Chapter Four
Mistress Annista MacRowan surprised Alan, so she did. Aye, he must have met her when she came here to visit her sister, but that had been quite some time ago, and besides, he’d been busy avoiding any unnecessary involvement with the family by then. He certainly did not remember her like this.
Since his mother had talked him into agreeing to this accursed venture, he’d been picturing another version of Robena—a gentle girl, sweet-natured, fair of face. A summer flower bloomed and as swiftly gone.
This woman looked nothing like Robena. He supposed that was not so surprising. Stand him shoulder to shoulder with Evan, and no one would pick them out as brothers.
Annista MacRowan had brown hair, a great deal of it from what he could tell by looking, a rich chestnut color with wave. A face that at the moment at least held nothing of softness or gentility. She appeared angry, or at the very least upset.
As well she might, sent here in the place of her sister who had perished in this selfsame place.
“I beg your pardon?” she said to Mother, shooting him a look that might have pierced iron. “Wha’ did ye say?”
Ah, she had not yet been told she was to marry him instead of Evan. Father had, perhaps, not had time to send word that plans had changed. Could that be what Father and Master MacRowan discussed so intently even now?
Mother hesitated, clearly deciding how to phrase what she had to say. “Did yer father no’ inform ye, lass?”
Annista MacRowan shook her head. She looked more upset than ever.
Aye, so he was no prize. A second son rarely was and him no exception. But unless she wanted to end up like her sister—
He could scarcely tell her that, now could he? Nor could he tell her that he felt no happier than she about their situation.
Indeed, he’d hoped to marry—one day, a day far in the future when he could perhaps see his way out of their murky and tangled family circumstances. He’d hoped to marry for love if at all possible—one of the few benefits that existed for a younger son. Snatched from him now.
He grimaced savagely to himself. What, in God’s name, made him fool enough to hope for love? He had few enough examples before him. His ma cared about Da, aye. But he wasn’t sure but she cared for preserving his status more than his life.
Growing up, Alan could remember very few demonstrations of actual love between them. Partnership, aye, but that was all.
And Evan—what he’d observed between Evan and Robena could never go by so bastardized a name as love.
A fool he’d been for even imagining he could achieve anything different. And now that possibility had slipped from his hands.
Mistress Annista did not appear to possess any of the attributes he might choose in a wife. Angry and indignant, with a hard edge, and not even—
Well, he could not say but she was attractive, if not in a way that had ever particularly appealed to him.
“I must speak wi’ my father,” Annista said, a spark of what might be panic showing in her eyes.
She moved off from them and approached the men still in a huddle at the door.
Alan’s own anger rose. He did not want the woman, nay. But he was tired of being brushed aside.
He needn’t stay for this—this farce of a situation. He made to step away and his mother seized his arm.
“Please, Alan.”
He hissed at her, barely above a whisper, “Let Evan clear awa’ his own messes.”
“I would if I could.”
Lord MacRowan spoke to his daughter now, in an equally low tone, Alan’s father listening. She did not want to hear whatever he said and gestured dismissively at Alan.
It made him feel his lack of worth, so it did. The steer left in the pen at the end of the trading fair, the one nobody wanted. Inferior stock. Was that what she thought him?
Mayhap if the lass made enough of a fuss, she would get her way and he could escape this onerous duty. The thought crossed his mind that he could leave this place after all, pack up the few belongings that mattered to him and go make his fortune.
Only, leaving here—leaving Kallan—would rip his heart out by the roots.
Lord MacRowan took his daughter’s shoulders between his hands and spoke to her low and steady. Gazing into his eyes, she nodded reluctantly.
Alan’s heart sank.
All three of them walked to the hearth where Ma still anchored Alan with a death grip on his arm.
“Master Alan,” MacRowan said and gave Alan a brief nod. “Are we all in agreement?”
Alan, standing stiff as if made of iron, said nothing. He looked at his bride to be, who still appeared—
Rebellious. That was the word for which he’d been searching all the while. Was he prepared to take a rebellious bride?
“I ha’ a clergyman on hand and standing by,” Father said a bit too quickly. “He is no’ a priest.” He frowned fretfully. “I hope that will do.”
“We will mak’ it do,” MacRowan said tersely.
A sham of a wedding and a sham of a marriage. Would naught happen to prevent it?
“We will need a wee bit o’ time,” MacRowan said.
“Aye, so,” Father hurried to agree. “We shall gi’ ye a chance to recover fro’ your journey. A good meal and a good night’s sleep, aye? And then—”
He glanced at Annista as if in inquiry and as swiftly looked away again. Could Father too see how mutinous and angry she was?
“—the marriage in the morning?”
No one said anything. The moment drew out hideously until Mother spoke. “Aye, to be sure. Will that suit, my dear?”
Annista turned to Mother and Alan got his first look at the color of her eyes. He’d thought them brown like her hair, but they sparked with gold as much as with her anger. Hard eyes.
