Highland Hope (Wild Thistle Triology Book 1) (3 page)

The arrival of the stranger had sparked an idea. On the morrow, she would put her plan, the likes of which the council had never seen, in motion.

They kenned not whom they were dealing with and with that sliver of satisfaction; Hope smiled for what seemed the first time in days.

Chapter 4

The laird held the torch high as she navigated the alley of the darkened prison. The light flickered against the stone walls, the silhouette of Lady Hope. When she reached his cell, he moved from the back toward the iron bars.

Arms folded before his chest, his stance unyielding, he remained silent.

“Have you broken your fast?” she said briskly. She’d interrogated men before, ’twas obvious in her bold tone.

Aidan shook his head. He wouldn’t give an inch, not for this woman. No, for any woman.

She sighed. “I’ll have bread and cheese sent down to you.” Her brow lifted. “After we’re finished.”

He took in the sight of her. She was taller than he first thought, reaching almost to his chin, although it was hard to tell through the iron bars. She still wore the blasted tartan and the laird brooch, but he reluctantly admitted it suited her confidence. The flickering flames of the torch haloed her, making her hair shine with rich auburn highlights and gave a cast to her eyes that were as green as spring grass. Their expression changed to one of challenge when she noticed his inspection and Aidan held back the chuckle he knew would incense her. She’d have to be a strong laird in order to have the men obeying her. A strong laird, indeed.

“You have need of me?” He wasn’t willing to stop watching her, but he wanted to break his fast to ease the rumblings of his stomach and of course demand to be released.

“Lady Catriona passed away just a few days ago.” As she spoke, she straightened her spine and met his gaze. There was tension around her eyes, pain. Och, she was grieving. Nay, he wouldn’t soften because the woman lost her mother. “My mother had been my main supporter in leading the clan and I’ve need of help since she is gone.”

Her voice mingled with the dripping water and the sound of his own breath. Aye, there was pain beneath her commanding tone. She took a step back, as if she were trying to remain in control of the situation. He waited for her to continue, interested in her ideas, although the visitor of the night before had given him warning.

Her shoulders straightened. “My father decreed I was to marry by a certain age or not rule. It appears I’m in need of a husband.” She looked directly into his eyes. “And he will be you.”

All air left him and his head was awash in ire. He’d been warned, but hearing the words, arrogant and without emotion, forced him into memories Aidan longed to hold at bay.

Woman seeking power, like his mother and his betrothed. Ordering men about as if they were commanders, demanding their will be done.

If she were a man ordering him about, he’d surely have attacked her through the bars.

“You’ll have no control, to be sure,” she continued as she stepped forward and gave a flippant swat of her hand. “I’ve led the clan well and will keep doing so. You’ll be there to soothe the council.”

Soothe the council? Surely, she understood they meant to undermine her? Did everyone think he was a fool? Had no cods?

“No control?” He growled. Fury filled him. Spiked to a fervor, he was surprised he hadn’t ripped the iron bars from their moorings. “A willing servant? Is that what you want?” he demanded roughly.

Anger knitted her brow as her hands fisted at her waist. “You don’t have much of a choice, do you? Either you rot here in the dungeon, or you agree to my plan.”

Aidan wrapped his fingers around the iron bars, in his mind, they were wrapping around Laird MacAlister’s neck. Mayhap it was his normally easygoing nature which led others to believe him weak and caused them to strike against his very manhood. But this woman had gone too far. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve no right to imprison me,” he countered.

“Aye,” she conceded with the tip of her head. “But I could take my time releasing you.”

He chuckled humorlessly. Aidan then reached through the bars with his other hand and lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers. “And what of the marriage bed?” he rasped, enjoying the pink hue blooming over her cheeks. Why it made her look maidenly and not like the over-bearing laird she was.

She held his gaze as her jaw tightened and flashes of anger flared in her green eyes.

“Am I allowed to share your bed?”

She tore from his hold, then scoffed.

She pointedly ignored the way he wrangled the iron bars. “Nay, we’ll not be husband and wife in the traditional sense. My father may have decreed I wed, but I’ll not sell myself in the process.”

He grunted. “You are daft.” He’d lowered his voice, trying to keep his rage from ebbing out of control. Not husband and wife in the traditional sense? Did she realize there’d have to be heirs? More of the MacAlister line to sit in the laird’s chair? Her plan was poorly created and in the end she’d be hard pressed to keep an even keel along such a plan as they wed and began to rule together. Regardless of what she’s said, he’d not sit by and do nothing as she ruled.

“Laird MacAlister?” a voice called out, one Aidan recognized, one he knew would be coming. If only the man would come into the light so he could see his face.

“Aye,” she said with a hint of annoyance as she turned toward the voice.

