“Nay, my lady,” he said. His throat labored to speak aloud after months of mostly silence. “A small community some days from here to the south.”
“I am MacKinnon and this is my wife, Lady Davina.” Then the man nodded at his daughter, the one he’d offered in marriage. “That is my eldest, Lady Ailis MacKinnon.”
Ailis MacKinnon.
Now, the beauty had a name. He let it roll through his thoughts, not struggling to find a connection, for that most often led to failure. Instead, as Brother Gavin had instructed him, he let it simply be there. Staring at her and repeating it again within himself, he waited on a revelation. ‘Twas simply a feeling when it finally happened. Joy. Joy and contentment. He closed his eyes and waited for more.
“Father,” she said. He opened his eyes and watched her speak. “I canna marry this … stranger.”
“If he will have ye, aye, ye will.”
The laird’s pronouncement shocked him. What in the name of the Almighty had he walked into?
“But, Father, we ken not his name or anything about him. Ye canna mean to give me to him.” Her voice was edged in fear and desperation. It sliced through him. He didn’t want her fearful. He didn’t want her to worry.
“What is yer name?” The MacKinnon asked again.
“When I couldna remember, the monks called me ‘Iain’, after their favorite of the blessed Apostles.”
The MacKinnon walked closer to him, examining him frankly and openly, from his boots to the plaid that covered the hood on his head. They were of a similar size and build it seemed.
“Ye have the look of a warrior about ye. Have ye fought before?”
“Aye.” He did not remember when or why, but he knew, his body knew, he was a warrior. Even now, he shifted on his feet and slightly turned as the laird moved around him.
A warrior must be always in readiness for the fight when it came.
At first, Iain thought the laird spoke the words. Then he realized they were a memory, spoken by another. An older man. The man who trained him. The shadows wouldn’t part enough for him to see the man, so he brought his attention back to the laird.
“Are ye sworn to any man?” the laird asked.
“Aye.” Iain shook his head. “I dinna ken who, but I think I must be.”
“Are ye married then?”
“Nay.”
He glanced over at Ailis and watched as any remaining color drained from her lovely face. Those eyes widened in anticipation of the next words from her father.
“Before yer arrival, my disobedient daughter swore to marry the next man who entered our hall if I allowed her to refuse Lord Duncan.”
“The older man at the table?” he asked, his gaze still captured by hers. The slightest of nods gave her answer before her father confirmed it.
“Aye. Lord Duncan agreed to marry her after she refused others. I allowed her to refuse due to promises made in a moment of weakness. I realize now ‘twas a grievous error on my part in dealing with her.”
“Father,” Ailis whispered. “I pray ye. …”
“My lord husband,” his ladywife began.
“Nay, Ailis. Nay, Davina, my love,” the laird said.
If Iain had not been watching her so closely he would have missed the pain that shone in her eyes when her father spoke so to his wife. Only then did Iain realize that these two women were close in age.
“I stand by our agreement, Daughter. Ye promised to marry him and, if he will have ye, ye will.”
The MacKinnon meant it. He would give his daughter to Iain, if he but said the word. A complete and utter stranger, not only to them but to himself, who had nothing to offer in return. Had the whole world gone mad? Or was this one of those waking dreams he’d suffered for weeks after the monks had found him?
It took but one more glance at her to know that there was some connection between them. How else could he explain her presence in his dreams? Now that he’d heard her voice, he could hear the words she spoke to him every night since the first one he could remember.
“All the days of our lives,” she whispered.
She stood before him, naked. Her hair formed a golden, shimmering curtain around her. Her pert nipples, seen as they parted the locks of hair, grew into tight rosettes, begging for his mouth. She moved and her hair moved with her, sliding across her rosy breasts and over the curves of her hips. The darker triangle of hair at the place above her thighs, beckoned to be touched. He reached out his hand and she waited with eyes closed for his caress.
“Iain?” The MacKinnon asked.
All the days of our lives.
Iain blinked to clear his thoughts of the erotic vision he’d remembered, or dreamt, and knew what his answer must be.
“Aye.”
