Chapter Two
1562 Scotland – Eilean Donan Castle
Daimh MacRae was comfortably cool, even though the mid-December temperature would have frozen a lesser man who stood outside without a shirt. Most days, like today, were spent on the training field, fine tuning his muscles, and working off his frustrations. If the need should arise, he wanted to be ready to defend the clan. After the Battle of Corrichie, the winds of war among the Scots had calmed, but that didn’t mean the warriors should ever let down their guard. It seemed clans were never satisfied with peace.
He was a large man, his size alone intimidating most everyone, especially the lasses. That served him well as a constable of the castle. A few of the wumman viewed him as a challenge, a game to win, but that wasn’t what he desired. But then, a woman who would want him, knowing his secret, was a dream he could never attain.
Laird Ian was happily marrit to the beautiful Skye. Conall was ready to wed the once shy and plain and now lovely Freya, who had proved her mettle in saving Ian’s lady when Skye had been secretly imprisoned into the dungeon and nearly died.
The villain who had been responsible for imprisoning the Lady Skye with the intention of letting her die had also brought plague to the clan. Luckily, Lady Skye had brought medicine from France and saved the poor lad who had sickened, and Lady Skye was freed, but the offender had yet to be found and punished. ’Twas as if Davina had disappeared into the winter air. Rumors abounded, but no one had actually seen her since her guilt was uncovered. Perhaps she truly was a witch as many of the women claimed.
But Daimh’s thoughts returned to the sad fact he remained alone. And, although he hated to admit it, he was lonely. Especially this time of year.
He had been told he was handsome, with his dark hair and blue eyes, if he could believe the woman who gave birth to him, but his size and constant frown sent people scurrying. Anyone who really knew him, however, also knew he had a heart that melted at the sight of a child or an injured animal. That was a side he showed no one but his closest friends. It would not do for his enemies to get wind of such vulnerability. Or find out what he was so careful to hide. No one in the clan, save the laird and the two who protected his secret, would be accepting of that truth.
Today, for some reason, the knowledge that he had no wife to love him and warm his bed was affecting him. It could be that the clan was busy planning Conall’s wedding, the excitement palpable, or that the holidays were fast approaching. Another Hogmanay without any prospects for the new year.
Was it possible he would get lucky, like Ian, and the perfect woman would appear? Maybe the faeries would forgive him, return what they had taken, and allow him happiness. But that would be a rare occurrence indeed. With that thought, he picked up his claymore and struck at the hay stuffed scarecrow to release his emotions.
After several more hours of training, weary and hungry, he strode back to the castle into the main hall. Before he could make his way to a table, Iona stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. She was bonny enough, with her dark red curls and brown eyes, and her bosom was generous, but he had no interest in her as a mate. She and her mother kept his secret safe and he was grateful, but appreciation only went so far. She had made it clear she would be willing to accept him if he thought to wed her, but he could not pretend love for her.
Her late husband had been a childhood friend and Iona had always seemed more like a sister. And taking his dead friend’s widow to wife felt wrong. These were certainly not the kinds of emotions a man should have for a woman he wished to wed. He knew she wouldn’t dare betray him or do Thomas any harm, but gratitude for that was not enough of a reason to marry.
“Ye have not been by to visit,” the woman purred, leaning into him. “Ye are missed.”
He unlatched her hands and turned to her.
“Aye, I hae been remiss. I shall bring ye food and blankets tomorrow. How is he?”
“He is well. A worry, but nae a problem. I must see to me work, what with the wedding and all. But you promise to visit on the morrow?”
“Aye.”
Watching her walk away, hips swaying, he dearly wished she appealed to him. But he had a fanciful side that yearned for more. He was a born storyteller and those tales of love he recited had made him yearn for more in life than just settling.