“’Tis no place for ye, laird. Let me speak with the prisoner and bring his food.”

Aidan watched as her spine snapped straight and she visibly bristled at the suggestion. She cocked her head at the voice. “I’ve the right, for now. I’ll keep interrogating the prisoner until I’m satisfied with his answers.”

“As ye wish, m’lady.”

Blast it, the voice had stayed afar and Aidan had never seen his face. Of course he knew it was intentional, a reminder and warning in itself. But he was vexed, nonetheless. Laird MacAlister turn to him, and he nearly laughed at the outrage on her face. It must surely mimic his own. He admired her spirit. And her bravado. She’d asked a stranger to marry. He knew it had cost her. Mayhap this was the answer . . . her cost would become his fortune.

Mayhap he would agree. For now. Then he’d tip the circumstances to his advantage. Aye. He’d gain her trust, all the while moving
his
goal forward. For he’d be Laird of Wild Thistle.

As I pledged
.

With an arrogant tilt of her chin and a challenge set in her gaze, she said, “What say you, MacKerry? Have we an agreement?”

“Why me?”

Her eyes widened, then she shrugged.

There had to be a reason. The clan was filled with men. The laird hadn’t decided to wed until the moment she saw him? Not very likely, she seemed too intelligent for that.

She remained silent for a moment. “The men of the clan see me as laird. Not as a woman.”

He smirked. A beautiful woman like her, not bloody likely. They saw the woman she was along with the laird she was. The combination mayhap too much for most men—a strong, independent woman. “They are afraid of you.”

A flash of irritation lit her green eyes. “Mayhap. Or they do not like me besting them in the practice yard.”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “Aye,” he said as he took note of her complete surprise at his laughter. “I’ll marry you.” Aidan would keep her thinking he was compliant.

And then,
we’ll see how long it is before I’m in charge and in the marriage bed.

Chapter 5

Hope rubbed her eyes, weary and aggravated. What a beast of a man. Each time he looked at her, his gaze, a mix of grayish-blue sky tumbled with a coming storm, a quake would erupt in her stomach, and sweat moistened her palms. Mayhap, she’d made the wrong decision. Her mother’s death and the arrival of the stranger were clouding her thoughts and making her uncertain.

Shaking her head, Hope made her way to the main hall. Fresh thatched rugs swathed the floor, weaved together with lavender, pine, and a hint of rosemary. The floor coverings scented the area nicely and nudged some of her weariness away. She sat at the empty table on the dais at the head of the room, wanting to keep to herself. Knowing the clansmen would respect her state of mourning, she could be guaranteed a few moments of peace.

A leather bag landed on the table before her. “Here’s the man’s bag.” Duncan moved to the chair across from her. “’Tis no letter.”

She cocked her brow.
There goes my peace
. “You looked through it?”

He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Aye, just a wee bit.”

“’Twasn’t your place. You ken?” Her mood soured further. “And I asked to see it yester eve.”

Duncan sometimes stepped above himself. And his arrogant manner didn’t soothe her in the least. Mostly, it reminded her of MacKerry in the dungeon. Men, she thought with heavy exasperation, were just lads in a body of brawn, they were.

“I’ll see what the bag holds myself.” She went to lift the bag from the table, yet Duncan placed his meaty hand upon it, deterring her action.

“The council is waiting for ye, laird.” He grabbed the bag. “They want to be seeing ye.”

“Did any of them look in the bag?”

He frowned. “Not that I ken.”

Hope suppressed a sigh and followed her cousin. The earlier pleasure she wrought from the freshened hall shifted into a crushing headache. God save her from the council. She’d let them hold their meeting, then she’d announce her plans.

As they strode toward the upper level of the keep, she walked with heavy steps. Her heart overwhelmed by grief and responsibility. She must put these melancholy thoughts aside. For the good of the clan, she must remain as laird. Hope shuddered to think what would happen if the council proclaimed someone else as Laird of Clan MacAlister. The council was ruthless and responsible for so much death in the past and she feared more would die. Just as she worried their folly had contributed to her father’s death. She’d been able to keep them in line, albeit with the help of her mother, but they wouldn’t decide against their laird, the clan would reject such actions.

And with Clan Mungo once again making threats and encroaching on their borders, Hope kenned they needed to remain strong, but strong didn’t mean the clan needed to go to war. Her men were trained, ready if needed. But she’d not mindlessly engage their enemy.

The sound of the clash which felled her father filled her mind. Metal against metal. Agonizing screams. Lightning strikes. Booming thunder. Her mother’s cries. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Never would she forget those sounds, they’d haunt her until the day she died.

