Highland Spitfire (13 page)

Ailis discovered herself lost in the moment. One she’d daydreamed about, because to
stroll so intimately on the arm of a man was something the maiden daughter of the
laird simply did not do. She’d seen other girls enjoying such, their cheeks pink and
their eyes glittering with enjoyment.

Did she like it?

For certain, it was far different than she’d expected. Her breath felt caught and
labored. Thinking took massive amounts of concentration, and even then, her thoughts
were muddled. Her insides were twisted into a strange concoction of excitement and
anticipation. She ended up laughing softly under her breath.

“My escort amuses ye?”

She laughed harder and pulled her hand off his arm as she tried to explain herself.
“The situation…being on a man’s arm…well, it is nae…exactly what I thought it might
be. When I got the chance to experience it meself.”

He chuckled and caught her hand and returned it to his arm. “Aye.”

They were making it closer to the castle. More people were there. They looked up,
pausing as Bhaic brought her past them. She started to pull her hand off his arm,
but he covered it with his own, gently rubbing the back of her hand.

“We’re in this together, lass.”

They were kind words, but not entirely true. She looked at MacPherson Castle, noticing
all of the things about it that were unfamiliar.

She knew Robertson Castle like the back of her hand. She was the stranger here, not
him.

Ahead of them, Marcus was watching a group of youths practicing with wooden swords.

“Excuse me, lass. I needs have words with me brother, and they will likely be too
rough for yer ears.”

Bhaic turned to face her, slipping his hand behind her head and cupping it gently.
She gasped, but he captured the sound beneath his lips as he pressed a kiss onto her
mouth. It wasn’t overly hard or deep, but there was a reaction around it.

He pulled away, the look in his eyes sending a shiver down her spine. She had spent
more than a few hours thinking on the day when a man would consider her his, but she
wasn’t prepared for it.

The intensity in his eyes curled her toes.

He turned and started across the yard, giving her too much time to admire what a fine
figure he made. His shoulders were broad and packed with thick muscle. No hint of
a belly, only a trim waist where his kilt was secured.

“Robertson…”

The slur caught her attention.

No, it wasn’t a slur, it was her father’s name, and it was time she did something
about making sure the MacPhersons stopping using it as such.

She turned toward the kitchens, her escort falling in behind her.

* * *

“Brother.”

“Do nae brother me, Marcus.” Bhaic braced his feet in a wide stance. “Ye know what
I’m here about.”

Marcus had his arms crossed over his chest. It was his favorite pose for keeping his
thoughts to himself and driving Bhaic insane.

“Ye are the Tanis.”

“I bloody well know that,” Bhaic said.

“Then why is that lass still yer bride and no’ yer wife?” Marcus turned to face him.
“She’s an educated woman, likely reads at least three languages. And she was loose
in our halls without a single pair of eyes on her, with the legal right to annul her
marriage. I would have posted someone at her door last night if I’d thought for a
moment ye’d be so stupid as to leave her alone. If she makes it back to her father,
the information about our defenses she might carry with her would be catastrophic.”

Bhaic was fuming, but he couldn’t very well accuse his brother of having no grounds
for his concerns. “She’s the one who saw the wisdom in our union before I did, Marcus.
Do nae color the lass so guilty. Notice that she is trying to make this work, and
no’ many are willing to see it an easy task for her.”

His brother only gave him a half grin. “’Tis my place to be suspicious. Yers to make
alliances.”

“Would ye have me be rough with her?” Bhaic demanded. “She’s a delicate lass.”

His brother chuckled ominously. “Aye, I’ve seen her. Her sweet face makes a man forget
everything. The perfect makings of a spy.”

“You go too far with that word.”

Bhaic challenged Marcus’s gaze, but his brother didn’t retreat.

“I mean it, Marcus, take it back.”

His brother considered him for a moment and shook his head.

The youths started to notice, halting their practice. Bhaic didn’t back down, and
neither did Marcus.

“Alright then…” Bhaic said as he pulled his sword belt off and tossed it to one of
the boys behind him.

Marcus’s expression lit with savage enjoyment. They both stripped down to their shirts,
the youths clearing out of the training yard as Bhaic and Marcus took up positions.

