MacLaren thought for a moment. "So that's why ye said yer mother needed ye." It was all beginning to make more sense.
"Aye. That is all I know. Do ye believe me?"
"I will consider yer words carefully. Some have the ring of truth. Others I ken to be false."
"When have I e'er spoke ye false? Ye have asked me for the truth, and I have given it. What is the point of telling ye the truth if ye winna believe it?"
"How can I believe ye when some things ye say make no sense? Last night ye refuse to honor my marital rights, yet this morn ye declare yer love for me. How can I believe that?"
"I ne'er said I loved ye." Aila's voice rose. "I said… well, ne'er ye mind what I said. As for last night, I wasna trying to avoid ye forever; I only wanted a little time and maybe a little respect. Since the moment ye knocked me from my horse, ye've treated me wi' contempt. Nay, e'en before that. I ken the only reason ye married me is for the money, but do ye have to remind me and my clan that my only value to ye is my inheritance?"
"Contempt? When have I disrespected ye?"
Aila's eyebrows shot up. "Ye've called me a traitor and a liar, rotten to the core, and—"
MacLaren kissed her. He had not realized he had been waiting, wanting to do that. She resisted for a moment then sank into him. He held her closer and slowly deepened the kiss.
"Why did ye do that?" Aila asked, breathless, when at last he let her go.
MacLaren shook his head. "Irksome lass, I dinna ken what I'm about when I'm wi' ye."
Aila slowly smiled. "I'm usually ne'er cross. I'm sorry if I've been irritating."
"Aye, ye have, lass. Verra aggravating." And he kissed her again. The horse slowed to a stop, and he let go of the reins to kiss her in earnest. "We were interrupted at a most inopportune time last night."
"Aye." Aila snuggled closer to him. "Perhaps tonight?"
"Assuredly. Though why wait? There's plenty of brush here." MacLaren was ready, more than ready. Riding along with her wiggling about in his lap, it was enough to drive a man daft. He wasn't made of stone, after all.
"Here?" asked Aila, her eyes wide.
"Here."
"Now?"
"Now."
"During the day?"
"It works the same, day or night. Would ye be willing?" MacLaren leaned closer and ran his hand slowly up her leg to her thigh. She shivered. He may have, too. Aila's eyes sparkled and she nodded.
"Truly? Ye would?" MacLaren winced internally. He sounded like an untried youth, not an experienced warrior. Aila gave him a shy smile and nodded again several times. Well, hell, he felt like an eager lad. MacLaren felt his face break into something he thought suspiciously might be a smile. This was getting out of control. Aila smiled too, looking warm and happy and beautiful and his. She shifted so she was facing him and put her arms around his neck to kiss him again. He ran his hands under her gown and cupped her backside, enjoying how her body responded to his touch. This was going to be sweet.
"Ho there! I'm glad to see the two of you have reconciled." MacLaren and Aila swirled around to see Chaumont trotting up behind them on the path. He smiled broadly as he came alongside them and pretended to become interested in a tree while they quickly shifted to a more modest position.
"Chaumont." MacLaren glared at him. "I love ye like a brother, but if ye dinna leave immediately, I'm going to have to kill ye."
Chaumont smiled broadly and gave Aila a bow of the head. "So it's like that, is it? Very well done, madam. My most humble apologies, but I am not alone." The unwanted thumping of hooves grew louder, and soon the rest of the warriors came into view.
"Perfect," MacLaren growled softly in Aila's ear. "This is going to make for a most uncomfortable ride back to Dundaff." MacLaren shifted a bit in his saddle. Situated as she was between his legs, she could not help but notice the point of his discomfort.
"I could go back to riding my own horse," Aila suggested.
"Ne'er. This may be torture, but it is sweet, and ye're mine," he whispered.
Aila smiled back and clung to him, resting her head on his chest. MacLaren turned so all the men could get a good view.
See this. I have caught her, I have tamed her,
and she is mine.
MacLaren looked possessively down at his bride.
And she is happy.
For the first time, it was important to him to keep her so.
Twenty-Three
A CHEER WENT UP FROM MACLAREN'S MEN TO CELEBRATE their laird's capture of his wayward bride, and the entire group started back along the way to Dundaff. They had reached a well-traveled path through the forest and were able to ride two abreast through the trees. MacLaren and Chaumont took the lead, riding together. Aila's horse was still tied behind MacLaren's, providing a horse length between them and the next mount, which allowed some privacy of conversation if they spoke softly. Aila felt rather uncomfortable sitting on a man's lap in front of all these men, yet even she realized the act was a necessary one to restore MacLaren's pride after she defied him. So she tried to make the best of it, particularly since she had no other choice. Trying to appear as if nothing was amiss, she sought some topic for polite conversation.
"So what brings ye to Scotland, sir?" she asked Chaumont.
Chaumont's face lit up at her address. "I came following your husband. I got so accustomed to saving his arse in France, I found I couldn't rightly give up the job. Besides, we all were required to make a most hasty retreat after MacLaren killed Gerard de Marsan."
"Who?" Aila looked back and forth between them. This was not exactly the polite conversation she had hoped to elicit.
"A French nobleman."
"Why would ye do that?" Aila asked MacLaren.
"Probably because he was trying to kill me at the time," MacLaren answered coolly.
"Why was he trying to kill ye?" It was rude to ask so many questions, but really, how could they expect her not to?
"They had a small disagreement on which one of them was going to marry a certain lady," answered Chaumont. Aila gave the Frenchman her full atten tion, hoping for more of the story.
"I must thank ye, Aila, "said MacLaren without emotion. "This present conversation has most certainly cured my earlier discomfort." Aila waited for MacLaren to say more, but he seemed content to ride along in silence.
