One Year with the Laird (Lairds of the Leanan Love Festival #2)

Chapter 1

“Last chance to change yer mind,” Laird Bryden murmured, swinging himself down neatly from his saddle. “Ye can still go home.”

“And have ye tell Laird MacColl that there’ll be nay lass?

I daenae think so,” Nora muttered, clambering gracelessly down from her own saddle.

“I can do this. It’s just a year. One year, for the betrothal period.

As ye said, there was nay mention of a weddin’. Once the treaty is signed, I’ll leave.”

Laird Bryden eyed her thoughtfully, saying nothing. “A wise decision,” he said at last, offering nothing more.

The Leanan Festival was held across several long fields, scattered with sparse woodland. Tents sprang up everywhere, and people crowded around them like water parting around rocks. There were market stalls laden with food and drink of all kinds.

She could smell various roasting meats in the air, mingling with the smell of marzipan and other sweets.

There were ale stalls, of course, places selling mead, beer, or even whiskey.

Judging by the boisterous laughter and chatter drifting up from the edges of the fields, plenty of people had already imbibed plenty of it.

Large squares of each field were set aside for the dancers. Wooden planks were laid on the ground to form a rough, uneven dance floor. Couples were already swinging round and round, the boards clattering under their feet loud enough to drown out the music.

Every single one of them wore a mask. Some masks were elaborate, decorated with feathers, lace, beads, or paint.

Others were simply strips of cloth tied over the eyes, with holes punched in them.

Still, others wore full face masks, which were the most unsettling.

Whether plain or patterned, these masks had holes cut around the nostrils and sometimes around the mouth to allow breathing, but most were just smooth, curved shields covering the face.

Nora’s mask was more like the latter than the former. She had sewn a face covering out of a piece of red cloth, creating a smooth, blank mask from her eyebrows to her chin. The edge around the eye holes was reinforced with black thread, but that was the only decoration.

It struck her belatedly that she should have picked a green mask to go with her muddy green healer’s cloak.

There had been no talk of dressing her up or making her look pretty to meet her possible betrothed, and frankly, Nora was relieved.

It didn’t matter what she looked like. Or what he looked like.

“Aye, the Leanan Festival,” Laird Bryden remarked, following her gaze. “They reckon that a fifth of all matches made in the Highlands are made here. And of course, over half of the treaties between clans, too.”

“I’ve never ken anyone who came here,” Nora confessed. “I always thought it was strange. A laird began the festivals, aye? To celebrate the day he met his wife?”

“That’s right. During peace talks, nay less.

It’s a fine custom, in me opinion. We all come together to eat, drink, and dance.

Nae that ye and I will be spendin’ much time doin’ any of those things.

Keep an eye out for the MacColl tent. Ye willnae miss it, it’s bigger than all the rest. Laird MacColl wears a gaudy ruby ring. ”

The structure towered over the other tents, and a platform was built within. There were no weapons at Leanan, of course, and no tartan was allowed, but a group of stern-looking soldiers gathered around the tent, unarmed but nonetheless intimidating.

“Posturin’,” Laird Bryden muttered darkly, nodding at their small group of soldiers to follow. “Last chance, Nora. Are ye sure ye want to do this?”

Nora hesitated for a moment before responding.

She scanned the MacColl tent, and one man in particular drew her attention.

Taller than the others, he slouched across the tent platform and sank into a high-backed chair.

With a languid wave of his hand, he summoned a servant with a goblet of wine.

Without looking at the servant, he took it and had a long drink.

A ring caught the light on the middle finger of that hand—a flashy gold piece with a large red stone in the center.

Perhaps sensing eyes on him, he tore his gaze away from the wine and looked over at the crowd.

Nora thought he might be considered handsome, if one liked that kind of thing.

Besides his height and obvious bulk—a warrior’s bulk, all broad shoulders and corded muscles—he had a well-shaped face, a long nose, a square jaw covered in black stubble, and messy brown hair that lazily curled to his shoulders.

His mask was almost an afterthought, crookedly placed over his eyes.

It didn’t hide much. But maybe he was not the type of man who cared about hiding his identity.

Not me type, she told herself sternly. I bet he thinks too highly of himself. And all that bulk willnae do him any good if he has to be dragged off the battlefield by some hapless healer.

His gaze skipped over her in the crowd, never pausing for an instant. Nora shivered.

