Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Skye carefully put on the garments that Nellie had laid out for her. The linen shift looked almost new and fit her well. The white fabric fell almost to her ankles, and the sleeves were just the right length.
She pulled the woolen dress over her head. The color was a deep russet brown, and the neckline was embellished with tiny embroidered flowers of different colors. The dress fit her almost perfectly but fell a little short in length.
But Skye didn’t care. The dress was perfect in her eyes.
I must remember to thank whoever lent it to me.
She opened the top drawer of the dresser and rifled through the clothes, and found a comb. She almost wept with relief. Running her fingers through her nearly dry hair was inadequate. Her long, wavy curls needed to be combed in order to be styled into anything but a tangled bird’s nest.
When she finished, her hair was arranged into two thick braids that she joined with a twist at the base of her neck, with a few curly tendrils framing her face. She tucked in a few stray locks, and then she was ready.
Skye entered the Great Hall to find almost everyone seated. Arran was sitting at the head of the table, and two of his men sat with him. There were two empty chairs to his left, and he motioned for her to sit in the chair next to him.
As Skye crossed the expanse of the hall, his eyes never left her. Her cheeks reddened, and she wasn’t able to hold his gaze.
Get ahold of yerself!
“Ye look lovely, Skye. Our narrow escape seems to agree with ye,” he jested.
Skye tried not to smile, but his jovial mood lightened her burden and worries if only for a moment.
She scanned the room. The Great Hall was modest in size, but like her room, it was warmer than the Great Hall of Castle MacKeith.
A large, embroidered tapestry that depicted the MacArthur crest and another that told the story of an epic battle hung from the stone walls. A fire burned brightly in the hearth.
There were only two ways out of the Great Hall, she noted—the door she entered through and another that led to the kitchen, she presumed.
“We are waiting for me aunt Elsie. When she gets here, the food will be brought out.”
Arran had assumed she was looking toward the kitchen because she was hungry. And she was hungry, but she wanted to memorize all possible escape routes.
The door to the kitchen creaked open, and a hunched-over, frail woman slowly made her way into the hall, each step slow and deliberate.
Arran sighed. “Aunt Elsie got lost on her way down. Looks like she ended up in the kitchens again.”
The ancient woman’s thin frame leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden cane, and her dress hung small body. Wisps of white hair escaped from beneath her kerchief and framed a face etched with deep wrinkles.
As Elsie moved forward, Skye heard her labored breathing, but her eyes sparkled with fierce determination.
Each step seemed to take an eternity, and everyone in the room watched her make her way to the table.
She was almost to the empty chair beside Skye when her cane suddenly caught on a crevice in the floor. She stumbled.
Gasps rang out in the Great Hall, and Arran jumped to his feet to assist her.
Elsie raised her cane as if to whack him, and with a voice that was surprisingly strong, she said, “Leave me be.” She waved a bony hand. “I dinnae need yer help.”
Arran backed away and instead pulled out her chair for her. Once safely in her chair, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Elsie looked at Skye and smiled. Her eyes were blue and bright, and surprisingly, the matron had retained her teeth. Skye returned Elsie’s smile with one of her own.
“Yer wife looks beautiful this eve, Nephew,” Elsie remarked.
“Aunt Elsie, she’s nae me wife. This is Skye Pressly. She’s Laird MacKeith’s ward and the daughter of his… of his late wife Helena.”
Elsie dismissed his reply with a wave of her hand.
Skye was thankful when the door to the kitchen opened again and a servant entered the hall, carrying a large tray in his hands. He placed cups and pitchers of water on the table, and a bottle of whiskey in front of Arran.
Skye was surprised when Elsie reached forward, filled her small cup with a shot of whiskey, and gulped it down. The woman cleared her throat and let out a satisfied sigh. Then she reached for the bottle again.
“That is enough for now, Auntie,” Arran instructed. “How about a bit of barley water?”
Elsie smacked his hand away. “Mind yerself, lad. Leave an old lady to her drink and fill yer wife’s cup!”
Skye watched their interaction, noting how the warrior softened his tone and accepted the matron’s admonishment.
“She’s nae me wife,” Arran explained again. He started to say more, but the food was finally brought out and served.
There was cold beef and roasted rabbit with root vegetables, and loaves of hot bread. Skye’s mouth watered.
She wasn’t disappointed. Each bite was tender and perfectly seasoned.
Between bites, Elsie peppered her with questions.
“How old are ye, dear?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Where are ye from?”
“Until recently, I’ve been living in Braewall,” Skye replied.
“Are ye married?”
“Nay.”
“Ye’re twenty-three and nae married. Have they run out of men in Braewall?” Elsie asked jokingly.
“I’m nae too fond of the institution of marriage, actually. And me stepfaither… Well, he has plans to marry me off when he finds someone who suits him.”
“Och! Men and their pursuits of power. Pay him nay mind, and marry who ye will, ye ken?” Elsie said.
Skye immediately liked her and the way she spoke her mind. She bet Elsie had been like this all her life and not just outspoken in her later years, when she could get away with it.
“Was yer faither wealthy, Skye?” Arran interjected.
“Nay, nae particularly. We were comfortable and happy. But we lived up all that me faither made, week to week. Me maither didnae bring much to her marriage with Blackwell, except me. He’d rather I was a son, but after four wives and nae children, he couldnae be picky.”
“So, no heirs in all that time? Not even a bastard come out of the woodwork?” Arran asked.
“Nay, nary a single one, lad or lass,” Skye replied.
“Heh! Sounds like Laird MacKeith is as barren as the land in the Raven Glens!” Elsie cackled, referring to lands high in the mountains, where nearly no plants or trees grew.
