Chapter 3
Alex stood with Calum, his man-at-arms, near the edge of the main fire. Noise rolled across the meadow in steady bands, and he kept half his attention on the ring, and the other half on the man at his side.
“The east wall needs stone,” Calum said. “Frost took the seam by the gate. If we daenae pack it right before winter, it will split.”
“We will strip the fallen croft at Dal,” Alex said. “Shift six men from the north path to the quarry tomorrow.”
“That thins the watch.”
“It is thin already,” Alex pointed out. “I cannae be at the pass and the shore and the peat bank in one night.”
Calum huffed. “Ye try.”
“Aye. And I get letters for it.” Alex rubbed a knuckle across his jaw. “Grandmaither has decided the girls need a tutor who sings. She says numbers go in easier if ye sing them.”
Calum grinned. “She isnae wrong.”
“She is also matchmaking me with every lass within a day’s ride,” Alex said dryly. “I found a basket on me table this morning. Bread, a ribbon, and a note that says ‘Tall, polite, maybe teachspeak.’ What in God’s name is teachspeak?”
Calum laughed. “It means ye need a wife who can argue slowly.”
“I have one who can argue fast,” Alex said. “She is eighty.”
They shared a look that needed no words, and the talk grounded him.
It was the work.
Fences, grain, girls who ran faster than sense, and an old woman who ran everything that mattered.
He scanned the ring again, counted stewards, and marked a pair of captains who had drunk too much to be useful if the line buckled.
He was ready to move if he needed to, and he hoped he would not need to.
Calum excused himself, and Alex was about to move to the other side of the ring when a hand caught his. Not a challenging grip. A pull, urgent and unwelcome. He turned sharply, feeling heat rise up his neck, irritation first. He had no patience for strangers who forgot where they stood.
He faced a masked lass with a full body and wide hips.
She was so close that he saw the thread around her wrist and the set of her mouth.
She filled out the curves in her dress, and he could only watch as she dragged him two steps toward the ring before she stopped.
Her shoulders were tight, and a shudder ran through her and stilled.
She leaned close enough that he felt the words more than he heard them. “Help me.”
He did not ask why. Something in him settled, not soft, but firm. This was not a muddle from too much ale. This had a line to it that he knew. He shifted so that she stood behind his shoulder.
An old man came up fast, face open in a show of ease that did not reach his eyes. He had the look of someone used to moving other people with a smile.
“That one is mine,” he said. “Ye have me thanks for catching her hand.”
Alex did not move. “She seems to say otherwise.”
The man spread his hands. “Festival rules, friend. Nay harm meant. I’ll take her now.”
Behind Alex, the woman spoke quickly, “I’m nae his. I told him that ye and I are betrothed.”
Alex blinked. “What?”
“Please. Help me. I need to get away from him.”
Alex believed her. Her voice held no wobble. The fear lived in her body, not in her words.
“Aye,” he said, his voice calm, before turning to the man again. “I do believe—” He leaned back a fraction, keeping his eye on the man. “What’s yer name, lass?”
“Erica.”
He straightened. “I do believe Erica and I are betrothed.”
The man’s mouth twisted. “That so?”
“Aye.”
Alex flicked two fingers in a small, dismissive gesture. “So, if ye can move on, that’ll be great.”
Rage flashed clean across the man’s face. He stepped in, too close, and reached for Erica’s arm around Alex’s side. Alex tilted his shoulder and blocked the hand without looking.
The man snarled like he wanted a witness to hear it. “Ye think ye can lift what’s mine in front of me men?”
“I think ye should listen,” Alex said. “Ye are about to like the rules less than ye liked them this morning.”
The man drew his sword, and immediately, the ring went still. Stewards turned as one, and the braid on Erica’s wrist pulled tight against Alex’s knuckles. He did not draw on the first beat. He waited the length of a breath, in case the man had enough sense left to stop.
He did not. He brought the blade up in a short, ugly line meant for fear, not skill.
Alex drew then and struck immediately. It was a clean wave of movement and a clean cut with no heat in it. Steel met flesh. The man went down to his knees and dropped his sword. Blood ran bright on the packed earth. He clutched at his forearm and swore.
Shouts rose from three directions at once. A steward barked that the rules were broken. Someone on the far side yelled that MacGee’s name would not be pulled through dirt by a stranger.
“He started a war,” a voice threw from behind the crowd. “He drew his sword in the festival!”
Alex looked that way and did not bother to find the mouth it came from. “Do ye think I care?”
He lifted his chin at the nearest steward. “Truce stands. He drew first. Bind him. Fine his party and take them to the rope.”
The steward moved. Two more closed on the bleeding man. Other captains stepped in late and tried to look early.
Alex kept himself between Erica and every hand that wanted a share of the noise. He did not lower his blade until the steel was back in a sheath at his side. He felt her breath steady behind him, felt the line between what had been and what was now.
“Stay with me,” he said, without turning. “Ye’re safe for now.”
Laird MacGee spat a curse, clutching his arm while stewards closed on him, bound the wound, and marched his men toward the rope. He kept his head high, yet the set of his mouth showed what he could not swallow.
Erica watched him go until the crowd opened and swallowed the sight. A breath she had been holding in since he had dropped the mask left her in a rush.
She turned to the man at her side. “Thank ye.”
“It’s nae every day I get to help a woman in need,” he said, light as if they stood at a market and not beside fresh blood. “I’m near accustomed to rescuing damsels, truth be told.”
She shook her head. “Ye just had to ruin it.”
He raised a brow. “Ruin what?”
“The moment.”
“Aye,” he said. “I do have that talent.”
“Proud now, are ye?”
