Authors: Hannah Howell
Islaen was dressed in her finest. Her father was a wealthy man and no expense had been spared. Her chemise was of the finest silk, as were the braes she insisted upon wearing. The corset was a rich brown velvet with elaborate embroidery on the sleeves that matched the gold surcote. Shoes of the finest gold velvet adorned her small feet. The houppelande that was becoming more and more popular was left off for Islaen had not yet mastered wearing the voluminous robe with any grace, having difficulty with the draping sleeves and the way it trailed on the ground. After placing the fine couverchef upon Islaen’s head, Meg surveyed the results with a very critical eye.
After a final check to make sure that there were no lumps, bumps or wrinkles and that the errant hair was still neatly contained, Meg declared Islaen ready. She then took her charge to join the men in the great hall where the search for a husband would begin and Islaen would meet the king.
Islaen fought to control her nerves. She did not want to do anything silly or stupid. Her pride quailed at the very thought of it.
She did not like the situation but had decided to forbear. It was far past time she had a husband. Coming to court allowed a greater choice. She simply wished the choice would be more in her hands than it would be.
The resentment that tried to gnaw at her was fairly easily put aside. This was the way such matters were settled. She was grateful she had not been betrothed at cradleside. There had been the opportunity for her to find a man and there were plenty to choose from around home. When she had reached the age of nineteen still unattached, it was no surprise that her father would take matters into his own hands. She could not blame him for that. Even if she did not really agree with his methods, she knew he was doing it out of love, because he wanted to see her happy. The political, defensive or monetary arrangements that could come out of her betrothal were only pleasant additions, not necessities. Glancing towards her father, who was talking to Meg, she hoped he would give her some pleasant surprise in his choice of groom that would ease the sting of not having Iain MacLagan.
“The lass has an eye for Sir Iain MacLagan,” Meg informed Alaistair MacRoth at the very first opportunity. “Do ye ken the mon?”
“Aye.” Alaistair adjusted his long, broad-shouldered frame more comfortably upon the bench. “Widowed for o’er a year. Said he is still grieving sore as he doesnae pursue
the lasses, doesnae show an interest in them at all. Said he is cold, that his emotions lie with his late wife. Be a good match, for the land Islaen would bring him lies near his kin, but I cannae think there will be any move made there.” He frowned at his cousin. “Are ye sure? ’tis a hard face on the mon that isnae helped by that gruesome scar etched upon his cheek.”
“The lass claims ye hardly see it, ’tis a mere nick. Cast an eye on your wee daughter, cousin, and watch where her eyes linger.”
It was an easy thing to confirm, for Islaen’s whole face radiated her admiration for the man who sat at the king’s table. She would seem to come to her senses, conceal the look and act nonchalant, but it did not last long. Within moments her control slipped again.
“Och, weel, I will give it a try but I cannae think it will lead anywhere. ’Tis said that a murderer stalks him, a mon who blames him for the death of Catalina, his late wife. Some old lover, I would wager. Could be he takes no wife for fear she will soon be made a widow.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his graying auburn hair. “Still, best she be happy for a short while than unhappy for a long while. If ye can, turn her eye to Ronald MacDubh. That mon is godson to the king and he has expressed an interest in our Islaen.”
“Ye mean in her purse. Coin flows through his hands like water, hands that cannae keep off o’ the lasses.”
“He is young and nay hard to look upon. He is also close to the king. After him they grow older and less fair to the eye. There are too many full-bodied women about. The young men want a wife that willnae be lost beneath the covers, some curves to hold.”
Alaistair wished his words were not true but, though Islaen’s dowry put many men to thinking, there was money and land to be found in other places. So too would there be some flesh to hold onto and make a soft bed with. Delicacy of looks only aroused brotherly feelings when it was unaccompanied by full breasts and well-rounded hips. Their eyes would light up over the dowry, only to flicker and die when they closely observed what went with it. What interest could be stirred was not held long. A little less dowry for a lot more woman was a sacrifice most of the young men were willing to make.
Islaen had not expected much interest, so was not disappointed when there was so little. Her menfolk did all the work while she entertained herself watching Iain MacLagan. Assuming that her family would soon find her a husband, she decided that she should soak up as much about the man as she could. A multitude of memories could come in handy later. It was highly possible that her marriage could use a great deal of imagination and dreaming to make it tolerable.
She knew that few men could equal the image she had of Iain MacLagan. It was going to be difficult not to constantly compare others, whatever husband she gained, to him. That was something she was going to have to try very hard not to do. It would be very foolish indeed to ruin her chances for happiness with another man because she was unable to let go of a dream. It would also be unfair to her husband.
