The Laird She Can’t Forget (Lairds of the Leanan Love Festival #3)

Chapter 1

Ach, me head.

Skye opened her eyes gingerly, wary of the angry sunlight shining through her closed lids.

Sure enough, the moment she opened her eyes a crack, light stabbed through, making her head ache worse than ever. Had she drunk too much wine?

Nay, it cannae be that. I’d never allow meself to drink enough to impair me judgment. That’s one lesson me braither taught me early on. Daenae risk it.

Wincing, she lifted a hand to the back of her head, feeling all around the base of her skull. Surely she’d hit her head or something.

There was no lump, though, no graze, no swelling, not even a smear of blood.

Strange.

A headache pounded between her temples, but there was no localized soreness, no bruise, nothing to indicate an injury on the outside of her head.

Drawing in a ragged breath, she opened her eyes properly, the sun seeming to stab right through her pupils and into her brain. She imagined the light beam bouncing around inside her skull, stabbing wherever it landed.

Blinking, she took in her surroundings. She lay on the floor, curled up in the corner of a tent.

A few empty crates and burlap sacks were shoved in an opposite corner.

The tent itself stunk of damp and mustiness.

There was no rug or sheet laid on the ground, leaving her stretched out on the bare earth.

At the top of the tent, where the central tent pole held up the roof, thick, dusty spiderwebs clustered, undisturbed. There were no seats, no furniture, not even a pallet bed or a bedroll. Not even a jug and basin to wash in.

This is a storage tent. Where am I? What am I doing here?

She had been lying on her side, facing the flapping entrance to the tent, which explained why the sunlight had assailed her so violently. A second question followed the first, and this one was much more unsettling.

How did I get here?

In fact, it was the answer to the question that terrified her, because she didn’t know the answer. In fact, Skye had no idea how she had come to be in this tent, let alone why.

A throb of quiet anxiety started up at the back of her mind.

Shouldn’t she remember? How long had she been here? What had possessed her to crawl into a storage tent of all places, and then drift off to sleep? Were others looking for her? Was she far from home?

Questions flooded her mind, bringing sharp terror along with them. Each answer came at once, an endless parade of I daenae ken, I daenae ken.

Then, quite gradually, memories started to slide back into place, and she sighed with relief. The terror receded. It was nothing more than a little confusion after waking up, nothing to fret over.

I ken why I am here, she thought, crawling toward the entrance. I came with me cousin, Creighton. This is the bride swap to solidify the treaty between Clan MacColl and Clan Bryden. I’m to live with Laird Bryden for a year at his keep, while Creighton takes whichever lass Bryden offers.

Then that means this is the Leanan Festival.

She crawled out of the tent, blinking in the sunlight, and rose stiffly to her feet. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she’d come to the storage tent, but the memories were coming back, and that was all that mattered. As she’d guessed, she was near the woods, where the storage tents were kept.

Larger tents and stalls were found toward the center of the field, selling food and drinks of all kinds.

Faint music reached her ears, some toe-tapping melody that would doubtless thrill the dancers.

Lairds and ladies could—and should—dance, of course, but they generally weren’t supposed to enjoy dancing too much.

It wasn’t serious enough. Things like relaxation and simple enjoyment were reserved for the common folk. Lairds and ladies had weights pressing down on their shoulders, and they had to constantly think about what impression they were giving.

For example, if anyone were to see her at that moment, crawling bleary-eyed out of a storage tent, she would look thoroughly silly. She straightened up, surreptitiously brushing dust and spiderwebs off her skirts.

With horror, she noticed a brownish stain on one knee, probably from kneeling on a patch of damp ground. Cursing, she scrubbed at it with her palm, but of course the stain did not budge.

Oh, well. She’d have to hope that the man she was here to meet would not notice the stain, or at least did not care. Perhaps he’d be busy staring at her face and would have no time at all to spare for a glance at her knees.

I’ll ask Laird Bryden to dance. I’ll put him at ease. He’ll answer for what he did; I’m determined to make that happen. But I cannae risk the treaty, so I shall have to be careful. For now.

Breathing deeply, she lifted a shaking hand to her face. No mask. Well, too bad. She’d have to walk through the festival bare-faced.

Why am I so disoriented? Was there something in me wine?

That was an unpleasant thought.

