Page 2 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Whatever for?” the cook replied. “Such a quantity can be divided in two and shared with tomorrow night’s bread—”

“Look no’ a gift horse in the mouth,” Aileana urged, adding a grin in hopes it would put them at ease, but they must eat the evidence. The commotion from outside now echoed within the castle. Seamus’s demands for reinforcements rang through the great hall. She swallowed, then urged, “We—eh—could use a filling meal and, for once, feel satisfied.”

The cook bobbed in another curtsy and began doling out orders, and Aileana shook the snow off her cloak onto the rushes, then dashed through the kitchen, out into the corridor, and up the winding stairs to where her bedchamber was located. She shoved through the door, barred it, and flung her cloak upon a chair, kicked off her boots, stripped the trousers so that she wore only her hose and tunic still damp from her ride, and hastened into a simple brown gown, just as plain as she was.

“Mi lady!” came a masculine call at the door, accompanied by a knock.

Donegal.

That was quick.

“Mi lady! Devil MacDonald storms our gates and demands to see ye for his own eyes! He swears a lad stole away with goods from his traveling party and rode to safety here. We’ve sworn the only person to pass our gates this eve is the youngest sister of Laird Grant, but he’ll nay be deterred until he sees ye. Yer brother tries to placate the nàmhaid, but he threatens to return with more men if we do nay comply…or worse, complain to Huntly!”

She sucked in hard, then exhaled. Her brother would know it was her who had committed this thievery, for it wasn’t as if she was innocent of such a crime.

“One moment, Donegal!”

She raced back to the door, having yet to catch her breath, and knew her cheeks were splotched with sunbursts from her exertion. Opening it, she twirled around to the man, giving him her back without greeting.

“Lace me up. Quickly,” she breathed.

“God have mercy, lass,” the guardsman muttered with exasperation, but thankfully he was used to her unorthodox mannerisms, for he’d been her dear friend since childhood, her first kiss, and her father’s finest squire. “’Twas ye, was it nay? That bundle on yer saddle? Ye’ve invited trouble of the worst kind—for MacDonald will bring another raiding party if he suspects he was abused.”

She snorted. “Oh, him—abused, the misunderstood violet.” Bitterness tainted her tone. “He stole everything from us, and yet we’re no’ entitled to a menial amount of food? We shall die without any, Donegal.”

“And yer brother made war on James MacDonald four years ago, aye.”

“Because he reaved on us six years ago,” she snapped.

“And yer faither the same to his faither before that.”

And so on. The feud between their people had existed since the Grants had established themselves in the Highlands at the request of Huntly. Before the Grants, it had been Huntly himself who had endured raids. Before that, the Crown had fended off renegade MacDonald parties, shoring up the rampart defenses to deflect the lairds of the isles. Urquhart was a strategic stronghold and would consolidate power over the entire region should the Devil acquire it.

“The history matters none,” Donegal said, jerking the laces tight, drawing her clammy tunic tightly against her body. “He’ll retaliate.”

“Ye’re nay to say another word to my brother until I’ve spoken with him,” she replied.

“That matters none, either. The laird kens ye must have done it but has demanded ye come to the gates so MacDonald can see for himself that ye cannae possibly be a lad.”

The guard braced his knee against her rear and cinched the strings, causing her to lurch.

“I’ll nay ask”—she gasped as the dress was put into place—“how ye became so deft with a lady’s garments, my friend,” she teased.

He leaned around her face as he now tied the laces, a grin softening his jaw and brow.

“Ah, well, I’ve been known to make the lasses swoon. Ye being the first, eh?”

She batted his face away, and he chuckled. “Indeed I was young and misguided, aye? My faither’s boot to yer rear and a sennight of hard labor taught ye never to take such liberties, I recall.”

The chuckle rumbling in his throat intensified. “Nay, lass, on the contrary. It taught me never to get caught.”

“Ye’re insufferable!” she jested, smirking and scurrying away to grab her shawl.

She fixed the tunic, which protruded from her dress sleeves, for she hadn’t had time to don a proper chemise. With her proud Grant tartan cast about her torso, she looked the picture of plain and proper.

“Ah, but now ye’ve done it, mi lady, aye?”

“I fear I have,” she mumbled under her breath, exhaling. “I’m sorry, Donegal. It’s just…we’re desperate.”