Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland
The King’s Court
(Ten Years Later)
God’s blood, his back was aching! Iain MacLeod tried to subtly shift his stance as King Robert paced the stone floor in front of him, ranting at a volume that was making Iain’s head ache.
Or maybe his head was pounding from the nonstop days of relentless travel from his bonnie home on the Isle of Skye to the king’s court, where he’d so foolishly years ago pledged to live and serve the kings of Scotland until the day Iain took his last breath.
If he did not care about the Highlands and his clan so much, he’d have never made such a pledge, but he’d learned long ago that simply wearing a crown and sitting on a throne did not make a man a wise ruler.
Rulers needed men around them who were truthful and loyal, and he was, for better or worse, both of those things.
Iain kept his face impassive as the king’s voice echoed off the ornate walls of his private solar, though inside, Iain simmered with irritation at being summoned straight to the king like a child when he’d barely dismounted his horse, reeked of sweat from the hard riding, and was sticky from the spray of salt off the birlinn.
But what really stirred his temper was not being able to see his wife.
He’d been thinking about taking Marion in his arms and loving her since the day he’d had to leave the Sassenach here three fortnights ago to make his way home to Dunvegan to aid his son in the continuing feud with the Mathesons.
“Do ye have any notion of what ye’ve cost me by yer absence?
” King Robert thundered. His face contorted with rage as he stopped in front of the hearth to glare at Iain.
Behind the king hung tapestries depicting Scottish victories over the English, in which Iain had fought side by side with King David.
He sorely missed that man who was far more reasonable than King Robert.
Or at least Iain remembered it that way.
Marion sometimes accused him of forgetting all the bad of the past. Mayhap he did. It made sleeping easier, for sure.
“Are ye even listening to me now?” the king bellowed.
“Aye,” Iain said, though weariness was making his thoughts drift more than usual. “Ye said the English ambassador was most displeased. Most displeased indeed!”
King Robert frowned at Iain mimicking him, which honestly made Iain want to chuckle. Instead, he drew in a measured breath. “Yer Grace, I sent word—”
The king slapped his hand to his desk, making the wine goblet rattle. Iain eyed it, wishing sorely for a goblet of wine, a steam bath, and his wife’s long, shapely legs wrapped around him as he brought her to pleasure.
“Oh, aye. Ye sent word that ye would return in time for my negotiations.”
In truth, he’d said he’d try, but that the feuds raged on, but correcting the king in his current mood would get Iain nowhere. “Sire, I—”
“I do nae care if the Mathesons stole every last sheep from MacLeod land. I needed my most trusted advisor at that summit!”
“I beg yer forgiveness, Yer Grace,” Iain said, inclining his head just enough to appear contrite without showing subservience. A fine line to walk, but one he’d mastered over the years of service to the crown. “But the matter required immediate attention to prevent more bloodshed.”
The king’s sharp brown eyes narrowed as he dropped into the massive oak chair that served as his throne when in these private chambers.
“Bloodshed,” he echoed, his voice suddenly quiet—a storm momentarily held at bay.
“Yer clan’s feud with the Mathesons threatens more than just Highland blood, MacLeod.
It now threatens my standing with England. ”
A prickle of unease danced across Iain’s shoulders.
When King Robert lowered his voice, it never boded well.
Marion was wrong about King Robert and the past. This was not the man his father had been—not the king who had been Iain’s friend in younger days.
This man was unpredictable, temperamental, a man who might smile while signing your death warrant.
“The Anglo-Scottish treaty hangs in the balance,” the king continued, drumming his fingers against the carved armrest. “And I will nae have it jeopardized by Highland stubbornness.”
“The treaty will hold,” Iain assured him, though in truth he had his doubts. The English had never been trustworthy allies, always looking for advantage, for weakness.
“It will hold,” King Robert agreed, leaning forward, “because I’m about to ensure it does.” His lips curved into a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “I have found a solution to yer clan problems, MacLeod.”
A warning resounded in Iain’s ears. Royal solutions often came with steep costs. “Yer Grace is most wise,” he murmured, caution making his tongue careful.
