Bride for a Knight Page 3

  Jamie bit back an oath, not wanting to take out his pain on a hapless courier. “I’d say this day has brought enough surprises.” He folded his arms. “I’m not sure I wish to be privy to any more.”

  But after a moment he took the parchment, ran his thumb over the seal. “Though I will admit to being curious.”

  “Then read the letter,” Kenneth urged him. “What the man says makes sense, Jamie. Now might be a good time to mend the breach with your sire and put the past behind you.”

  I have tried to do that the whole of my life, Jamie almost blurted. Instead, he found himself breaking the wax seal, unrolling the parchment. He stepped close to a wall torch, scanned the squiggly lines of ink, an odd mix of astonishment and dismay welling inside him.

  A brief flare of anger, too. That he should be welcomed home only now, under such grievous circumstances. As for the rest … he looked up from the parchment, shoved a quick hand through his hair.

  He started to speak, but the words caught in his throat, trapped there by the irony of his plight. If Alan Mor weren’t playing some nefarious game, everything he’d ever wanted now lay within his reach.

  If he did what was asked of him.

  Seemingly in high favor for the first time in his life, he turned to the courier, trying not to frown. “You know what is in here?” And when the man nodded, “Is it true that my father and Alan Mor have entered into an alliance? One they meant to seal with the marriage of my brother Neill and Alan Mor’s eldest daughter?”

  The man bobbed his head again. “’Tis the God’s truth, aye. So sure as I’m standing here.” He accepted the ale cup Sir Lachlan offered him, taking a sip before he went on, “Your father is in sore need, asks daily if you’ve arrived. He’s failing by the day and won’t even set foot outside his bedchamber. ’Tis hoped your return will revive him.”

  Pausing, the man stepped closer, laid a conspiratorial hand on Jamie’s arm. “That, and seeing the alliance between the clans upheld.”

  “Through my marriage to this Aveline?”

  “Tchach, lad, which other lass would you have?” The courier drew himself up, looked mildly affronted. “Poor Sorcha is heartbroken o’er the loss of her Neill, and too old for you by years. The other daughters are already wed. It has to be Aveline—she’s the youngest. And still a maid.”

  Jamie eyed the man askance, would’ve sworn he could feel an iron yoke settling on his shoulders.

  It scarce mattered to him if Aveline Matheson was tender of years. The state of her maidenhood concerned him even less.

  He remembered the lassies of Fairmaiden Castle. Regrettably, not by name. If memory served, there wasn’t a one amongst the brood he’d care to meet on a moonless night. And with surety nary a one he’d wish to bed.

  One nearly equaled him in height and build. Another sported a mustache some men would envy. And one e’er smelled of onions. Truth be told, he couldn’t recall a single redeeming feature amongst the lot of them.

  Binding himself to such a female would prove the surest and quickest route to misery.

  But he did want to see his father. Help him if he could.

  Jamie sighed, felt the yoke tightening around his neck. “I ne’er thought to see my father again in this life. For certes, not because he claims to need me. As for taking one of Matheson’s daughters to wife—”

  “Och, but Aveline is more than pleasing. And spirited.” The courier stepped in front of him, blocking the way when Jamie would have paced back to the window. “She brings a healthy marriage portion, too. Prime grazing lands for your da’s cattle. I say you, you willna be sorry. I swear it on the souls of my sons.”

  “I will think on it,” Jamie offered, doing his best to hide his discomfiture.

  “Why don’t you hie yourself into the hall to get a meal and some sleep?” Kenneth clamped a hand on the courier’s elbow, steered him to the door. “Jamie will give you his decision on the morrow.”

  Turning back to Jamie, he arched a raven brow. “For someone who spent his life yearning to win his father’s favor, tell me why you lost all color upon hearing of the man’s sudden need for you? Surely you aren’t troubled by this talk of a desired marriage?”

  Jamie folded his arms over his chest again, felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. Damn him for a chivalrous fool, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice his misgivings.

  Admit he’d rather have his tender parts shrivel and fall off before he’d find himself obliged to bed one of Alan Mor’s daughters.

  If he even could!

