CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Beathan Drummond received the news before sunset. The messenger stood before him in the long chamber, soaked from hard riding, and with mud crusted up one side of his boots. He had not been offered a seat. Men who brought foul news did not receive comfort.
Drummond listened in silence, at first. Then, he smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.
“Say that again,” he said slowly.
The messenger swallowed. “Lady Grizel Calder has been taken under MacAulay protection, me laird. There was a rite before the clan. She is presented as his intended bride.”
“Nae.”
The word was calm. The messenger went still. Drummond turned away from him, as if the matter had already become too tiresome to entertain. Rain struck the windows in thin silver lines, and the fire burned low behind him, throwing his shadow long across the floor.
“Nae,” he repeated. “She isnae.”
No one answered. That was wise of them.
Grizel Calder could not simply become another man’s bride because she had fled like a frightened little fool into the arms of a pirate.
She could not undo what had already been decided, what had already been arranged in all but ink.
Her father’s weakness had invited him in.
Her beauty had pleased him. Her resistance had amused him.
But this? This was insult. This was theft.
His hand tightened around the back of the chair before him until the carved wood creaked.
“MacAulay,” he said the name in a voice that was low and venomous.
The man was a former privateer with red sails and too much confidence, a man tolerated by the Crown only because destroying him had not yet become convenient, a sea-born brute playing laird upon wet rocks and calling it power. And Grizel had gone to him.
Drummond’s mouth hardened. She would learn the cost of that.
“Leave us,” he ordered.
The messenger bowed at once and escaped with obvious relief.
Drummond did not watch him go. He crossed to the writing table and sat with deliberate care, because fury, when displayed too openly, was common.
And he was not common. He was not one of those bellowing Highland savages who mistook noise for strength.
He drew parchment toward him. The words came easily.
To His Majesty’s loyal officers and appointed representatives in the Highlands,
I write concerning the unlawful removal and suspected coercion of Lady Grizel Calder, daughter of Laird Amhlaidh Calder.
Lady Grizel had entered lawful marriage negotiations with my house under her father’s authority. Though final documents had not yet been sealed, the alliance was understood and proceeding in proper order.
I have now been informed that Laird Malcolm MacAulay has taken her into his territory, presented her before his clan as his intended bride, and performed a private Highland rite in haste, without consent from her kin or recognition from the Crown.
No such union should be accepted until inquiry is made.
MacAulay is a former sea-raider whose obedience to the Crown has long been uncertain. The recent decree requiring pirate lairds to marry lawful Highland women must not become a shield for abduction or coercion.
I therefore request that recognition of any union between MacAulay and Lady Grizel be withheld until representatives determine whether she remains there freely, and whether her father’s rights have been violated.
I remain a loyal servant of the Crown and defender of proper Highland order.
Laird Beathan Drummond
He did not claim too much. That was the mistake lesser men made. He merely shaped the truth until it pointed where he wished.
By the time he sanded the letter, his anger had cooled into something harder and more useful.
“Alpin,” he called.
A man stepped from the shadow near the door. “Me laird?”
“Three copies. One to Inverness. One to the Crown factor at Stirling. One south by the fastest road.” Drummond folded the letter and pressed his seal into the wax. “Nae delays.”
“Aye, me laird.”
“And send riders west.”
Alpin looked up.
Drummond smiled again. “MacAulay thinks an island makes a fortress. Let us see what leaks through stone.”
“How many men?”
“Enough tae watch, nae enough tae be noticed by fools.” He leaned back in his chair. “I want the shape of his castle, the number of men who sleep behind its walls. I want tae ken where his ships anchor, which servants leave the gates and which paths take carts inland.”
Alpin nodded slowly. “And the lady?”
At that, Drummond’s fingers stilled upon the seal. For a moment, he saw her as she had been at the ball, watching him with eyes bright with revulsion she had not hidden quickly enough, and her wrist pulling free of his hand as though he were something unclean.
He had liked that pride in her then. It had promised sport. He had imagined the breaking of it would be slow, intimate and highly satisfying.
Now another man had placed a cord around that same wrist. The thought set his teeth on edge.
