Highland Hope (Wild Thistle Triology Book 1) (8 page)

A tinge of sympathy surprised Aidan. Hadn’t she presented the idea of marriage? Hope knew the consequences and now she was leery, even hostile. And that didn’t suit the fairness and kindness he knew she possessed by watching her interactions with clansmen. The lad who’d tossed a rock came to mine and how her one comment had filled him with pride. ’Twas kindness and love for her people. Mayhap, she kenned something he didn’t. Hadn’t he witnessed Stephen and Hope talking in the corridor?

He glanced at her once again. Candlelight from the sconces behind them flickered around her in a golden halo. Her skin shone brightly. Her profile was lovely with a straight nose, full lips, and lush lashes shadowing her cheek. Och, why did she have to be so lovely? To quell the desire humming through his veins, Aidan swallowed the rest of the ale in a single gulp and moved to leave the main hall. At the entrance, he looked over his shoulder. Liam bent over Hope and spoke into her ear. A look of disdain and worry cast a shadow over her features. He moved to go back to the dais, disliking the anger on Hope’s face and the man putting it there. Liam glanced up and saw him striding forward. Liam sent him a warning glare. With a quick shake of his head, the auld man slowly left Hope’s side.

Satisfied the man would leave her alone, Aidan left the main hall. He slipped out to the bailey. The bright moon filled the area with golden rays and created shadows along the wall. Nary a person was in sight. The clansmen were still celebrating the news of the betrothal with song and dancing. Pacing the bailey, Aidan inhaled the crisp night air and sorted through plaguing thoughts as he reaffirmed his plan. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Why did it seem his plan wasn’t working as it should? Mocking him more likely. What must his father be thinking? Instead of Aidan pushing, nay forcing, his way forward, making the council admit they summoned him, he was caught in this plan to marry the laird.

Distance was the key, yet it ’twould be hard to prove his worthiness to his betrothed if he remained aloof and they constantly butt heads. He had to make her and the clan see he was there to aid Hope with keeping the clan safe and prosperous.

Pride and history pushed him to remain on course and take the lairdship for his own. Proof was needed, even though the council sent for him, they’d yet to meet with him and detail the plan. If he could find them alone, without the watchful eye of Hope and other clan members, he’d question their knowledge of the proof of his claim. With that knowledge, he’d be prepared, to prove the lairdship was to be his.

Guilt, settled in his stomach. Och, he didn’t have time for such an emotion. He’d promised his father and with that promise, he’s right their family history. If only Hope wasn’t the one who stood in his way. If a man led the clan, he’d summon the support of the council and challenge the man. Once he won, the lairdship would be his. But with Hope as laird, it proved a difficult path to usurp her and take what was his. If only she wasn’t so braw. More than lovely, but with an underlying strength many women didn’t possess. He thought of his own mother, och, she’d torn their father apart with her betrayals, that much he knew. ’Twas as if she shattered his heart and it never mended and his trust of women, any woman, was gone. Aidan often worried his opinion of women was influenced by his father. Mayhap, he rushed into marrying Anne too soon? Or he was trying too hard to truly become one of the MacKerrys. It was as if he was trying to prove his theory wrong. And he wasn’t the distrusting man his father was.

A scuffling noise near the palisade drew his attention. Aidan slipped into the shadows and eased toward the racket. Gruff voices and the sound of fists connecting with flesh now overrode the merriment and bagpipes easing from the main hall.

“’ave ye told?”

“Nay, I promise you,” came a weak, frightened response. “Nay.”

The scrape of metal, which Aidan knew had to be a knife being removed from a scabbard, prompted a whimper from one of the men. He rushed forward to stop whatever fight was about to turn ugly.

Silence.

Then angry, guttural discussion ensued. Aidan stilled as he heard movement as a tall man passed by. The extra length of the stranger’s tartan was pulled over his head, masking his identity. Aidan cursed beneath his breath and looked to where the men held their discussion. A crumpled figure lay not ten feet from him. He rushed to the man and rolled him over. A knife protruded from the man’s chest.

A fatal blow.

