The Highlander's Tempestuous Bride (12 page)

“I dinnae ask for yer opinion,” Ryan growled. “Keep it behind yer teeth or I will see that ye do.”

Conn shook his head. “She is a comely lass, I will grant ye that. But ye are obsessed with her. No good will come of it.”

Ryan stiff-armed his friend, shoving him backward. “I told ye to keep yer opinion to yerself. I willnae tell ye again.” His voice was heavy with warning.

Conn brushed Ryan’s hands away with an upward sweep of his arms as he advanced. “Ye
amadan
. Yer da will kill ye, and her da will castrate ye.”

“I dinnae dishonor her.”

“I will bet ye came close.”

Ryan slid his sword from its sheath. “Shut up, Conn.”

Conn’s hand went to the hilt of his own sword. “Make me.”

Steel hissed against leather as Conn drew his weapon. The pair circled slowly, warily, blades black in the evening shadows.

“Ye are as testy as an auld boar. Find a willing wench and be done with it. Leave the Macrory lass alone,” Conn warned.

Ryan’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Why should ye care? Do ye want her for yerself?”

“Dinnae be daft. I dinnae want the lass. Ye are betrothed to my sister.”

Ryan lunged at Conn. The move was expected, and Conn slipped easily to the side. They parried, the ring of steel loud in the crisp evening air. At last they fell back, breathing deeply. Conn rotated his arm in a wide circle, rubbing his shoulder. Ryan brushed a hank of hair from his forehead.

“Ye want me to marry Mairead?” he panted.

“I dinnae want a knife in yer back from Gilda’s da.”

“I suppose being knifed by yer sister is a better idea?”

The absurdity of Ryan’s predicament struck, and Conn sheathed his sword. “I cannae kill ye. Though ye may not appreciate my kind gesture in the future. What are ye going to do?”

Ryan frowned. “I must convince two stubborn auld men to end their feud.”

“How do ye plan to do that?”

“I have no idea.”

* * *

“Laird Maclellan?” Gilda’s voice rose in pitch. “Ye said Da would talk to me before he signed a betrothal contract!”

“Wheesht, Gilda. Yer da dinnae ask them here. I would guess a betrothal is on their minds, though it could as easily be the pirates.”

Gilda forced herself to calm. “I cannae marry him.”

Her ma sighed. “Gilda. No one is asking ye to marry the lad tonight. Come to supper, be pleasant, talk to the lad. Ye may like him.”

Mutiny and desperation set Gilda’s jaw.

Her ma flung up her hands. “Fine. Mayhap ye willnae like him. He seems over-quiet, though that may just be a natural response around his father.” Her ma shooed her once again toward the stairs. “I can send Kyla up to attend ye.”

Gilda understood the threat for what it was. “Nae. I can dress myself.”

She hurried down the corridor, not to obey her mother’s command, but because her world was crashing around her and she needed sanctuary. She managed to make it without encountering the twins, and slipped inside her room, latching the door firmly behind her. On a sudden sob, Gilda slid to the floor, tasting salt as tears ran down her face.

What was she to do? She did not want to sit at the table and smile and pretend nothing was wrong. She especially did not want to smile at the silent,
feartie
lad or his overbearing father. Gilda hiccupped on a breath at the thought of the huge man as her father-in-law. Surely, her da wouldn’t marry her to a man whose father frightened her?

Her thoughts turned to Ryan. She loved everything about him. His easy smile, his quick wit—though he used it to vex her often enough. It was exciting to be in his arms, to savor his kisses. She shuddered. Never could she allow the Maclellan’s son to touch her in the ways Ryan had.

Gilda swiped the back of her hand across her face, using the fabric of her sleeve to dry her tears. She would wait and see what the Maclellans intended. If they proposed a betrothal, she would simply tell her da she was not interested. Should they be here to talk of the pirates, she would have worried about nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Gilda rose and stripped away her gown, stepping into the lukewarm water of her bath. It was too late to wash and dry her hair, but the bath refreshed her and she felt confident again as she dressed in a thin woolen gown of peacock blue with a modest neckline and simple, fitted sleeves. She braided her hair and let it hang down her back, unwilling to waste time on a more elaborate style. There was no one downstairs she wished to impress.

Fergus met her at the head of the stairs as she left her room. “Yer ma is waiting for ye.”