  “Ach, dinna look so glum.” Sir Lachlan took the letter, glanced at it. “There is nothing writ here that binds you,” he said, looking up from the parchment. “You needn’t do aught you find displeasing.”

  And that was Jamie’s problem.

  Returning home, even now, would please him. So much, his heart nearly burst at the thought. And once there, he’d be hard-pressed to disappoint his father.

  Or Aveline Matheson.

  If indeed such an alliance required his compliance. Truth was, he lived by a strict code of honor. One that forbade him to shame an innocent maid.

  Even if sparing her feelings came at the cost of his own.

  And besides, arranged marriages were more common than not. With few exceptions, only the lowest-born enjoyed the luxury of wedding for love.

  Heaving a sigh, he snatched up his new tunic and donned it, unfinished seams or no. “We all ken I shall wed the lass if my da wishes it,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll ride for Baldreagan at first light, and visit Alan Mor so soon as I’ve seen my father.”

  His intentions stated, he stepped into the great hall, pausing to appreciate its smoky, torch-lit warmth. The comfort of kith and kin, a crackling hearth fire. Everyday pleasures his brothers would never again enjoy. Indeed, compared to their fate, his own struck him as more than palatable.

  So long as Aveline wasn’t the sister almost his own size, he’d find some way to tolerate her.

  Or so he hoped.

  Chapter Two

  Jamie knew he was in trouble the moment he drew rein on a lofty, gorse-covered ridge and surveyed the dark hills spreading out all around him. Mist curled in the higher corries, the sight stirring his spirit and squeezing his heart.

  Welcoming him with arms flung wide.

  An embrace in the old way of the hills and one that clutched fiercely, holding fast until his breath caught and he would’ve sworn he’d only left these northern reaches of Kintail that very morn.

  Wishing that were so, he blinked against the heat stinging the backs of his eyes. Now as never before, he recognized how the lure of hill and moor could make even the deepest cares seem far away.

  Behind him, his dog, Cuillin, stirred in his wicker saddle basket, almost as if the ancient beast also sensed a subtle change in the air.

  Knew, like Jamie, that they were home at last.

  And for certes, they were.

  Already deepening twilight, he could just make out the distant yellow-gleaming lights of Baldreagan. Little more than weaving pinpricks of brightness from his vantage point, but home all the same.

  The one place on earth he’d ne’er thought to see again.

  The place he’d expected to miss till his dying day.

  “God in heaven,” he breathed, a strong sense of belonging sliding around him.

  Duthchas, the feeling was called. A Highlander’s fierce attachment to his home glen, a soul-deep sense of oneness with the land of his blood.

  A pull Jamie now felt to the bone.

  His chest tightening, he found himself sorely tempted to swing down from his saddle and kiss the peaty, moss-covered ground. He might have, too, but did not wish to frighten Cuillin.

  Instead, he simply looked round, wishing his reason for returning had been a happy one.

  But even here, a good distance from the Garbh Uisge, the roar of the rapids tainted the night. A dread sound that hollowed him, gouging an emptiness he doubted could ever be filled ag
ain.

  Blocking his ears, he swore.

  Then he clenched the reins so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

  As did the moonlight spilling across the dark roll of the hills. Bright, slanting bands of shimmering silver, rippling on the night breeze, the beauty stilling his heart.

  Especially when one of the iridescent silvery bands proved to have a most pleasing feminine form.

  Jamie blinked.

  Ne’er had he seen the like.

  But he wouldn’t be a Highlander if he didn’t recognize the wonder before him. A sight as ancient as the rocks and heather, but so rare, his whole world tilted.

  His breath catching, he slid a hand behind him, curling his fingers into the scruffy fur at Cuillin’s shoulders. “Saints o’ mercy!” he marveled, his eyes widening. “A faery!”

  There could be no doubt.

  Only one of the Daoine Sithe could be so delicate and fair.

  More exquisite than any female of this earth, the fey beauty slipped through a moon-silvered glade, her dainty feet not seeming to touch the ground.

  Saints, she looked so tiny he doubted she’d come up to his chest were he to stand before her. Small-breasted and slight, she moved with a grace that bespoke lithe, slender legs. And she wore her hair unbound and flowing, a glistening sheaf of palest silk so beautiful he would’ve groaned did he not wish to risk drawing her attention.