“I want tae ken where she sleeps,” he said. “Who attends her, whether she moves freely, whether MacAulay keeps her guarded or merely watched, and whether she looks willing before his clan, or afraid.”
Alpin hesitated. “And if she is willing?”
Drummond looked at him. The man lowered his gaze at once.
“There is nae willing,” Drummond said quietly. “There is only influence, pressure, fear, and the lies men tell afterward tae make theft respectable.”
He rose then, taking the sealed letter in hand.
“MacAulay has made a mistake. He believes that because he stood between me and the girl once, he has claimed victory.” His voice remained low, almost thoughtful. “But a wedding is nae won because a cord is tied. A woman isnae secured because a clan watches her walk intae the sea.”
Outside, thunder moved over the hills. Drummond held out the letter. Alpin took it.
“Let them prepare their little ceremony,” Drummond mused. “Let them dress her in his colors and teach her his customs. Let him think each day brings her closer tae his name.”
His smile returned, colder and more calculating than before.
“The closer she comes tae becoming MacAulay’s wife, the more valuable she becomes tae take from him.”
Later that afternoon, Grizel found herself at the edge of the training yard with no clear memory of deciding to go there.
She had meant to return to her chamber after the long morning of instruction.
She had meant to rest her leg before Eilidh or Malcolm had cause to scold her again.
She had meant to be sensible, composed, and difficult to impress.
Instead, she stood beneath the shadow of the western wall, watching Malcolm move among his warriors.
It was not fair, she thought. A man ought not to command a room, a ship, a hall, a shoreline, and then a training yard as well. There should have been some place in the world where he looked uncertain, or ill-suited, or at the very least ordinary. There was not.
He crossed the packed earth with his coat discarded and his sleeves rolled to the forearms. The late light caught along the hard line of his shoulders and the dark hair escaping at his collar. He carried no ornament, made no performance of himself, and yet every movement drew the eye.
He stopped before a young warrior and subtly adjusted the man’s grip.
“Nae there,” Malcolm instructed. “Ye are offering him yer wrist.”
The lad corrected himself too quickly. Malcolm struck without the intention to wound, but still fast enough that the wooden practice blade cracked against the lad’s guard and drove him back a step.
“Again.”
The boy flushed and tried once more. Grizel should have looked away.
She told herself she was watching because it was useful to understand the man she had chosen.
Malcolm in council was one thing. Malcolm at the head of a hall another.
This, too, was knowledge. A woman entering his household ought to know how he trained those who would defend it.
That was a reasonable thought.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with the way his shirt pulled across his back when he turned, or the smooth, controlled strength of his arm when he demonstrated a strike.
It had nothing to do with the fact that his hair, loosened by exertion, gave him a rougher look than usual, less laird and more pirate beneath the title.
It had certainly nothing to do with the heat that moved through her when he laughed at something Tavish called from across the yard.
Grizel folded her arms.
Ridiculous.
He was not handsome in any safe way. That was the trouble.
There were men with pleasant faces and easy smiles who could be admired without consequence.
Malcolm was not one of them. He was too severe, too watchful, too entirely himself.
His face was made of hard lines and dark intentions, his mouth rarely softened and therefore all the more intolerably arresting when it did. Even stillness suited him.
He moved behind another warrior and tapped the man’s shoulder with the flat of the practice blade.
“If ye turn from the hip, ye are faster. If ye lead with the arm, ye are dead.”
The warrior tried the motion again.
Better, Grizel thought. But could be better still.
The warrior tried the turn again. Grizel sighed.
Malcolm’s head turned immediately. He heard that.
His eyes found her across the yard, and she felt the full force of his attention strike her, swift as a hand catching her wrist. Around him, several men glanced her way.
Tavish’s brows lifted with obvious delight, which should have warned her to retreat at once.
Malcolm lowered the practice blade. “Something tae say, Lady Grizel?”
Every sensible instinct told her to smile politely and recede. Unfortunately, she had never been particularly obedient to sensible instincts.
“Only that he would recover quicker if he let the step carry the turn,” she advised. “He is moving after the strike instead of with it.”
A hush touched the yard. The young warrior looked between her and Malcolm as though praying someone else would become the center of attention.
