Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Come on, Ailsa,” her mother called to her as she made her way towards the Great Hall. “We cannae keep Laird McFadden waiting, now, can we?”
Ailsa sighed as she fiddled with the tie of her skirt; a beautiful reddish-brown gown that was fit for any matchmaking event such as this one, a choice her mother had made for her when they were still back at the family Keep. Her mother insisted it complemented her blue eyes.
But she could not feel as lovely in it as she wanted to, because she knew what was waiting for her on the other side of that door, and she did not much like the thought of it.
But, with a kind smile from her father as a nudge along the way, she walked out of the room and made her way past the guards who were waiting at the double doors of the hall to stand guard over who came and went on this most illustrious of evenings.
Inside, her mother was already deep in conversation with Laird McFadden, who lifted his hands in greeting when he saw Ailsa approaching.
“Ailsa, dear,” he remarked as he planted a hand on her shoulder. “I was so sorry to hear of the loss of yer betrothed. Callum MacDonald was a fine man, by all accounts.”
Ailsa bit back a little rush of grief that suddenly threatened to get the better of her and nodded.
“Aye, he was,” she agreed, and her mother looped an arm through hers, squeezing tight.
“But ye’ll no’ leave her waiting to find a new husband, will ye, my Laird?” her mother cut in. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about these feasts, about all the girls who find the men they’re going to marry here.”
“Aye, of course,” Laird McFadden agreed, and he offered Ailsa his arm. “Perhaps I could walk ye around, find ye a gentleman to speak with?”
Ailsa knew there was little point in protesting—her mother would just have told her off if she thought that she was trying to make this harder than it needed to be.
She was of age now, and she would need to find a man who would be willing to take her in and look after her, now that her parents were getting on in years.
But, as Laird McFadden led her around the brightly lit hall closer to the music and chatter of the feast, she could not help but feel as though she was just some toy being passed from person to person.
Little more than a pawn to be passed around, she thought to herself.
Some curiosity the people could gawk at, the grieving almost-bride who would be hustled off to a new home and a new husband as soon as they found one willing to put up with her.
She could handle it, though, as long as it was not him. The thought of it stuck in her throat like an errant bone, hard and impossible to swallow.
The feast was already in full swing by the time they made a full circle around the hall; on one side of the room, a small group of musicians were bringing classic tunes to life while revelers danced.
At the other, a long table served as a spot where the would-be couples could catch their breath and talk a little.
The air smelled of whiskey and bow resin, her parents close behind her, no doubt willing her to do all that she could to make the most of this night.
And that, of course, was when she saw him, or more like, she felt him. She felt the same glare that she had the night before, piercing her skin. She had caught her breath outside of her chambers, gulping down enough air to steady herself before she would be sent to this feast.
She hardly had to look around to make sense of who it was, but when she did, her heart twisted into a painful knot in her chest.
Tavish MacDonald.
His low, weighted remarks the day before about how much would change the next day rushed back into her mind, making her skin crawl.
He watched her from where he stood at the head of the table.
He was not engaged in conversation with anyone, hardly seemed to be present in the room at all.
It was as if he had been waiting like a predator for the moment she walked through the door, and he could see the look on her face as she walked into his trap.
He cast aside his cup and made his way towards them, and she stiffened, her whole body wracked with tension. Her confidence faltered in an instant, her mind twisting in a million directions as she tried to find a way out of there; a way out of what was going to unfold.
He reached her side, and, at a glance, he might have looked like any of the other young men in this room.
His kilt, made up of the green and blue MacDonald tartan, hung from his strong body; his shirt was laced around his broad chest, the muscles visible beneath the fabric.
But there was something in his eyes, something that cast doubt into her mind, and something that she knew she could not ignore.
“Laird McFadden,” he greeted their host as she quickly extracted her arm from his.
She glanced around, trying to catch the eye of someone, anyone else who might be able to get her out of this, but nobody seemed to look.
In fact, if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that they were trying to avoid her gaze, like they were worried what this man might do to them if they dared get in the way of his intentions.
“A dance, my lady?” he asked as he extended his hand to her.
It was hardly a question, more a demand, like he knew what he wanted and would not take no for an answer.
For a moment, she hesitated, wondering if she could find some way to brush him off and ask for a drink or something to eat first. But McFadden was smiling at her pointedly, clearly encouraging her to go ahead and accept the offer, and she knew that any attempt to brush him off would make her look stubborn and difficult as a result.
Locking eyes with Tavish, she slipped her hand into his.
“Of course, My Laird,” she replied, speaking his title with a pointed tone to remind him that she knew him better than most in this room did.