  But he did catch her scent on the chill night air.

  A fragrance reminiscent of summer, violets, and fresh, dew-kissed green.

  Truth tell, she must’ve bespelled him.

  Even watching her from a distance, Jamie was seized by an irresistible urge to ride after her and touch her moonlit hair. To tangle his fingers in its silkiness, seeing for himself if the shimmering strands felt as soft and glossy as they looked.

  See if her eyes really were the deep sapphire he suspected. And if the tips of her eyelashes would appear as if dipped in gold.

  Perhaps he’d kiss her, too. If a mortal man could even touch such a creature.

  Jamie’s brows snapped together at once, the spell broken.

  A hot flush swept up his neck and the racing of his heart began to slow. Big as he was and fragile as she looked, his very breath would likely bruise her.

  And his cheek for having such thoughts about a Sithe maid would surely land him in the depths of some faery knowe, bound by inescapable golden bonds. Or, equally unpleasant, see him plunged into a charmed sleep for a hundred years or more.

  Such things were known to happen.

  He shuddered, reached up to rub the back of his neck.

  But then the moon vanished behind a cloud and when it reemerged, the broad sweeps of moor and hill loomed empty, the night still and quiet as it’d been.

  “By glory!” He released his breath, peering hard at the little glade, but the faery was truly gone.

  Nothing moved through the shadowy birches and scrub but the dark ribbon of a tumbling burn.

  “Och, mercy me—did you see her, Cuillin?” He twisted around in the saddle and ruffled the old dog’s ears, not missing that Cuillin’s rheumy gaze remained on the very spot where the Sithe maid had disappeared.

  Or that the old dog’s tail was wagging.

  Not that Jamie needed proof of what he’d seen.

  Nor did he blame Cuillin for being smitten. The faery had been a vision of loveliness. Truth be told, she couldn’t have been more beautiful had she been wrapped in cloth of gold and moonbeams, her shimmering hair dusted with stars.

  And thinking about it, he decided that was a reasonable description of her.

  He’d also wager she tasted of nectar and moon-spun temptation. He wasn’t a man known for pretty words, only his great size and the skill of his sword arm. Yet this faery inspired him to such courtly verse.

  Even so, he released her from his mind, his gaze falling on another glimmer of brightness. This one as earthy and real as the Highlands, welcome enough to flood him with memories. Bringing salvation, and again, the eye-stinging tightness of chest and throat that had plagued him every heather mile since leaving Cuidrach.

  A malaise that worsened the farther north he’d ridden.

  Setting his jaw, he sat up straighter and swiped the dampness from his cheeks, his stare fixed on the thick, whitewashed walls of a small, hump-backed cot house just visible through a copse of ancient Caledonian pines a bit farther down the long, rock-strewn slope. Peat smoke curled in thin blue tendrils from the cottage’s stone-hung thatched roof and if he listened hard, he was certain he’d hear the bleating of sheep. Perhaps even a few faint strains of fiddle music.

  And if he really concentrated, he might even catch a savory whiff of beef marrow broth or mutton stew.

  For the cot-house was Hughie Mac’s. A man already older than stone in Jamie’s youth, Hughie Mac’s gnome-like body was as twisted and gnarled as the Scots pines sheltering his cottage. But Hughie also had twinkling, smiling eyes. And he’d once been Jamie’s grandfather’s favored herd boy; a lad prized for his herding talent, but even more for the magic he could make on the strings of a fiddle.

  The warm welcome and ready smile he’d always had for Jamie, especially when his world had seemed at its darkest.

  For two pins, Jamie would ride there now, hammer on Hughie’s door, and if the grizzled herder answered, he’d crush him in a hug that lasted till the morrow.

  Hughie would greet him kindly.

  His da’s reception remained to be seen.

  And it made him mighty edgy. Especially since glimpsing the faery. So he squared his shoulders and rode on, eager to be done with it. Digging in his heels, he sent his garron plunging down the rough, broken hillside and straight through his da’s cattle, his passage startling the lumbering beasts.

