Page 45 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Aye.” James nodded once. “I’ll head the supply cart. We’ll herd the beasts into their outer pasture where they can see ’em. Make sure yer MacDonald tartan blazes bright so it lures them out. I want them to ken it’s us without having to talk to them.”

The drover nodded and turned his mount, cantering from whence he’d come, while James returned his attention to the three carts stacked with crates and supplies. By the look of it, they planned to be gone quite a while.

Why make sure their plaids were visible? Aileana’s brows knitted together. Was he…setting a trap for a raid? Was he going to use the cattle as bait to lure an enemy out into the open? During Christmastide of all times? Good God. He’d been gentle since her arrival, and she’d forgotten about this other side to him that swung a sword with expert precision. The side that raided without mercy. Worry twisted her gut. She whirled away from the window and dashed to the door to confront him.

Pattering along the gallery, she hurried down the spiraling stairs leading to the great hall. Distant clambering of soldiers settling into their morning meal as they prepared to take their posts clinked as she broke into the commons hall, though the dais sat mostly empty except for Brighde. A hush fell over them as she ran past toward the door.

“My lady?” questioned the guard manning the door. “Are ye well?”

“Quite, I thank thee. I have need to speak with my—” She still tripped on the word husband, for it was a lie. A temporary situation…wasn’t it? “My husband.”

The guard opened the door for her, and she stepped outside. The sharp winter chill pierced her skin and froze her slipperless toes upon the stone step, and she tightened the tartan around her shoulders. Sakes, it was MacDonald plaid, and she’d barely noticed it as she’d flung it on. The carts were rolling, driven by two horses each. James, mounted on his massive destrier, was lumbering toward the portcullis, too far for her to catch up to him and too far for her to call without shouting like a harpy.

“Anxious to see yer husband off with a favor or a boon?” Brighde teased at her back, and she turned to see James’s sister. Her cheeky smile dropped. “Whatever is wrong?”

“Oh, Lady Brighde. Why is James going reaving? At Christmas, no less? Pray I’m wrong and he’s no.’”

Brighde’s brow furrowed further, and she shook her head. “Who told ye he goes a-reaving?”

“The supply carts and the cattle, and he’s armed to the teeth and demands they bait someone to the field with the sight of his tartan. I thought he—I thought…”

Aileana trailed off as confusion shown bright on Brighde’s face. “Aileana, I ken nay of what ye speak. He goes to give aid to a clan in need.”

He what?

Brighde smiled at Aileana’s perplexity. “Did he nay tell ye?”

Embarrassment assailed her now. Nay, he hadn’t even come to say goodbye to his wife.

“He’ll be gone for two days, possibly three, depending on how long it takes to drive the cattle and wagons. Did he nay say farewell to ye when he woke?”

Blush infused Aileana’s cheeks with such heat, she feared they looked wind-chapped. If only her shawl would swallow her within and make her disappear.

“I admit, he passes his nights elsewhere.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

She cleared her throat, glancing James’s way again to realize he’d stopped. He was looking over his shoulder, watching her, so much to say on his face and yet not returning to say it. To whom was he gifting all these things? Cattle and goods? What sort of goods? Blast him! To steal from her people and give to others. She’d thought he’d begun to care about her. He seemed to be looking her over from her toes to her head and back down again, taking in her state of undress, and instead of shrinking, this time she lifted her chin, unclenching her tartan to let it relax. As if to challenge him to keep looking. As if she wished him to return and sweep her back into his arms the way he had in the cemetery—

He sucked in a hard breath, his chest rising sharply, and quickly turned around to rejoin his contingent leading the procession of carts. Rejection nipped at her, and her shoulders slumped.

“What is all of this?” she asked.

“Grains for bread, seed stock, jerked meat and baskets of dried fruits, valuables, a household’s worth of stock.”

Everything a castle would need to survive until the spring. Everything my people need, everything we’ve begged the Crown for.

“Who—who does he give it to?” she croaked, gooseflesh rising on her arms, as if a premonition to the answer she wanted.

Brighde lay a gentle hand on her arm, squeezing it. “Why, yer brother, Laird Seamus Grant.”

Aileana’s stomach dropped and her tongue tied, unable to find the right thing to say. That rejection ebbed away as a chill of knowing prickled up her spine. Surely her brother’s request for a recompense had finally come in. Surely James had been so ordered to give these things back. Perhaps a messenger had come, which was why James had practically ignored her these past days. Surely the man who fed foxes and tousled wee bairns’ hair wasn’t benevolent enough to bestow these things out of the goodness of his heart…was he?

“Did a messenger arrive from the Crown?” she whispered, for it was the only way her voice would work.

Brighde gave her a quizzical look. “I do nay ken what ye mean? We’ve nay had a visitor since the MacLeods attacked us from the sea this past summer.”

Rooted to the spot, Aileana rubbed her arms, suddenly anxious to ask James why he’d done it. For if he hadn’t been ordered, it meant he was doing it of his own volition. And if he was doing it of his own volition, then what did it mean about his intentions toward her?

“Come, Aileana. Let’s go inside. Ye’re in naught but yer chemise and will surely catch yer death. Ye’ll see James soon enough.”