“There’s not another lass like Jeannie Sinclair anywhere on this earth, among evil men,” Padraig muttered, and fell silent. He rubbed his chin, looked at Moire again. “My son was betrothed, but the match was broken when he returned like this. She was a maid, or so I was assured. Another well-bred bride, perhaps?”
Moire folded her hands together and tilted her head. “Just so. You must go and seek her, bring her here.” Surely it would be easier—kinder—if Padraig Sinclair were away from Carraig Brigh when death came for his son.
The big clansman by the door shifted his stance. “There’s a laird at Glen Iolair, to the west, a MacLeod. I’ve heard he has a number of daughters of marriageable age. Perhaps there’s a lass there . . .” He shrugged. “They’ve probably not heard of Alasdair Og’s . . .illness,so far away.”
The Sinclair swallowed, and Moire saw hope war with indecision in his eyes for a moment. He nodded at last. “I will leave at once.” Triumph soared in Moire’s breast, only to crumble to dust when he pointed his finger at her. “You will remain with him until I return.” He bent to run his hand over his son’s brow, brushing away lank locks of dark hair. “Keep him alive.” It was both an order and a plea.
Her stomach flipped as the goddess left her. She caught the fine wool of Padraig Sinclair’s plaid as he passed her. “Aye, Chief, but if your quest should fail—”
He spun, plucked her hand free, and glared at her. “If my son dies while I am gone, then you will share his grave.”
CHAPTER ONE
Glen Iolair, Scotland
Laird Donal MacLeod watched unhappily as his daughters prepared to hang yet another tapestry in the great hall of his castle. Their needlework was a fine accomplishment to be sure, the stitches artful, the colors perfect. The trouble was that his hall was already filled with tapestries, and they adorned much of the rest of the place as well, since his talented daughters had nothing better to do with their time besides stitchery or mischief. There was far too much of both at Glen Iolair in Donal’s opinion.
He suppressed an oath as Aileen and Meggie, his two oldest lasses, took the claymore of the first Fearsome MacLeod down from the place of honor it had held for over two hundred years to make room for their newest work. They nearly buckled under the weight of the great sword, the pride of the MacLeods—well, the pride of MacLeodmen. Two of his younger girls—Gillian and Aeife—caught the weapon, one on either end, and carried it to the far side of the hall for removal to a storeroom.
Donal opened his mouth to inform them that the first MacLeod had earned the name Fearsome for his prowess in battle, using that very sword to kill his enemies, capture a rich bride, and lay claim to Glen Iolair itself, but he quickly shut it again. It wasn’t the kind of story a man told daughters. Such bloody deeds would make them swoon. It was a tale a father passed on to his son—if he was fortunate enough to have one. Donal had not been so blessed. He was the last of his line, the final Fearsome MacLeod to rule over Glen Iolair, and to his shame, the hall of his castle looked more like a lady’s boudoir than a warrior’s stronghold. Donal sipped his ale and cast his eye over the new tapestry as it unfurled, and sent up a prayer that this one might at least be a hunting scene, with dogs tearing a bleeding stag, or Fearsome himself holding a great gory-beaked falcon as his clansmen brandished swords and spears in his wake.
Something manly for a change.
Alas, the gentle face of Saint Margaret, the blessed queen of Scotland, appeared instead. She was leading a line of rosy peasant children in a dance through a glade filled with sunshine and flowers. The only man in the picture was a weedy fellow playing a flute—aflute! Not even a proper set of bagpipes.
Donal shut his eyes tight. The only space left in the whole castle for tapestries, embroidered cushions, and colorful rugs was his own chamber, and he was determined not to let the lasses bring their fripperies in there, even if he had to barricade the door and guard it with the first Fearsome’s bloodstained claymore.
