Adrienne Basso (11 page)

The scent of morning was in the air, the clean smell blowing through the window. Aileen sat at her loom, positioning her swollen belly so she could lean forward and wind the threads around the wooden dowels. Grace winced as she watched her sister-in-law lean forward, then pull back to weave the cloth. It looked dreadfully uncomfortable.

Still, Aileen kept at it. Every now and then she would pause and rub her lower back, but her hands always returned to their labor. After watching her for several minutes, Grace felt compelled to ask, “Are ye sure ye should be weaving so close to yer time? If the need is so great, I can do it, so ye can rest.”

Grace rose from her bench, but Aileen waved her away. “The work keeps my hands and mind busy and helps me forget how tired I feel.”

Grace frowned with concern. “Does the babe pain ye?”

“Nay, though this one kicks and squirms more than any of my others.” Aileen made a soft clicking sound with her tongue. “That makes me think ’tis another boy. A lass would not be so inconsiderate of her poor mother.”

“What does it feel like, carrying a babe?” Grace asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

Aileen’s eyes went soft and dreamlike. “Glorious, exhausting, and miraculous, often at the same moment.”

“I cannae fathom it.”

Aileen’s head turned sharply, her mouth curving into a mischievous grin. “Why dinnae ye accept Ewan Gilroy’s proposal? Then ye can learn fer yerself precisely how it feels to have a bairn growing inside ye.”

Grace felt her cheeks heat at the very suggestion. For a second, a brief momentous second, a spark of hope and excitement entered her heart, but it quickly sputtered and died. There would be no children in her future, from Ewan Gilroy or any other man.

Grace sighed and cast her eyes to the ground. If sensing a weakness or hesitation in her conviction to remain unwed, Aileen would pounce. Katherine, who had been sitting quietly by the window playing with her rag doll, chose that moment to let out a cry of dismay. Relieved at the distraction, Grace beckoned the child. Katherine came running over, her sweet face scrunched with distress.

“Look, Auntie Grace, ’tis broken.” The little girl lifted her treasured doll and Grace noticed the small tear along the doll’s arm.

“Dinnae pester yer aunt with that, Katherine,” Aileen admonished. “I’ll see to it when I’m finished with the weaving.”

“’Tis no bother, Aileen. I can mend it.” Reaching into the box at her feet, Grace extracted a length of thread, then carefully pulled it through her needle. Katherine watched with anxious eyes as the body of her beloved doll was stitched closed.

“Thank you, Auntie.” Katherine clutched the doll to her breast, kissing the top of its head. Then she turned it into the crook of her arm, cradling the toy gently as she softly sang a lullaby.

Grace’s chest felt tight as she watched her niece. The need to nurture started early in females, giving them a sense of purpose and contentment. A purpose she would never know.

“Ye’ve said very little about yer ride with Ewan yesterday,” Aileen said, her voice edged with curiosity.

“Malcolm and James had fun,” Grace replied vaguely.

“Aye. They talked of little else but the rabbits they caught.”

“Which made a tasty stew,” Grace hastily added.

“’Tis not a meal that I’m interested in hearing about, as ye well know.” Reaching out, Aileen touched Grace’s arm. “I’ve been impressed with Ewan, but it’s not my opinion that matters. I’m anxious to hear yer thoughts, as is yer brother.”

Grace stirred uneasily on the chair. She did not relish disappointing Aileen or Brian, but what they were asking was impossible. “Sir Ewan is a fine man. Charming, handsome, with a sharp wit and an easy smile. He’s neither quick to anger, nor slow to forgive.”

Aileen offered her a knowing look. “Fine qualities in a man, and particularly desirable in a husband.”

“Aye.” Grace managed an offhanded shrug. “Though they have no meaning fer me, since I am not in search of a husband.”

The sudden sounds of clashing swords and masculine grunts saved Grace from any further interrogation. Curious, she turned to look out the window. Aileen soon joined her.

As they looked below into the bailey they saw a large circle of men. The air hung with a palpable sense of excitement and Grace soon understood why. Her brother stood next to his squire, who was carefully extracting the laird’s sword from its scabbard. Ewan stood opposite him, claymore already in hand. ’Twas clear they were preparing to spar, just as soon as the two men currently engaged in swordplay were finished.