"I would be honored if ye would tell me the rest of the story," Aila said hopefully, looking first at MacLaren then at Chaumont. She had managed to get MacLaren to divulge a bit about his past experience with a woman in France, but she guessed there was more to the story. She felt sure it was something she needed to know if she was ever to understand her new husband.
"I would be happy to enlighten you," said Chaumont, pausing for a moment and glancing at MacLaren, who voiced no complaint. "We had just finished a bloody battle, defending the lands of Montois, when your husband rode off to see the countess."
"Countess?" asked Aila.
"Countess Marguerite de Montois." Chaumont spoke the name with flair. "A very lovely creature, but unfortunately without the character to match. She accepted MacLaren's proposal of marriage at a time when she was already betrothed to Gerard de Marsan. When MacLaren arrived at Castle Montois, there was apparently some disagreement as to which of the men she would actually wed. Marsan made his position clear enough." Chaumont pointed at the long scar down MacLaren's face. "But it was MacLaren who drove the point home." Chaumont paused, the irrepressible smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
"The countess was none too pleased with this turn of events and called for her men to arrest MacLaren. I do believe she wanted to use his skull for a chamber pot. I was alerted by one of Marguerite's ladies that she had submitted to the English. Unfortunately, I was unable to warn MacLaren before his audience with the countess. I stitched up his face, which was bleeding like a mother—"
"Chaumont," interrupted MacLaren.
"Begging your pardon, madam. What do you think of my handiwork?"
Aila ran her finger down the length of the angry scar. MacLaren froze at her touch, but stared at nothing but the road.
"I think ye make a verra good knight but a verra poor seamstress."
Chaumont roared in laughter.
"The only relevant bit of that story," said MacLaren, his own lips twitching, "is, when Chaumont learned the countess had betrayed us, he sent word to pull back the men off of Montois land. If they had stayed at camp, they surely would have been murdered as they slept, since the land then belonged to the English."
Aila frowned. "I'm confused. Ye say ye were protecting Montois from the English, and then ye say Montois had submitted to the English. Which was it?"
"Ah, that part confused us all," said Chaumont with his characteristic smile. "The Countess Marguerite of Montois convinced MacLaren to defend her against three English captains, which he did, but not without cost." Aila felt MacLaren stiffen, though he said nothing. "We were unaware the lady was in negotiations with the English for her submission to them. MacLaren's defense of her made her land more difficult to obtain by force, and thus she was able to exact a higher price for her switch of loyalties to the English Crown."
"So Countess Marguerite was the one who—"
"Dinna say her name," growled MacLaren. I dinna wish to hear that whore's name on yer lips."
Aila was silenced. Chaumont took the subtle cue and rode ahead, leaving MacLaren and Aila to ride along in awkward silence. Aila pondered his words, more clearly understanding his easy distrust of women. He would forever carry the visible reminder of the last woman who betrayed him. Other scars were not as visible but deeper and more painful. How could she ever gain his trust?
Aila did not have long to ponder this thought since they were now approaching Dundaff, its seven towers rising high above them. They rode up the narrow path to the castle. Though the road was a main thoroughfare, it was kept narrow on purpose, to make a siege of the castle more difficult. Aila struggled to find the words to break through the icy shell around MacLaren. She did not wish to re-live her parent's marriage in her own life.
"Not all women are like that woman," she said to MacLaren, who had not looked at her since the talk had turned to his betrayal.
"But ye are a woman."
"Aye," declared Aila, sitting tall. "And I am a Scot and a Graham."
MacLaren looked down at her, the intensity in his eyes unnerving. "Ye are a MacLaren now."
"Aye," replied Aila with a soft smile, "that too."
MacLaren sat taller and drew her closer. Shouts rang out as they entered the portcullis and emerged into the lower bailey. Aila took a deep breath, and the tense muscles in her back eased. She was home and had made a fragile peace with her husband. All was well. Except, of course, she still needed to face her parents, who would be furious with her, and somewhere there was a traitor trying to kill her husband and send her to McNab. She sagged against MacLaren's chest. But other than that, all was well.
"Go get some rest," said MacLaren softly as the stable lads raced to take their reins and provide the required assistance.
Aila nodded. There was nothing she would rather do right now than remove the filthy gown. "I should present myself to my father first. He will be most displeased with me," she mumbled grimly.
"I shall speak to yer father. Yer discipline is my responsibility now."
Aila wondered if that was any sort of improvement.
"And the stable master?" she whispered.
"I will tell him. Is there anything else he should be told?"
"Nay, I've told ye all." Their eyes met, and she waited for him to express his disbelief. He said nothing and instead handed her down to a waiting page. After dismounting, MacLaren took her by the arm and walked her to Rory.
"Take her to her tower," he called to Rory. To Aila, he said, "Stay in yer room, and trust no one. Rest and refresh yerself. I'll send a lad for ye to come to supper. Dinna walk alone. And Aila, I expect ye to eat yer meals wi' me from this time forward."
Though weary, Aila gave MacLaren a weak smile. "I will be there, sir."
MacLaren watched her as she walked away. She was rather bedraggled, but still she managed to capture his attention.
"Well, what do you think of your errant bride now?" asked Chaumont.
MacLaren shrugged. "I want to trust her, but some times she says or does things that show I canna rely on her to speak true."
"She has the look of an honest mademoiselle to me. With what do you find fault?"
"She told me she has ne'er eaten in the Great Hall. That seems unlikely, does it no'?"
"Warwick, my good fellow," Chaumont called out to the Master of Arms as he dismounted. Warwick glanced around as if judging the possibility of escaping an audience with the French knight. But Chaumont walked up to him with a carefree smile, ignoring the older man's scowl. "I hear Lady Aila eats most often in her own chamber?"