Page 12 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

I can still release her of this trap. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to say those words.

Aileana finally looked him squarely in the eye before lifting the end of her tartan shawl and withdrawing her own dagger from her bodice, slicing off her own strip of plaid. She held out her hand with the cut of Grant fabric, her chin raised high. She’d made her point. She wasn’t owned by MacDonald colors, and she wasn’t owned by him.

He took the offered tartan and handed both cuts to Seamus, who ran his thumbs over the enemy plaid thoughtfully.

“If I hear of abuses toward my wee sister,” Seamus finally said, his eyes dark with intent and a low rumble to the back of his throat, “I’ll nay give one shite about a royal recompense. I’ll kill ye. Ye can count on it.”

“She’s safe,” James replied, and swallowed hard at the grief he felt for sweet Marjorie, who had not been safe.

Solemnity overcame him. It might only be a handfast, but he’d never been married. And he hadn’t come here with a marriage proposal on his mind. But now that he pondered it, it felt…sacred. In this exact moment, a stranger was giving herself to him, even if it was just for a fortnight, trusting that he would take care and uphold his honor when he’d never been honorable to Clan Grant, nor them to him. There were neither altars nor blood of Christ to sip nor words of wisdom for a newly wedded couple. In this moment, as he picked up Aileana’s trembling fingers, he felt another wedge of compassion infiltrate his heart.

He set his brow. “I give ye my word.”

In spite of the lack of fanfare and celebration, the impact of the moment rocked him. How brave of Aileana to commit herself to the unknown. What an arse he was for demanding it. His people were going to be stunned.

Chapter Three

Aileana’s hand was burning. James’s fingers were thick, rough, and his palm was more like the paw of a giant, all encompassing. His calloused skin snagged hers, and the warmth of his touch surprised her, both easing her trepidation a degree and agitating the butterflies breezing around her belly into a gale.

Seamus held the cut of MacDonald fabric, his face gray, as if unsure whether to treat the scrap with respect or spit on it and toss it in the hearth. He cleared his throat. The muscles bulged beneath his ears as he pumped his jaw, causing a new surge of anger to wash over her. Even though her brother made peace to protect his recompense, the revelation that she was, in truth, no better than a cow for bartering gouged like a blade.

“Hold out yer clasped hands,” Seamus said, clearing gruffness from his throat while Peigi’s eyes overflowed with tears and she clenched Lady Elizabeth’s hands.

MacDonald lifted their shared grip, and Seamus draped both plaids around the knot of their fingers, wrapping them around and around, tying the ends.

“Upon Twelfth Night, Aileana Grant may choose if she will remain as yer wife or return home, unharmed, and if the latter, this handfast will be void,” he added for good measure. “Let it be so known!”

It took a moment for the hall of people to lift their goblets in a salute that sounded more like a toast of condolences than jubilance.

MacDonald lifted their clasp to show the hall proof of their unity, stretching Aileana’s arm over her head, and in truth, only raising his hand by degrees. Confusion and sickness swirled in competition in her gut, causing the meager food she’d consumed that day to threaten rebellion, but she swallowed hard at the urge.

And then James squeezed her fingers. It was slight, but reassuring. Her eyes flitted upward at the unexpected gesture, his own cast sidelong down at her as if to see if she would notice, and their gazes connected. Though his brow remained stern, his blue eyes twinkled and his expression…softened.

The handfast complete, her new husband—sakes, what a title to think—lowered their arms, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Numbness coated her skin, and she was certain she’d lost her ability to speak. Would he insist upon a kiss to seal their agreement? Her cheeks flamed with heat, burning, and she cupped her hand over one as if to contain the blushing. Would she dare to allow him his kiss? She doubted it would be as repulsive as she wanted it to be. She examined his lips—soft, in spite of his strong mouth and jaw. It wouldn’t be repulsive at all. His eyes dipped to hers, too, staring at her mouth so intently, it was as if he was also contemplating what a kiss would feel like.

Instead, James untangled their fingers and shoved the knotted tartan into his sporran.

“I’ll wait in the bailey whilst ye pack…wife,” he muttered, and turned to leave.

Aileana’s eyes widened. James had struggled to push the title over his lips. Was he, too, just as affected by the moment and the newness of the title? Seamus postured next to her, and Aileana gripped a chair like a lifeline. She had to leave this minute? Would James be gentle if he insisted on breaking their agreement or… Goodness! Took her to bed?

She doubled over, her mind foggy, and swayed on her feet.

“Sister,” Peigi fretted, helping lower her into a chair, then glaring at James’s retreating back and righting her posture, she beseeched him, “Ye would drag my sister away right now?”

James turned and looked over his shoulder, stopping, his brow crinkling with concern at Aileana slumped in a chair. She glanced up from her seat as the dizziness thankfully passed.

“There’s no time to spare, Lady Peigi,” he replied. “Already it grows dark, and I must return to Tioram soon, or my men will worry and send a search.”

Seamus furrowed his brow with barely contained rage at being so cornered. He stepped in front of her as if to protect her while the staff looked onward, and Aileana peered around him to watch her new husband. Peigi threw her head in Aileana’s lap as if she were being sent to the gallows.

“Sakes, dearest sister! Why did ye do it? Why?”

“Would ye rather it be ye?” Aileana ground out, her knuckles turning white around the chair arms as Peigi fell to sobbing again, gripping her so hard that her nails bit through Aileana’s clothing. But she wouldn’t fling herself against her sister. This was her yoke to wear, no matter how heavy, and she rose to stand on wobbly legs, determined to remain composed.

“Go and pack what ye will, woman,” James said gently.

“I shall be quick and pack light,” Aileana replied. “For I do nay intend to remain at yer castle for long.”