Page 44 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

He barked a preposterous laugh that she would be asking him that, after all she’d just revealed, then cinched her closer, burying his nose in her tresses and pinching his eyes. To imagine his father, of all the men—who’d once bounced him and his sisters upon his knee and allowed them to wrestle him playfully into submission in mock battles—terrorizing two wee bairns flooded him with fury. How dare the man? He’d never thought his sire would attack a child—and that one of those children had grown into this woman that he’d kissed thoroughly, held sweetly, and fantasized about a life together—ached. When Grant had attacked Tioram, his folk had felt this same fear. Had the children of Urquhart feared him in the same way, too, when he’d gutted Urquhart and claimed it for his own before the Earl of Huntly evicted him? He couldn’t bear the thought. Couldn’t shake the awful feeling making his body tremble and his stomach twist with regret.

Aileana squeezed him in return, nestling into his embrace as if she needed it.

“We sat in that darkness for what seemed like eternity, Peigi once in a while pushing up the lid to see if anyone was yet coming for us and to give us new air—”

“I need no’ hear more, lass,” he breathed gruffly, pecking her head, her cheek, her ear.

Distaste rolled up James’s throat, envisioning a wee Aileana, probably no bigger than Maudie and with the same bright hair, shaking and crying in a trunk, hidden away from grown men striking fear in their hearts with every swing of their sword.

She glanced up at his show of affection, and in spite of the shame coursing through him, his gaze dipped down to hers.

“I worry, James. I fear that if the king’s order for a recompense doesnae come soon, or if it’s nay favorable in the way my brother needs, that my people willnae last the winter. I worry about Lady Elizabeth’s babe, starving in her womb and killing Elizabeth in the process. My brother will never recover from the loss, he loves her so. ’Tis hard to think on fond memories to share amid so much suffering—”

His lips pressed to hers as they sat in a pile of skirts and tartan in the snow while the winter breeze stung their cheeks. Though this time, lust remained at bay. Desperation fueled him now. How did a man beg apology when he couldn’t even make his voice work? How did he show how much he was sorry? He cupped her face, covering her reddened ear with his glove, and partook of a kiss he needed just as much as he needed to silence her with it so that the flood of guilt dragging him underwater would abate, so he could breathe again.

Slowly, he lay her down in the snow, leaning over her, his gloves still cupping her ear and head, as his kiss deepened. Her breath hitched as she received the stroke of his tongue between her lips and returned the gesture, holding him, her mittens kneading his hair and nape. Their torsos pressed together, he wanted to absorb her memories so they tormented her no more.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured with his lips still smushed to hers, their noses cold and pressed against one another’s, and she nodded, gazing up at him; then she resumed their kiss, held him close, and he relented to what she was silently asking of him.

He knew what to do now. The solution should have been obvious. It hit him like a wave crashing on the shore. Blast it, he’d sat up until late, drinking away his hurt, wishing he could somehow make this right. Aileana had saved wee Maudie’s life. She’d given wishes to his people. She’d crowned the child the Abbess of Unreason and brought such joy to his folk in doing so. She was winning their hearts, slowly but surely. And here she’d been, clearing away the snow and reviving the fond memories of Marjorie that he should have tended to all these years. As he held Aileana here, the pain of Marjorie’s demise was bearable for once but the realization of the depth of Aileana’s scars wasn’t. And he had to change that, for the sake of his conscience.

Whether or not he ever gained her true affection.

Chapter Ten

30th of December

Aileana awoke to a commotion in the yard. She lay upon her pillow, her brow contorting. It was too early for such activity. Morning fasts were likely barely being broken.

She pushed up from her bed as the portcullis chain ground out loud enough that even through her closed window, she could hear the faint disturbance. Abandoning the cozy covers, she pattered to her window and snagged a tartan shawl off her trunk to drape around her shoulders while dragging aside a tapestry. Cracking the window shutter behind it, the predawn light was still dull and the cool air sobering.

“But laird, that’s half our winter stock,” the seneschal was arguing as James strode beneath her window, dressed and prepared for an excursion in his furs and great kilt, his massive claymore strapped across his shoulder.

He moved from cart to cart, inspecting a procession lined up and ready to depart.

“Aye, and we still have more than plenty to make it through this winter and next,” James replied.

“Oy, my laird, I cannae come to terms with this decision. Has she somehow addled yer mind?”

What were they talking about? Who has addled who? It had been two days since they’d sat together in the snow, sharing painful memories and finding the unlikeliest of support together. In spite of the bitter cold, that moment had been her first truly content moment here, and since then, he’d submerged himself in work, evaluating his winter stocks of grains and goods. And though she sat beside him at board, he’d spared her but a few strained smiles before departing back to his winter stores, as if he were avoiding her. Why had he been so occupied with work? In only a sennight, it would be Epiphany, and yet he wasted what little time they still had.

“They are still our enemy through and through.” The seneschal wrung his hands. “Why do ye do this?”

James turned around abruptly, halting the seneschal in his tracks with a piercing glare. “I’ve so ordered it be done, and I’m the one ye ought listen to without complaint.”

“But laird—”

“Yer concern is duly noted, man,” James growled, and the steward heeded the warning and bowed.

“As it pleases ye, mi laird,” he replied.

James seemed to soften, and he braced a hand upon his steward’s shoulder. “I’ve always been fair to ye all. It’s time I extend that fairness to others. Our conflicts were made by our forefaithers. I do nay have to perpetuate them.”

A drover rode his horse beneath the barbican, draped in his red tartan mantle, which was pinned at his shoulder and around his head to stave off the cold. Upon his legs, he wore sturdy fleece-lined boots; upon his hands, thick gloves, as if prepared for a countryside trek. Did James have cows or sheep out to pasture during midwinter? Odd.

“What’s yer report?” James asked as the drover pulled back the reins, the horse puffing steam on the air.

“Three hundred head in the outer pasture and ready to set out. Are ye joining the drive?”