Highlander’s Devious Ally (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance) Page 2

  Ailith lived in Kinlochan, a village at the western end of Loch Ness, in a handsome townhouse that stood on an acre of its own ground. She had a staff of ten who regarded her highly since she paid them well and even played with their children, which was a most uncommon thing for a lady to do. Some said she was lowering herself to their level, but Ailith only laughed; she simply did not care.

  She worked from her home when she was not bartering for goods, riding out to trade fairs, and attending ceilidhs and social gatherings—which were often useful for making connections in the world of trade.

  Three months after the funeral she was reluctantly attending one at Inverleith Castle that Jock was holding in honor of his father’s birthday. He was in high spirits, as he loved to show his future bride off to anyone who cared about such things, which, of course, was everyone.

  “I claim you as my partner for the first dance, Ailie," he said triumphantly, kissing her hand. “So that I can show everyone what a kind, beautiful, and clever woman I am going to marry." He was wearing a broad infectious grin and she laughed, for she loved to see him happy.

  “Thank you for the kind words, M'Laird," she replied, as she gave him a curtsey; she liked him in this mood. She was wearing a blue-gray silk dress with a nipped-in waist and a lace-trimmed bodice that gave a tantalizing glimpse of the swell of her creamy breasts. Jock was strutting like a peacock as he took her hand and led her from guest to guest. She knew most of them already, but many of them had not seen her since her betrothal, and she was congratulated over and over again until her cheeks were aching from the strain of constant smiling.

  “Would you like some wine?” Jock asked, noticing that she was beginning to flag a little. “You look as if you need some!”

  “Yes!” Ailith laughed gratefully. He kissed her cheek, then went to get her some. It was then that Lyall Stevenson, with Fenella by his side, came to greet her.

  He looked magnificent in a kilt of his family tartan, and a snow-white shirt with his plaid gathered over one broad shoulder fastened with a huge silver brooch which bore his family crest. The light from a thousand candles glistened on his dark brown hair, lending it a faint gold sheen. Ailith had forgotten how tall, well-built, and handsome he was, and she felt a tingle go through her as his lips touched her knuckles.

  “Good evening, Mistress Galloway," he smiled. “I trust you are well?”

  “Excellent, thank you," she replied, then looked at the young woman beside him. She was a younger version of her mother, except her eyes were blue like her father’s. She greeted Ailith politely, but she continually looked back to where a knot of half a dozen or so young women were talking and laughing amongst themselves. Presently, one of them beckoned her.

  Fenella gazed at Lyall pleadingly for a moment before he laughed, kissed her hair, and said, “Go!” He then looked back at Ailith.

  She was not the only one who was stunned. Lyall remembered her from the funeral, how he had vaguely registered how pretty she looked in a simple dress. But he had been so caught up in his own grief and the momentous task of organizing the event that he had barely thought about her since.

  Now that the official three-month mourning period had passed, Fenella had begged him to take her out to her first ceilidh, and he had not the heart to refuse her; three months was a long time for a young girl who had just turned sixteen. Lyall had regarded the ceilidh as more of a duty than a pleasure, but now he was very glad he had made the effort to attend, for Ailith Galloway had taken his breath away by her loveliness. If only she were not betrothed!

  “I must apologize to you, Mistress Galloway," he said awkwardly. “I was rude to you at the funeral.”

  Ailith shook her head in dismissal. “M'Laird, if I had just lost my mother I would also have been upset and out of sorts. I had forgotten about it until you mentioned it.”

  He smiled, sending shivers down her spine. “Thank you, Mistress. I forgot something too—I did not congratulate you on your betrothal. When is the wedding?”

  She sighed. “I want it to be in summer, when the weather is slightly more pleasant, but Jock does not want to wait so long.”

  “Perhaps three months is a long time when you are in love," he remarked.

