Caelen's Wife - the Complete Collection (19 page)

At least ’twasn’t Fiona, she mused.

“His wife died in childbed three years ago, but his daughter survived.”

Fiona came to an abrupt halt and turned to study Edgar more closely. She saw no signs of deception in his eyes.

“Bhruic be a quiet man, with a good head on his shoulders, and a good heart. He works as hard on the battlefield as he does in our barley fields. He loves his wee one, little Aingealag. But he’s come to realize he needs a wife and the babe needs a mother.”

Aingealag,
Fiona pondered the name. It meant angel. Until ten heartbeats ago, had anyone asked her if she would even consider marrying anyone other than Caelen McDunnah, she would have laughed herself silly.
A daughter,
she thought as her stomach tightened. A child she could call her own.

Edgar stared back at her, his expression holding nothing but kindness. “I do no’ expect ye to answer me now, Fiona. I only ask that ye consider it. If ye accept, I give ye me word that Bhruic will treat ye kindly and he’ll no’ ever ask to become chief. And with him, I pledge one hundred fine soldiers.”

As wonderful as the prospect of having a husband and a child might be, Fiona could not even consider it. She loved Caelen more than she had ever expected to love someone.

Two days ago, she’d left the shattered remnants of her heart at Caelen’s keep. She could still see him standing there, his eyes filled with so much pain ’twas unbearable to remember it.

Now she stood before a man she had previously believed to be a greedy fool and he was offering her almost everything she ever wanted.
Almost.

A
fter her conversation
with Edgar MacKinnon, Fiona went to her room and remained there, more confused and miserable than she thought humanly possible. There were far too many losses for which to grieve over and even more things that needed consideration. Her head hurt, her bones ached and her heart felt beyond repair.

Usually, she would have bathed below stairs in the room off the kitchen but she had no desire to share her misery with anyone. She had a bath brought to her room where she soaked until her skin pruned, the water turned cold and she cried until she had no tears left.

With the little bits of her heart that remained, she yearned for Caelen. She missed everything about him. The way his eyes twinkled when he smiled or was being mischievous. The sound of his voice, his laughter, his smell. The way his calloused hands turned soft as silk against her skin. His breath upon her cheek, her neck, her lips. ’Twas a physical ache she felt to her marrow.

She wondered if he hurt as much as she and prayed that he didn’t. ’Twas a torment she’d not wish on her worst enemy. While there might have been some satisfaction in knowing that he loved her as much as she loved him, she couldn’t bear the thought of him being in this much agony.

She prayed that someday he would find it in his heart to forgive her. Mayhap if she knew he could and would, it might help to take some of the ache away.

Her justification for succumbing to her baser urges had made so much sense at the time. Believing she would never have another opportunity to be with Caelen in any physical sense, she thought she could join with him and take away nothing more than happy memories to keep her warm on cold nights. Now, she knew better.

It had been more than just a physical act to sate a desire. Aye, Caelen had sated her to the point of exhaustion. But it was so much more than that. He had
loved
her. ’Twas far more than simply two bodies writhing betwixt the sheets in blissful harmony. Caelen had shown her what it was like to be loved by a man, to be adored and cherished. He’d bared his heart to her and she’d torn it asunder.

The guilt was unbearable and something she doubted she’d ever be rid of.

Wrapped in a drying cloth, she sat on a stool in front of her hearth. Though the fire flickered and flared, it did nothing to warm the overwhelming cold that took up the space where her heart once beat.

’Twas not like her to be this melancholy, to feel so bereft and lost, but so much had happened in such a short amount of time. She had lost Bridgett, her dearest and most cherished friend to some murdering lunatic whose identity remained unknown. And she had lost the only chance at true love that had ever presented itself. A love as real as the sun or the moon or the mountain that stood tall and majestic behind her keep.

There was nothing to be done for it. She could no more be Caelen’s wife than she could turn herself into a fairy.

Aye, she
could
have said yes, but in her heart she knew that eventually she would have grown to resent the decision. Accepting his proposal would have meant breaking her word to her father, to James and to his father. It would have meant letting her people down, disgracing herself before them by putting herself before them. The oath she’d taken the day she had become chief was the most important thing she’d ever done and it meant more to her than anything else. The oath, not the chiefdom itself, was more important than her own happiness or even Caelen.

F
iona realized
she could not undo what she had done, yet it meant little at the moment. She had two choices — wallow in grief and self-pity or move forward. This was the path she’d chosen for herself, so move forward she must. Wiping her tears away with the backs of her hands, she took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet. From the peg by the fire, she exchanged the drying cloth for her dark green robe.