That was true, of course, only if she was blessed with a husband who was also willing to try for the best marriage possible, full, rich and lasting. There was, however, far too great a chance that she would not get a husband like that, no matter how carefully her father chose for her. She knew enough of the world to know that not all men
considered marriage a sacred trust or a wife of any importance save that of a breeder of legitimate heirs. With a husband like that, memories of Iain MacLagan might well be her only source of joy aside from whatever children she might have.
Despite her admirable reasoning for her steady perusal of Iain MacLagan, she admitted that she simply liked to look at him. He was a feast for her eyes. Even when she knew she was being too blatant and fought to turn her attentions elsewhere, her gaze was drawn back to him and she was yet again lost in the pleasure of watching him.
He was dressed in dark blue and maroon. Long, wellshaped muscular legs were snugly encased in maroon hose. The tight sleeves of his deep blue jupon revealed strong arms. Broad shoulders, a trim waist and slim hips completed what was a fine figure of a man. He was taller than most yet moved with a lithe grace that belied his strength and size. Many a woman’s eye touched upon him in approval. It did not seem to matter all that much that he returned neither inviting looks nor friendly smiles, remaining impervious to all ploys and flirtations.
Facially he was somewhat daunting. His was a lean face with harsh lines not enhanced by either the jagged white scar or remote expression he wore. Grief had made his high cheekbones more prominent, the hollows in his smooth shaven cheeks deeper. His mouth was well formed although his lips were on the thin side, something made more noticeable by their grim set. A long straight nose and proud jaw were more delineated than on other men. A dark complexion only added to what seemed a formidable and constant darkness of expression. Rich brown hair was cut neatly, framing the remarkable face. It was also shot with strands of white, unusual in a man of only four and thirty.
It was all food for her imagination. She wondered at his loss, the grief that had left such a mark upon him. From there it was easy to imagine herself as the one who could return love and laughter to his life. As she dreamed, there were more people than she knew working towards giving her dream a chance.
“MacRoth searches hard for a husband for his daughter,” the king observed dryly. “Has he aproached you yet, MacLagan?”
“Aye. He did.” Iain suddenly wished himself elsewhere for there was a gleam in the king’s eye that unsettled him.
“And ye said no, I presume.” MacLagan nodded somewhat curtly. “Might we inquire why? Dowry’s quite impressive.”
“I have had my turn at marriage, your majesty. Let some other fellow have a chance. Tavis has secured our line weel enough.”
“True, and there is Sholto left to wed. Howbeit, the Bible tells us to go forth and multiply. A man cannot do that upon his own.”
“That too I have tried but ’tis not to be.”
“We think you have given up too easily. Have you met the lass? She watches you, if you have not noticed as yet.”
Iain looked to where Islaen talked with her twin brothers, Calum and Donald. They were one and twenty, tall, lean and handsome with fiery red hair and brown eyes. Although she appeared to be totally attentive to her brothers, Iain could see that she was indeed watching him. He scowled but noticed that it did nothing to deter her. Absently, he also noticed that with her tall, broad-shouldered brothers flanking her, she looked even smaller than ever. Remembering the king, Iain shrugged nonchalantly.
“Mayhaps she does. ’Tis hard to be sure, but it matters not.” Iain said the last three words with as much firmness as he dared.
The king caught Islaen’s eye and beckoned her. To his amusement she looked around, looked back at him and pointed to herself mouthing the word ‘me.’ The king nodded just as her brothers nudged her in his direction. His amusement grew when she somehow managed to trod on each brothers’ foot before she approached. He noted that, although she curtsied and said all that was required, most of her attention was on the tall, solemn man at his side.
Islaen felt tight with nerves, yet it was not because she met with the king, a man who held the power of life and death over them all. It was because of the man who sat at the king’s side. She only wished that there was the barest hint of warmth in the gaze Iain fixed upon her. With an effort she forced her attention to the king so that, even if she could stir no interest in Sir Iain, she would at least do nothing to make herself look the fool before him. There would be no way she could stay in court if that happened.
“You have much the look of your mother, child. We knew her when your father was courting her. A lovely woman. Your father has not brought all your brothers, has he?” He smiled. “How many are there? ’Tis hard to keep accounts.”
“Eleven. He only brought seven. The eldest four stayed at home, your majesty. Their wives are with child and cannae travel.”
“Imagine that, MacLagan. Eleven strong sons. MacRoth needs no army. He breeds his own. Grandsons?”
“Aye, sire. Six of them at last count. Only twa lasses. Angus, the next to the eldest, has one as does Colin, one of the twins.”
They talked a while longer about her prolific family. Islaen was slightly confused but decided it was simply a matter of curiosity on the king’s part. Iain was not so naive. He had the sinking feeling he knew exactly what his sovereign was about, why he had
had the girl talk about her prolific family. A sense of helpless rage grew in him as he saw what was coming. But he saw no way to stop it. One did not go against the king’s wishes, nor even his gentle suggestions.
