The warrior gulped, and Erik grinned. This was fun.
Another hour passed before a runner from the keep came to find him. “They are here,” he breathed, leaning against the post to catch his breath. “The laird.”
Erik reached for his tunic and carried it into the barracks, sponging himself off the best he could before donning the tunic. His presence would show that the McGregors stood with the McPhersons as their ally and that their alliance was strong.
He knew that Edna wanted the same with every laird that visited, and since this was her first, he would be there to guide her the only way he knew how. He had seen Kaiden do it numerous times in the past, and since he couldn’t be there, the responsibility fell on Erik.
After cleaning up the best he could, Erik made his way to the keep. The courtyard was a flurry of activity, with multiple wagons and carts in front of the keep. Warriors dressed in their finest tartans milled about the courtyard, and Erik sized them up as he passed, wondering which one was the second-in-command. He didn’t know much about McIves or their warriors, having not met them on the battlefield before.
Given the size of the warriors, it seemed that they were thriving as well.
Erik strode into the keep and found it equally as crowded. He had to push his way to get to the front of the great hall, where he knew that Edna would be waiting.
The first person he saw was Finley, and his heart stuttered in his chest as he eyed her, his body reacting as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks. Instead of her warrior garb, she was wearing a dress, the material outlining the curves that his hand had gripped last night. Her clan’s tartan was draped over one shoulder, and she was staring straight ahead, her chin high in the air as if nothing could touch her.
His hand shook at the thought of touching her like this. In her warrior’s garb, she was more like him but dressed like this, she was something far more precious.
And deadly.
Clearing his throat, he moved away from her, choosing to stand on the other side of a nervous-looking Edna.
“Welcome to our clan,” she said as Erik forced himself not to look at Finley or the manner of dress she was wearing. Bloody hell, he thought her in breeks was a sight. “I hope that our clans can come together for the betterment of Scotland.”
“Aye,” he heard the laird reply, finally turning his attention to the McIves laird. He was tall and imposing, with dark auburn hair and equally dark eyes that showed no warmth. This was who Edna wanted an alliance with? “May I present mah lady?”
Erik felt the blood drain from his face as a petite woman stepped forward, her hand finding her husband’s.
Nay, it cannae be.
“This is mah wife,” McIves was saying, bringing their joined hands up to his lips. “This is mah Isabel.”
It was a name that he had hoped to never hear again.
“Isabel,” Edna said, inclining her head, “welcome tae mah home. I hope that ye find it as comforting as yer own.”
“Thank ye,” Isabel murmured, every word like a dagger to Erik’s heart. She still had the same pleasant smile on her face, the same lilting voice that he had heard time and time again in his nightmares.
Her dark auburn hair was piled on top of her head in a cascade of curls, and a thin gold circlet had been pressed into them, showing off her elegant neck and the heart-shaped face that he could have traced in his mind had he never seen her again. Her body was the same set of curves he remembered, clad in a rich green gown that belied her position.
She was a laird’s wife, but he would forever remember her as Isabel McGregor, daughter of a tavern-keeper and his wife.
Years ago...
Erik kicked at the empty crate with his foot, tears smarting his eyes. His back was on fire from the recent whipping that his father had given him for not bringing home the coin that he had pulled off an unsuspecting visitor and instead had bought himself a meat pie so that his stomach would quit gnawing.
His mother had just turned her head at his cries, and the moment that his father had released him, Erik had run out of the hut, wanting to be far away from them so that he wouldn’t kill them himself. He had started to fantasize about doing so now that he was fourteen.
One day, his father was not going to be able to whip him so easily.
“Wot are ye doing tae mah da’s crate?”
Erik whirled around to find a lass in the alleyway with him, her hands on her hips. “I didnae know it was his crate,” he shot back.
She stepped toward him, her eyes searching his. “I know ye. Yer mam.”
“I dinnae need tae know that she works for yer da,” he bit out. He knew exactly who she was. Her da kept his mam on her back in the tavern.
She swallowed, looking away. “I’m sorry.”