His hand closed around hers, more tightly than it needed to, his grip sending a sharp shock of sensation coursing along her arm.
He led her to the floor in a few strides and then pulled her against him in a single motion.
The air was knocked from her lungs as their bodies came together, his hand moving to the small of her back to press her against him.
His touch was not careful, like his brother’s had been, but commanding, insistent, almost.
“Can ye keep up wi’ me, lass?” he asked as she jerked towards him, his mouth close enough to her ear that she had no choice but to listen.
“If ye spar like ye dance, then I pray fer yer partner’s feet.”
His eyes shone with amusement, his wolfish grin adorning his sharp facial features. “I’m sure ye remember me sparring.”
Her anger flared with his response, but so did something else. Something that was all too aware of the weight of his body against her, the strength of his hands upon her.
“Dinnae flatter yerself,” she replied with a fake smile.
“Just leave yerself tae me and I’ll lead ye throught it all,” he said in a low, husky voice that stirred the butterflies in her stomach.
This man could have done anything he wanted to her in that moment, and she would have been helpless to resist. Moreover, there was a small, traitorous part of her that craved such freedom from the responsibility that usually clung to her shoulders…
He swept her along with the music, his feet moving quickly, and she struggled to match him, refusing to let him see her having such trouble matching his pace.
She could feel him watching her, eyeing her with amusement, and the few times she glanced up at him to meet his gaze, his eyes were lingering on her mouth.
She could almost imagine what it would feel like for him to kiss her; how rough he would be, how beastly, the same way he was behind a sword.
His kilt swung out against her in time with the music, and she had no choice but to clutch to him for dear life—just as he intended, no doubt. The scent of him invaded her senses, the smell of oakmoss and the cold, hard edge of steel beneath it.
Every now and then, he would flick his tongue over his lips, like a wolf tasting the fear in its prey, and something in her would pull towards him like a rabbit racing for the trap.
“Dinnae try tae resist, lass. Come tae me willingly or…”
She had to get away from him. She had to.
If she did not act fast, she would be trapped there with him, and she could not let that happen. Whatever games he was playing with her, whatever grief had twisted into cruelty within him, she wouldn’t go along with it just because he was Callum’s brother.
And just because no one had ever touched her before like that in her life.
“Then watch me walk away from ye.”
Finally, she wrenched herself from his grip and caught the hand of another man who had just been breaking away to take a rest.
“Ah, there ye are!” she exclaimed with a bright, false earnestness, as though this was the very fellow she had been looking for since she had arrived.
The man met her gaze with an obvious confusion, but, before he could question her sudden enthusiasm, she pulled him out to dance with her. Fortunately, he seemed cheerful enough with the ale not to think much of it or make any move to stop it.
Over his shoulder, she caught glimpses of Tavish.
She silently willed him to find some other woman to dance with, someone other than her.
To turn that gaze, that touch, on someone new.
Because she could still feel it dancing traitorously in her body, like a brand that had been planted there against her, whether she liked it or not.
She could have sworn to herself that it was just because he was the closest thing to the man she was going to marry who still stood alive on this earth, but she knew—she knew—it was nothing even close to that.
She forced a gale of laughter as the man trod on her toes, brushing it off like the simple mistake it was, and he stared at her with some bafflement, parting his lips to try and make conversation.
But her gaze was drawn behind him, as she realized that Tavish had vanished from her line of sight.
She wanted to know where he was at all times.
A prey never took its eyes off the predator, not if they could help it, and she was no different.
And then, she caught sight of him, his dark hair a head over everyone else blaring through the crowd like a beacon.
And she realized, with a gasp, that he was talking to her parents.
She broke away from her partner at once, not bothering to so much as explain her sudden exit, and took off towards him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
There was only one thing that he could have been talking to her parents about; only one thing he would have come to this place looking for, and she knew that her family would be all too quick to take him up on it.
They knew little of the man he was or what they would be condemning her to if they agreed to whatever twisted plan he had managed to string together.
As she approached them, Tavish turned to her, covering her from her parents’ view for a split second.
“What are ye—”
“Enjoyed the dance, did ye?” Tavish whispered. The smile he had on his face showed all of his teeth and none of his kindness. “I hope ye did. It’s the last time ye’ll be dancing with a man other than me.”
Her eyes widened, her lips parting to shoot back some retort to undercut him, but before she could so much as get it out, he clapped his hands together, commanding the attention of the room.
All eyes turned to him, as though everyone had been half-watching him this whole time, fearful of what he might do if their backs were turned.
“By MacFadden custom,” he announced, his voice lifting over the remains of the chatter in the Great Hall. “And before friends and kin, I claim Ailsa Kerr to be my bride; our clans are already in accord.”