“Ye’re going to take that word back,” Bhaic promised.

“I would love to see ye try to make me.”

A lot of others wanted to see too. They began spilling out of the buildings as he
and Marcus circled each other. People started calling out wagers, but all Bhaic saw
was the gleam in his brother’s eye.

One he was going to smash.

They collided with a crunch, the crowd groaning. Marcus’s jaw was as hard as a boulder,
but Bhaic smashed his fist into it anyway. His brother didn’t give easily but ended
up staggering under the force of the second blow Bhaic landed. He came back with a
vicious snarl, ramming himself into Bhaic and lifting him off his feet.

They slammed into the ground, raising a cloud of dust. People surged forward, trying
to get a good view. Marcus tried to pin him on his back, and Bhaic strained and tossed
him over. He flipped and launched himself at Marcus, the pair of them grabbling, rolling,
punching, and doing their best to lock an arm around the other’s neck to choke him
into compliance.

There wasn’t going to be any quarter.

* * *

“Mistress…come out of the kitchens…
please
.”

Ailis looked up to find Finley dancing from one foot to the other like a little boy
on Twelfth Night.

“We’re missing the fun,” he implored her. “And I can nae go without ye.”

The head cook made it clear she’d be happy if Ailis went somewhere else.

“It will be over soon,” Finley said.

There was something going on in the yard. People were cheering.

“Very well.”

At least someone might be pleased with her at last. Finley ran the few steps to the
kitchen door and pushed it open for her. The cheering was louder now, along with some
sort of snarling and grunting.

She came up into the yard and blinked as she took in the sight.

“Whoo…hoo…ye’ve got him now!” Finley roared.

As far as she could see, there was no way to know who had whom. Bhaic and his brother
were a tangle of limbs and snarls. They’d raised a huge cloud of dust, and both of
them had blood brightening their shirts. The crowd roared with approval as they tried
to kill each other.

She started forward, but Finley shot his arm out and stopped her. “Stay here now,
lassie. That’s no place for a wee thing like yerself.”

“Ye have to stop them.”

Finley looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Well, at least they had something in common.

“Here now…What’s all this?” Shamus MacPherson suddenly appeared.

The crowd parted for him but groaned with disappointment. The old laird made his way
to the edge of the circle surrounding the two fighting men and scowled.

“Get up, ye sons of the devil!” he hollered. He turned to his captains. “Haul those
dogs off each other.”

Bhaic got in one final blow with his elbow before Angus dragged him off Marcus.

“I said enough,” Shamus insisted.

Marcus and Bhaic both abandoned their spite as they faced their father. For all that
the bloodlust had cooled in their expressions, there was no hint of remorse for their
actions. Their father shook his head.

“I’ve a mind to send ye both to the monastery for good penance.” He shook his head.
“But ye’re likely both lost causes, since ye’re me sons.”

Bhaic and Marcus both snickered in response.

“What’s eating at the pair of ye?” their father demanded. He turned and looked at
the crowd. “And is there nae a single better thing the lot of ye might be doing with
the daylight?”

People started scattering. The youths began to train again, the sound of their wooden
swords connecting filling the air.

“Now answer me,” Shamus insisted.

“He insulted me wife,” Bhaic said plainly. “Harshly so.”

Marcus wiped blood off his chin with his sleeve. Shamus pegged him with a hard look.
“Perhaps I did.”

Bhaic curled his fingers into a fist.

“Enough,” Shamus said. “Seems we do nae need the Robertsons to overrun us. All it
has taken to set us on our ear is one wee lassie.”

Everyone suddenly turned to look at her. Shamus followed the direction of the crowd’s
attention. He pointed at her.

“Go on then, see what manner of nursing yer husband needs,” Shamus ordered before
looking at Marcus. “And ye sit down and cool yer temper.”

Helen was suddenly there, with a bowl and a pitcher of water. She pushed Ailis forward,
other women from the kitchen arriving. One set a stool down, but Bhaic looked at it
with nothing more than a disinterested glance.

“I do nae need tending.”