“I prefer accurate,” he said. “Ye will find I am a great many things, and wrong is seldom one.”
Erica folded her arms, grateful that her mask covered her lips at that moment. “Ye sound like a man who likes hearing his own voice.”
“I like hearing sense. Mine is what I have at hand.”
She studied him. The mask hid half his face, yet his lips grew steadier than ever. He stood and spoke as if he had only finished a chore.
“Ye ken, ye look a touch pleased with yerself,” she noted.
“A touch,” he said. “Nay more.”
“And if I said ye should try a little humility?”
“I would say I save it for Sundays.”
“Do ye pray?”
“I pay attention,” he said. “That is enough humility.”
She huffed, then heard the laugh in it and pressed her mouth flat.
The crowd eased back, giving them a ring of space. Murmurs ran to the edges, names traded in low voices, rules repeated for those who had not seen the start.
She kept her chin level.
“I bet ye’re nae humble enough to take off yer mask too,” she said, and tilted her head, daring him.
He did not answer. “Ye’ll be shocked.”
He untied the ribbon and lifted the mask free.
The first thing she noticed was that his left eye was gone and that a scar was in its place, old and plain. His right eye, on the other hand, was bright and assessing.
Only one laird was rumored to have lost his eye in battle.
One tall, strong laird.
Recognition struck clean, and she felt her knees weaken. Without knowing it, she took a step back in shock.
“Laird MacMillan…” she breathed, stunned.
He inclined his head a fraction. “Please, call me Alex.”
Erica swallowed, the words that once hung on the tip of her tongue now nowhere to be found.
He watched her, not unkind, only careful. “Now, do ye think I deserve to be proud or nae?”
Around them, the murmur shifted. Men glanced and looked away fast, while women whispered to another and touched their brows.
Erica’s success grew heavy in her chest. She had asked for the most dangerous shield. And Lord, did she find it.
“Thank ye,” she said again, quieter. “For the cut. For standing where ye did.”
He tied the mask to his belt and said nothing.
“I will go,” she added, and shifted to step past him.
“Nay.”
She stopped. “I didnae start anything. I needed help. Ye gave it. I will leave ye to yer night.”
“It’s nae that simple,” he said, and took one step that made the space small again.
He did not touch her. He did not need to. He lifted two fingers and pointed, not at her but at the ring of faces.
“Everyone here kens ye claimed me.”
“I only said it to save meself.”
His mouth curved. Not kind, not cruel, but dangerous. “Then ye should have thought about what that would cause.”
She felt heat at her neck. “I did think. I counted. Ye were the safest choice.”
He shrugged. “That depends on what ye call safe.”
“I call it living to the next dawn and keeping me space.”
“A fair measure,” he acknowledged. “Yet the claim goes both ways.”
Her heart pounded once, hard. “What are ye saying?”
He did not rush to speak. Instead, he readjusted his stance and kept his eye on her. “Tell me yer name again.”
“Erica.”
“Erica,” he said, as if testing the shape of it for weight. “Ye stood in the light and took me hand. Ye spoke loudly before witnesses, and ye used the rules as they were meant. Good. Then hear the whole of them.”
“I’m listenin’.”
“A public claim binds the man who accepts it,” he said.
“It binds the woman who makes it. Ye asked for a shield. Ye have it while I say it. Yet there is more. I choose whether I return the claim, now or at first light. If I do, the tie holds until the week ends, and longer if we set it. That is the law ye walked into.”
She held his gaze. “And if ye daenae return it?”
“Then ye will have earned a night’s safety and a great deal of talk. Ye will leave in the morning, and men like that old goat will count yer steps before ye take them.”
“I ken that.”
He nodded once, as if she had passed a small test. “Good.”
Silence sat between them for a breath. The ring listened without looking.
Erica felt the pull in the air, the shift that came when a choice turned from thought to action.
“Ye are weighing it,” she said. “Whether I am worth the bother.”
“I am measuring,” he corrected. “Worth is a word for men who buy things. I daenae buy people.”
“Then why cut for me?”
“I believed ye,” he said. “That was enough.”
“And now?”
“Now I have seen ye stand after it,” he said. “Ye kept yer chin high, and ye didnae tremble where he could see. Ye didnae thank me like a priest. Ye pushed back when I teased ye. That tells me more than any oath.”
“Ye are still proud.”
“Aye,” he said. “And right now, useful.”
She drew breath. “Useful is what I need.”
“Then ye will keep close. Ye will say what ye can offer and what ye willnae. Ye will tell the truth when I ask it.”
“And if I refuse to answer a question?”
“Ye can,” he said. “I will mark it. That is all.”
She set her shoulders. “I can offer ye money, I suppose. But I daenae see what that will do. Ye’re Laird MacMillan. Ye have way more than me clan does.”
“Yer house?”
“Bryden.”
He did not blink. “Aye. That was me guess.”
“Then ye ken the stain men think sits on me name.”
“I ken men like their stories. I prefer proof.”
“Will ye get it?”
“I tend to.”
She let the words sink in. “What do ye want from me?”
“For now,” he said, “that ye keep to me side.”
“That is all?”
“For now.”
She could feel the earth under her boots, steady and solid. She could feel her pulse in her wrist. She did not look at the blood darkening the packed dirt nearby. She did not look at the faces.
“I daenae like being hustled, Laird MacMillan. Tell me what ye want from me, and tell me now,” she demanded.
He smiled, small and sure. “Lass, I’m saying I want to claim ye as well.”
She swallowed. “What?”
He cleared his throat and repeated himself, each word eliciting emotions she didn’t know she was capable of feeling.
“I want to make ye me wife.”