Aidan removed the knife and tossed it aside before he lifted the man into his arms and carried him toward the keep and into main hall. Och, if he’d only seen the man who’d left the grisly scene or even heard what they were arguing about.

Screams garnered the laird’s attention as he stopped before the dais. “I found him near the palisade,” he told Hope.

She blanched and raced around the large table to stand before him. Brushing back the sheath of black hair from the dead man’s face, she frowned. “He isn’t a MacAlister.”

Shocked, Aidan looked at the face of a man not more than ten and five. Pity, he looked so innocent, youthful. “Where should I take him?”

“Nora,” she called to her maid, “Take MacKerry to the internment room.”

Aidan turned to move.

“What were ye doing in the bailey, MacKerry?” Duncan said as he pushed through the gathering crowd.

How quickly the Highlander had forgotten their shared drink. Aidan cocked a brow. “Just clearing my head.”

Hope rested a hand on the large man’s arm. “Enough.”

Duncan stepped forward. He frowned. “Aye, laird. But ’tis easy to see MacKerry killed the man.”

“Nay,” Aidan said as all eyes shifted to him. “There was another in the bailey.”

“Who?” Duncan crossed his arms before his chest and stared down his nose.

Before answering, he glanced around the main hall. How was he to say? He barely knew the clansmen. Not that it would help, he never saw a face, just the shadow of a man with his tartan drawn over his head walking by. “I do not know. He’d covered his head with his tartan. But he wasn’t a young man, he had a bit of a hitch to his gate.”

Duncan leaned forward, his bristly beard nearly touched Aidan’s face. “’Tis a likely story, MacKerry. You killed him.”

Hope stepped between him. She set her hand on Duncan’s arm. “I will settle this.” She tipped her chin toward the main hall entrance. “Take him down.”

Following Nora, Aidan remained stoic as they descended stone stairs and entered a cold room with a large slab table in the center. Little else adorned the room and he felt stifled in the macabre atmosphere.

The auld maid began removing the dead boy’s clothing. “Go, lad. ’Tis naught ye can do.”

Aidan took one last look before leaving the depressing room. Why would one kill such a young lad? He had to find out. Or else he’d be accused of murder. A murder he didn’t commit. He strode to the main hall, hoping to speak with his intended and perhaps the council as well. He had to share what he heard in the bailey and to claim his innocence before them all.

“MacKerry,” Hope called. “We’ll discuss this in the Laird’s chamber.”

He followed her, hating the fact she used such a condescending tone with him. No matter, time would erase all that he’d suffered at the hands of women who treated him badly.

The council awaited them.
Blast Liam.
He once again sat in her chair. Hope jerked her head toward him and he moved, but not before he sent a mocking glare in her direction. ’Twas always his reaction, and she knew he didn’t want her as laird. Nay, he wanted to fight and pillage. He wanted the clan’s territory to spread across Scotland. He never thought of the consequences. The same consequences she and her sisters suffered as lasses. Och, and their poor mother. She’d never recovered from the death of her father. And Hope pledged to never needlessly put men’s lives in danger. The men of the clan were fathers, husbands, brothers and sons. How could she so recklessly risk the lives of others? And while she wasn’t a fool, she knew they needed to train and be prepared, but ‘twould do the clan no good to lose more men on the whim of those bent on war.

She sat and cleared her throat in order to gain their attention. MacKerry leaned against the door jam, strong arms folded before his chest and an intent gaze narrowed his eyes.

“We need to learn the identity of the lad.”

The men looked to her, speculation raising their brows.

“Aye,” Liam replied and he fingered a deep groove in the wood table. “’Tis disturbing, to be sure.” He lifted his head and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve never had a murder.”

Murder
.

The word resonated in her mind and she couldn’t help but peek beneath her lashes at MacKerry. Devil take him, he saw her and cocked an arrogant brow. Could he really kill a man in cold blood? Or did MacKerry know the lad? No one came forward to support his story. But if there was another person as he claimed, would he come forward and incriminate himself?

Connor watched her actions and his gazed landed on MacKerry as well. The man leaned back in his chair and tipped his chin at her betrothed. “Where’s yer dirk, MacKerry?”