He was glowering down at Ailis, looking as intimidating as she’d always been told
he was. Everyone was watching them, seeing if she’d fold beneath his stern glare.

“The blood wetting yer hair says otherwise. Now sit down before ye and I have to
discuss
the matter,” Ailis admonished him.

His eyes lit with enjoyment, a glitter that warned her he was very interested in her
attempts to make him bend. She stared straight back at him. He chuckled softly before
lowering himself to a stool.

“Far be it for me to argue about ye wanting to put yer hands on me.”

Helen grunted and clicked her tongue as she poured the water into the bowl and added
a pouch of herbs.

* * *

“Ye have an odd way of talking to yer brother.”

Bhaic started to get up, but Ailis shoved him back down and used her fingers to push
his hair back from the cut on his scalp. “Sweet Christ, this needs stitching.”

Marcus snorted at him, making kissing motions with his lips. Bhaic started to send
him an obscene gesture but got distracted by Ailis’s cleavage. She was so busy looking
at his head, she hadn’t yet realized his nose was darn near in the valley between
her breasts. He slowly grinned and heard his brother snort again.

“Are ye going to tell me yer brothers are so very different?”

She was still looking at the cut on his scalp. He was still enjoying the sight of
her plump breasts.

“Well, nae. I suppose ye have a point. Duncan and Bruce are forever at each other’s
throats over something or another.”

She suddenly realized where his attention was. “Bhaic Gordon Matthew MacPherson.”

“So ye were paying attention during our wedding,” he said smugly.

“It’s branded into me memory.”

How could it not be? The thought sobered her, dredging up the dread and uncertainty
her wedding had been made of. It certainly had not been a happy moment. By the time
she cut the thread on the row of stitches, her mood was gloomy indeed.

Bhaic stood, looking as though he’d suffered through the stitching only to please
her. He was every inch the warrior she’d been raised to fear. Hardened. Savage.

And ye belong to him…

They were still the center of attention, with a good number of folks still lingering
in doorways and in the yard. Bhaic’s eyes narrowed as he caught her gaze for a moment.
Ailis turned, using the excuse of washing her hands. She felt him watching her.

“I’ll see ye at supper, lass.”

It was more warning than invitation. She looked up to see him walking away, the longer
pleats of his kilt swaying.

How could it still be before noon? She felt as though the day had been so very much
longer.

* * *

Her reluctant escort clung to her skirt hem.

Their patience wore thin as the day went on. Ailis went through the large kitchens,
familiarizing herself with how the storerooms were organized and just how the huge
number of MacPherson retainers were kept fed.

Duana wasn’t in a much better mood today. The Head of House was stiff, and a little
unwilling to meet Ailis’s direct gaze. But at least her cutting remarks were missing
some of their sharpness.

“Helen there can spend time playing nursemaid,” Duana finally said, “since it seems
she has a liking for Robertsons.”

Helen dropped her superior a courtesy, but there was a disapproving set to her lips.
Duana ignored it as she went back to supervising the evening meal.

“I’ll be happy to answer yer questions, mistress.” Helen raised her voice just a bit
on the word “mistress.” It sent a ripple through the women working at the long tables
and the men set to watching Ailis.

But a young maid suddenly let out a shriek and dropped a large ceramic pitcher. It
smashed into the floor with a loud cracking sound. Cider went splashing over the floor
as the girl pointed at Ailis. “She’s wearing a knife, she is. Going to slit our throats
with it, no doubt.”

Ailis looked down at her side, having forgotten about the knife Helen had given her
that morning.

She turned away from the girl but found Finley in her path with his hand out. “Give
me the knife.”

“Sweet Mary and Joseph,” she exclaimed. “As if every woman here does nae have a blade
stuck through her garter.”

“Perhaps so, but they are nae Robertsons.”

Ailis turned to find Marcus in the doorway, his body blocking out the sun. He surveyed
the mess on the floor and grunted before closing the distance between them.

“Let’s have it, lass.”

He and Bhaic had a lot in common. It was there in the commanding way they spoke. She
tugged the knife free and dropped it on the table instead of his hand. His lips twitched
in response.