“Aye, so,” she said grudgingly. “But I would first like a word with my bridegroom alone.”
The elders looked at one another uneasily, but no one so much as glanced at Alan. Aye, he’d had little say in any of this. Why should they consider his wishes now?
“I suppose that is reasonable, if no’ strictly proper,” Lord MacRowan said. “These two will want to become acquainted.”
“We will await ye in the hall,” Mother said and gave Alan a meaningful glare before they left.
Alone with her, Alan eyed his prospective bride. She seemed to be marshalling her thoughts, preparing what she meant to say to him. When she stepped up beside the fire, he got another look at what lay in her eyes, hard and bright.
“I wish to mak’ one thing clear to ye, Master Alan MacKallan. I may be forced into this marriage even as my sister was forced into hers before me. I do it for the sake o’ my family—naught more.”
“As do I.” He narrowed his eyes at her.
She stepped even closer and lowered her voice to a throb. “I may be constrained to wed wi’ ye—but ’twill be a marriage in name only. If ye so much as touch me—” Her lips drew back from her teeth in a decided snarl.
A threat? She meant to deliver a threat to him? Interested despite himself, Alan asked, “If? Then what?”
“I will kill ye.”
In that instant, he believed her. In deadly earnest she was, as much so as any woman he’d encountered ever before. Did she think she could? And him making two of her in size, and with training at arms.
His lips quirked. “Do no’ worry, Mistress. I too am being constrained into this marriage. I assure ye quite sincerely, the verra last thing I want to do is touch ye.”
Did she look insulted? He had to confess, he meant her to. He felt slighted by this whole affair. And how dare she think aught about her would render him incapable of containing his lust?
She drew back a mite. “Och, well, good.” Again her eyes narrowed. “Is that a promise? That we will wed in name only?”
“It is, indeed. Rest assured I ha’ no desire whatever to put my hands on ye.”
“Good. Good.”
She marched to the door and through it without a backward glance.
More unsettled than ever, Alan followed.
****
And what was she to do now? Annista asked herself that question as she glanced around the chamber she’d been given. What she supposed was to be her new home.
Bonnie, who’d arrived here before her, had already begun unpacking and placing Annista’s belongings around the room. It did not help much. A gloomy chamber that felt cold, it had dark wainscoting on the walls and a bed shrouded in plain-colored hangings. She hated the place on sight.
Could this have been the room Robena inhabited when she lived here? There were no signs of her, and despite Bonnie’s efforts, it had a barren feel as if it had not been inhabited in years.
The little maid, busy at the clothes press, glanced at Annista and, perhaps reading her mood correctly, said nothing.
A sick feeling started up in the pit of Annista’s stomach.
Father’s scheming and the alteration of plans had overturned her own intentions quite neatly.
She’d intended to, aye, marry Evan MacKallan and, using the ensuing proximity to him, take his life.
The man, from what she remembered, was drunk most the time.
If she used Ma’s knife at a suitably intimate moment, claimed he’d threatened her with it and in a drunken fit of rage harmed himself instead, she just might get away with it.
What proof would there be to the contrary?
A widow, she might, as Ma said, return home.
But she would not wed Evan MacKallan. She did not even know where the man was. He’d not been in the hall where, following her discussion with Alan, they’d joined their parents for a drink and a cold meal Annista could barely choke down.
Was he here at the manor? Had he been banished? Why had she been committed to wed his brother and not him?
How on earth was she to get near enough the man to kill him?
She puffed out a breath and Bonnie looked at her uncertainly.
At least Alan… Alan and she seemed, on the face of it, to agree. Theirs would be a marriage in name only. He’d promised.
Could she trust the promise of a MacKallan? A Protestant?
“Mistress,” Bonnie approached her, “will ye rest now?” The little maid’s eyes looked worried. “Are ye to go down for dinner yet?”
“No, they ha’ fed us. But tomorrow—tomorrow is my wedding day. I suppose I shall ha’ to wear my best gown. The saffron-colored one.”
“Aye, Mistress. I’ve already hung that.”
“We are to wed in the morning so do no’ let me sleep late.” If she slept at all. With sudden concern she asked, “Ha’ ye been given suitable accommodations?”
“Och, aye, Mistress. Through that door there lies a tiny room o’ my own."
“Good.” Bonnie would be nearby, should Annista have to—what? Call for help? Make a murder scene appear more like one of self-inflicted harm?
She eyed the little maid. Could she trust Bonnie with the truth?
Perhaps not. At least, not yet.
“And that door there—” Bonnie indicated a stout panel on the opposite wall. “I think that leads to another chamber. Perhaps your husband’s?” Bonnie whispered, “’Tis unlocked.”
Och, and she might have to remedy that. Find a key.
For she did not want Alan MacKallan walking in on her, despite his promises.