Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) (9 page)

Was it a message for him perhaps—that she might wed him but her heart would always belong to another? Or was she simply cold, as she'd claimed?

He reminded himself that until they were wed she had a right to wear whatever she chose, but it rankled nonetheless. For all his outward calm, he felt like stripping off her accursed MacLaren cloak and covering her with his own. But to do such a thing had far greater consequence than simply assuaging his wounded pride. The women of his clan would as soon box a man’s ears than to put up with his jealousy, and yet he felt a twinge of it now. Still he held his tongue, battling through strange emotions that assailed him. In all his years he had never felt possessive over any woman. Foreign as the feeling was, he recognized it nevertheless and didn’t like it one bit.

He couldn’t see much beneath the arisaid, but she had changed into a simpler gown. He spied a glimpse of the dark-blue wool beneath the plaid. His sisters, Cailin and Sorcha, had changed, as well, although Lael had refused. The eldest of his sisters was as stubborn a wench as any who had ever breathed—even more headstrong than their mother had been, but Aidan could barely recall much else about the woman who had borne him. That fact alone rankled, and his new bride—the woman who would share his bed—was the daughter of the man he held responsible for her death.

“Widowhood suits ye,” he remarked. “Though dinna become accustomed to it, for I dinna intend to be so accommodating as your first husband.” He crossed his arms, his countenance dark as he again fixed his gaze upon her odious MacLaren cloak.

Averting her gaze, Lìleas peered across the bonfire, where her companions stood huddled together. She seemed to be weighing her words, her jaw working slightly as she stared at her companions. “I am no more responsible for my husband’s death than you are for your father’s,” she suggested.

“Is that so?”

Her violet eyes snapped up to meet his. “Aye, my lord, it is.”

“My name is Aidan,” he corrected her. “Here we do not adhere to haughty English customs as the rest of Scotia seems inclined to do.”

“Mayhap,” she allowed. “But ye are now my keeper and thus my lord, are ye not?”

Mo chreach!
The wench was no more subservient than his bloody sisters! And yet though he felt a stab of anger over her words, he did not truly wish her to be anything less, he realized. He took a deep breath, summoning patience before speaking. “I am neither your keeper nor your husband as yet,
mo chroí—my heart.
And, in fact, I am reconsidering the wisdom of inviting the woman whose hands bear the blood of my father into my bed.”

“Would that you had decided sooner!” she dared to scold him. “But
I
did not kill your father, Aidan
dún Scoti
. Your people cursed an innocent child.”

Hearing the name her kinfolk called him, the Scot from the hills, Aidan grimaced. By the sins of sluag, he was no bloody Scotsman! “Aye,” he argued, “though your father did—in cold blood I might add. If, in fact, your life has been accursed,
mo chroí
, you may blame Padruig Caimbeul, not my kin
.
”

Illuminated by the rising flames, her violet eyes seemed to deepen to a shade this side of black. “I never said I blamed your kin.”

“And yet you do?”

The question was a challenge. They both knew very well that there was enmity between them—enmity that stemmed from circumstances far beyond this moment—beyond any words that had ever been spoken between them.

Her eyes glistened by the light of the fire, but she dared to lift her chin. “As you blame me?”

That too, was a challenge.

The bonfire grew brighter, crackling in the twilight.

Aidan was well aware that now that he had arrived, those of his kinfolk who had avoided the celebration before were drifting into the circle. They were watching him and his bride. Even the children looked to their chieftain for direction, for if these guests rose up against them, he would be the one to lead his warriors to their defense.

But this was no warrior standing before him.

She was a woman... a woman unlike any he had ever known.

She looked like an English loving Scot, sounded like a Scot, but her eyes gave him a feeling of kinship that he should not in good conscience share with a woman whose father had committed such atrocities upon his clan.

And yet... he had agreed for her to become his wife. At some point, he
must
find a way to put aside their differences and embrace her... for the good of all.

Unless he truly planned to kill her for her father’s sins... and what true justice was there in that? Revenge, although he had certainly entertained those notions, were not the reason he had agreed to this union. It was not his duty to conquer. It was his duty to protect the stone, and the best way to accomplish that was to stay out of petty wars.

He gazed across the fire at her companions, wondering if their treatment of Lìleas were somehow a trick, a scheme to pluck at his heartstrings... for despite his resolve not to be affected by the lass, he sensed her torment just the same. It weighed the air around them like a black cloud... invisible but there... like Una’s visions—things he could not see with his eyes, but he could certainly feel them.

“Why did you agree to wed me?” he asked suddenly, needing to know.

She peered up at him, her violet eyes reflecting the bonfire. Tiny flames danced in her gaze. “I could ask the same of you?” she countered. And once again, her chin lifted defiantly.

She was a quick little temptress with a depth of knowing in her eyes that unsettled him. But verra well, he would play her game if he must. “And to your mind... what would be the acceptable reply?”

“For peace,” she professed without hesitation.

Aidan nodded, suddenly at a loss for words, for while he wished to say the same, he had not brought her here for that reason. Vengeance was never truly his motive, he reassured himself once more, but somewhere inside a fire cooled at her answer. And yet her presence here at Dubhtolargg was only assurance that her father would not bear arms against them, so long as he valued his daughter. If he did not value her, then they held no advantage at all. She was simply a viper in their midst, spying for her Da and for David mac Mhaoil Chaluim.

Could he afford to trust her?

If she spoke the truth… could he wipe the bitterness from his heart and take her at her word? After all, she was right; she was not her father.

