The Highlander’s Accidental Wife (Queen’s Edict #3)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Flurries of snow filled the cold air, and Damien’s breath puffed out in a cloud as he swung up onto his horse. The sun had barely risen, but he’d been called to town. Not only had that soured his mood and he wanted to wring the neck of the yeoman who insisted that the matter could not wait, but he could’ve slept for another day. Especially after being plagued with dreams of Helena.

Still, he hoped that he’d return in time for breakfast.

We have more words to exchange, Milady.

However, because he’d been away so much over the last year, one issue from one yeoman turned into another, and before Damien knew it, he was trudging back into the castle at nearly midnight. When he finally reached his bed, he threw himself on it and bit his pillow in frustration, thinking of Helena, who was down the hall—too far and yet teasingly close.

The next day was another mad bout of business, though at least this time, the men came to the castle. Before he knew it, though, there was a queue of men requesting an audience with him, and he only saw Helena in passing, casting a curious look over the crowd.

Meanwhile, his mother gave him a knowing look when she came in to greet a few of the folk she knew.

This is why a laird cannae travel so much.

The next day saw Damien buried in paperwork until his head ached, and dealing with more folk seeking an audience.

Finally, five days after his return, things had calmed down enough that he could join everyone for breakfast. But Helena’s sister and his aunts seemed to conspire to monopolize her attention. It did not help that this time, he had been late and had to sit at the opposite end of the table, barely able to see his wife-to-be.

So, when a knock sounded at his study door, Damien stood up, his heart beating a bit more rapidly as he smoothed his hands down the front of his shirt. And when he called out a quick, “enter,” he told himself that he did not sound eager?—

“Feck,” he cursed and threw himself back into his seat. “What now, Orrick?”

“Greetings to ye, too, on this fine mornin’, Cousin,” Orrick said in a breezy manner, undaunted, and elbowed the door shut. “I come with good news. All that business in town about the squabblin’ merchants and yeomen has been taken care of. They agreed to yer proposal.”

Damien heaved a sigh. He thought they’d come around to it, but still, it was a relief. “Thank Christ.”

While Damien had been away, more merchants had come into Galeclere, more trading of fish and goods, but there had also been a poor harvest, which meant there was not much to trade.

It also meant that some of his folk had made twice or thrice what they usually did, and others had not. Arguments had broken out this year because the other folks hoping to also trade felt that those of Galeclere, who’d done well, were being favored over those who had bad luck.

Damien was not sure the latter was the case, but he knew hurt feelings and frustration could take root and spread ill will. He’d found himself wishing he’d been here months ago to stop it, as it would take more than careful negotiations for everyone to feel that they were being treated fairly and ease the tension between farmers and fishermen.

But a bit of a higher tax, then redistributed to some of the folk who’d suffered, a few fairs for the traders, an expansion of the village market, and a promise to see how much the Laird could invest in boat repairs had started to soothe hurt feelings.

Part of Damien could hardly believe the hostility he’d found in the village today—friends not speaking to each other, snide remarks, and a general feeling of unease.

None of his men or advisors had come out and said it—not even Orrick—but it was clear that they thought the people felt forgotten. With no Laird watching over them, no matter how many men he posted, no matter how often Orrick, his mother, and others in his family went into town, they’d started to only look after themselves. Fearing the worst.

Damien could hardly blame them. He’d tried to be discreet with how often he was away from Morighe and had even explained what he was up to. But after suffering one terror, after such instability and bloodshed, never mind with the English constantly nipping at their borders and handing down decrees, his people dreaded the future.

Orrick had said as much yesterday, when two yeomen had almost come to blows, and Damien had almost lost his temper and drawn his blade.

They need a sense of stability, of a laird lookin’ to the future of Galeclere, Morighe, and our people.

As much as Damien knew that was what he was doing—and while he knew that for the first few years, his people had also sought vengeance—too much time had passed.

“So it goes,” he could hear his father say in his head, even if it made his jaw clench. “Time must move forward, me son.”

Perhaps it was not fair, but he thought his marriage, and Helena herself as Lady of Morighe and Galeclere, would go a long way toward ensuring that. While he would do his damnedest to ensure that she had time to pursue her translation, she could not neglect her duties—even if she did not want to give him an heir just yet.

“I think they agreed, in part, because ye’re marryin’ the English lady and followin’ the Queen’s Edict,” Orrick said.

Damien nodded. He’d also thought as much.