  Before she could stop herself, she snapped, “I am not in love!" She clamped her hand over her mouth as soon as the words were out, and looked up at him, horrified at what she had said. How could she mouth such a thing? Somehow she would feel guilty if she let Lyall believe that she was in love though…

  She wanted to say something, to deny it, to make it go away, but she knew that it was true. She had never loved Jock and never would. She would settle for a fond husband and a life of domestic contentment, but she would never know true love.

  He felt shocked, but at the same time gratified. Something about Jock McCauley did not sit well with him, and it seemed that Ailith was not as fond of him as she liked people to think.

  Gently, he took her hand away from her face. “No one will hear this from me.” His voice was quiet and firm. “And give yourself peace, Mistress. Most people of our kind are not in love when they are wed.”

  She looked up into his grayish-green eyes and he looked into her bright green ones, and something passed between them. Neither could voice it, but they knew it was there.

  So did Jock.

  He saw them as he turned around from the carafe of wine, and watched the little tableau as it unfolded. Lyall had kissed her hand, but that was a conventional and polite way for a man to greet a lady. Then the sister went away and they stood talking for a while. Jock noticed that Ailith had to tilt her head back to meet Lyall’s eyes, and he felt a surge of jealousy at the stature of this very masculine man.

  Abruptly, she put her hand to her face and her eyes widened in shock. Then Lyall held her hand. How dare he! he thought. He was still holding it when Jock came up to offer Ailith some wine, but he let it go as soon as he saw Jock.

  “M'Laird, I am sorry, but I did not know you were here"—Jock gave Ailith her wine and smiled lovingly at her—“or I would have fetched a glass of wine for you.”

  “No matter.” Lyall’s voice was light and a slight smile touched his lips. “I need to keep a clear head anyway. This is my sister’s first ceilidh and I have to make sure she is not indulging in the wine to excess. The last thing I want to do is carry her home!”

  Ailith smiled but she was still feeling a bit flustered, and quickly thought up an excuse to get away. “Will you both excuse me?" she asked. “I see that Mary Owens has something desperately important to tell me." She hurried away with the eyes of both men following her.

  Jock tossed back his wine in one gulp and turned to Lyall, his eyes blazing with anger. “I think we have something to discuss, M'Laird," he said, his tone grim and menacing.

  “Really?” Lyall gave him a puzzled smile. “I cannot think of a thing I have to talk to you about, Laird McCauley, but please enlighten me." He looked down on Jock from his vantage point four inches above the other man’s head. “Please tell me what is troubling you, for I can see that something is.”

  “Outside,” Jock snapped, and strode away. He went to the courtyard exit and strutted outside, then turned to face Lyall. “What were you doing with my Ailith?" he demanded. “Why were you holding her hand?”

  Lyall frowned darkly. “Your Ailith, M'Laird?" he asked curiously. “Since when did Mistress Galloway become your property?”

  “Since I became betrothed to her, you big lump!” Jock hissed.

  “So you must be her property too?” Lyall asked innocently.

  “Do not be dense!” Jock shouted so loudly that several of the guards rushed over to see what the fuss was about. Jock waved them away. “A woman cannot own a man!”

  This time Lyall’s frown became a glare, and Jock took an involuntary step backwards, although an expression of defiance stayed on his face.

  “M'Laird McCauley,” Lyall said evenly, “I was holding Ailith’s hand because she had just remembered
something unpleasant.”

  “What?” Jock demanded, his voice desperate. “What did she tell you? I saw her face as she was talking to you.”

  “Perhaps you can comfort her better than I can,” Lyall said calmly. “I do not wish to be involved. Good evening.”

  Then he strode away and went back inside. He looked for Ailith but she had gone. He spent a long time looking for Fenella before he realized that she and her friends had snuck away somewhere so that Fenella could catch up on all the gossip she had missed while she was in mourning. How he envied her! If only his life were so simple. He sighed.

  Presently he saw Ailith and Jock walking onto the dance floor. Jock caught Lyall’s eye and gave him a sly, triumphant smile. This is my woman, it said.