He had taken up the place near the king not only because the king wished it and for the prestige it gave. It kept him out of the tangle of flirtations that ran rampant in court, away from the machinations of women. He had been without a woman so long that a pretty, willing one could well be too much temptation. Now, seeing the danger headed his way, he wished he had not sought a somewhat cowardly way to avoid it. He was caught in the trap about to close tightly about him.
It was ironic in a way, almost funny, although he felt no urge to laugh. He had fled Caraidland for the court to avoid the temptation of a woman. Each day had drawn him nearer to succumbing to her lures, but he had seen clearly that she sought no brief pleasurable interlude, but marriage. Now the very thing he had fled to court to avoid was about to be pushed down his throat.
“A lovely girl. Well mannered yet not reticent. A man could do worse, or so think my godson and Lord Donald Fraser.”
No matter how he tried, Iain could not completely repress a look of distaste. Lord Donald Fraser was two and forty. He had buried two wives already. Wine, wenches and gaming dominated his life. Iain did not want to picture what would happen to the girl.
“Do not think poorly of MacRoth. The man is little at court and does not know Fraser as we do. Nor does he know our godson. We cannot refuse a match there but we would prefer it not be made.” The king sipped his wine. “The MacRoths are as loyal to the crown as the MacLagans. A bond between two such families would be viewed with great favour.”
“I have no need of a wife,” Iain said as pleasantly as possible.
“Or a woman. Or so you would have all believe. It is not right to bury yourself with your wife. A man needs a woman’s softening touch ere he grows too hard, for a hard man cares for naught and his loyalties thin.”
“Does his majesty feel I can no longer be trusted?”
“Do not get stiff, MacLagan. We merely make an observation. The land she holds is in a line with MacLagan land.”
“I hadnae realized that, sire.”
“To have it in MacLagan hands, with MacRoths bound to its defense through marriage would strengthen that length of the border. To have it go to Fraser or my godson could well mean keep fighting with little eye kept upon the English. There are enough feuds along there as it is. We would like to have one less area to fret over. Our mind would be greatly eased to know it is held firm and peaceful by the bonding of two loyal clans. To wed a man’s only daughter, one he cares for,” the king nodded to where Alaistair stood with Islaen, his affection clear to see, “is a bond as strong as any. You have proof of that in Tavis’s marriage.”
Iain nodded, his jaw clenched. His marriage to Catalina had assuaged the MacBroths’ ill feelings over Tavis’s not wedding another of their daughters, although he had had her as a mistress. Due to the girl’s lack of chastity it had not broken the alliance, but it had strained it for hopes had been disappointed. Tavis’s marriage to Storm Eldon meant that at least one point along the border the English were anxious to keep the peace, for to raise sword against a MacLagan meant endangering the only daughter of an
English marcher lord.
Short of a direct order the king could not have made his wishes any clearer. A look into his sire’s eyes told Iain that the direct order would come if it was necessary. The border was a source of aggravation to the kings on both sides of it, quite often a law unto itself. Two loyal clans bound by blood standing shoulder to shoulder at one point along that area of unrest was a temptation the king could not resist. It would mean that at one point the king’s orders would be obeyed and he could be assured of support in the troubled area.
He could easily see the wisdom of it, understood the king’s desire for it. That did little to ease his tension and anger over the noose slipped so gently around his neck. Even the fact that it would better his position at court, enrich his purse and undoubtedly please his father did not console him.
Deciding he could not escape, Iain said, “An I may beg your leave for a while, sire, I will seek out and speak to Lord MacRoth.”
Iain cautiously approached Alaistair MacRoth. That man astutely guessed that it was all in the manner of a royal command. Even as he agreed to the match and discussed settlements in vague terms, Alaistair wondered if it was for the best. It was true that the girl had an eye for the man, although Alaistair thought him the antithesis of a maiden’s dream, being dark and formidable in looks. He could also see that the young man did not want to wed Islaen, perhaps any woman. Also, there was the man’s coldness to consider. Islaen was used to affection, be it rough, teasing or gentle. There seemed to be little chance of any to be found in Iain MacLagan.
Reading the concern in the man’s eyes, Iain said, “I will be a good husband to the child. I willnae beat her nor go wenching. She will want for naught, Lord MacRoth.”
“Save love,” Alaistair thought but said nothing. The others held no love for the girl either. In his prejudiced eyes she was eminently loveable, and he could not understand how it was that the men around could not see past her lack of curves to discover that.
Inwardly, he sighed. Iain MacLagan may hold no love for Islaen, may not even be capable of such an emotion, but the girl wanted him. That was far more than she did feel about any of the others put forward. Perhaps that could be enough to keep her happy and he truly wanted her to find happiness. The things the man had just sworn to were far more than the others had promised.