She glanced down at herself. Her plain green wool dress seemed unruffled and untorn. A careful movement located no bruises or soreness in her body, nothing to indicate she’d been roughly handled. Besides her pounding headache, she seemed to be in fairly good health.

Well then, no sense in delaying.

She stepped around the tent and immediately found herself swept up by the crowd.

The Leanan Festival grew busier every year. People loved the mystery of all the masked faces, adoring the idea that a laird might dance with a dairymaid, the two of them wearing masks with no idea of the other’s identity.

There’d be food, drink, dancing, and things to buy. People often said that they spent half the year talking about the Leanan Festival and the things they’d done there, and the other half looking forward to the next one.

Of course, for Skye, the festival was just business.

A few curious looks were thrown at her as she elbowed her way through the crowd.

I need to find Creighton. I should tell him what happened to me. Or rather, tell him that I daenae remember what happened to me. Why do I nae remember? If somebody put something in me wine, Creighton needs to ken. And perhaps Laird Bryden should be warned, too.

She paused, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck, trying to see above the crowd. Creighton was tall; she should be able to spot him. She’d ken it was him, even with the mask.

Her brother had warned her to stay close to Creighton. He wasn’t pleased with her agreeing to the bride swap treaty.

“It’s only for a year,” she murmured to herself, repeating the phrase she’d said countless times to herself, to her family, to everybody. “Just a year. Twelve months, maybe less. I daenae have to actually marry him at the end of it—and I certainly willnae—and then there’ll be peace.”

But nae before I get me revenge on the man who killed me faither.

A gaggle of giggling girls pushed past her, and Skye grabbed one of them by the shoulder.

“Forgive me, but could ye tell me where I can find Laird Bryden? He may nae be masked,” she asked, offering an apologetic smile.

“I think I saw a man in Bryden tartan over there,” one of the girls answered, pointing. “There are soldiers around him, though. He seems on edge. Everybody does. Hardly surprising, considering.”

“Considering what?”

The girls stared at Skye as if she’d grown a second head.

When it became obvious that she was not going to get an answer, Skye sighed. “Thank ye, lassie,” she said, then moved past them.

The girls eyed her curiously as she walked away. When her back was turned, they began whispering urgently to each other.

She rolled her eyes.

Ridiculous.

She immediately felt a little guilty over her harsh thoughts. After all, they were here to have a good time and relax. Let them giggle if they wanted.

She threw a quick smile back over her shoulder, to reassure them that all was well, but the girls only stared back at her, wide-eyed.

Or maybe they’re just a wee bit soft in the head.

She walked on, pushing unceremoniously through the crowd. More stares followed her, a sure sign that she’d been recognized. As the sister of a laird and the cousin of another, she was fairly well-known.

At least half a dozen serious marriage offers had come in for her from various clans, either from the laird himself or on behalf of a son, brother, or some other relative. Marrying her would ensure good relations with Clan MacColl and Clan MacCrimmon.

That’s what I am, I suppose. An asset.

She pushed that thought aside.

At last, the crowd thinned, and she found herself facing down a row of men in Bryden tartan. They stilled, gaping at her.

Dear God, I hope I’m nae too much of a mess, she thought, swallowing back a wince.

Clearing her throat and tossing back her hair, she threw them a wry smile. “I am Lady Skye Brennan. I am here with Laird MacColl. I’d like to speak with Laird Bryden, if I may.”

Silence ensued. The men glanced at each other, baffled.

She bit back a sigh.

Is everybody as stupid as a rock today?

“I’m sure he willnae mind,” she added gently. “We’re about to be betrothed.”

One of the men gulped audibly, turned on his heel, and raced away, presumably to fetch Laird Bryden.

Skye shifted from one foot to another, frowning.

This wasnae how it was meant to be.

No, she was meant to walk in, sail in, with her head held high and a faint smile on her face. Laird Bryden would be instantly captivated by her.

She wouldn’t marry him, of course. Nobody expected the bride swap to end in marriage. It was a bit of a farce, really, done for looks. To prove how much each clan trusted the other.

But if she could make Laird Bryden feel more for her than he should, then perhaps he might make a mistake. Perhaps she might learn something. But for now, this was their first meeting, and she should concentrate on being kind, pleasant, and welcoming.

Lure him in.

The soldier came hurrying back, pale-faced. He jerked his chin, indicating for her to follow him. Frowning at his rough manner, she reluctantly followed.