Page 8 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Because ye stole them from us!” she exclaimed, slamming her goblet down like a man at a tavern and jumping to her feet. “And as to yer claim that ye’d never harm a woman, true, yer reputation for benevolence and compassion are known throughout the land,” she said with a dramatic sweep of the hand, as if entertaining a court.

She was trying to piss him off, and succeeding. He mustn’t give her the satisfaction of winning. “I speak truth, woman,” he drawled, his mouth tugging up so that he knew a divot creased his cheek. “Nary a complaint I’ve heard from the maids yet.”

“So smug,” Aileana muttered under her breath. “And they are no doubt women with poor taste if they lie with the likes of ye—”

“Sister, I demand ye stop.” Seamus’s reminder for silence, however, still didn’t seem to affect Aileana, for she lifted her chin, then lifted her goblet and took a measured sip, her hazel eyes never leaving his, as if daring him for a rebuttal.

James’s blood burned for the challenge. Aileana had better be the bargain bride Seamus chose for him.

“I stole no dowries,” he scoffed, leaning back.

“Aye, man, ye did,” Seamus rumbled, defending her. “Ye stole Aileana’s jewels, and ye stole the purses set aside for their marriages.”

Jewelry. James took in the plainness of Aileana’s appearance. No jewels about her neck, nor bobbles hanging from her ears. Mayhap she wore none because she no longer had any. And at Peigi’s ears, he now noticed a pair of pearls inlaid in gold suspiciously like the ones his men had presented to him after their reave of Urquhart two years ago… Shite.

What had he just asked of these women? For the sake of fulfilling obligations for his inheritance, when he’d stolen theirs? And Aileana might be desperate and altruistic enough to accept his demand, to help her people, even if her bold tongue’s retribution would likely lash him at every opportunity for the rest of his days.

Aileana’s lips finally parted to argue, but Seamus held his hand to her for silence.

“I would speak, brother,” she argued anyway.

How did she do that? Speak such commands with softness in her voice? It was misleading, and it had the power to transfix a man right before she struck her target true.

“He’s coercing ye. He’s nay going to run to the Earl of Huntly over vegetables, nor is he going to run to the king. I say we call his threat what it is—a bluff—and send him on his way. I can keep helping the crofters and tending our sick, and if ye continue to hunt and barter, we’ll find a way to make it through and pray our recompense is awarded. Peigi’s piecework brings in some coin, too, during the convent’s seasonal faires. Bollocks to this tyrant.”

A twinge of guilt assailed James for insulting her outside, for right now, her face pinched with distress like it had then, as if her strength were an ugliness that made her repulsive, made her more suited to help haul hay, wearing a lad’s trews instead of a lady’s kirtle. And if she’d been the thief who’d successfully raided him, she was an expert horsewoman, who would no doubt love to gallop the hills with him—

Do nay be an eejit, man. The woman would spit in yer porridge with gladness.

“Ye can call it what ye like, lass, but my request is genuine, and I’ll turn a blind eye to the theft.”

“Nay, and that’s final,” Seamus growled. “My sisters are nay free for bartering.”

James leaned back in his chair, haughty as a monarch, and slung his arm over the back. At one point in time, his ancestors had truly been monarchs of this land. “I understand that the king might indeed rule in yer favor and order me to pay ye a handsome sum. Three hundred head of cattle and bundles of commodities? But if I bring a grievance before the court, I dare say yer sister’s thievery might put yer sterling reputation in jeopardy.”

“I offer ye hospitality and an honest wish to make amends, and ye would blackmail me into giving ye a sister? As if she were naught but a cow for bargaining?” Seamus’s voice rumbled, and now he unsheathed his dirk from his belt.

“Nay,” James said, shoving to his feet, too, and withdrawing his dirk.

Soldiers clattered forth.

“Drop yer weapon, MacDonald,” the man named Donegal said. “Ye forget yer place right now.”

James, his chest rising and falling, fuming, sheathed his dirk. He instead withdrew his riding gloves and shoved aside his chair.

“Ye all act wounded, as if yer clan has done no wrong to me. As if my anger is unwarranted. As if my raid on ye wasnae to resupply everything that yer clan stole from us when ye evicted me. Except I didnae go crying to the king like a bairn throwing a tantrum. I handled it and moved on. Fine. I care naught at all if she stole a pile of vegetables, or a bundle of coin. I go to complain and play dirty the way ye do.”

He stalked down the dais.

“I want my sword,” he called over his shoulder.

“He’s nay bluffing, sister,” he heard the Lady Peigi whisper through the silence.

He was nearly to the door beneath the censuring gazes of Urquhart’s inhabitants when Seamus called, “Stop!”

He stopped, pivoted over his shoulder, and grabbed the latch, for the guard at the door seemed disinclined to assist him.

“Please. Return to the board. Let us barter with words instead of weapons.”