door. Sakes! Anger at herself nipped at her heels. She’d been so sure she could outsmart the hunting party and get home unscathed! And now she’d brought trouble to their threshold. Her brother, Seamus, didn’t need to fend off the likes of their enemy after all that had passed between their clans.

The kitchens were hot with dinner’s meager preparations. Flatbreads baked in the ovens from what flour grains they had been able to grow and harvest this past autumn, and leftover venison boiled in a pot to make a broth.

“Good day, Lady Aileana.” The head cook curtsied, oblivious to the mounting commotion outside.

“A good day it is.” Aileana dumped the bundle onto the scullery table. Dried carrots, onions, leeks, and beans tumbled across the board. “We have a wee blessing for our supper, but ye must cook it with haste—”

“Goodness!” the cook exclaimed as the other kitchen maids gathered around the bounty in awe. Aileana smiled, but a pinch of sadness sparked in her chest that these basic foods should be so exciting.

“Does God favor us this Christmastide?” the cook continued. “Ye’ve obviously made some fruitful bartering.”

A lie she’d let them believe, for there had certainly been no bartering.

“Quick,” Aileana instructed, ignoring the cook’s remark. “Chop and boil it so we might eat it fast, and say no’ a word that I delivered anything.”