He sighed. His lasses should be married, with homes of their own to adorn. When that happy time came, he hoped their husbands would be firmer with them than he was. He loved his lasses well. Too well—Aileen, his oldest lass, was six-and-twenty, had been wedded, widowed, and returned home. The youngest—wee Annie—was not yet three. His girls were all beauties, the products of eight different mothers. Donal had wooed and wed each of his wives in hopes of getting a son to inherit Glen Iolair and Fearsome MacLeod’s terrible legacy—a braw, strapping laddie to wield the claymore, fill the hall with battle trophies, bloody tales, and manly noises. But each wife had given him only girls, until he had an even dozen.
Donal was young enough to marry again, still in his prime, considered by all who knew him to be a fine figure of a man. But what wife wanted to take on a castle filled with a dozen chattering, opinionated, bouncy, flouncy females? No, before he could marry again, he’d have to find husbands for all of them—well, most of them, he thought as his youngest, Annie, toddled into the hall and ran toward him with a bright baby smile. He scooped her onto his knee and realized that the task of marrying off so many daughters might very well takeyears. Especially since his lasses were stubborn about everything from gowns and ribbons to male admirers. He looked down at Annie’s flaxen curls. Would he still be a fine figure of a man by the time this one married?
And he was picky himself. The men who married his daughters had to have certain qualities. They had to be the sons of allied clans with a fair fortune to call their own, born of good stock, with good character and good sense. They had to be fiercely brave, with kind hearts—but not too kind. Having a kind heart got a man into trouble. What other laird would allow a tapestry of frolicking children to displace the very symbol of his might and power? None of his acquaintance . . .
“Do I have the honor of addressing the Fearsome MacLeod himself?” a male voice behind him asked.
Donal turned to regard the stranger standing in his hall unannounced, surrounded by half a dozen strong men, all armed to the teeth. The sett of their plaids and the sprigs of furze in their bonnets marked them as clansmen—or an invading army. No doubt Meggie had left the door wide open again, though he’d warned her time and time again that this was a fortress, not a cott.
Fortunately the man before him looked peaceful enough, if rather grandly turned out. The three feathers in his bonnet declared him a clan chief, and the intricate silver of his brooch, the fine weave of his plaid, the froth of French lace at his throat, and his embroidered deerskin boots confirmed it.
Wee Annie gaped at the stranger and his braw companions from Donal’s lap, but the clansmen were staring at Aileen and Meggie, who were still standing on the table, putting the final touches on the new tapestry.
Donal bristled at their lusty scrutiny. “Aye, I’m the MacLeod. Who might you be?”
“Padraig Sinclair, chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh.” The stranger’s dark eyes were as busy as sparrows, darting around the room, taking everything in. They came to rest on Aileen. “I’ve come on a matter of great importance.” He boldly looked Donal’s daughter over from top to toe and back again. “I’m here for one of your daughters.”
Donal’s brows shot into his hairline. He handed Annie off to Aeife. “Go and fetch the whisky, lass,” he said, and turned to the Sinclair. “Perhaps we’d better sit down.”
He indicated a pair of chairs and two long benches by the hearth, right under Aileen. Donal caught her around the waist as he passed and lifted her down. Meggie climbed down by herself and joined Gillian, and all three of them stood and stared at the Sinclair clansmen, who stared right back with warm-eyed appreciation. In fact, the appreciation in the air was so thick he could have sliced it with the claymore—if the lasses hadn’t taken it away.
“That’ll do now. Go and help in the kitchen,” he said to his daughters. As usual, they stayed right where they were.
“Please allow your daughters to join us,” Sinclair said, gallantly indicating places on one of the benches for them. Aileen settled herself on an embroidered cushion, and her sisters stood behind her. All six Sinclair clansmen stepped forward and sat down across from them at the very same moment, like matched horses, and without taking their eyes off the girls. Donal and the Sinclair took their places in carved chairs—embarrassingly set with more cushions.
“As I said, I’ve come for one of your lasses,” Sinclair said again. “A maid—she must be a virgin.”
Donal folded his arms over his chest. “What for? Pagan sacrifice?”
Sinclair swung his gaze to Donal in surprise. “Nay, of course not. Marriage. To my son and heir.”