Malcolm’s expression did not change. “Is that so?”
“Aye.”
Tavish seemed to be choking down laughter. Grizel regretted everything and nothing.
Malcolm turned the practice blade in his hand. “Come here, then.”
Her heart gave one hard beat. “I beg yer pardon?”
“If ye think ye ken better,” he said, his tone mild enough to be dangerous, “show us.”
The men were openly watching now. Someone’s mouth twitched. Another leaned against the fence as though preparing to enjoy himself. Heat rose in Grizel’s face, but pride stepped in before caution could seize her by the throat.
“As ye wish.”
She moved into the yard, aware of each footstep, of the lingering ache in her leg, of Malcolm’s gaze moving over her too closely. He noticed the slight unevenness, but he said nothing.
Good.
If he tried to send her away, she might have to strike him in earnest.
Tavish offered her a wooden blade with a flourish. “For the honor of Calder.”
“For the preservation of yer amusement, more like,” she said, taking it.
His grin widened. “That, too.”
The practice sword felt familiar enough in her hand but not friendly.
She had trained a little, as any woman who had grown up with brothers, guards, and a cautious father might, but the blade had never been the weapon that answered her best. It was too close and too heavy with another person’s strength.
She preferred a bow. A bow allowed distance, thought and breath.
Malcolm stepped before her, and distance ceased to exist as a useful concept.
He held his blade loosely at his side, his stance so relaxed that it bordered on insult.
The wind moved between them, carrying the smell of earth, sweat, and the sea beyond the walls.
Grizel’s fingers tightened around the hilt.
“Dae ye intend tae teach me, then?” he asked playfully.
She didn’t take her eyes off of him. “I suspect that would require a more willing pupil.”
He grinned. “I am very willing.”
The words were harmless to anyone but her.
Her breath caught before she could stop it. His gaze dropped for the smallest instant to her mouth. Traitorous heat moved through her.
She raised the blade. “Begin, then.”
Malcolm’s mouth almost curved. He came at her slowly at first, not insulting her by pretending she was helpless, but testing. She met the first strike cleanly enough. The second, too. The impact traveled up her arm, stronger than she expected, but she held.
A flicker of surprise moved through one of the watching men.
Good, she thought fiercely.
Malcolm’s eyes sharpened. Then he truly moved.
He didn’t move brutally, nor with full strength.
That might have been easier to resent. Instead, he altered the rhythm: one step, a feint, a turn so smooth that she saw too late what she had named in another man.
His blade tapped hers aside, his foot shifted, and suddenly, the flat of his practice sword came to rest lightly against her ribs.
The yard went silent.
Malcolm stood close enough that she could see the faint sheen of exertion at his throat. He was close enough that the point of defeat seemed far less important than the fact that one more step would bring her body against his.
“Dead,” he whispered.
Grizel lifted her eyes to his. “Temporarily.”
She noticed the firm set of his mouth and the dark amusement in his gaze. She noticed that being beaten by him had not humiliated her nearly as much as the warmth pooling low in her stomach had.
That was unacceptable.
She turned the practice sword once in her hand, then handed it back to Tavish with what dignity remained.
“Sword fighting,” she pointed out, “isnae me strength.”
“Nae?” Tavish asked, sounding delighted.
“Nae.” She looked at Malcolm before she could stop herself. “Ye should see me with a bow.”
His expression changed slightly. Malcolm was too disciplined for more. But his gaze lingered on her. It moved over her like heat beneath a closed door, as if she had revealed a hidden chamber in herself, and he had already decided he meant to find the rest.
Grizel’s breath shortened.
She could feel the men around them, the yard, the watching clan, but for one moment there seemed to be only Malcolm’s eyes on her and the dangerous knowledge that he wanted to know every part of her she had not yet shown him.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Then I will.”
It sounded less like agreement than promise.
Grizel turned away first. It was retreat, no matter how gracefully she managed it. Behind her, Tavish said something to the men that made them laugh, but she did not catch the words. She heard only Malcolm’s silence. She felt only his gaze following her as she left the yard.
And she knew, with a dread that felt far too much like anticipation, that this was no longer only a matter of survival.