  A tall, hooded figure stared at him in horror from the edge of the protesting, scattering herd.

  A tall, hooded female figure.

  Jamie’s jaw slipped and for one crazy mad moment, he wondered if she, too, was of the fey. Or if Hughie Mac still had a way with bonny lassies. But as he spurred toward the woman, he could see she was mortal as the day.

  And without doubt the plainest creature he’d e’er set eyes on.

  She was also the most terrified.

  “Dinna come near me!” she shrieked, backing away. “No closer—I pray you!”

  Jamie prayed, too.

  His heart thundering as the most unchivalrous corner of his soul pleaded the saints that this Valkyrie wouldn’t prove to be Aveline Matheson.

  The proximity of Fairmaiden Castle made it a distinct possibility.

  Nevertheless, he pulled up in front of her and swung down from the saddle. His honor demanded no less. But to his amazement, her eyes flew even wider and she flung up a hand as if warding off a horde of flying banshees.

  “Have mercy!” she wailed this time, her face blanching in the light of the rising moon. “I—”

  “You must be one of the Fairmaiden lasses.” Jamie took her by the arms, seeking to soothe her. “You’ve no need to fear me. See you” —he jerked his head in Cuillin’s direction—“what fiend o’ the hills would ride about with an aged, half-blind dog? I am James of the Heather, come home to—”

  “Praise God!” She blinked at him, her color slowly returning. “I-I thought you were Neill.”

  Jamie swallowed hard on hearing his brother’s name. He’d been thinking about his brothers ever since crossing onto Macpherson land.

  Speaking about them, even just one, was something he wasn’t sure he could do.

  Not yet.

  But his knightly vows and Valkyrie’s misted eyes had him reaching to brush the tears from her face.

  “You knew Neill?” he probed, the name costing him dearly.

  She flinched and bit down on her lip as she nodded. Then her eyes filled anew, her reaction suggesting her identity.

  “I am Sorcha,” she said, confirming his guess. “I was Neill’s betrothed and until a short while ago, the most lig
ht-hearted maid in these hills.”

  She looked at him, her eyes dark pools. “He was tall and bonny. A bold, forthright man who should have had all his days before him. But who could have foreseen …” She clapped a hand over her mouth, unable to finish.

  Jamie drew a deep breath. “Saints aid me, lass, I dinna ken what to say to you.” Having never mastered the courtly skills of proper wooing or even comforting distressed damsels, he did think to take her elbow and pull her with him to his garron. “I’ll see you to your sire’s keep,” he suggested, trying to avert any further talk of his brother. “You can ride and I’ll walk alongside.”

  But she backed away when Cuillin lunged forward to sniff her, his tail thumping against the wicker of his basket. “You are as goodly as Neill e’er said you were, but I wish to be alone. Fairmaiden is not far and the walking is a comfort to me. I’ve already come from Baldreagan this e’en, a few more paces willna—”

  “From Baldreagan?” Jamie stared at her. “But that’s well more than a few paces,” he said, striding after her as she moved toward the trees. “And no journey for a maid unescorted. ’Tis nigh dark and the Rough Waters …”

  He left the warning tail off, but she must’ve understood because she stopped, turning around to face him. “I know better than to go near the rapids. They are still in spate and there are ghosts there,” she said, a dull flush spreading up her cheeks. “Only a fool would set foot there of a night.”

  She lifted her chin, fixed him with a piercing stare. “Truth be told, I doubt I’d even go there by day. The ghosts have been seen by many, they—”

  “Ghosts?” Jamie looked at her, hoping he’d misunderstood.

  She nodded. “Your brothers’ spirits, aye. ’Tis why I thought you were Neill. He’s been seen down at the cataracts. They all have.”

  Jamie folded his arms. “I dinna believe in ghosts.”

  The Sithe, aye. There wasn’t a Gael born and walking who’d deny the existence of the Good People.

  But bogles?

  And of his own brothers?

  Nay, he couldn’t believe it.

  Frowning, he drew himself to his full height and put back his shoulders—just to emphasize his denial. “Nay, lass,” he repeated, shaking his head, “that canna be. Not Neill. Not any o’ my brothers, saints rest their souls.”