  Ailith’s face might have been carved out of stone, as expressionless as it was. She felt as though her world had tilted out of balance suddenly, and the man responsible was Lyall Stevenson. Jock was angry with her and was dancing only for the sake of appearances. She knew that later on there would be a reckoning.

  “What were you and Lyall Stevenson talking about this evening?” Jock asked as he poured her a glass of goats’ milk, which she liked to drink before bedtime. His voice was very calm, but it had a throbbing undertone of anger. “And why was he holding your hand?”

  Ailith took a deep breath. She hated lying, but she knew that if she did not there might be trouble for Lyall. “I was remembering the day my cat Lindy died. She was fifteen years old and I was only eight. She had been with me all my life and my heart was broken." She stopped, tears coming to her eyes at the memory, then plunged on. “A little black cat ran in front of us and I remembered it.”

  “Is that all?” Jock asked in disbelief. “I thought he was trying to seduce you!”

  Ailith rounded on him angrily. “And you think I would let him?" she cried furiously, color reddening her cheeks. “I am betrothed to you, Jock! I gave my word and I never break it. This may not be an ideal match for either of us but we are committed now.” She meant that.

  Jock stepped forward and put his arms around her. “It is an ideal match for me, Ailie," he murmured. “I have never told you before, but I love you, and I want us to be married as soon as possible. I know you do not feel the same way as I do, but perhaps you can learn, and I will be the best and most devoted husband I can be.”

  Ailith nodded. “I am fond of you, Jock, but I was angry because you thought I was breaking my word. There is nothing between Laird Stevenson and me." She sighed, and then smiled brightly at him, trying to convince herself that she could learn to love Jock.

  However, Jock was nursing a smoldering rage inside him as he kissed her soft lips. She must think I am an imbecile, he thought angrily. There never was a cat.

  3

  The Gift

  Lyall had decided to buy Fenella a horse, since he felt she needed a gentle creature to lift her spirits on the days when she missed her mother too much. She had always been fond of horses, but had never been allowed to ride one on her own before. But now that she was sixteen all that had changed.

  “You need to be riding on your own horse now,” Lyall remarked casually over breakfast one morning. “I cannot send you out on a cart anymore and it is too inconvenient for me to carry you everywhere. Consider it a late birthday present.”

  Fenella looked at him in disbelief, then squealed, jumped up from her chair, and wrapped her arms around his neck, covering his face with tiny kisses. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you Lyall!" she cried in rapture. “When can we go and get it? Today?”

  Lyall, laughing, gently pushed her away to escape the onslaught of kisses. “We can go into Inverness at the end of the month," he replied. He got the response he expected.

  “But that is two weeks away!" she moaned plaintively. “How am I to wait as long as that?”

  Lyall sighed and shrugged. “As Paw used to say, Ella, these things are sent to try us.” Then, looking at her disappointed face, he suddenly felt a shaft of irritation. “Do not be ungrateful, Ella. You have so much more than the girls in the village, so why do you not carry on Mammy’s work? I will find someone to help you, but you can make some food today and put it in parcels for tomorrow.”

  At once Fenella’s face lit up. “You are right, my wise brother. I am ungrateful. Thank you for the wonderful gift.” Then she kissed him again and skipped out, leaving Lyall to think about the person who hadn’t left his mind—Ailith Galloway.

  Fenella’s horse could not be just any member of the equine species; oh no, it had to be dapple-gray because it was prettier than any other color in Fenella’s opinion, and it had to be a mare because they were gentler than stallions. The latter part suited Lyall, since he did not enjoy the more temperamental males except as stud animals.

  There was a horse fair in Inverness once a month, always on the last Saturday, and it usually had a happy carnival atmosphere. All sorts of horses could be found there, but Fenella especially loved the heavy, powerful plow horses with their Roman noses and huge feathered feet. Despite their gargantuan size they were the gentle giants of the equine world.

  There were tubby little Shetland ponies, tall, spindly, nervous race horses, and sturdy, muscular horses that were used for hunting. These were bred for stamina, and could chase and wear down prey so efficiently that the hunted animal almost died of exhaustion.