He straightened and reached for the leather sheath belted at his waist. When his brow beetled, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Where was his dirk? She turned to him, ready to send him back to the dungeon if need be.

“’Tisn’t here.” He whipped his belt off and shook it. Still no sign of his knife.

Hope rubbed her brow as the other men shouted accusations. How ironic they now blasted MacKerry when just a few hours ago they rejoiced in her selection. She held up a hand for silence and rose. Placing her hands on the rough wood of the table, she sought the council of her father as if his presence still remained somewhere in the room. She spoke in a low, commanding tone, “He’s my intended. Cease your havering and leave us.”

The men looked to each other and when Liam rose, all but Connor followed suit. Each ignored her betrothed as they passed him, but their silence was laden with warning. ’Twas how they often reacted when she rebuffed their advice or refused to lay siege to another clan.

“Are you certain ye wish to be alone with him, m’laird?” Connor stood protectively between her and MacKerry. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. She grinned and rested her hand on his arm. “I’ll be fine.”

He relaxed his stance. “Call me if ye need me.”

“Aye.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “I appreciate your support, Connor.”

He nodded. “I’m loyal to ye, m’laird. Always ken this.”

“Thank you.”

He strode toward the door. He stopped before MacKerry. “Hurt her and ye’ll answer to me,” Connor warned as he pounded his finger against MacKerry’s chest.

“I’ve no interest in hurting m’laird.” While he spoke, his direct gaze never wavered. She shivered a bit.

She believed him.

Connor nodded toward her and left.

“Close the door.”

The muscle along Aidan’s jaw flexed, but he did as she bade. Hope sat and waved to a chair for MacKerry to do the same. So many worries came to her. Worries for the clan, the poor lad. Had she betrothed herself to a man who killed a lad?

They sat in silence as she watched him, tried to measure the type of man he was. While her instinct was telling her he was being truthful, there were too many unanswered questions.

“Did you kill him?”

He glanced up. His gray eyes hardened like the edge of a sword. “What would be my motive?”

She allowed a seemingly harmless shrugged, trying to gain control of her nerves and the warning blaring through her mind.
Do not trust him. No matter how his kiss melted your insides with pleasure. He is a stranger
. “Perhaps he has some information on you.” She waved at him. “Regardless, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Nay.”

“Nay?” Hope’s gaze lingered over the fine features of his face. Could she trust the man who was more a stranger than not? His mouth twisted into a sardonic grin as she inspected him. Tremors of foreboding raced down her spine. He’d something to hide, ’twas obvious. What were his secrets? “I need more than that, MacKerry. The council will demand more, just as I do.”

He raised his hands, his face suddenly weary. “I can’t give you more than I have. I didn’t ken the man.”

She tilted her head as she absorbed his statement. ’Twas odd how his brogue thickened. Did it indicate guilt or innocence? “’Tis late.” She rubbed her shoulder. The stitches itched and the injury was sore. She squinted at him. “Can I trust you to remain within the keep?”

He nodded solemnly. “As I pledge.”

She stilled, took a long look at the man. He seemed calm, but there was also the hum of energy which pulsed beneath his skin. “And what am I to ken of your pledge, MacKerry.”

His gaze narrowed and he stepped toward her. Braw and bravado. The room was smaller with him in it, as if he grew with that one step in her direction. Sweat began to form on her palms. His gaze softened but he was still just as fierce. “My word as a man of honor. I have honor, laird. I did not kill the lad.”

With such passion he spoke. Light glowed in his eyes, glints of gray and silver mixed together, making them the color of the sky after a quick summer storm. She cocked her head to the side, weighing his words, and the vehemence behind them. With a quick nod, she bade him to stay. “Would you care for ale or whiskey?”

“Whiskey.”

A small grin pulled at the corner of her mouth. ’Twas her father’s favored drink.

He moved to the Laird’s chair. Circled around it.

“’Twas my father’s chair,” she said as she nodded toward the ornately carved chair at the head of the table.

“Aye.” He ran his hand over the back, drew his finger along the carvings. She witnessed the look of longing on his face. He seemed almost younger for a moment. As if he were recalling memories which pleasured him.

Who was this man she was to marry?