A Perfect Knight For Love (36 page)

They’d have to seek shelter. He didn’t turn to ask Margaret if she agreed. He tried to completely ignore her. He already knew she considered him the weakest, densest lout because she continually told him so. The last had been the one time he’d asked for a rest, and then further why she’d set out to rescue a man without packing one bit of rudimentary equipment, such as a dry change of clothing or a bit of food.

Thayne slicked a hand across his face, sluicing moisture away. The act rubbed his palm along stubble. His Amalie probably wouldn’t like being nuzzled from a jaw like this. It usually took a week or more for his skin to feel this grizzled, which was the main reason he kept it scraped off. A man unable to grow a decent beard just provided a lot of amusement at his expense. Better to say he deigned to follow Roman style, leaving little for an enemy to grasp during battle than the real reason. His beard growth now gave him a timeline for his incarceration. He’d been there a week, or close to it.

Thayne jumped a small burn trickle, saturating the ground, and then turned to give his rescuer a hand over it, although it was more a toss. That wasn’t intentional. She went airborne due to her diminutive size and lack of weight. She barely kept her feet and thanked him with a scrunched up expression that would dampen her chances for suitors. Once she’d grown enough for such and changed her mind about the state of matrimony.

He now knew she was his betrothed, she considered it a blessing to be free of him, and she truly wondered at her father’s anger. No clan should want ties with a clan sporting men as weak and dense as him. She’d helped him escape in order to spare herself the ignominy of a life of shame such as her father had imposed on her. She didn’t like Thayne. She expected to be rewarded. He was to get his new English wife to sponsor her into society down in Londontown. Mary Margaret wasn’t going to bury herself in the Highlands, amid such harsh rules and clan rigidity. No. She wanted to make something of herself.

In London?

Mary Margaret Beatrice MacKennah would have little chance. Thayne had experience with a society that whispered and cold-shouldered someone for either speech, mode of dress, or lack of sophisticated manners. He’d have disabused Mistress MacKennah of such dreams, but he found it suited him to let her believe them. She could find out for herself. It was payment enough since she appeared to match her mother’s temperament. Her lack of compassion shone throughout every spiteful word she uttered and every disgusted look she gave him. He’d rather have her silence.

Without warning, an arrow spliced the ground between his legs, stopping him mid-stride. Thayne immediately put out his good arm and shoved Mary behind him, and she immediately began haranguing him over it.

“Lout! Imbecile! I’ve had about enough of your manhandling, and oafish—”

“Hush!”

She shoved at him with puny arms that hadn’t any effect. And then he yanked her off her feet for good measure.

“Let . . . me go!”

“If you value life, hush!”

He hissed it over his shoulder, and watched realization finally dawn as she saw the shaft still quivering between his feet. Then she became a dead weight, of less than a sack of grain.

“Halt!”

The order seemed to emanate from every direction through the fog layer, stopping him as if they’d known he debated sprinting up the hill and diving to the far side. And then the forms of armed men began taking shape. Lots of men, bearing lots of arms. Thayne stood at his tallest, facing them in a weakened state, shielding the lass at his back, and completely unarmed. His luck was cursed. As always.

There was nothing for it. He sucked in breath and shouted his own order back at them. “You friend or foe?”

“Depends on your clan!”

The answering shout sounded familiar, as did the plaids they wore. Thayne blinked and then stared.

“Grant? Is that you?”

“MacGowan? By the Saints! Lads! Come quick! We’ve found him! ’Tis the chieftain! Coming right out of the morn at us!”

“I am na’ my brother!”

Thayne was intensely tired of being mistaken for Jamie. Especially by one of his own Honor Guard. It made his reply harsher than he intended. He also eased the girl back to her feet, but held to her, in the event she wasn’t ready. Grant stopped in front of him, planted his sword, blade down into the ground, and went to a knee. He was joined by more of them, all doing the same.

“My laird.”

“What is this?”