From her trunk she grabbed a pair of dark leather trews, green tunic, clean undershirt, and woolens and placed them on the bed next to a simple brown dress.

Whilst she debated on what she should wear to the evening meal, her sister-in-law Isabelle knocked and announced herself. Fiona bade her to enter as she stood at the foot of the bed trying to decide what she should wear.

At any other time, she would have simply donned a simple dress. But she had five clan chiefs joining them for the evening meal. Should she dress as warrior or something more feminine?

“Good eve to ye, Fi,” Isabelle said as she floated into the room. Isabelle was such a pretty young woman. How she put up with William’s over-protective nature was beyond Fiona. Were she married to a man like her brother, she might very well be tempted to smash a heavy object against his head. Repeatedly. ’Twas likely that she would never have to worry over such a thing. ’Twas the only consolation she could make at the moment.

Isabelle’s grace and elegance reminded Fiona so much of Bridgett. A pang of loss and regret stabbed at her heart.

“Isabelle,” Fiona said as she stood staring at her choices of attire.

Isabelle giggled slightly as she came to stand next to Fiona. “Are ye tryin’ to decide if ye should go as a warrior or a woman?”

Fiona smiled and gave a nod of her head. “It be so much easier fer men, aye? All they need do is don tunic and trews and plaid and they be done. I am both a warrior and a woman and I fear I’ve no’ yet found the balance betwixt the two.”

Isabelle placed a hand on her hip and looked at the leather and mail and plain brown dress Fiona had spread across the bed. “What are yer intentions with these men, Fi? Do ye wish them to ken that yer a warrior or an auld maid?”

Fiona raised a brow and stared at her sister-in-law for a moment. “What do ye mean?”

Isabelle picked up the hem of the plain brown dress. “Fi, this dress be so plain. Somethin’ an auld woman would wear to clean house or pick berries. It be far too plain fer someone like ye.”

Other than the brief time in her marriage when she tried to seduce her less-than-enthusiastic husband, she hadn’t really thought about how she dressed. It had been years since she’d worn anything other than serviceable dresses or her armor. There had been no one she needed to impress.

And until her few blissful hours with Caelen, she hadn’t truly felt like a woman, at least not in the very feminine manner that Isabelle, Mairi and Bridgett had always seemed to possess so naturally. Her entire life, she had felt severely lacking in femininity.

Caelen had helped to change her opinion of herself, although she still firmly believed she was by no means as beautiful as he had declared her to be. Still, knowing he
believed
her beautiful was enough. She let out a sad sigh and shook her head. “In truth, I seek more comfort than message this night. My bones ache, Isabelle. I do no’ fear anyone will think me less a warrior if I wear the simple brown dress.”

“Fi, ye are a young, healthy, bonny woman. Why do ye hide it behind armor and mail or ugly, plain dresses?”

Fiona was taken aback by Isabelle’s candid remark. “I may be somewhat young and healthy, but bonny?” she shook her head. “Even if I believed ye were tellin’ the truth, there be no one here that I want to impress with me feminine wiles.” She waggled her eyebrows playfully.

Isabelle pursed her lips together and said, “It matters no’ if yer tryin’ to impress anyone, it matters how
ye
feel. If ye would just listen to me, and wear a pretty dress, ye’ll feel better.”

Fiona shot her a look that said she seriously doubted it.

“I bet Mairi has somethin’ ye could wear. She’s no’ nearly as tall as ye, but we could manage somethin’, I’m certain.”

Without waiting to hear all the reasons Fiona had for not wearing anything ‘pretty’ as her sister-in-law was suggesting, Isabelle left the room in a hurry.

“I be in no mood to be made a fool this night,” Fiona murmured. She picked up the brown dress, folded it neatly and returned it to her trunk and returned to her bed. She was just about to pull on her under tunic when Isabelle and Mairi came into the room, all atwitter.

The eagerness and excitement that twinkled in their eyes sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. They looked far too happy, far too eager, and far too determined.

“I can dress meself, thank ye,” Fiona said as she once again grabbed the dreary brown dress. “Ye can leave.”

A knowing looking passed between Isabelle and Mairi. “Ye canna wear the brown dress. No’ tonight, Fi. And we be no’ sayin’ ye need to dress like a harlot, just somethin’ pretty,” Mairi said sweetly.

“I have no need to feel ‘pretty’,” Fiona explained. “I only need to feel less tired and more comfortable.”

“But, Fi,” Isabelle said. “What would it hurt to let those fools below stairs ken that ye are no’ just a chief? I myself would take great delight in makin’ that point with them.”

There was an unmistakable glimmer of anticipation and excitement in Isabelle’s eyes. Fiona realized then that the young woman was a perfect match for William and might be the one person on God’s earth that could keep her sometimes foolish brother in line.

