“I won’t follow a Sassenach,” he declared.
Talia spread her hands. “Am I not Scottish through and through? I’ll fight any man or woman who says otherwise.”
No one scoffed at that, though many could best her in a fight. It was as if she was of no account, though she stood in the center of the hall and had declared herself laird. All eyes were on Reuben.
He stood slowly, then moved around the center table at an easy saunter. With a jerk of his chin, he ordered his four men to stand behind him, each one bringing a bag with him. They were large bags, clearly heavy, and Jonathan even grimaced as he dropped his on the floor before Reuben.
“I have lived most of my life in London,” Reuben spoke, his tone casual. “I have no title, no claim to fame beyond the wealth brought to me from eighteen businesses started and flourishing there.” He grinned. “Commerce is my lifeblood, and I make no apology for that.” He stepped forward and looked about the room. “But in all my years, I have never seen such beauty and strength as what I have seen in Scotland.” His gaze roved across the people to the castle itself. He admired the stones that surrounded them, but then his gaze turned to her. “Scotland is truly to be admired,” he said as if she were the personification of her entire country. He took her hand, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. “Fierce,” he said. “And astounding.”
She blushed. How could she not? Then he dropped to one knee before her.
“I pledge all that I have and all that I am to you, Iseabail Spalding. And if you’ll allow it, I’ll take your name and foreswear Bates.”
The gasp was audible, not from her clan but from the men behind him. None had ever heard of a man who took a wife’s name. But to join a clan was no small thing, even if it was in a marriage such as theirs.
Behind them, that same old coot scoffed. “And wot have you that we would make ye one of us? Wot battles have ye fought? Wot strength do ye bring?”
Reuben probably didn’t know it, but those were the standard challenges to any man who wished to add his strength to the Spalding clan. Or perhaps he did, because he smiled.
“Oh! I do have one other peccadillo, so to speak. An oddity that I started as a boy that I have maintained over the years because it amused me.” He turned to the largest men in the clan. “I keep the weapons of every soul I have defeated in a fight. Most were simple fights in dark alleys, but in my time, I have defeated highwaymen and two gangs of a ferocity that would shock most souls.” He grinned. “I kept their weapons, too. Perhaps they could be added to the Spalding armory.”
Then with a nod to his men, they each opened the sacks they had brought. Opened the top, then tipped them over such that their contents spilled on the ground. Daggers, short swords, and not one but two heavy Claymores.
So he had killed Scotsmen, too. He must have seen the direction of her gaze because he turned to her.
“Two Scots and seven English attacked a set of three carriages I guarded on their way to London from Edinburgh. They wore no clan colors, and they fought like brute animals. I killed them both.” He gestured back at his men. “There were nine total, and my men handled the rest. I received this scar in that battle.”
To her shock, he stripped out of his shirt to show the scars he bore along his body. There were several, evidence of a lifetime of fights. He pointed to one particularly nasty cut that ran from shoulder blade to waist. One she had kissed a hundred times already.
“If you care about strength in battle,” he said with a chuckle. “I have that, too.”
She cared because her people cared. And not a one had a word against him. Not even old Harley.
Then Talia whistled. “Maybe we should form the Bates clan.”
Fergus rounded on her. “Ye would never!”
No, Talia wouldn’t, but her shrug was eloquent. “I’ll not remain with fools who canna see a gift from the Almighty when it drops in yer lap. Iseabail has shown herself true. She has fed, cleaned, and healed all of us at one time or another.” She set her hand on her rounding belly. “And we will all have need of her again. She is here now bringing with her a man who fights well, who has knowledge of commerce, and who will bow his head to follow her. We’re lucky, we are, that she has returned to us and not left to make a life on her own. So, Spalding, do we take the gift that she has brought? Or do we nurse the ignorant pride that has been the death of so many?”
She spoke to the clan, but it was Fergus who answered. He wrapped his arm around his wife, touched her rounding belly, and turned to Iseabail. “I will follow you,” he said firmly. “Wherever you lead.” Then to emphasize his statement, he dropped to one knee before her.
And Reuben did the same.
Warmth flushed her body, shock and pleasure intermixed. Her heart swelled that these two men would bend to her. Iseabail the child had spent her life trying to be small. She had done her work as quietly as possible, then hidden herself away.
But here, she saw what happened when Iseabail the woman claimed her rights as an adult.
One by one, the others in the clan knelt to her. Men, women, boys, and girls. The last to kneel were Reuben’s men. The four who were meant to return to London, but who looked around and threw their lot in with her.
And in such a way she became The Spalding.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Then she tilted her face up to the sky. “Thank you,” she said loudly, her words meant for her parents, for God, for any who had helped her along her very strange path. And then lastly, she went to Reuben. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.
He grinned as he looked up at her. “To the Spalding Laird!” he cried.
“The Spalding Laird!” echoed through the chamber.
Then Iseabail held up the key to the storeroom. “Let us celebrate with whisky!”
