Chapter 2 #2
Faye balled her hands into fists. She would be compliant long enough to earn their trust, but as soon as they least expected it of her, she would fight back. She would gain her freedom and not stop running until she was home.
Ewan had not been on Ross lands in many years. Even his horse seemed wary as they made their way toward Balnagown Castle. Certainly, his cousin Moiré had warned him against even considering Faye as his wife.
“If ye decide no’ to wed her,” Monroe said from his side, “I’ll ride out posthaste to inform Gordon ye’ll accept the marriage to Mistress Blair.”
Ewan nodded. Though he was not interested in either prospect, he knew a decision must be made. And the Chieftain of the Gordons was growing tired of waiting.
The journey to Balnagown had taken Ewan and Monroe into the afternoon.
Now, the castle rose before them, spires stretching up toward the brightly lit sky.
The woman Ross claimed Ewan had been betrothed to since childhood was within those cold, stone walls.
Unless Faye’s mother had signed the agreement, which Ewan was not aware of, the contract was not binding.
“I dinna like this,” Ewan said under his breath.
Monroe cast him a guarded look. “Her dowry is substantial,” he replied hesitantly. “It would do considerable good for our people.”
Ewan didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. They both knew what this union would bring. Not only fortune but things more priceless than land: peace. As long as the Ross clan kept up their end of the terms. Which was doubtful.
A short, round man met them near the stables and bade them follow.
They were led into the Great Hall, where a lingering fetid odor bespoke of rushes that hadn’t been changed in some time.
Shadows of smoke scarred the whitewashed walls above the wall sconces, and thick wooden beams lined the ceiling above like the rib cage of a great beast.
Ross sat at a dais in a fine doublet, looking down at them from his steepled fingers. He stood as Ewan and Monroe approached.
“Sutherland.” His voice was still as heavy and ragged as Ewan remembered from their few interactions.
They clasped forearms like allies. For soon, they might well be.
“Thank ye for coming.” Ross grinned at him, revealing yellowed teeth beneath his russet and white beard. “It heartens me that ye’re finally keeping yer word on yer betrothal after all these years.”
“The contract wasna ever signed by the lass’s mum,” Ewan said.
Ross’s chest puffed out. “’Twas signed by me.”
“Which was no’ binding,” Monroe pointed out.
Ross slowly shifted his gaze to Monroe with quiet irritation before returning it to Ewan. “I want to honor my part of the agreement. I’d like to think ye’re man enough to do the same.”
Ewan ignored the blatant goad. “I thought Mistress Faye had left Scotland for good.”
“She’s back.” Ross’s smile became more of a grimace. “And she’s ready to make good on the betrothal, same as ye.”
“It wasna—”
“I signed it,” Ross growled.
“Ye’re no’ her guardian.” Ewan glanced around the great hall, expecting the lass to make an appearance.
His curiosity had been teased awake by the prospect of seeing her again. Though it had been a good sixteen years since they’d known one another, he could still recall being awed by her beauty.
Ross surreptitiously scanned the doors along the side of the Great Hall as though he’d expected them to open at any second. They did not. A moment of heavy silence passed.
The older chieftain cleared this throat. “Ye should know, she may be different than the lass ye knew. She’s been living on the borderlands between England and Scotland. ‘Tis a hard land, as ye know. She is no’ as—”
A door opened and a woman in a homespun gown entered the room.
She was of a sturdy build, like a farmer’s wife, with tufts of blonde peeking from beneath her mob cap.
Her face was hard with a determined set that was not entirely pleasant.
He met Monroe’s eyes, but his advisor kept his expression blank.
“Fetch me Dougal,” Ross snapped at the woman. “And get us some ale, aye?”
She started in surprise. “Aye, sir.” She bobbed a short curtsey and practically ran to do as he bade.
Ewan’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. The woman was a servant. Not Faye.
“It shouldna be much longer.” Ross indicated the seats at the dais, and they all settled at the long table in the otherwise empty room.