“Serves that rotter right! Years and years of tormenting James over that wretched bet. And never letting him buy the lands back!”
“So, ye are his heir?” Arran asked slowly.
“Aye and nay. He is free to choose someone to replace him, but our clan has a council too. They adhere to the centuries-old traditions. And some fear him. And those who dinnae fear him dinnae trust him.”
Arran looked deep in thought. But before he could utter a word, she continued.
“Blackwell needs the support of the council. And if I were to marry someone he favors, then the council wouldnae be able to challenge his decision. Me husband would be the next Laird of Clan MacKeith.”
“But does that matter? Either way, he willnae be Laird. How does he benefit if ye marry? Yer husband would be in control.”
“Blackwell would choose someone who would do his bidding. He’s getting old, but he’s nae ready to give up control.”
The hall was quiet except for the sound of forks on pewter plates and the clinking of glasses. She had the attention of everyone in the hall. She wanted to run away and hide in her room.
Before she could make her excuses, a tall man with silvery-blonde hair entered the room, a fierce expression on his face. He stood near the foot of the tables, waiting until Arran acknowledged him.
“Ivar, what is it?”
“Fionn comes with a message from Magnus. I told him to wait, but he says it’s important.”
His accent was foreign to Skye, but from his tall, muscular frame and the tattoos that ran up his arms and his neck, she guessed he was of from the north.
“Send him in.”
A young boy of about ten years with wavy brown hair bounded in the room. He was all arms and legs, and his pants were far too short. Without any thought of properness or propriety around his Laird, he ran through the hall straight to Arran.
“I have a message for ye, Arran!” he said excitedly.
“Fionn! Where are yer manners? Running in the Great Hall? And is that how ye address yer Laird?” the man sitting to Arran’s right admonished the child.
The boy stopped his wiggling, stood straight, looked Arran right in the eye and executed a dramatic bow. “Greetings, oh great one, back from his mission in the Highlands. I come to ye humbly with important news that yer noble and dignified ears must hear immediately.”
Skye giggled, and the man who’d scolded the child shook his head and mumbled, “I’ll get ye later, lad.” But he too had a grin on his face. The boy was obviously well-loved here in the castle.
“Fionn, what is yer message?”
“Me faither said that MacKeith is on his way. Here. Now. He told me to give this to ye.” Fionn pulled a small piece of rolled-up parchment and handed it to Arran.
Skye’s stomach sank at the boy’s announcement, and her heart rate quickened. “What does it say, Arran?”
Concern and then anger flashed across Arran’s face. “Somehow, MacKeith has figured out that we have come here. I was hopin’ we’d have more time, but we dinnae.”
Arran bowed his head for a moment as if in thought. Then he said, “Thank ye, Fionn. Run and tell yer faither that I need to speak to him immediately.”
“He already told me he’d be up here straightaway as soon as he took care of a small matter with the council.” The boy’s face turned serious when he saw his Laird’s somber look. “What is Laird MacKeith coming here for, Arran? Is everything all right?”
“Laird MacKeith believes I wrongly took something that belonged to him. Dinnae worry, we will work it out.” Arran tousled the boy’s hair. “Ye go in the kitchen and see if there’s anything left for ye.”
He waited until Fionn left the room and then told Skye what was in the note from the enforcer. “Magnus says Laird MacKeith will arrive before nightfall tomorrow.” He turned to Skye. “He wants ye back. And he’s willin’ to go to battle for ye, lass.”
The color drained from Skye’s face, and she clutched at the table, feeling ill.
Nae! This cannae be happenin’. I’ve got to leave, now.
“Arran, nay one needs to fight for me! I couldnae live with the guilt if anyone got hurt.”
“Me men are brave warriors, Skye, but I dinnae want to risk anyone’s life either. But I need the lands back, Skye. I’ll lose everythin’ if I dinnae get the deeds.”
Skye slammed her hands on the table. “I ken ye will, Arran. But I’ll lose everythin’, too. Ye dinnae ken what it was like there! I’m nae sure I can go back.” Her hands trembled, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I just want to be free of that vile man!”
Arran cleared his throat. “Skye, I dinnae want Blackwell to take ye back. The thoughts of what he might do to ye…” He stopped as if he couldn’t make himself say what he knew was true. But then he continued. “Magnus is comin’. And as I said, the council may rule in yer favor,” he reminded her.
“How can ye be so sure?” Skye asked. “Members of the council must have suspected what her was doin’ to his wives. Me maither is his fourth wife. Forth, Arran. Yet nary a one of them stepped forth to champion them and put a stop to the beatings. So I have nay hope that they will help me now.”
The room was silent except for her quiet sobs, but then she continued.
“Me maither and I ran for a full year, Arran. And his men chased us down like criminals. Me maither had to go into hiding, even in Braewall, for fear of being recognized with the scar that evil man gave her!”
She dropped her head in her hands, exhausted after releasing so much emotion.
Silence fell over the hall, and then Elsie spoke up.
“The lady’s distressed, Arran. It’s yer duty to see to her well-being and keep her safe, ye ken?”
Arran and Skye both turned to look at her.
“Or maybe ye dinnae ken, ye daft man,” Elsie muttered under her breath.
Arran sat back in his chair, looking troubled. But then he broke into a smile.
Skye looked at him like he’d grown an extra head. She looked at Elsie and saw the old woman was eating the rest of her potatoes, smiling as she lifted the spoon to her mouth.
“What, Arran? What are ye thinking?” Skye asked cautiously, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.