No, she thought with a firm clench of her hands, they mustn’t gain control. Hope would not allow them to remove her from the lairdship. No matter what her father’s decree demanded, she still had time.

“I’ll stay here, laird.” Duncan stepped to the side of the broad doorway. He tipped his head, then handed her the leather saddlebag.

She accepted the bag, inhaling the scent of leather, horse and a hint of soap. This belonged to MacKerry. They truly had no right to inspect it. Aye, they did, she corrected. She was laird. Mayhap, he had nefarious goals or was a spy. And if a spy was about, that meant an enemy clan was ready to challenge them, such as the night her father died. Clan Mungo had raided and Clan MacAlister had responded with vengeance. Yet, the vengeance led to the death of many including her father. Even though MacKerry wore the MacKerry tartan, it didn’t mean he wasn’t spying for Mungo. She’d have to investigate further to ensure the safety of her clan. Having the man close, the man she was to wed, would make things easier.

“Ye may enter,” a grave voice said.

She rolled her eyes heavenward-aye, she had the right to enter regardless of what Liam thought. She held the leather bag tight in her grip. Liam MacAlister sat at the head of the long table with Connor, Ian, and Stephen flanking his side. Pewter cups of ale before them, the men’s ruddy faces looked as if they’d been in intense discussion.

Connor, the youngest at five and forty, ran his thick fingers through his graying hair. His gaze avoided Hope’s. Unease settled within her as she caught her lip between her teeth.

“Ah,
m’laird
,” Liam said with a sardonic edge to his voice. “Please sit.”

“If you would kindly get out of my seat, I will,” she said with a heavy dose of disapproval. “’Tis the Laird’s chair, Liam.”

Ian and Stephen blanched as Connor chuckled. Liam rose and motioned toward the chair with a broad sweep of his arm. The nerve of him, she fumed. Her father had once reigned from the Laird’s chair.

Oak with a tall back and thickly carved arms and legs, the chair represented strength and endurance. Traits she lived for, traits engraved deep within her very character. She straightened her shoulders and looked over the group of men.

Hope cocked her brow, waiting for one of them to speak. As usual, she was left without a drink or even offer of one.

“Have ye inspected the bag?”

She glanced at Connor, relieved it ’twas him who spoke and not Liam. Liam made her nervous. She always looked behind her as she paced the corridors of the keep, walked the battlements. As if she expected him to lurch out from behind and topple her over the edge, her distrust of him was so strong. Connor, on the other hand, had been her father’s most trusted man. In battle, they’d fought as a team and almost died as one. Her father’s friend still bore the grotesque scar traveling from his temple to the base of his strong jaw. The strike had nearly cleaved his head in half and miraculously, he’d lived where her father had died.

“Nay.” She lifted the flap of the bag and emptied its contents onto the distressed table. A hunk of dried meat, a quill, a linen shirt, and a lone piece of parchment piled before her. Not much to call belongings, but she couldn’t fault the man for traveling light. She was disappointed there wasn’t more, but she fingered the paper, enjoying the tension emanating from the men. With a peek beneath her lashes, Hope watched each of them attempting to appear uninterested, but failing miserably with eager gleams highlighting their eyes.

Liam pounded on the table. “Bollocks! What does it say?”

Hope leaned forward and swept the contents back into the bag. Despite the shadows the candlelight offered, she could read anger and contempt on Liam’s weathered face. His ire threaded through his body, making him as tightly wound as the string of one of Faith’s bows. He lurched for the parchment, rattling the table, displacing the tumblers and candles. Waxy tallow and ale mixed together as they formed a river which dripped onto the hewn flooring.

Connor caught Liam before he completed his task. “Get hold of yerself, man.”

Stephen leapt from his chair, spilling it backward with a resounding thud. Ian sat, face stricken.

Liam ripped his arm from Connor’s grasp. “Get off me, ye
eejit
.”

By Saint John, she thought to herself, she must tell them. “Sit down,” Hope said loudly, with enough authority, even Duncan looked in from the corridor. She caught and held her cousin’s gaze.

He nodded, then turned back to the hallway. Duncan’s broad back acted like a door, impermeable to interlopers.

“Sit down,” she repeated. This time, her low, guttural command cut through the chaos.

Each man stilled, threw a look in her direction, and sat.

Hope stood. When she was certain the men were going to stay, she began pacing the room, circling the table, heightening the tension so thick it was like the fog of the sound on a moist spring morning. In response, the men’s temper simmered like the cresting waves of the water before a storm, much like the storm during her father’s death.

“I’ve made a decision regarding MacKerry.”

Liam lifted his shoulders and shifted to the edge of his seat. Leaning forward, he pounded his fist on the table. “Speak woman.”

Hope lifted a brow and waited until the old man sat back into the chair. “As you are all aware, my mother was my most trusted adviser.”

