The Laird’s Wrong Wife (Lairds of the Leanan Love Festival #4)

Chapter 1

Ceana caught the ribbon of her mask before a turning dancer pulled it loose.

Good God, she was really cutting it close.

She stepped away from the reel, tightened the knot beneath her hair, and checked that the painted leather still covered the upper half of her face.

If it slipped, anyone close enough would see that the woman beneath it had smooth cheeks. Daphne’s freckles were the easiest way to tell the Tulloch twins apart, and the borrowed mask had hidden that difference for most of the afternoon.

The people gathered for the final day of the Leanan Festival believed they were looking at Daphne Tulloch, the elder twin and intended bride of Angus MacWatt.

Daphne’s dark green gown, Morrag cloak, and silver ribbons completed the deception from a distance.

Ceana had spent the day ensuring that no one came close enough to question what they saw.

“Lady Daphne,” a man called from beside one of the ale tables.

Ceana continued for two steps before remembering that the name was hers now. She turned and found an older clansman raising his cup toward her. His mask had slipped sideways, exposing one flushed cheek.

“A fine evenin’ for ye,” he said. “Enjoy it while ye can. By tomorrow, ye may be promised to Gilmore.”

“A warnin’ delivered with such cheer deserves another cup,” Ceana replied, lowering her voice. She inclined her head and moved away before he could study her face.

She passed between two garlanded posts and forced herself to keep an easy pace.

If Daphne was safe when she found her, she intended to embrace her first and strangle her immediately afterward.

Daphne had disappeared before dawn without leaving her a destination, a companion’s name, or any promise beyond a hurried request for time.

Ceana had given her that time by putting on her clothes.

A group of musicians played near the central fire while masked couples moved through a reel on the flattened grass. Beyond them, armed retainers stood at the edge of the grounds and watched men from rival clans share the same ale tables.

Every participating laird had pledged safe conduct for the festival week. Quarrels that might have drawn steel elsewhere were expected to remain words beneath the eyes of witnesses here.

A cheer rose near another garlanded post, and Ceana turned long enough to see a masked couple exchange braided ribbons while their families gathered around them.

A herald called their names, and members of both clans answered with applause.

Such matches carried no force without the couple’s agreement, yet a public promise made during the festival placed both families under heavy expectation.

Daphne was supposed to make that promise before the celebrations ended.

Their father would soon demand that his elder daughter appear beside Angus. Ceana had planned as far as delaying that moment. Every path beyond it ended with questions she could not answer.

The drunk clansman had followed her. “The Gilmore alliance will serve yer faither well,” he said, reaching for the ribbons at her wrist. “A valuable bride brings valuable friends.”

Ceana moved her hand before his fingers reached her. “Then I must pray they value me enough to let me keep me ribbons.”

He laughed as though she had invited further conversation. “A face such as yers could have brought twice the offer.”

The compliment belonged to Daphne’s name and Daphne’s gown. Contracts had always found her sister, and Ceana had learned long ago that affection and marriage were separate matters. Anyway, the old whispers surrounding her had made certain no laird looked twice in her direction.

The familiar tightness returned beneath her ribs, though she kept her smile in place.

“Twice the offer would require twice the husband,” she remarked. “One seems trouble enough.”

The man laughed again and lifted his cup.

Ceana used the moment to slip into the moving crowd. She had nearly reached the musicians when a woman wearing Morrag colors stepped directly into her path.

“Daphne, there ye are.” Mistress Isla Lennox lifted her mask and smiled. She had visited Morrag Castle often enough to know both sisters. “Yer maither has been lookin’ everywhere for Ceana. Have ye seen her? I expect she has hidden somewhere quiet again.”

Ceana’s fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak. Hearing herself discussed as an absent inconvenience should not have hurt. She had spent years being the quieter twin, the daughter guests remembered after Daphne left a room.

“I daenae ken where she is,” she answered. She kept her voice low and leaned closer to the musicians as if their music forced it. “Perhaps she grew tired of watchin’ everyone else arrange her life.”

Isla frowned. “Ye sound strange.”

“The pipes have left me half deaf.”