“Watch closely, lads,” Brian shouted, as he and Ewan took to the practice field. “And ye’ll learn a valuable lesson.”

To the delight of the crowd, Brian swaggered around the courtyard in his usual fashion, raising his sword above his head to loosen his limbs. Ewan smiled at his opponent’s antics, his eyes dark with anticipation.

The ringing was nearly deafening as the pair slammed their swords together in a series of powerful blows. They spun and pounded each other back and forth across the bailey, as the men surrounding them shouted and cheered. ’Twas not only the skill of the swordplay that drew such enthusiasm and awe from the crowd; Grace could see that the men respected Brian’s and Ewan’s fearlessness, the way they attacked with lethal intent, even though this was only a practice session.

Both men had discarded their tunics and fought bare-chested. Grace noticed Ewan’s muscles rippling with every move he made, bulging in his upper arms and chest. He attacked without hesitation, the hardness of a determined warrior blazing from his eyes.

Suddenly, Brian let out a roar and charged, his sword held high. With a swift stroke, Ewan blocked the blow, then swung around. He caught Brian on the chin with his elbow, then whirled behind him and struck him on the arse with the flat of his weapon.

The watching men broke into gales of laughter, jeering and yelling. Twirling, Brian faced Ewan and spat a mouthful of blood on the ground. “If it’s playtime ye’re seeking, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Ye always wield yer sword with a high swing,” Ewan shouted cheerfully, wiping the sweat from his brow. “’Tis easy enough to defend against it when I know it’s coming.”

“Then I’ll need to try something a wee bit different,” Brian countered, as he swung at Ewan’s legs.

Anticipating the move, Ewan jumped over the blade, throwing Brian off balance. Through sheer strength, Brian managed to stay upright. Unprepared for the swift recovery, Ewan was knocked on his back as Brian drove his shoulder into Ewan’s gut.

Grabbing hold of Brian’s ankle, Ewan pulled his opponent to the ground. Dust flew as the pair wrestled, rolling across the bailey. A raucous cheer went up from the men and the wagering on which man would be victorious escalated.

Scrambling back to their feet, Ewan and Brian once again reached for their weapons. Breathing hard, faces lined with dirt and sweat, they faced each other, each searching for a weakness to exploit.

“Will they ever tire?” Grace asked.

“Aye, eventually, and then a blade will slip and one will be injured.” Aileen positioned herself fully in front of the window. “The match is a draw,” she shouted.

All heads turned in their direction. Instinctively, Grace shrank back from the sea of male eyes, while Aileen leaned forward.

“Milady, there needs to be a clear victor,” one of the men yelled.

“The sun will long be set and the torches lit before either of them bests the other,” Aileen replied. “’Tis obvious they are equals in skill and tenacity. I say we declare this a draw and invite all into the great hall to toast the match with ale and whiskey.”

A weak cheer was heard from a few of the men, but many more grumbled. “They dinnae seemed very taken with yer suggestion,” Grace muttered from the shadows.

“I dinnae care,” Aileen hissed. “I need to give Brian and Ewan a way to end this with their pride intact.”

“Ye cannae believe they will truly hurt each other?”

“Accidents happen, even while practicing. They’ll fight until one presses a sword against the other’s throat. Whoever loses will be humiliated and that could sour their friendship and our alliance.”

“Riders approach!”

The shout from the guard tower quickly put an end to the match. Without needing to receive any orders, the warriors in the courtyard took off at a run, each man hurrying to his post. Grace saw Ewan fall in behind Brian and accompany him to the wall.

Grace and Aileen exchanged a worried gaze as they anxiously watched the hasty preparations. ’Twas hushed as all eyes, including Grace’s, strained toward the road, waiting to see what colors the men approaching were wearing. She could tell from the amount of dust swirling along the path that they were sizable in number, a full complement of armed men.

Though not currently engaged in any open feuds, there were several clans that the McKennas counted more foe than friend. Grudges between clans were held for years, often passing from one generation to the next. It was thus essential to always be vigilant whenever a mounted group of warriors displaying such a show of strength rode this close to the castle.

The suspense throughout the keep was unbearable. Then Grace heard Aileen gasp, her hand reaching upward to cover her mouth. “ ’Tis the Sinclair colors,” Aileen announced, relief filling her voice. “I can see the banners of green and gold.”