“The Mathesons have a son—their heir, Rory. They call him the Hammer of the Highlands.” The king’s smile widened fractionally. “And ye have two granddaughters of marriageable age—eighteen summers, I believe.”
Iain ground his teeth. The king was trying to lead him like a lamb to the slaughter and pretend he was doing him a favor.
“What are the ladies’ names? The twins?”
A rock settled in Iain’s gut. “Yer Grace speaks of my son Royce’s daughters, Lenora and Lillith.”
“Aye, those are the lasses.” King Robert rose again and approached Iain until they stood face to face. “By the Winter Solstice, two fortnights hence, one of yer granddaughters—Lenora or Lillith, I care nae which—will wed Rory Matheson.”
Iain felt his nostrils flare. “Yer Grace, I—”
“Nae a word, MacLeod. Ye’ll ride home with yer wife to ensure the wedding occurs, and if it does nae, ye’ll forfeit substantial portions of yer land.”
An immediate solution to avoiding this calamity came to Iain. “Yer Grace, how do ye expect me to get Laird Matheson to wed his son to one of my granddaughters?”
“I do nae,” King Robert replied so quickly that Iain instinctually knew a plan had already been set in motion.
He slid his teeth back and forth, working to keep his temper.
The king showed a smile that looked feral.
“I’ll send the same command to Laird Matheson.
Wed his son and heir to one of yer granddaughters by the Winter Solstice or forfeit land. ”
Iain’s mind raced through the implications.
Royce had promised his girls they could wed for love.
Royce would be furious, his wife Eve would be angry, and Iain did not even want to think about how upset Marion would be.
She’d been not so secretly fighting against arranged marriages for years.
But to refuse the king meant risking everything his family had built for generations.
“The lasses are but eighteen summers, Yer Grace,” Iain said carefully, buying time to order his thoughts.
“A perfect age for marriage,” the king dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Ye may go now. I expect ye back directly after the wedding.”
Iain turned to depart before he said something that would cost his family a great deal more than an arranged marriage, but before he got out the door, the king spoke behind him.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I’ll be telling Laird Matheson that his heir can choose which lass he wishes to wed. He is the man, after all.”
This day could not get worse. Iain clenched his teeth with a ferocity that made pain dance across his jaw, but he forced a nod before exiting the solar with his thoughts slamming around his head, and his gaze toward the ground.
How would he explain this to Marion? To Royce?
To the lasses themselves? They would view it as a betrayal—and perhaps it was—but there was no choice.
He looked up and smiled. There was his wife, his love.
Marion would make it all better. As their gazes met, he drank her in.
Her pale hair flowed enticingly over her shoulders, and she wore a green gown that matched her lovely eyes.
He’d dreamed of her welcome—her soft smile, the way she’d run her fingers through his hair and kiss him tenderly.
Desire stirred, but when her gaze flashed, not with joy but disappointment, his passion became a sinking sensation.
“I cannot believe you would agree to those demands!” she hissed under her breath before turning sharply from him and rushing away.
Heat instantly infused his neck and face. “And I kinnae believe ye’re still eavesdropping at doors after all the trouble it’s brought to ye all these years!” he called to his wife’s departing figure.
Marion pushed open the heavy oak door to their bedchamber with more force than necessary, satisfaction flaring briefly as it struck the wall with a satisfying thud.
She swept inside and stared with frustration and disappointment at the bath she’d had drawn for Iain when she’d seen him ride into the inner courtyard of the king’s castle.
Oh, how she had missed him, dreamed of him, and longed for his return!
She’d been so eager to see him that she’d gone to the king’s antechamber when Iain had not come to their bedchamber first, so she could see him the moment the king was done speaking to him.
Eavesdropping! How dare he accuse her of her old bad habit.
She had not been eavesdropping! She’d not made one step toward pressing her ear to the king’s solar door.
She could not help it if the men had been speaking loudly.
The heavy thud of Iain’s footsteps against the hardwood reached her, and she stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and did not turn around to acknowledge him, though every fiber of her being urged her to turn around and throw herself in her husband’s warm and loving embrace, to feel his solid strong arms around her, to nestle her face against the wall of his muscled chests.
Not to mention, she could sense his presence behind her like a gathering storm.