“Means a lot, and they are verra curious about Helena. So far, they have taken to her, but ye should make introductions and be seen with her more.”

“I will, I will,” Damien said, although he was not sure when that would happen. He barely had time to see her in passing in their goddamn home. “Anythin’ else related to town?”

Orrick made to speak, then gave him a searching look. “The people ken that ye care enough to track down every one of those blighters who dared lift a finger, never mind a blade against us. I dinnae think they blame ye for wantin’ to exact revenge.” Damien raised an eyebrow at that. “But I also think that invitin’ the specter of the Vipers, keepin’ everyone vigilant, is feedin’ into the unease.”

“Exactly why we need to find him,” Damien growled.

“Or shrug off the threat.” Orrick held up his hands when Damien glared at him. “A suggestion, Milaird. But sometimes we give more power to the unseen than we intend.”

He paused as Damien clenched his jaw. That was well and true, but this was not the same bloody thing.

“There arenae many vipers left. Six? Seven?”

“Seven, including Lachlan,” Damien said. “And their new allies.”

“Allies who arenae interested in Lachlan’s goals, who were bought, and we have verra little sense of how else he manages to keep ‘em from killin’ him.”

“Ye think we are exaggeratin’ the threat of Lachlan, when he nearly killed ye and wants to take Morighe as his faither did if nae more?” Damien felt his temper rising, a rarity with Orrick, who gave him a tired, commiserating look. “We have had peace because we havenae let them have peace.”

Orrick heaved a sigh, and his eyes flashed.

Damien realized that his cousin was also having trouble with his temper. No wonder, they were both worn to the bone, without a day of rest. He was about to dismiss him, tell him to go rest and be with his wife, when Orrick suddenly moved and poured himself a drink.

“When we started this hunt six years ago,” he said after he’d downed it. “I proposed an idea that ye refused because ye wanted to exact revenge with yer own hand—yer own blade. I agreed, then, for me blood was also boiling. But now…” He looked at Damien. “We are needed here more. And the men yer faither and Grant—I mean, Laird Ronson—trained, they hunt sometimes, but they could do more.”

Damien let out a controlled breath, forcing himself to consider what Orrick was saying before he dismissed it.

Long ago, his ancestors had decided to train the clansmen to be assassins and spies, to deal with the dangers of the sea, other clans, and the English bastards. The Grey Foxes, as they’d once been called, though that name had fallen out of disuse by the time Damien’s father had added Grant to their ranks.

Grant, who’d been the best of all of them, had earned himself the title of ‘Devil,’ and he had trained the next generation. A generation that Damien had tried to use with restraint and wisdom.

It was a hard, hard life, and Damien could never forget the trials that Grant had endured. He’d tried to ease back on it, but the men who joined the Grey Foxes were usually hardened, aloof warriors who kept to themselves when, or rather if, they retired. Foxes usually died while working.

Damien knew that his father had felt he had no choice with Grant, knowing the lad burned with vengeance against his own father, the cruel former Laird Ronson. He knew that Grant needed to become a blade to reclaim his title as Laird one day. To get ahead in life, and one day be forced to take his own brother’s life.

More than once since Grant had killed that damnable fool, Reuben, Damien had wondered if his father had known.

Grant had also asked why Damien did not use his warriors to track down and kill Lachlan. At first, Damien had wanted to exact revenge by his own hands and had dispatched his warriors to find the other Vipers. Over the past two years, though, he’d refrained more and more.

“I want to find Lachlan,” he said.

“At what cost?” Orrick asked. “We have nay clues, nay trail right now. The only logical next step is to send out our Foxes to sniff and pick up the trail, and if they do find him…”

Damien knew his cousin spoke the truth, knew that Orrick did not make such a suggestion lightly, and indeed seemed to struggle against giving up the hunt and the promise of vengeance. And while it knotted Damien’s thoughts up with utter frustration, he felt a glimmer of affection and admiration.

For Orrick was putting aside his pride and revenge for his people. For his Laird.

About to speak, a knock sounded at the door, and Orrick gave Damien a puzzled look, before striding over to open it.

Again, Damien’s heart soared, despite everything, and he waited to see if it was her. It had to be her this time.

“Good morning,” Helena’s father said, coming into the room without being invited, brushing past Orrick.

The sheer audacity of the English bastard seemed to be the only reason Orrick did not throw him out on his ass.

He gave Orrick a mocking nod, then focused on Damien. “I hear you have a problem with pirates, Laird MacCabe.”