Is that the man I’m goin’ to be betrothed to?

Nobody had said specifically that it was the Laird who’d asked for a lass, but she wasn’t a fool. It had to be him.

“I’m ready,” Nora said aloud, fixing an image of Margaret in her head. After all, she had nobody else. Her and Margaret, that was how it had always been.

Without me sister, who am I? What good am I?

“Let’s get this over with.”

Tearing her eyes away from the man who had to be Laird MacColl, she found Laird Bryden eyeing her with mild curiosity. Like most lairds, he had a talent for hiding his real thoughts, and the curiosity almost immediately disappeared, replaced with a cool, blank expression.

“Then let’s go,” he said at last. “Yer future and the future of our clan awaits. Best nae to dawdle at a time like this, eh?”

Creighton eyed his wine, swirling it lazily around the goblet. Dallas had picked out the wine for today. Frugal as always, he’d brought the poor stuff, with the assumption that they’d have to share. It tasted like vinegar.

He sighed. What was it about festivals that seemed to drag forever? Everybody else was having fun, and yet here he was, trapped on this podium within his tent like a statue. Waste of time.

“Try nae to look so bored, me Laird,” Dallas’ voice came from behind him, gentle but firm. “There’s too much to observe at a place like this.”

“Ever vigilant, eh, Dall?” Creighton observed. “Do ye ever step away from the councilor’s table, even in yer mind?”

He was rewarded with a faint chuckle.

“Nay,” Dallas admitted. “I daenae. Nay more than ye can ever stop bein’ laird.”

Creighton rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to smooth out his expression. Dallas was right. He often was. People were watching. There was no anonymity in any crowd for a laird.

His hair tickled the back of his neck, and he shifted position, trying to nudge it out of his collar. He needed a haircut. He needed a shave. He needed another drink.

“More wine,” Creighton said to no one in particular, holding up his goblet.

Beside him, Skye clicked her tongue.

“Cousin,” she chided. “Another goblet? We’ve nae met with the Brydens yet. Shouldnae ye stay cool-headed?”

“Why would I need to do that? Ye are sober enough for the two of us.”

Skye rolled her eyes. She was three-and-twenty, but appeared a few years younger with her small frame, large doll-like blue eyes, and clouds of dark hair.

He was frankly surprised that her brother, Laird MacCrimmon, had spared her to come today.

But then, Hunter was a dutiful young man with a mind as sharp as a sharpened blade.

He loved his sister, but he would never let something as foolish as love blur his focus and allow him to make an incorrect choice. Nor would his sister, for that matter.

The same sister who stood beside Creighton now, scanning the crowd with a steely glare. A tug of unease pulled at his insides.

“I hope ye arenae goin’ to make a scene,” he said at last. “It’s nae this Laird MacColl which killed yer da. It was the last one. We want peace with this one, eh?”

Skye said nothing, only pursed her lips together. “I just want to see him. And aye, aye, I ken that it wasnae him, but it was his father.”

Creighton pursed his lips, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. Skye was to return to Laird Bryden’s Keep. The man was supposed to be a model of old chivalry and virtue—a sharp contrast to his father—and so he wasn’t worried about Skye’s safety. His concern was for Laird Bryden’s.

Worry about yerself now, he thought, as a cluster of people in Bryden tartan began forcing their way through the crowd, heading for their tent. This is it.

“Remember,” he murmured urgently to his cousin. “This is about peace. About mutual trust. Ye have to remember that. It’s an exchange of hostages, so tread carefully. And ye can change yer mind, even now.”

“I daenae mind,” Skye responded, her gaze landing on the men coming toward them. “I think it will be nice to stay by the ocean for a while. I’ve heard that Bryden land is lovely at this time of year.”

Creighton opened his mouth to say that wasn’t the point, that she had better meant it when she said that she wasn’t here for vengeance, that all of this mattered, but then the Bryden men were clambering onto the podium, and there was no time.

Really, they should have waited, hanging back respectfully until he summoned them forward.

This had to be Laird Bryden’s attempt at putting them on an equal footing, making himself firm as a laird.

Despite the fact that he’d only been laird since his father died, and that Creighton had treaties with half of the clans here, while Bryden had none.

The rudeness notwithstanding, Creighton got to his feet, handing the goblet off to somebody, and spread his arms wide.