A line of dancers swept between them before Isla could answer. Ceana stepped back with the passing bodies and let the crowd carry her toward the fires. She risked one glance over her shoulder and saw Isla searching for her through the masks.

She also noticed two unfamiliar men standing beyond her.

One wore a gray half-mask and a dark cloak too heavy for the mild afternoon.

The other had bare hands marked by scars across the knuckles.

Their attention moved from one woman in Morrag colors to another.

When the man in gray saw Ceana looking, he turned to his companion and pointed.

Her pulse struck hard beneath her jaw.

They could be Angus’s men, sent to collect his bride before the public ceremony. Her father might have ordered them to find Daphne. Either possibility would end the deception the moment one of them demanded to speak to her or even moved closer.

Ceana turned with the dancers and caught the hand offered by a masked stranger. He pulled her to the edge of the reel before she had time to reconsider.

Another dancer received her at the turn and placed a guiding hand on her waist. The required touch lasted only a moment, though the press of unfamiliar fingers reminded her how little control anyone possessed once hidden behind a mask.

Including her.

Especially her.

She moved through the pattern while trying to locate the two men between shoulders and raised arms. The firelight shifted across painted faces, and the music quickened as linked hands drew her further into the circle.

When she caught another glimpse of the gray mask, the man was forcing his way through the dancers.

Ceana released her partner at the next turn and slipped away from the reel.

She passed behind an ale tent, lifted the hem of Daphne’s fine gown, and hurried between two supply carts, trying desperately to ignore the way the thin shoes pinched her toes on the uneven ground.

Her own plain dress and boots would have served her far better, though neither would have convinced anyone that she was the sister meant to marry Angus MacWatt.

What have ye gotten yerself into, Ceana?

She stopped behind a cart stacked with empty barrels and listened.

A wave of music and conversation covered any footsteps that might have followed.

For one sharp moment, she considered returning to her father and confessing everything.

She could remove the mask, place Daphne’s ribbons in his hands, and admit that her sister had fled.

That confession would begin the search before Ceana knew whether Daphne had reached safety or not, and Angus’s clan would learn of the insult before she could prepare for their answer.

She tightened her hold on the cloak and stepped out from behind the cart. That was the moment a child cried somewhere beyond the festival fires.

She paused.

The sound came again from the quieter ground past the supply wagons, broken by a frightened attempt to call for help. She looked toward the crowded festival and searched for the men in gray and black. Remaining among the guests offered her the best chance of losing them.

The child cried again, and she knew she couldn’t ignore the sound.

Great. Just great.

She gathered up Daphne’s gown and followed the sound. Soon enough, she moved past the final supply cart and found the child crouched beneath a broad tree at the edge of the festival grounds.

He looked about five years old, with dark hair falling over his forehead and mud across the knees of clothes finer than most children wore to play. His shoulders shook as he stared at the exposed roots beside him.

She lowered herself to his height. “What is wrong, little one? Are ye in pain?”

“Nay, it is me goat.” He dragged one sleeve across his wet face and pointed between the roots.

“Yer what?”

A young goat lay trapped beneath the tree. One slender leg had slipped into a narrow space between two thick roots, and every attempt to pull free forced it deeper. The animal bleated and kicked against the earth while loose soil gathered around its trapped hoof.

Ceana laid her cloak on the grass and pulled off Daphne’s gloves. “What is her name?”

“Ness.” The boy crawled closer, though he stopped when the goat struggled again. “I think her leg is broken. Me faither said I must keep her away from the fires, and I tried, but she ran after something. If she cannae walk, he may have her put down.”

“Yer faither will do nay such thing until we ken what is wrong with her.” Ceana kept her voice level and reached carefully for the goat. “Ness needs ye to help her. Can ye stop cryin’ long enough to hold her still?”

The boy swallowed and wiped his face again. “Aye.”

“What is yer name?”

“Tommy.”

“Then come here, Tommy. Put one hand beneath her chest and keep the other away from her mouth. She may bite if she is frightened.”

“Ness doesnae bite,” he said as he obeyed. “She only tastes people.”

Ceana shrugged. “Well, that is a great comfort.”