Gilda smiled at the old man, knowing he deserved her respect, not her pique at being summoned before their guests like a horse her da wished to sell.

“I am hurrying, Fergus. We dinnae want to be late for our meal.”

She suited her actions to her words and lifted the hem of her skirt as she increased her pace. The sounds of mealtime in the great hall were nothing out of the ordinary, but as she entered the room, one look told her there was very little normal about this gathering.

* * *

The hall was dim as Ryan made his way to the kitchen in search of a bite to eat. His dalliance at Scaurness had meant missing his supper, but that did not bother him. There would be enough tucked away in the larder to fill his belly, and, to his surprise, he really wasn’t that hungry.

His mind was full of Gilda’s sweetness, and he absently tucked a wedge of cheese and a chunk of bread into a linen napkin as visions of unbound red hair and pale, glowing skin slid through his memory. Half of a small pastry sat on a platter, and Ryan added that to his haul. A corked bottle of ale completed his search, but he had to shift the pastry to his mouth to manage everything.

He turned, halting in surprise. His da stood in the doorway, a disapproving look on his face.

“Where have ye been?”

Ryan placed the bottle of ale back on the table and removed the pastry from his mouth, setting it aside. “I have been exploring.”

“There is so much to explore in the hamlet ye cannae make it home in time for supper?”

“Several things occupied my time.”

His da stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Lissa says ye took her riding yesterday.”

“Aye.”

“And ye met Macrorys on the beach.”

“A lass and her brother. Aye, they were Macrorys.”

“A crofter’s lass doesnae have a soldier for a guard.”

“I dinnae say she was a crofter.”

Laird Macraig exploded. “Dinnae play games with me! Ye are betrothed to Mairead MacLaurey and ye willnae disgrace this clan by consorting with the Macrory bastard!”

Ryan dropped the linen napkin. The cheese and bread tumbled unheeded across the table. He advanced on the older man. “Ye willnae call Gilda a bastard again. Neither in my hearing nor out of it.” He stopped just a step distant and pointed a finger at his sire’s chest. “I willnae marry Mairead MacLaurey. She is a complaining
besom
who will make her husband’s life a constant misery. And ye will treat
whomever
I marry with the utmost respect, be it Gilda Macrory or another.”

His da drew back. “Ye are a disrespectful lad.”

“Nae. I give ye the respect due ye as my sire and as laird of this clan. It doesnae mean I always agree with ye.”

Laird Macraig snorted. “I have signed the contract.”

“
I
havenae signed it. And I willnae.”

Ryan waited, breathless, for his da to speak again, but the man seemed deflated, his bluster gone. Repacking his dinner, Ryan nodded. “Good night to ye.”

* * *

“I hope there is a flask of whisky in that bundle.”

Ryan jumped. Conn pushed away from the shadows of the hallway and strolled alongside.

“I heard yer discussion with yer da.”

Ryan looked at the items in his hands. “Damn. I forgot the pastry.”

“’Tis whisky ye need, not sweets.”

“Ye are most likely right. But I was all set for a nice pastry.”

“Will he cease harping on the Macrory lass?”

“The bigger question is, will he stop trying to foist yer sister off on me?”

Conn nodded. “Aye. That needs to be stopped. Mayhap he will send a rider before they leave home. ’Twould do no good to give her the sad news after she is already here.”

Ryan stopped at his doorway, a pained expression on his face. “Do ye have any happy thoughts to impart, or do ye just want to go away now?”

Conn thought for a moment. “I will get the flask of whisky from my room and come back. Ye will need it.”

* * *

The head table had been rearranged to accommodate the guests. Rarely did her da seat guests on the dais with the family. Gilda’s gaze slid to her chair and the golden-haired boy seated to her right. Her chest grew tight in panic. The space left for her was too small, too close to the Maclellan heir.

Her gaze flew to Finlay, her da’s captain and her own trusted confidant since she was a small child. The kind look on his face nearly undid her. Even Finlay knew why the Maclellans were here.

“Here is my daughter.” Her da’s voice pierced the fog surrounding her. “Come, Gilda, and take yer seat. We are nearly starved waiting on ye.”

“Starved, but not parched!” Laird Maclellan’s laugh boomed heartily and he raised his goblet. “’Tis a fine wine ye serve at yer table, Laird. After supper, ye will break out yer best whisky, aye?”