Thayne’s heart stumbled as he assigned meaning. But that would mean Jamie was dead, and that just wasn’t worth considering. As much as he’d detested what Jamie did, and how many he hurt, it still pained to think him gone.

“A vow of fealty. To the new Chieftain of the MacGowan clan. You. Thayne Alexander MacGowan.”

“No.”

“Aye. The duke . . . he, uh . . . he passed on two nights past.”

He’d lost his only sibling, and hadn’t even felt it? Thayne’s knees wobbled for a moment before he forced them to keep him standing. The lass at his back stirred slightly.

“How?”

The men were getting back to their feet. None would meet his eye. Thayne had to ask it again. “Tell me how. You. Grant.”

“He fell from his horse and broke his neck. I’d as lief say it happened during battle, but ’twould be a lie.”

“He broke his neck? Jamie?”

“Aye, and died afore any could even reach him. Without pain.”

“Where is he? Close?”

“Nae. We sent him back to the castle. Yester-eve. Seemed best at the time.”

“Best?”

“’Tis powerful hard to rally men when their leader lies dead in his tent. But now that you’ve arrived, we can enjoin the bastards in battle and—”

“Nae. There’s been enough feuding over a slight. And trust me, lads. The bride would na’ have taken my hand in wedlock, even had I been available.”

“Nae?”

“Na’ only would she na’ have me, but she has nae qualms about speaking on it to me, either.”

“She does na’ want you? The MacGowan?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake! Could you finish this later? I’m hungry. And cold.”

The lass interrupted them, stepping out from behind him, with both hands on her hips, to look up at the horde of men about them. She hadn’t gained much in stature or presence. Her resemblance to a sprite seemed more acute than before. He amended that. She looked more like a little angry sprite. Thayne watched them all look at her and start grinning.

“Forgive my manners. Lads? Meet Mary Margaret, formerly of MacKennah clan. My rescuer.”

“I canna’ possibly forgive your manners, Thayne MacGowan, since you’ve failed to exhibit any. But I suppose . . . if any of you men have food?”

Sean stepped forward and handed her what appeared to be an oatcake sprinkled with berries, and added a strip of dried meat. Thayne’s mouth watered just watching her down it, without one word of his needs.

“You hungry, my laird?”

Someone asked it. Thayne looked up from contemplation of Mary as she chewed and swallowed and then demanded more. He shook himself. She wasn’t the only one blessed by his marriage to Amalie. His luck must be changing.

“I’m more in need of whiskey, and then a warm fire. And then I’ll look to filling my belly. We have any of that? Close by?”

There was a chorus of ‘ayes,’ and then someone shoved a flask into his hand.

The MacGowan clan appeared to run on a system of barter, much like a medieval fief. She’d decided to continue her exploration of the keep by checking the storerooms above the kitchens. These branched out of a hall that paralleled the Great Hall upper balcony. They could be reached from either the great wheel-stair that led to her chambers, or she could use another set of steps designated for servants and the like. The balcony had several openings between stone and wood-framed columns, giving a decent view to happenings down below in the Great Hall. There were platforms that jutted out at intervals along the walkway, for accessing the chandeliers. There was also a minstrel’s gallery.

Thayne had a room slated as his treasury. She’d been forced to hide her disappointment that all his treasure consisted of fashioned goods. According to the steward-at-arms, Thayne had taken all the coins with him when he’d first gone to the MacKennahs. He’d left behind a locked room containing boxes of jewelry and gem-encrusted articles, while chests containing accoutrements worked in gold and silver lined the walls. It should amount to a good portion of the ransom amount, if the MacKennahs were amenable to barter and payments.

Another room contained the barter he must have accepted for rents from his clan. Amalie counted more than eleven bales of raw sheered wool ready to be carded, alongside uncountable spools of threads, ready for the dye shed, or perhaps the weaving looms. That sort of industry was undoubtedly based in one of the outbuildings she hadn’t toured yet, since the dying and drying of wool created a noxious environment.