Mayhap it would not hurt to wear something ‘pretty’ as her sisters-in-law were suggesting. Mayhap it might lift her spirits.

“Verra well, then,” she told them. “But nothin’ too revealin’ or improper.”

Isabelle and Mairi squealed with delight. “We promise,” Mairi and Isabelle said in unison.

Somehow, Fiona didn’t quite believe them.

W
ith her shoulders back
, and her head held high, Fiona floated down the stairs and into the gathering room, with Isabelle and Mairi thankfully right behind her. Feeling confident that her sisters-in-law were correct — a woman could be both warrior and feminine — she walked with all the grace and elegance she could muster.
Pretend ye are in battle …
she repeated Isabelle’s words over and over again in her mind as she made her way into the room.
Ye are quite graceful when yer fightin’.

Men were gathered in groups that filled the room to near wall-bursting capacity. Boisterous laughter, heated arguments and general conversations slowly died away as all attention was turned toward Fiona.

She came face to face with a multitude of differing expressions. Everything from abject shock to intense curiosity, as if she were a selkie that had just emerged from a loch.

She had two choices. Start hurling daggers at them, or pretend ’twas just another day in her keep. Isabelle knew Fiona quite well and sensed she was reaching for a dagger. “Do no’ do it,” Isabelle whispered through a smile as she placed a hand on Fiona’s arm.

“I do no’ have enough daggers hidden to take them all down,” Fiona whispered back. “Had ye let me—”

Isabelle cut her off mid-sentence, giving her hand a hard squeeze. “Had I let ye arm yerself from head to toe?” she asked as she pretended to look for someone in the crowd of wide-eyed, mouths-agaped men. “Remember who ye be and why yer here.”

With that, she let go of Fiona’s hand and gave her a gentle nudge forward. Were Isabelle not her sister-in-law, Fiona might have been tempted to give her latrine duty for the next year or two.

Swallowing back the rising humiliation, she stepped into the room, silently cursing Isabelle.
I shall never take Isabelle’s advice on dresses ever again.
What with the low neckline and the way the emerald green dress lifted her bosom, the way it clung to her like a second skin, she might as well have been naked.

Silently, she made her way toward the dais, with Isabelle and Mairi right behind her. One man after another gave a nod or a polite bow as she walked by. Collin and William were already seated at the high table along with the five chiefs she had invited, and one man she did not recognize. She cursed inwardly with the only logical assumption available— the stranger was Bhruic MacKinnon. And someone had seated him in the honored place on her left.

Her ire rose rapidly. To have the man sitting in that particular spot — the spot reserved for honored guests or someone of exceptional importance on occasions such as these — might lead people to believe something that was not true. She would remedy that situation as soon as she got these men out of her keep.

Fiona made a mental note to find out just who amongst her family decided that was an appropriate place to put him. Punishment would be swift and severe.

The men at the table each stood, clearly surprised with how Fiona looked. Even the man she’d never met. He leaned sideways and whispered something into Edgar MacKinnon’s ear. Edgar nodded and smiled before turning his attention back to Fiona. She could imagine the private conversation going something akin to
Uncle, ye did no’ warn me she be so plain or so tall.

Collin stepped away from the table and down the steps and extended his hand first to Fiona. As if she were too delicate a creature to make her own way up the stairs. She could have wrung his neck. They never stood on pretense like this. And what on earth was that stupid twinkle in Collin’s eyes?

“Good eve, Fi,” Collin said as he took her hand and led the way.

“Ye might want to sleep with one eye open this night, brother,” she seethed in a harsh whisper.

He feigned confusion. “Whatever do ye mean?”

“Ye ken bloody well what I mean.” She was unable to finish telling him exactly what she thought for they’d reached her chair. Collin pulled it out for her, something else that ’twas rarely done.

They wouldna be behavin’ this way had I just worn me armor and mail,
she grumbled inwardly as she sat down and looked out at the tables below and all the curious eyes staring back at her. She turned to look at her sisters-in-law who were just taking their seats. They smiled sweetly even though she cast them a dagger-filled glare of anger.

“Fiona,” Edgar MacKinnon said. “I’d like ye to meet me nephew, Bhruic MacKinnon.”

Knowing it would serve no useful purpose to cause a scene by hitting anyone over the head with her mug of ale, Fiona took a deep breath before turning in her seat to look up at the man.

The MacKinnon hadn’t lied. Bhruic was quite handsome. Tall, taller mayhap than Caelen with blonde hair that hung past his shoulders. His blue eyes were as dark as indigo and his smile was brilliant. Handsome though he might be, he was not Caelen.