Page 28 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

Aileana trembled still, in spite of the warm fire at her back, earning another censorious frown from the seamstress bent down before her. But she couldn’t shake the morning’s Yule log hunt. She couldn’t quell the confusing swirl agitating her: shameful cravings to be kissed that spiraled through her at memories of James’s body pressed to hers while desire burned hot in his eyes, hurt burning like a cauterizing iron when she’d realized it wasn’t passion fueling his seduction but merely the opportunity to squash her brother under his thumb, and all his people were in on the knowledge. Nàmhaid indeed. She’d known she was a bargaining chip from the onset of their handfast, but she’d been a fool to consider that his attraction might be genuine.

The smell of bean cakes filtered through the crevice beneath her door with warm, delicious scents, bringing with it bygone memories of festive breads at Urquhart and traditions filled with excitement to see whose bread contained the wee bean, for the lucky finder would get to make a wish. As if the insult of the morning wasn’t enough. She’d never once gotten the bean, though Peigi had been lucky twice, and both times, her sister had wished for a valiant suitor and prosperous marriage—a destiny stripped from her the moment MacDonald men had stolen their dowry coin.

Aileana swayed from the hours on her feet and gripped the edge of the table to hold steady while her traitorous stomach growled.

“Hold still, mi lady.”

The seamstress sighed, an exasperated sound she managed to keep tethered low. Was the woman annoyed? Of course she was. Aileana had known from the moment she’d been punished by Anag’s anger, followed by the rude remark spoken under the soldier’s breath this morn, that those wouldn’t be the only signs of displeasure from the MacDonald people she would have to endure. James’s white flag—a lie—certainly wasn’t the banner under which his people marched, either. For all the rich finery and prosperity at Tioram, the castle still managed to be chillier than Urquhart’s chipping walls and barren hearths.

Aileana cleared her throat and gazed at the wall.

“The bread smells delicious. I commend Tioram’s skilled bakers. Making so many loaves in a day is to be admired.” Once more, Aileana tried to begin a conversation to ease the woman’s reservations and, in truth, distract herself from her anger while she considered what to do about James, though nothing had worked yet.

“And do ye, a ranking lady, ken much about bread baking?”

The question, uttered plainly enough, still carried with it a thread of sarcasm.

“Indeed, I’ve helped Urquhart’s bakers numerous times.” As if Urquhart could afford for her to sit on her ladylike rear and be waited on hand and foot. She knew well the ache in her wrists, arms, and shoulders from hours kneading and the feel of sweat trickling down her temples from the hot ovens. “There’s always work to be done and nay enough folk to do it.”

Again, silence met her ears. Her eyes flitted down again to the crouched woman, who pinched a pin in her lips. James had suggested she be herself, yet it was clear she wasn’t winning any points of favor for it. And even though his reasons for wanting a permanent marriage were apparent now, how on earth had he expected this to work? Did he honestly think his people would welcome any children she bore with open arms? Or would they see James’s heirs or heiresses as half enemy?

Sakes, why think on children with such a man? To think on children meant to think on how children were begotten—

Butterflies once more erupted into a swirl within her belly, confusing her, whispering reminders of how her fickle body had reacted with shivers of delight when James had pinned her to that tree and the look of unabashed desire contorting his face. She might know his true colors now, but her body still seemed to delight in thoughts of his playfulness—a secret side she’d never thought the Devil MacDonald could harbor. No wonder women had children—many of them, sometimes. If the excitement James’s flirtations that morning had induced within her were any indication, eventually the burgeoning attraction that flared for him would get the better of her. And where would that leave her? Just as Peigi had feared: deflowered and divorced. She had to return home before that could happen, and get her clan out from beneath his domineering thumb.

“I’m content to wear the borrowed gowns my maids supplied me with instead, good woman,” Aileana said. “Rather than use up yer lovely fabrics.”

The seamstress plucked the pin from her lips.

“Our laird ordered these clothes made, mi lady.” The seamstress placed the pin in the fold of the beautiful burgundy wool—the overskirt to a matching burgundy kirtle made of samite and patterned in subtle, darker damask—then plucked another pin from her cushion and gripped it in her teeth as she bunched a pleat together along Aileana’s hip and gave it a stiff tug to pull into alignment. The utter richness of the fabric was enough to steal a lady’s breath. Peigi would be in awe. “I’ll nay defy him,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Mistress.” Aileana stepped back, knowing it would annoy the woman even more that she wasn’t just swaying but deliberately interfering now. “I ken there is bad blood betwixt our people, and I’m sorry that—”

“I believe I’m finished, mi lady.” The woman stood and began packing her pins and shears, unwilling to meet Aileana’s gaze, and in the distance, a bell clanked. “There is the supper call. Food is served.”

“Did my brother’s raid kill one of yer loved ones, too?”

So blunt was the question, but the directness caught the seamstress off guard, and Aileana had to know. The woman froze. Her eyes flashed to Aileana’s. Pain poured from the silent stare. Finally, the women shook her head and once more began packing up her basket.

“Nay, I was a lucky one. My husband passed on of natural causes several years ago. But the raid saw my entire shop gutted. All the fine fabrics and threads, the imported passements from the Continent I used to use to trim Lady Brighde’s gowns. All of it, up in flames when they torched it.”

Aileana absorbed the woman’s grievance as echoes of screams rang in her mind from that terrible day at Urquhart. Then she began unpinning the waist of the overskirt. She’d known this same heartache. James’s men had done the same thing to each and every office and outbuilding at Urquhart, and part of her wished to take the woman’s hands in her own and share in her grief.

“And now I must use the lovely supplies his lairdship paid a pretty penny for to clothe one of the very people who so wronged us…”

The desire to take up the woman’s hands vanished. Hurt once more burned a path down Aileana’s spine, and she hurried out of the loose sleeves, slipping them off onto the table, then allowing the skirt to drop in a bunch around her feet. Her brother might be guilty of transgressions, but she was not, and yet she was bearing the brunt of Seamus’s punishments.

She hastened for her robe to cover her chemise, leaving the seamstress at her back. She’d never been part of the Grant raiding party. She’d never harmed a living soul. How she so wished to shed the woman’s presence now. After a bout of silence, the woman cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry, mi lady,” she muttered.

“I refuse yer gift of clothing,” Aileana croaked, allowing bitterness to taint her words, and pulled the robe tightly to her neck, shivering. She paced to the window shutters to crack one open and stare out at the afternoon light hanging low over the horizon and sparkling off the waters. “I’m certain the pieces you’ve cut today can be adjusted to fit Lady Brighde.”

The luster of the beautiful fabrics had been tarnished. Wearing any specially made garments would forever be blemished by the hurt she felt and the anger within these folk who she’d known wouldn’t give her a chance. Yet why should she wish for their acceptance when she was only going to leave them?

“But it’s the laird’s wish, mi lady,” the woman replied softly.

Aileana shook her head, still not turning around. “But it’s nay mine. He’s nay the one who has to wear them and be disdained for it. The expense is nay worth the trouble, considering I can always send for my trunks from Urquhart should I desire them.”