Page 3 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“I ken that,” he replied soberly. “Let down yer auburn hair, mi lady. It’s one of yer beauties and the most un-lad-like thing about ye.”

She blushed—of all the ridiculous reactions—at his compliment for he meant it purely in the spirit of friendship these days. But her hair, in truth, was her one vanity, for compared to her older sister, she’d always felt plain.

Her gown in place, she slipped her feet into a pair of ankle boots made of soft lambskin but, like all her things, were worn through. A hole had abraded the outside toe on one, and they needed resoling desperately. Still, all in the castle had made concessions, and she wouldn’t complain. It wasn’t her brother’s fault that this sorry poverty had been thrust upon them due to the MacDonald bastard’s relentless greed.

She let down her wavy curls from the utilitarian bun she’d concealed within her cloak and tried to run a comb through the ends. No use. The prongs snagged in the hopeless tangles, and there was no time to wet it and make it manageable. Instead, she fluffed it down her back, where it tumbled to her waist, and hastened to tie it back in a plain ribbon as she accompanied Donegal downstairs, through the hall, and out into the bailey.

Servants scrambled across the slush, pushing carts to safety in a shed, and took shelter in case the enemy laird had returned for a rematch, while guardsmen lined the curtain wall to assess the threat, arrows trained upon their guest.

“There’s my sister now,” she heard Seamus say.

She stalled in her tracks, her throat constricting, and a leaden anchor sank in her stomach. Although they’d never been introduced, she knew it was the Devil MacDonald himself perched in the saddle on the opposite side of the portcullis grate.

“Ye were just out riding, were ye no’, Aileana?” Seamus demanded as his wife, Elizabeth, and their sister, Peigi, flanked him demurely, watching her, ever the beautiful ladies that she had never been and would never be.

Her gaze flitted from her sister-in-law to Peigi, then to Seamus once more, so regal in his deep-blue plaid draped over his shoulder, his heavy belts, and—she noted—his claymore sheathed across his back. Dagger hilts protruded from his waist, and his sgian dubh was lodged strategically in his boot. He’d prepared himself to greet James MacDonald as a proud, stoic warrior and their parents’ only son to survive infancy.

But as her eyes returned to the laird atop his glossy stallion, she didn’t see the disgusting cretin she’d expected. She saw striking blue eyes, dark-blond hair waving wildly around his face and neck with those ever-present braids which she could see, now that she was close to him, were knotted with wooden beads—not bones, as he’d been rumored to don—and he was obviously disheveled from his chase. His jaw was scruffy in dark whiskers, those of a young man filling into his prime. His cheekbones were cut high; his nose, long, but firm and proud. Around his shoulders hung a heavy pelt of deerskin over his doublet coat, and a bright red tartan draped across his chest, held in place at the shoulder by a bejeweled badge denoting the clan’s symbol.

His thighs, partly visible due to his kilt splaying about him, were powerful and bulged with bands of long muscle, and his boots, deerskin insulated in fleece tufting out of the tops, were fine quality—and certainly not wearing through the toes or soles like hers were.

She nearly scoffed at the thought and instinctively wiggled her little toe rubbing through her lambskin as a chill shivered through her. She should have changed into a fresh chemise.

He was magnificent, not the beast she’d always conjured to mind when reliving the horrible day they had last been besieged, even if his face was filled with fury now. Her stomach twisted nervously as he managed the reins of his cavorting destrier puffing steam into the air. Blast it, but she hadn’t expected handsome. Nor had she expected his gaze to hold hers as if she’d surprised him, too.

Memories swirled to life of clenching sweet Peigi’s hand and ferrying her to safety as Urquhart was attacked by men whose faces were muddied and painted in blue woad. She lifted her chin to push away the unwanted thought. Rolled back her shoulders. This MacDonald bastard, no matter how handsome, was a nàmhaid—an enemy—if there ever was one. She wouldn’t allow him the pleasure of watching her shrink from his hard gaze. Instead, she walked up close to the portcullis as if to taunt him, folding her arms and examining his features for herself. His piercing blue stare followed her, evoking shivers across her skin.

She could feel her brother’s glare upon her, too, though she ignored it. She might feel guilty about bringing trouble, but she wouldn’t apologize for stealing a wee bit of food. She was a noble-born Grant. It was as much her duty as Seamus’s to look after the folk who supported this home with their labors, and they could no longer afford to await word from the Crown as to whether or not their recompense would be awarded.

Seamus leaned into her ear as she felt Laird McDonald’s gaze still scrutinizing her, perusing her figure with his devilish eyes. His moniker was proving to be true. Devil indeed.

“Pray tell,” Seamus whispered so softly she could barely make out his words, “why I must face down this bastard and his accusations of thievery.”

She remained high-chinned and gave the MacDonald a searing perusal of her own, as he was doing to her, causing his eyes to narrow curiously. He was probably conjuring some nefarious plot, for he looked as if he contemplated something.

“Sakes, brother, but I can barely stand to be so close to him. Breathing the same air as him will surely bring about a case of hives.”

A nearby guardsman snorted at her jest, and she smiled sweetly at her adversary, knowing by the tightening of his brow that he had heard her. Then his gaze dipped to her lips, then back to her eyes again.

“Sister…” Seamus rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Were ye outside the gates today?”

“I was. ’Tis a lovely day for a country ride, one of the few pleasures we still have, since all other pleasures have been stolen from us,” she replied, making no effort to hide her flippant tongue as her gaze bore into James MacDonald’s.

The MacDonald harrumphed, grumbling, “Yer sister has a disagreeable tongue. Nay a wonder why she’s no’ married yet.”

The nerve! Anger flared in her chest at his insult, even if it had been delivered by a deep, husky voice, inducing more shivers across her skin than she should be proud of. What did he expect from the Grants? Kindness and benevolence?

“Too bad ye’ll never ken a whit about my tongue,” she snapped in return.

James’s brows shot up in surprise at her lewdness, and she smirked, crossing her arms with satisfaction and popping her hip.

“That’s enough, Aileana,” Seamus admonished her. “God in heaven, why must ye be so brash?”

She scoffed. “And why must we pretend to offer this man salutary kindness? He rushes to our gates, accusing us of…of what, this time?”

“Of a lad thieving food from their camp,” her brother replied, his head turned toward her and away from Laird MacDonald as he raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Oh, a lad thieving, eh?” Aileana scoffed, then addressed MacDonald still perched in his saddle, seething. “An eye for an eye, then.” A twinkle glinted in his too-handsome eyes, as if he wished to return her insults with delightfully accurate precision.