Aidan felt the scrutiny of his clansmen acutely. As his brother had done, they would treat his bride as he treated her, following his lead. Until he knew more, he could not condemn her to his people’s discrimination, but neither could he signal them to be off their guard. In spite of the fact that Una’s prophetic words had moved many to accept her with a wary eye, not all were so convinced the daughter of their enemy could, in truth, be the salvation of their clan. But that was exactly as it should be. He studied her in silence, aware that all eyes were upon them.

Despite her lovely features, her face was drawn with fatigue. At the moment, she was staring across the fire. Aidan followed her gaze.

It had completely escaped his notice earlier that the man who had seized her by the arm was also wearing MacLaren colors. Her husband’s brother—information he had gleaned from Una. Those two—the laird of Keppenach and Aveline—were colluding... but the question remained: Was his lovely bride a part of their scheme?

Time alone would tell.

“It seems to me that ye would draw more strength in numbers,” Aidan remarked, curious as to why she stood alone when her brother by law and his company were present.

Lìleas straightened, wrapping her plaid more tightly about her shoulders, and eyed him meaningfully. “I draw my greatest strength from solitude.”

Damn. But she would fit right in with his saucy sisters, he thought. Never in all his life had he been dismissed so thoroughly. Though, in truth, he wasn’t entirely certain that’s what she had done, it certainly felt like it. Had she been any other woman at any other given time, he would have obliged her at once. However, duty kept him rooted to the spot.

The tension in the air crackled like the pinewood at the center of the flames. Across the fire, the pair in question turned to look at them, and discomfited by Aidan’s scrutiny, once again averted their gazes as though his attention made them uncomfortable.

“Who is the woman?” Aidan asked.

As nothing else had, the question seemed to deflate her. She sighed and peered down at her feet. “My lady’s maid. She is to tend me.”

Aidan lifted a brow. “Seems to me she has her duties confused.”

A tiny burst of surprised laughter escaped her lips, and she turned to look at him then.

In that instant, there was no guile in her expression at all. Despite the tension in their discourse, she smiled softly and lifted her chin. “I am quite certain her duties are clear to her, my lord.”

“Aidan,” he insisted. “Though if ye canna bring yourself to speak my name, at least use the Scots word. I can stomach it far better.”

“Laird,” she replied, and in that moment, she appeared for all the world a martyred bride.

Because she is,
he reminded himself.

And still, unlike most men even, she held his gaze, her violet eyes haunted and beautiful. Not for the first time, they spoke to him in a way that made him feel wholly uncomfortable. Though, damn it, if he considered her plight, it would pull at his heartstrings and he could simply not allow that to happen.

Arms crossed, his gaze was drawn again across the fire toward her companions. The reed played on, children laughed, and every knowing eye remained fixed upon them.

Mayhap his heart was not so steeled against her as he’d thought and he felt a new peril rising, one that had little to do with the distant ring of battle swords.

It was not too late to send her home, he told himself.

It was the Highland custom to enact a trial marriage. A woman, or a man, could renounce a spouse at any time, but for the first year it was understood the marriage was provisional... to be certain, especially in the case of a chieftain, that his wife could bear him a son. But he was not obligated to hand fast with this maiden. He could send her home before they spoke the words, and right now, that was his inclination... except...

His gaze scanned the gathering, searching for Una.

As elusive as the old woman could be at times, she was always around when he needed her. However, tonight she was nowhere to be found, and his skin prickled with annoyance.

Once again he considered the lass at his side, torn.

She was beautiful standing there, her face awash with golden light, her dark hair bound in a healthy braid down her back. Her lashes were long and her lips looked soft and lush. He longed to see what she wore beneath the arisaid. The simple fact that she had changed out of that ridiculous gown she had arrived in pleased him immensely, for now she appeared the same as any of the women of his clan.

She glanced up at him, her violet eyes speaking to him still, words his mind did not comprehend, but his heart seemed to understand nevertheless... and he felt disquieted. Despite everything he knew, he yearned to make her feel welcome, wanted to let his kinsmen know he accepted her—at least for the moment—but he found himself at a loss for words. And though his fingers itched to unclasp his own plaid from his shoulders and offer it to the lass instead of the one she wore, he held them fast at his side.

She was his enemy’s daughter.

Soon she would be his wife.

Which of the two should he acknowledge when he looked into her eyes?

“A
idan!”

The voice belonged to Aidan’s youngest sister. Ill at ease with
guests
in their midst, Aidan’s hand flew to the hilt of his dagger, ready to leap to Sorcha’s defense. Alone, she ran toward him, sweat pasting her chestnut-colored hair to her face. Clutching her skirt in her hands to keep from tripping in her haste, her face was a mask of distress as she came to a breathless halt beside them, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Aidan drew the dirk from his belt, but Sorcha pushed it back. “Nay, Aidan!” she cried. “I went to see Dunc,” she explained before he could jump to conclusions. “To see if he was well enough to attend the celebration. He’ll no’ waken! His minny weeps at his side for fear of the sweating sickness. Now I canna find Una—what shall I do?”

Aidan was about to set out toward the weaver’s hut, but Lìleas touched his sister upon the shoulder. “What ails the child?”

His sister’s cheeks were flushed with exertion and her face contorted with worry and fear, though she did not recoil from Lìleas’ touch—a fact that would have raised Aidan’s brow were he not contemplating young Duncan’s plight. Of all his sisters, Sorcha had been the most furious over Catrìona’s abduction, blaming David for stealing her elder sister from her bed. While Lael and Cailin were much closer in age to Cat, Sorcha had looked to Cat as a mother as well. Lael might be the eldest, but she was hardly maternal in nature.