  However, the kind of horse Fenella sought was a palfrey, a dainty riding horse that was perfect for the undemanding needs of a noblewoman. Since Lyall would not have allowed her to buy an animal that did not come up to his very strict standards, Fenella was beginning to despair before they found one that looked just right.

  “How old is she?” Lyall asked as he walked around the neat little horse that was placidly standing chewing a mouthful of hay, oblivious to the fact that she was about to start a completely new life. She was not dapple-gray, but a deep chestnut, though Fenella had somehow managed to forgive her for that fact, having been completely smitten with her at first sight.

  “Four years auld, sir,” the seller said. “An’ gentle as a lamb. Yer young lady will hae nae problems wi’ this yin." He was a stocky, ruddy-faced type with fists like hams who looked as though he took no cheek from anyone. He kept his arms crossed defensively across his chest, and if Lyall had not been there Fenella would have found him terrifying.

  “And how much are you asking for her?” Lyall drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Twelve pounds, sir,” the man replied gruffly. “Worth every penny.”

  Lyall laughed. “I hope you are jesting, wee man!”

  “Outrageous!” said a familiar woman’s voice from behind them. They turned to see Ailith striding into the enclosure, her eyes blazing with anger. “I could buy a war horse far cheaper than this mare! Besides"—she looked down at the horse’s hooves—“this animal has thrush in her hooves. Where have you been keeping her? A swamp?" She knelt down on the muddy straw, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was dirtying her clean gray skirt. “These nails need trimming too. Do you know nothing about looking after horses or do you just not care?" Her voice was scathing as she stood, arms akimbo, glaring at him. “For shame, you dirty beggar! I will give you three pounds for this horse.”

  “I cannae let her go fer three pounds, Mistress!” The man took a step towards Ailith but Lyall forestalled him, stepping up to stand alongside her. His face was thunderous, and his hands were balled into fists as if ready to strike the man, but Ailith stopped him by clutching his arm.

  “No, M'Laird, do not skin your knuckles on him. He is not worth the pain," she said scathingly.

  “I have a wife an’ bairns! Ye’re takin’ bread oot their mouths!" he protested.

  Ailith calmly stepped forward and plucked a stoppered flask from his pocket. She uncorked it and the sweet pungent smell of whisky filled the air. “No, this is taking the bread out of their mouths!" she cried fiercely. “My name is Ailith Galloway; perhaps you have heard
of me? I buy and sell horses and I have not the heart to let this one be treated like this anymore!" she counted out three pounds and gave them to him. “Feed your family with this, you disgusting creature, but before you do anything else—go and wash! They can likely smell you in the Shetlands!”

  Ailith, with one last venomous glare at the seller, poured the whisky onto the straw, then gently took the horse’s halter and led her away. She walked the animal for several hundred yards, her lovely face a mask of fury, before she stopped and looked back, then she sighed and shook her head. “I am sorry for that," she said sadly. “If you still want this mare, I will give her to you freely, then you can sell her and buy another. Otherwise I will keep her. She is very sweet-natured, I think, and will make a lovely mount for a lady.”

  “That is why we were buying her,” Lyall informed her, then he smiled. “That was quite a performance, Mistress! I knew that his price was extortionate, but I would perhaps have parted with five pounds.”

  “She is worth five pounds,” Ailith conceded. “And no doubt I would have paid that too, if he had not been too drunk to bargain with me, or if he had been a person who really cared about his animals, but he does not. I have a good mind to go and punch him.”

  “No, you are too small,” Lyall said grimly. “Let me do it!”

  The threat was not a serious one, but as she looked at Lyall’s tall muscular frame, she laughed. “No! One blow from you would kill him!”

  Lyall smiled, then counted out three pounds and held it out to her on his palm, but she closed his fingers over it. “You can buy quite a lot of woolen fabric for this amount," she said. “I will get you some at a good price and you can make children’s clothes with it. I hate to see them in rags. The horse is yours—consider her a belated birthday gift to you, Fenella. ”