Chapter 2 #2
Maureen swallowed, her pulse still hammering. “I did not think,” she admitted. “I only… reacted.”
“Aye,” he said. “That is often the truest instinct.”
She wavered slightly, and his breath caught.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
She did.
“D’ye feel dizzy?”
“Some,” she answered. “But I am standing.”
He studied her eyes, then nodded. His fingers brushed the darkening bruise peeking out from beneath her sleeve. “This will ache come morning.”
“And this…” she glanced at the small cut along her palm. “’Tis naught.”
He gently took her hand, studying it for a brief moment before nodding, a tiny grin quirking his lips. “Luck was with ye, lass. ‘Tis barely a scratch.”
He stepped back then, his smile fading, control returning to him as swiftly as it had left. The moment was over before she understood it––precise, restrained, and unembellished.
And yet, he had looked at her and asked, as if he truly cared, “are ye unharmed”?
Behind him, Joseph cleared his throat. “They were Lachlan Matheson’s men, me laird,” he said grimly. “I’ve nay doubt of it.”
Her protector’s expression hardened. “Aye. Testing the ground.”
Maureen’s heart gave a strange, sharp lurch. “Matheson?” she asked.
The man turned back to her, studying her face as though weighing whether to say more or respond to her question.
“Lachlan Matheson,” he said at last. “An old enemy. He’s been circling like a crow since me braither Aidan MacLeay’s death, pushing us hard, judging what he might take while the clan remains unsettled. Seeking weaknesses in our defenses.”
The name MacLeay hit her ears with quiet force.
Understanding slid into place and sudden clarity caused her to catch her breath.
His unthinking leadership. The men’s deference. The way Joseph obeyed his orders without question, addressing him as laird. The easy confidence with which he had stepped into violence and bent it to his will.
Maureen stared at him, only now truly seeing him, her earlier irritation and disbelief rearranging themselves into something altogether different.
“Ye are…” Her voice faltered as she met his gaze, then steadied as she hauled in a deep breath and exhaled. “…Laird Samuel MacLeay.”
He inclined his head. “At yer service, me lady.”
All at once the world narrowed, so that all she could hear or see was the man standing before her.
Her future – the one she had crossed the sea to meet in sickness and dread – stood tall before her, blood on his knuckles, authority in his bearing, his icy-blue eyes fixed steadily on hers.
Maureen’s heart jolted alarmingly and she swallowed a sudden boulder in her throat, her hands damp inside her fur.
So, this is Samuel, the new laird of Clan MacLeay. The man tae whom King George has commanded I shall be given in marriage.
She allowed the realization to thunder through her veins, robbing her of breath, causing her heart to stutter in disbelief.
For a moment the world shifted before settling quietly back into place.
She caught her breath, poised to speak, to inform this man of her identity – that she was the woman who King George had designated as his bride. But as she stood before him, the words on the tip of her tongue, one of the men, a merchant she guessed by his clothing, drew Samuel’s attention.
The Laird Samuel MacLeay––she let his name form slowly in her mind––turned away before she could speak.
“Pardon me,” he said softly, “it seems I am wanted elsewhere.” He strode across tae the man who was seated beside a sobbing woman.
Maureen laid a hand against the wall, steadying herself as she fought to remain upright. Her legs had turned to jelly beneath her skirts, weak and untrustworthy, and she leaned into the cool stone as though it alone might keep her from collapsing.
Her mind reeled––not only from the shock of all that had unfolded before her eyes, the violence and the horror of it––but from the staggering realization that the man with whom she had so freely exchanged remarks, sharp words and guarded glances, was the very man to whom she was betrothed.
The very man she would be required to marry under the King’s command.
She watched him now as he moved through the crowded inn, purposeful and composed amid the chaos.
He assisted those injured or dazed, issuing quiet but firm orders tae the men who seemed capable of taking stock of what had occurred.
Her own guards, under Alistair’s command, followed the lead with disciplined efficiency, tending wounds and restoring order as best they could.
The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, and blood, and the murmur of shaken voices pressed in on her from all sides.
Maureen drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to gather her wits. Whatever came next, she would meet it standing.
It was then that Alasdair appeared at her side.
“Lady Maureen, ye’re pale,” he said gently. “I regret that ye’ve endured such a fearful turn of events.”
She lifted a hand, steady but restrained. “I thank ye – and yer men – me Captain, fer all yer bravery in protecting us all.”
He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “It is I who must thank ye, me lady. I ken from Laird MacLeay that it was yer brave action that saved me from the ruffian’s blade.”
A small, weary smile touched her lips. “Then mayhap we are equal in each other’s defense.”
“May I escort ye tae yer chamber?” Concern was plain in his voice.
She shook her head. “I am well enough, dinnae trouble yerself. Ye must see tae yer men and those who were wounded. I shall be fine.”
“Lady Maureen,” he protested, “I…”
But at that very moment, Samuel reappeared at Alistair’s side.
“Lady Maureen… MacDonald?” His gaze flicked between them.
“Aye,” she replied before Alistair could speak. “And I am nae, after all, yer Eilean, Laird Samuel. I am Lady Maureen MacDonald.”
She saw his smile falter for the briefest instant as the truth settled upon him. Then he placed a hand upon Alistair’s shoulder.
“Captain, I thank ye fer yer assistance,” Samuel said evenly. “May I speak alone with Lady Maureen?”
Alistair looked up at him, his expression guarded. It was plain that he felt the weight of his duty keenly – that he meant to protect her, whatever the cost.