“’Tis a comfort to hear ye say that. T’would be a greater comfort if ye could act a little less like ye are headed for a hanging,” he growled.
“I understand your sense of outrage, m’lord. Forgive me my surliness but ye ken I have buried one young wife. T’was not my wish to take anither and maychance stand o’er her grave as weel.” Iain sighed but he felt the man was due total honesty.
“She is a great deal stronger than she looks, laddie. Many thought marriage would send her mither to an early grave, but Meghan proved them very wrong. Islaen’s nay been treated like some doll by her brithers and come through the better for it.” He could see his words were being politely heeded but not believed, so he changed the subject. “The land’s a sweet bit of property, but the keep needs tending to.”
“’Tis no worry, m’lord. My kin live near to it. My wife and I may reside with them until matters are set straight. My eldest brither has a wife. T’will be company for Islaen. Aye, Storm will be glad of some female company.”
The soft look that flickered over the man’s harsh face at the mention of his sister
by marriage eased Alaistair’s worried mind. There were softer feelings in the man. If anyone could rescue them from permanent burial it was wee Islaen.
“Weel, come speak to the lass then. I ken she willnae refuse you. Nay, nor need much persuasion.”
He watched in silent amusement as Alaistair edged him into the group of redheaded MacRoths and then dragged away his four youngest sons with a total lack of subtlety.
He then looked at the girl. She was a pretty little thing who made no effort to hide her appreciation of him even now. He could not fully subdue the good feelings that stirred within him. This worried him. If he lost the hard, cold emotional armour he had donned since Catalina’s death, he could all too easily find himself reaching for all he had tried for before, all that his brother had found with Storm, and that could kill the girl smiling at him so sweetly. He would fight that with every ounce of willpower he had.
“May I sit down, mistress?” he asked and joined her on the small window seat when she nodded.
Islaen studied him. Her father had made it rather clear as to why Iain wished to speak to her, though she dared not believe it. The closed look upon his face was hardly encouraging. If he was about to propose marriage, she felt sure it was not by choice. That left her in a quandary, for she wanted to be his wife above all things but would like him to feel at least amiable to the idea.
However, if he had no choice then she probably did not either. Even if she did she realized that she would much rather be the one he had to wed than to watch him wed another. Although he was so clearly reluctant, there was the chance for her to make something good out of it, but, if she refused, there was no chance at all. He would be lost to her forever and that, she decided, would be harder to bear than anything else.
“Do ye ken what I wish to speak to ye about?”
“An I read my fither right ’tis marriage, yet your face doesnae look much like that of a suitor.”
“Aye, ’tis marriage I wish to speak to ye about. The king feels a match between us would be a verra good thing.”
‘’Tis hardly the proposal of a young girl’s dreams,’ she mused silently but aloud she said, “Then I ken ’tis set.”
Iain looked at his hands, then glanced at her. “Aye, that it is. Can ye stomach it, lass?”
“Of course. Why should I not be able to?” She saw his hand feint to the scar upon his face. “Wheesht, that is naught. It doesnae pull your face about into a horrid grimace or some such. Might I ask how ye got it? Ye need not say.”
Iain almost smiled. He had never thought himself vain, but some of the reactions to his scarring had cut him deeply, almost as deeply as the knife that had marred his features. In her lovely eyes he could read the truth of her words. A familiar, if long ignored, knot formed in his loins and he inwardly cursed.
“T’was an attack at my wife’s graveside by a mon who felt I had stolen, then murdered, the lass he loved.”
“Oh. Did ye steal her from him?”
“Nay. T’was a marriage sought by her family and mine. I kenned naught of him until t’was done.” He frowned at her. “I dinnae ken why I speak so freely to ye, lass.”
“I shall tell nary a soul and ’tis it not right that I, as your wife, should ken if there be some mon creeping about ready to plunge a dirk into ye? ’Tis a bit of information that could be useful.”
Amusement flickered through his eyes. “Aye, that it could.”
Dangerous, Iain mused. She had an impish sense of humor as well as a directness of speech. Both were things he admired. In their two brief meetings she had affected him more than the most practiced of flirts, drawing him out despite himself. He would have to be more wary. She could chip away at his wall until it crumbled.
“Did ye have someone ye loved?” she asked softly.
“Aye but she was given to anither ere I became betrothed.”
“Is she still wed?”
“Nay,” he answered slowly, beginning to see where her questions were leading. “I dinnae love her still either.”
Color tinged her cheeks. “I am sorry. My tongue oftimes outruns my mind and my good manners.”
“’Tis no matter, lass. I will be honest though it be far from polite. I dinnae want to take a wife. One buried is enough for me. The king doesnae want ye to wed either of your other suitors, doesnae want them with land upon the troublesome border. Our families are both loyal and obedient to the king. He wants our forces joined and that land to be held in loyal hands.”