Page 3 of Kilted Sins

Satisfied with Enya’s promise, Bram bowed and turned around to bark orders at his men, leaving Enya alone to lean over the side rail, looking out towards the Isle of Jura. Laird MacDonald awaited her there and everything she would do in his presence would have an impact on Thora’s relationship with him.

Could they switch without him noticing, she wondered, or would he know right away?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe if she played her cards right, Thora would never have to come to Jura and she would never have to marry a man she didn’t love. Enya was known for her quiet, mild manners but she also knew a thing or two about causing trouble. And if she caused enough trouble for Laird MacDonald, then perhaps the man would decide he didn’t want to marry Thora at all.

Och aye… that is what I’ll dae! I will make sure he despises me with all his heart.

CHAPTER TWO

The wind howled through the castle, the hallways seemingly amplifying the wailing sound. Rain battered onto the walls, falling in thick, relentless drops that drummed against the roofs as thunder broke in the distance. Every now and then, the dark sky was sharply illuminated by lightning, the flash of white throwing the horizon into sharp relief.

Cillian paced back and forth near the castle doors. This was the day he would meet his future wife, and it was only fitting that the weather be as miserable as he was.

While the guards by the door did their best to pretend they weren’t staring at him as he wore a path on the stone floor, Archibald, his war chief and best friend, made no attempts to hide the fact that he was staring. He was worried, Cillian knew, though he had no reason to be. Cillian would grit his teeth and bear this, like he did with everything else he didn’t want to do.

The king’s order to marry a stranger, a woman he had never even met—it was a disgrace. Cillian tried to convince himself the king didn’t mean for it to be like that at all and if he were honest, that was most likely the case, even though it felt like a personal attack. The union of the MacDonald and MacLeod Clans was a logical step, a good plan, a political move that would strengthen not only the two families, but the king’s rein as well. Cillian could recognize a good - and even necessary in this case - strategy, though that didn’t mean he had to appreciate being a pawn in someone else’s plan.

He had always known his hand would go to the woman who would offer his clan the most benefits. There was no room for love in his life, not as the laird of his clan, and so the fact that he was marrying Thora MacLeod should not have rattled him this much. And yet, at the mere thought of meeting that woman, bile rose to the back of his throat. He had been denied a choice. Ultimately, it was that which bothered him the most.

That, and the fact that this Thora MacLeod was nowhere to be found. She was supposed to have arrived that morning, and yet it was already afternoon and there was no sight of her. There was a storm outside, that much was true, and it was a vicious one, but her boat should have docked long before. The fact that she hadn’t yet arrived could mean she had done something to cause this delay.

Cillian cursed under his breath, but he didn’t stop his incessant pacing. Across from Archibald, Duncan, another of Cillian’s close friends, leaned against the wall with that easy confidence he always seemed to exude. His fingers toyed with the handle of his blade absent-mindedly and the smirk he gave Cillian when their gazes met was almost enough to infuriate him to the point of spontaneous combustion.

“What?” Cillian growled, the two guards by the door flinching at the sudden sound of his voice.

Duncan shrugged a shoulder, seemingly indifferent to Cillian’s suffering. His green eyes tracked every movement he made, but offered no sign of compassion like Archibald’s did.

“I wonder how long we’ll have tae stand here like this,” Duncan said. “Why must we wait fer her here? Let us move tae the drawin’ room an’ have some wine.”

“She may be tardy, but we must still welcome her properly,” said Archibald, always the voice of reason. “It is only good manners. Dinnae forget she is the sister o’ Laird MacLeod.”

“So?” asked Duncan. “She could be the king himself. I’d still want that wine.”

“We’re stayin’,” Cillian said with a finality to his tone. Archibald was right, though Cillian could definitely use a drink, and so Duncan’s suggestion was more than appealing. He wouldn’t risk appearing rude to Thora MacLeod, though, not so much because he cared what she would think, but simply to show her that even though she was late, Cillian was above such things and would still give her the welcome befitting a woman of her position.

He would show her he was better than her.

Duncan raised his hands in mock surrender and Archibald leaned against the opposite wall, facing him, but both men fell silent, going back to simply watching Cillian as he paced. With nothing else to keep Cillian occupied, he could hear every drop that fell against the walls, every sound the wind made, all of it cresting into a terrible cacophony that would drive him mad if he did nothing about it.

Just as he was about to relent, though, and tell Duncan that perhaps his idea wasn’t so bad after all, the doors opened with a sudden bang, the wood crashing against the stone wall as the wind ripped it out of the hands of the guards posted outside. There, in the middle of the threshold, stood a small figure dressed in a thick, wool cloak, drenched from head to toe. With heavy, weary footsteps, the figure approached Cillian and threw the hood back to reveal a pair of eyes like the deepest sea and a mop of dark hair that dripped water on his floors.

In fact, the entire woman was dripping water on his floors, her clothes soaked so thoroughly that he would be surprised if they were not twice their usual weight.

Who is this? Surely, it’s nae Thora MacLeod.

Though Cillian had never seen Thora, he had heard descriptions of her, and though the woman standing in front of him had blue eyes, like he had been told, she looked nothing like a noble girl. A small thing, short and waifish, she seemed more suited to the kitchens or to serving wine to men like him. All the noble girls he had met in his life were robust, well-fed and leading easy lives. This girl was likely a servant or a traveler. Either way, she was none of Cillian’s business.

Where is Thora MacLeod? What could be takin’ her so long?

Irritation spread through his veins like fire. He only wished something had truly happened to the woman, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the delay.

He looked at the woman briefly, wondering what she wanted and why she remained there, as though she was waiting for something. Whether a traveler or a servant, Cillian didn't appreciate the unwavering stare the woman gave him. She had the audacity to stare at Cillian with what seemed like a mixture of curiosity and dislike, sentiments that didn’t become a servant.

There was an air of superiority about her, something in the way she held her back straight and her eyes raised that spoke of a challenge, and Cillian belatedly realized everyone in the room had gone silent, waiting to see what would happen.

“If ye need assistance, miss, I’m sure someone in the kitchens can help ye,” he told her in an impatient tone. “If ye’re lookin’ fer employment or board, however, then we can offer neither.”

“Employment?” the woman asked with a frown. “I willnae be dismissed like this!” the woman said, bringing Cillian to a sudden halt again. “Laird MacDonald, this is far from the welcome I expected tae receive. Are ye an’ yer men always so terribly hospitable tae all yer guests?”