Liam waved an impatient hand. “Aye, aye. Go on with it.”

Hope held a sigh and glared at Liam. “I’m in need of another to help me rule.” She looked pointedly at the men. “And to follow my father’s decree.”

Connor cleared his throat. “We ken this, laird. Tell us yer plan,” he said softly and with a nod of encouragement.

She chuckled, then sobered. “I have spoken with the prisoner MacKerry and I will marry . . . him.” A weight lifted off her chest allowing air to flow freely through her tense body. She inhaled, relieved she’d spoken the words aloud and the keep didn’t come crashing down one stone at a time around her. She prayed her parents weren’t vexed with her. Surely, they realize she was fulfilling their demands? But to wed a stranger, one she felt may be a spy for the Mungos, most likely seemed extreme to them and would seem so to the clan as well. With these men before her, she kenned extreme measures were necessary.

“Are ye certain, m’laird?” Connor questioned, concern forced tight lines around his eyes.

She patted his arm and smiled. ’Twas kind of him to be worried for her. Yet she’d no choice in the matter, she had to protect her family, her clan. “Aye. To remain laird I have to wed.”

“Why not one of our men?”

She shrugged and lifted her mouth into a wry grin. “None have asked.”

Connor scrubbed his hand over his face. “Fools.”

She laughed. “Aye.” Not that she could see herself married to any of the men she’d trained. ’Twas odd marrying MacKerry didn’t send shards of worry through her. Somehow, deep down, she was content with the decision.

“As long as you are certain. We ken nothing of the man.”

But they would. She’d find out why he was truly at Wild Thistle Keep. “I am certain.”

She glanced at the men around the table. Some watched her back, others glanced at Liam.

Why was Liam smiling? Hope had expected him to bawl his ire until the entire clan came running. In fact, all of the men seemed suspended in some manner of pleasure. No protest, no shouts of her leadership causing the clan’s doom.

“Weel, lass. ’Tis glad I am ye are finally thinking o’ settling down. Yer mother and father would be proud.” A satisfied grin lifted Liam’s mouth as he glanced around the table. “Do ye not agree, men?”

Why were they so pleased? She set her hands at her waist and watched the smiles curve their mouths. A chill skittered up her spine. Liam was planning something, she felt it, she kenned it. And she’d discovery what and why. Och, ’twas so much to deal with and now, her mother was gone. There was no one to lean on and seek guidance.

Mayhap, MacKerry would be more than the means to follow her father’s decree.

Could he be the man who’d be a true partner? Nay. He was a means to keep the lairdship, nothing more.

Ian, a silent sort of man with long grey hair that was plaited at the temples, raised his glass. “To our laird and MacKerry. May their union be prosperous and may bairns soon be blessed to them.”

The rest of the men cheered and raised the tumblers Connor had quickly refilled.

Hope stood watching this unbelievable display of support. She longed to let go of her suspicions, grudgingly accept their congratulations, and be done with it. Yet, flashes of the past, vibrant and bold, held her back. By Saint Joseph she had her doubts about these old men who schemed to gain their way and, ’twas obvious they were doing just that at the moment. Hope didn’t miss the wink Liam gave Stephen. The man chuckled in response. She wanted to take it all back, pull the glee right out from beneath them. But she’d wait for now. If her announcement brought such merriment, then she’d not quell the moment. She’d let them think she believed their well wishes.

Stephen rose and bowed before her. Hope stepped back, unaccustomed to the blatant adoration, when the council and her were usually at odds.

“M’laird, I pledge me service to you and MacKerry. Of that have no doubt.”

Aye, she did have doubts, doubly so when Ian mimicked his comrade’s motions and pledge. Liam held himself back; as he was wont to do. He regarded her, coolly, and surprisingly with a twinkle of pride in his rheumy gaze.

Confused, Hope nodded to the men and turned to leave the chamber. She’d never felt comfortable leading from the auspicious chair, no matter if it was her right.

Too many memories of her father swam before her when she was sitting in his chair. Him bouncing her on his knees, her falling asleep as she was tucked in the secure comfort of his lap. He’d brush her hair, tuck it behind her ear while whispering words of encouragement and love. And watching wide-eyed as he donned his warring tartan and held his targe and swung his sword with slow, proud movements. Och, pain of regret pierced her stomach. What she wouldn’t do to have him back. Not only for her, but to lead the clan. A burden she’d survived if only on her promise.

Her pledge to lead the clan.

Remember, lasses. Through Hope, Faith, and Honor, ye can rule.

Devotion to the clan welled within her as she blinked threatening tears away. Marriage would secure her role as laird. A position granted to her and Hope knew not to her husband.