The woman rushed back, a flagon in one hand and three goblets in the other. With practiced efficiency, she laid them out on the table and quickly poured the ale. As she was completing her task, a tall, bald man entered the Great Hall. Presumably Dougal.
He kept his back straight and proud as he strode toward them, but it did not mask the stiffness of his limp. As he approached, Ewan realized that was not the extent of his injuries. His left eye had gone dark with a violent bruise.
“Where is my granddaughter?” Ross demanded. “And what the feck happened to ye?”
Dougal slid a look toward Ewan and Monroe before replying, “If we could speak privately, sir.”
Ross issued a curse and pushed up to his feet. He led Dougal to a rear corner where the two proceeded to whisper.
“What do ye make of all this?” Ewan asked his advisor.
Monroe tapped a long finger on the table’s marred surface. “’Tis…extraordinary.” The diplomatic answer was given with care and followed by a sip of ale.
Ewan grunted in reply, no more amused by the passing of wasted time than he was Ross’s inability to produce Faye.
The chieftain returned to them; his mouth pressed in a firm line beneath his overgrown beard. “It would appear yer intended bride is missing.”
Even Monroe lifted a brow at this.
“Missing?” Ewan repeated.
“Aye, she escaped from her room early this morning.” Ross’s already ruddy face went a new shade of vivid red.
Escaped?
“Ye make it sound as though ye were holding her captive,” Ewan replied.
Ross drank from his goblet before bothering to reply. “The lass is willful.”
“I’ll no’ wed a lass being forced to marry me.” Ewan got to his feet, and Monroe stood at his side. “Leave the lass in peace. I’ve other prospects.”
“Nay,” Ross growled. “Berwick is mine. Ye promised it to me.”
“No’ like this.” Ewan stepped away from the dais.
“Aye, like this.” Ross slammed his fist on the table’s surface. The sound slapped off the stone walls and made a servant freeze in fear.
Ross leaned over the table menacingly. “Ye’ll no’ get out of yer contract with us, Ewan Sutherland. If ye refuse to wed her, I’ll ensure ye pay dearly for yer negligence.”
“Are ye threatening me?” Ewan demanded. “For a contract that doesna hold bearing?”
Ross glared at him. “If ye dinna follow through with our agreement, I’ll see ye’re properly punished.”
“There is no agreement.” Ewan glared back at his enemy, a man who he’d intended to secure peace, not start a war. This had all gone wrong.
They couldn’t afford to anger the Rosses further. Not when the Ross clan attacks were already so brutal. Not with their own stores already reduced after all the years of fighting they’d endured.
Something niggled at the back of Ewan’s mind about Faye Fletcher. He came back to the dais. “Ye said she was from the borderlands, aye?”
“Aye.” Ross grimaced around the word.
“How long has she been here?”
Ross lifted his ale and took a swig. Foam dotted his beard around his mouth when he lowered his goblet. “Nigh on three days.”
Dread crept through Ewan. “Ye mean to say the lass is now somewhere outside the castle, alone and in a land she doesna know?”
Ross nodded once, appearing more enraged than concerned for his granddaughter.
The girl he’d known as a boy rose to the forefront in his mind once more.
She’d been a slight thing—delicate with small, fragile hands he could easily tuck entirely against his large palms. He’d vowed to protect her then and had always kept that promise in the times she visited with her grandfather.
Even from the wolf that had set on them once.
The scar at his forearm burned with the reminder, and he could not help but recall how she had shivered afterward with fear.
And now she was alone in the wilderness of Kildary, a land both foreign and dangerous.
“How long has she been missing?” Ewan asked.
“As of early this morn.” Ross set down his goblet. “My men have been looking for her and assumed they’d have her back already. Which is why they dinna tell me until now.” He glared at Dougal, who kept his soldier’s gaze set in the distance, his face impassive.
Ewan let a curse slip from his mouth, something he rarely did.
“Does that mean ye’ll help find her?” Ross’s thick brows rose.
Ewan drained his ale before giving the answer he somehow knew he’d deeply regret. “Aye,” he replied. “I’ll help ye find her.”