Grace relaxed. Aileen was the only child of the Sinclair laird; obviously she was pleased to welcome her kinsmen. “Is yer father among the riders?”

“Aye, front and center, leading the way.” Aileen smiled ruefully, amusement lighting her eyes. “I told him to wait until I sent word that the babe had safely arrived, but he’s never been one to follow another’s orders.”

“Hmm.” Grace merely smiled, not needing to comment on how much the daughter followed her sire. “I’ll hurry to the kitchens to make certain a proper welcome is prepared.”

“Thank ye, Grace. I know my father and his men will appreciate a good meal.”

Glad to be of service, Grace made her way down to the kitchen. The cook, a stout, heavy-jowled man who clearly enjoyed the fruits of his labors, favored her with a panicked look the moment she entered his domain.

“Are we under attack?”

“Nay.” Grace cleared her throat, bringing her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “’Tis the Sinclairs who ride into the courtyard. Naturally, Lady Aileen would like a feast prepared to welcome her father and his men.”

“I have fresh venison, fish, and mutton,” Cook said, as he lumbered to the storeroom. “The breads are ready for the ovens, there’s meat jelly from yesterday, and plenty of dried apples and pears to make some tarts.”

“Do ye have enough honey?” Grace asked.

“Aye, the hives were stripped of their combs last week. But I’ll need more help to prepare a feast that is worthy of our guests.”

Grace nodded. “I’ll send some others to assist ye, then I’ll fetch the spices ye’ll need.”

The cook gave her a happy smile, then started shouting orders at his helpers. Grace had a few additional servants fetched before going back into the storeroom. Some of the more precious spices, such as salt, nutmeg, and cinnamon, were locked away, brought out only for special occasions. Grace assumed Aileen would consider a visit from her father an opportune time to raid the spice supplies.

After handing Cook the spices, Grace stayed to help peel vegetables, paying no attention to the curious looks she was given by several of the women gathered around the worktable. Unlike many other ladies of her station, Grace was no stranger to menial tasks. Being raised in a convent had taught her that no chore was beneath her. In truth, Grace sometimes missed the quiet solitude that came with performing a simple, mindless job.

“I thank ye fer yer help, milady,” Cook said, as he pointed a large wooden spoon in her general direction. “I couldnae have managed without ye. But ye best join the others at the high table before we bring out the food.”

Grace nodded. She placed the last carrot on the pile and wiped her brow. She had never met Aileen’s father and was curious to discover what sort of man would raise such an outspoken, confident female.

The fresh air in the great hall felt cool and refreshing after the heat in the kitchen. Grace breathed deeply, then quietly slid into a chair at the end of the high table. She was still arranging the folds of her gown when Ewan took the chair beside her. His hair was wet, his tunic clean. Clearly he had taken the time to bathe and change before coming to the table. Suddenly nervous, Grace glanced down at her gown, hoping she had not gotten any spots on it while working in the kitchen. The last thing she wanted was to offend Aileen’s father.

Introductions were made as the food was brought into the hall. Laird Sinclair was not particularly tall and his short stature made him appear almost round, but his proud bearing proclaimed him a respected leader. There was gray in the hair at his temples and his skin was tanned from being outdoors.

He looked strong and capable, despite his years. Aileen favored her father in few ways, except for his erect bearing and confident air. Those traits had clearly been passed to his daughter.

He examined Grace with an unwavering intensity, the scrutiny making her rather self-conscious. “My sympathies at the passing of Sir Alastair,” Laird Sinclair said as his gaze continued to travel over her. “Ye’ll be taking a new husband soon, I expect, Lady Grace.”

“No, milord, I will not,” she replied through clenched teeth.

“My sister asks to return to the convent where she was raised,” Brian said, helping himself to a portion of venison stew.

Laird Sinclair raised his brow. “Do ye not wish fer a home of yer own? A babe in yer arms and another grabbing at yer skirts?”

The words pierced her heart. “Alas, that shall not be my fate.” She shrugged philosophically, trying to appear calm yet knowing she failed miserably.

“’Tis unnatural for a female to remain unwed,” the laird said, shaking his head.

“Which is precisely why I am trying to change the lady’s mind,” Ewan interjected smoothly.

Laird Sinclair ceased chewing. “I should not be surprised to hear that ye’re sniffing around her, Gilroy. Ye always were an ambitious cur.”