Page 18 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

He straightened and shrugged noncommittally. “In sooth, I like them more than most people.”

She laughed softly. “Aye, indeed I often think the same thing.”

Their eyes connected. “Aileana.” Why’d ye call me Jamie? He didn’t ask the burning question on his mind since he’d woken, and he cleared his throat. “Would ye like me to return ye home this morn? I worry that ye might be taking ill.”

Her eyes widened and she wrapped her cloak around her frame more tightly, pushing to stand, too. Her rich hair, slung over her shoulder, was tangled in such an unladylike fashion, he wished he’d been the one who’d cast it into such fetching disarray.

“Ye would do that?” she asked. “And what of my thievery?”

He huffed. “I was angered, aye. Our people have flung unkindness upon each other for so long, ’tis hard nay to feel affronted. But, eh…” He raked his hand though his hair. “I ken ye’d be unhappy. That I forced yer hand.”

She looked askance. “I’m nay averse to spending a fortnight at Tioram before I go home,” she finally replied. “I suppose, if ye and I can forge a trust, then mayhap we can return to our people and spread goodwill. I’m nay privy to the disagreements that pitted our faithers against each other. But should such madness continue?”

His heart skipped a beat at the same time it plummeted. A fortnight at Tioram would give him time to become better acquainted with this woman, who had been quick to despise him, even if she’d still be leaving eventually.

He nodded once, then turned away from her, scooping up his packs to heave them onto his shoulder. Whatever their decision, they needed to get moving and get indoors, in front of a crackling hearth.

“Let’s break camp and eat, then,” he said, and strode over to Devil to load his effects.

The peaceful morning spell was broken. Or perhaps, they finally had a spell cast on them.

…

The morning was clear and crisp, the storm having passed. Sunlight blazed off the snow, sparkling white crystals, the air around them blessedly still, making the cold bearable. At long last, as they came out of an upland, Tioram Castle loomed into view beneath them, a proud tower perched atop a wee peninsula lording over the confluence of the River Shiel and Loch Moidart. No doubt the stretch of land and rocky uplift became an isle when the tide was high. Distant, white-capped peaks upon the Isle of Skye loomed like sentries in the distance, guarding the great expanse of ocean beyond the Hebrides. Surrounded in snowy banks that glistened like fluttering fairy wings in the sunshine, the earth seemed deceivingly pure.

“Goodness…”

James glanced over his shoulder at Aileana’s sigh. She leaned around his torso to see. A wide-eyed expression had captured her visage, as if she were awed or overwhelmed by the beauty.

“I’ve only heard tales of this place from my brother. It truly is magnificent.”

James nodded once to her in acknowledgment of the compliment. He’d always been proud of his castle. Bastard born or not, he’d been afforded comforts as his father’s proclaimed heir, and these walls held the whispers of his childhood.

“Urquhart used to be so magnificent, too, before the reave,” she continued.

Was she censuring him? Knee-jerk irritation gripped him before he could temper his tongue.

“Tioram, too, was a shell of itself after yer brother and the Frasers unseated me, chasing me out and burning our stores before I could finally afford to refurbish the damage,” he retorted.

She sucked in a lungful at his admonishment. “And at whose expense did ye rebuild? Ours. Ye simply terrorized all the innocent people at Urquhart to steal what ye needed. I see ye use yer white flag of truce as a nice doormat for yer mucky boots.”

“Ye imply that Urquhart’s problems are my fault instead of yer brother’s for involving himself in the Frasers’ schemes. ’Tis no’ I who sullied the white flag, lass.”

Aileana pulled away. He glanced back at her withdrawal. Be damned! Their history seemed forever beneath the surface, ready to leak anger before one could think better of it. But the sunshine bright on her face in spite of its paleness, her nose and cheeks pink from the cold, snagged his irritation, as did her hazel eyes glittering with unspoken thoughts.

She looked down. “I suppose these rivalries betwixt us willna die an easy death if we continue to parry as nàmhaids,” she muttered.

He fished behind him for her hand and pulled it back around him as they curved down the path, revealing more of the hillside overlooking the water as they descended. “Aye.” They’d made a tentative truce, and he’d do well to foster the goodwill and bite his tongue next time she needled him.

He nudged Devil into a trot as he felt her shivering against him, for the path to the gates had been well trodden. She cleared her throat, her hand at first frozen, then as she relaxed, her other arm came around him, too.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Over yonder. Is that yer chapel?”

James glanced across the hillside to the cemetery buried in snow among a dormant tangle of brambles, near the trees that lined the loch. The wee chapel stood above the graves, a small, single stone chamber with a carved cross atop the ridge over the door and decorated with Pictish knots from olden days. Pillows of white rested upon the roof and drifted against the door. He hadn’t gone inside that chapel or walked among the headstones since the day Marjorie had died. Even when his sire was finally laid to rest, he’d remained apart from Brighde, unable to come too close.

“Aye. And cemetery. Five generations of MacDonalds are buried there. And on the end is an empty space for me before the next row will be started.”

“Just one space?”