And then Jamie’s body arrived, changing everything.

Amalie had just finished checking the embroidered bed linens, when the sounds of shouting, booted feet, and clanking of weaponry filled the Great Hall beneath them, sending her to a balcony edge. Maves, Stout Pells, the others who’d accompanied her, and even the steward filled space along the balcony.

“Lady MacGowan! We’ve come in search of Lady MacGowan! Someone fetch the woman.”

Amalie clenched her hands at her breasts to hide the trembling. Nothing could be done about the cold. Stout Pells answered for her, in a loud booming voice that seemed to echo. Everyone looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t known he possessed such a voice. She wasn’t alone. Just about everyone looked surprised.

“Speak your piece, Angus MacGorrick! And then I’ll decide whether Her Ladyship can attend you or na’!”

“The duke is dead!”

“Jamie?”

“Escort Her Ladyship to the chieftain room! Now!”

“Aye!”

The noise below her swelled, turning into a mass of men who filed through the door that led to the rooms she’d met Thayne in the night of her presentation. Odd. It felt like it had happened months ago. No. Years.

“My lady?”

Stout Pells held an arm out for her escort. Amalie took it and worked at smoothing any stray hairs that might have escaped her caplet back into order. Jamie was dead? Because of their stupid feud? Perhaps even now, the clan was in battle to free Thayne . . . and these men wished to see her? They didn’t blame her, did they? They couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair. But . . . if they did blame her, they wouldn’t up and punish her without a hearing? Would they? They couldn’t. Just because she hailed from the south was no reason to blame her. And then her mind filled with images of what form the punishment might take, before she could stop it.

Her hand shook on Stout Pells’s arm. He ignored it. The steps seemed endless, her feet like they belonged to someone else. At one point she tripped and would have fallen, if Pells hadn’t yanked up on his arm at that moment. He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t dare ask. They had a large assemblage following them, and more clan members joined them in the Great Room once they reached it. To her, the observers felt expectant and excited, rather like a wolf pack encircling a kill. Amalie didn’t dare look at any of them, and kept her eyes on the floor directly in front of her skirts. She told herself it was just her imagination; then started silently praying she was right.

The sound of steps got swallowed up in the noise generated by such a large crowd. They reached the enormous oaken double doors, and someone pounded for entrance. By now, her hands weren’t the only cold portion of her anatomy. Everything on her body shivered with the chilled sensation. If it wasn’t for Pells’s assistance, she didn’t know if her legs would continue holding her. She clung to his arm as he shoved his way through the mass, creating a wake in a sea of bodies. They reached the dais, but a glance showed it to be empty. Pells stopped, and that meant Amalie had to.

“I’ve brought Her Ladyship. As bid. You may speak now, Angus MacGorrick.”

Pells’s words rang out, making an audible vacuum in the room. It felt like everyone pulled in a breath and just held it. Waiting. Then there came shuffling sounds and the clanking of weapons. Amalie glanced up and then stilled as man after man went to a knee in front of her, his sword planted blade down into the flooring, with his head bowed against the hilt. They filled the space until it looked like a sea of bowed heads all around her, punctuated with sword hilts.

“What . . . is this?” Amalie cleared her throat after the first word, since it warbled.

“I’m Angus MacGorrick, uncle to the laird. As the elder of Clan MacGowan, I’ve come to pledge our fealty, your grace. As have we all. Lads?” The old man who’d been leading them lifted his head and addressed her. Amalie felt Stout Pells’s movement as he also took a knee.

“Your . . . fealty?”

“Aye. To the new Duchess of MacGowan.”

She really was going to faint. Amalie reached out blindly and connected with someone’s hand on his sword. It was probably lucky that it was Angus MacGorrick. He took it as a sign to stand, and did so, going directly in front of her, forcing her gaze up.

“We pledge our loyalty to you. Now. As wife of the new chieftain and laird, Thayne Alexander MacGowan. May you both live long and prosper.”