Gilda halted her steps. Did the man expect to toast the betrothal? Or was he just looking to indulge in her da’s well-known drink?

“Come, lass. Take yer seat.” The Maclellan motioned her forward and Gilda moved to her chair. Casting a wary eye on the lad next to her, she tucked her skirt close and slid her chair beneath the table.

“Should have held the chair for her, ye wee
loun
!” the Maclellan announced with an air of disapproval. The lad’s cheeks flushed and he gave Gilda a sullen smirk of apology.

“My son, Boyd. A fine young man he is. Scarcely a year older than yerself, lass, and already has the lasses at home eating out of his hand.” Laird Maclellan’s laugh burst forth again, perhaps a bit forced.

Gilda lifted an eyebrow at the way Boyd Maclellan hunched in his seat, his gaze on his plate as he studiously avoided looking at her.

“Sit up, lad, and hand the lass some food. She needs some meat on her bones,” the Maclellan snapped.

Somehow Gilda managed to make it through the meal, though the food stuck in her throat and she changed her wine for clear water to wash it down. At last the servants began to clear the dishes away. Gilda’s heart pounded too quickly, the moment of truth imminent.

With an explosive, rolling belch, Laird Maclellan pushed from the table and sprawled in his chair. “Laird, I would like to continue our discussion from the other night. The pirates seem to have disappeared from the coast, and it is time to speak of more weighty matters.”

“I think I told ye my daughter is not yet of an age for marriage.”

“Nonsense. Why, look at her. Too thin, of course, but good hair and skin, and of a good size for breeding.”

Gilda heard the collective intakes of breath around her. To her left, her ma shifted in her seat and laid a hand atop hers, grasping her fingers.

“I think the men would be more comfortable in my husband’s private chamber. I will send a servant with whisky,” she said.

“Good idea! Fine woman ye married, Laird. Knows just what to say.” Laird Maclellan rose to his feet. “Show me the way. Business
is
private, ye know.”

The room emptied except for the few servants clearing the supper remains. Gilda peered at the young man at her side. He was tall and lanky, unlike his sire, though muscles bunched and smoothed in his arms as he moved platters about on the table. A sullen look on his face caused Gilda’s fervent hope her da would simply decline the Maclellan laird’s betrothal suggestion.

Silence between them lengthened and Gilda fidgeted in her seat. She struggled for something to say, finally mumbling, “Ye look to be verra tall.”

Boyd turned. His brown eyes bored into hers, sending a chill down Gilda’s spine. “Ye are verra pretty.”

Gilda flinched at the monotone voice. “Dinnae say that.”

Boyd slouched in his chair. “My da told me to say it.”

Gilda edged away from him. It was apparent he was no more interested in a betrothal than she. Given the conversation taking place behind closed doors between their fathers, she was not sure whether to be alarmed or relieved.

“Boyd, do ye really want to get married?”

He scowled. “Nae.”

“Why not?”

“I have a lass at home. She is verra nice and treats me well.” Boyd’s eyes raked over her. “I like a willing lass, and one who doesnae mind if I stray a bit.”

Gilda’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “A man could wake up missing vital parts with an attitude like that.”

Boyd sat straight in his chair, his face reddening. “Ye think to threaten me? My da—”

“Yer da is a bully and so are ye.”

“I am not a bully.”

Gilda sent him a chilling glare and leaned close so he could not mistake her words. “I think ye are, and I wouldnae marry ye if ye were the last man on earth.”

“Och, so the bairns have made friends?” Laird Maclellan boomed as he entered the hall. Gilda jumped at the sound of the laird’s voice and landed back in her seat.

The laird gestured with a beefy hand. “Come, lad. We will rest and take our leave in the morning.”

Gilda glanced at her ma, a shadow in the doorway behind the men. Her spirits rose. Had they not reached an agreement? She frowned. Laird Maclellan was taking his disappointment, if indeed it was, too well. There was no toasting, but no disgruntlement, either.

What had her da promised?

Chapter 11

Ryan cast a critical look at the sky. Clouds rolling in from the sea cloaked the late afternoon sun. His ride home looked to be dark and wet.

Where was Gilda? He battled back his irritation. There was nothing he could do if she was detained at the castle. In truth, he missed her with a ferocity that amazed him. He’d clung to his temper with an iron fist this morning until he finished taking care of clan business with his da and could slip away to see her again.