When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1) (3 page)

Rory Mac muttered under his breath,
indicating he had more to say on the subject. “I say it’s best to have our
weapons drawn. If King Edward is right in his suspicions, de Lacy and Froste
may decide to kill us both to prevent their king from outmaneuvering them.”

Iain nodded, reaching for his own
sword to make sure it was where it should be. It was, of course. “I dunnae
think we need be worried at the moment. Openly defying King Edward’s orders
would be akin to declaring war, and since they’ve no notice of this and,
therefore, have been unable to make any preparations, I dunnae think they are foolish
enough to do that. They’ll want, at the very least, to appear as if they are
going to obey until they can gather their knights. Besides”—Iain flashed Rory
Mac a grin—“the king gave us leave to kill either man if they try to kill us.”

Rory Mac scowled at Iain. “Ye might
have said so.”

Iain chuckled. “I just did.”

“What other details should I ken?”
Rory Mac asked, his tone impatient but amused.

“Well,” Iain said, drawing the word
out just to annoy his friend, “we’re to make it seem as if King Edward did nae
ken anything about the future marriage of de Lacy’s daughter and Froste, and
that the king simply offered the woman to me as a sign of trust that he means
to continue talks of David’s release.”

Rory Mac snorted. “We’re to lie?”

“Aye,” Iain scoffed. “Just like
Englishmen.”

Both men laughed at that and spit
toward the ground at the same time.

As they neared the first group of
what appeared to be servants and a young page, a warning horn blasted from high
above the hill where the lookout tower stood. Iain assumed the horn had sounded
to signal their approach, and his hand automatically returned to the hilt of
his sword. As the men drew closer, Iain quickly assessed them and concluded
they were indeed likely servants. For one, they were weaponless, and for another,
their dress was simple, as a servant’s would be. They wore woolen hose, hats,
and thick, unadorned woolen coats. There was a woman, dressed in a plain skirt
and cloak of the same material as the men. She was also weaponless. The woman’s
wide eyes locked on him. Beside her stood a boy—no, a page—likely no more than
a young lad by his slight build and hairless face. The cloth of his clothes was
finer than the others’, and he had a dagger sheathed at his side, which he
withdrew as he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders.

The woman grabbed for the boy’s
arm, making his graceless attempt to quickly withdraw his weapon even more
graceless. He shrugged off the woman’s hand. “Halt, Scot!” he demanded as two
older men flanked his sides.

Iain bit back the laughter in his
throat. “Sheathe yer weapon, ye young fool, before ye get yerself killed. I’m
steady as a slow-trickling stream, but my companion is a nervous sort.” He
tilted his head toward Rory Mac, who was clutching the hilt of his sword.

The boy’s eyes, brightened by the
torches, moved from Rory Mac to Iain and finally settled there. “You really are
a Scot!” the boy exclaimed, as if he thought his eyes might have deceived him.
Hearing Iain’s thick brogue must have confirmed the poor lad’s fears.

It was an accusation, to be sure.
Iain released the chuckle he’d been holding back. His merriment pierced the
momentary silence around them. “Aye. I’m Iain MacLeod, laird of the MacLeod
clan, and I’m here on business from yer king. Are the Baron de Lacy and his
daughter in residence tonight?”

The boy’s face fell, and the older
woman, who stood a few feet behind him now, burst into tears. The boy reached
for the woman’s hand and clung to it as he glanced over his shoulder. When he
turned back, worry pinched his young face. “The baron is approaching.”

Iain stared in the direction the
lad had looked and heard the thundering of horses’ hooves as a line of knights
came galloping across the bridge. Iain tensed, and he and Rory Mac exchanged a
look of shared understanding—
be prepared
.

Twelve knights formed a V shape
headed by a man of about fifty, Iain judged from his graying hair and weathered
face. He rode a white mount, and his surcoat was adorned with a gold,
fire-breathing dragon. The man Iain assumed to be the baron appeared to be
expecting a battle by his dress. Either the king was correct in his suspicions
or de Lacy was a man who liked to be ready for the unexpected at all times.

He pulled his destrier to a halt a
handbreadth from Iain. The men behind him did the same. He swept his narrowed
eyes over Iain, lingering on his sword. “I’m Baron de Lacy. What business have
you here?”

“I’m here by the order of your king
and mine to marry your daughter, Marion de Lacy. It’s a marriage of good faith
between the kings to begin the process of negotiations for David’s release. I’m
Iain MacLeod, chief of the MacLeod clan.”

“If you are the chief, where are
your clansmen to defend you?” the baron demanded, his face showing no hint of
how he felt about what Iain had just told him.

“I dunnae need defending when I
travel, Baron. That is the sign of a weak man,” he added, disliking the baron
more with each of the man’s words.

“A man surrounded by skilled
knights is the sign of a
strong lord
,” the baron countered.

Iain was about to refute the man’s
comment but thought better of it. His time was best spent on the road home, not
being drawn into an argument. He shrugged. “We’re simply nae in accordance.” He
withdrew the scroll sealed by King Edward and held it out. “This is for ye.”

The baron took the scroll, studied
the seal, and opened it with the tip of a dagger he had produced. When he
finished reading, he offered Iain a cold smile. “I’m afraid you’ve traveled
here in vain.”

“Ye mean to defy yer king, then?”
Iain asked, cutting his eyes to Rory Mac, who gave him an almost unnoticeable
nod that he was ready to fight if needed.

“Of course not,” de Lacy replied,
his words smooth—too smooth. They sounded measured to Iain. He studied the man
and noted his hands gripping his horse’s reins so tightly that de Lacy’s
knuckles were white. The man was angry, very angry, and very good at hiding it.

Baron de Lacy offered a thin-lipped
smile. “I must admit King Edward’s decree does come as a surprise.”

Iain shrugged. “I’m afraid ye’ll
have to take that matter up with yer king. But I strongly suggest ye produce
yer daughter.”

Baron de Lacy’s mouth twisted
wryly. “If you care to grab a torch and help search the sea for her body, I’ll
be happy to let you take her back to Scotland with you.”

Iain stared at the baron for a
minute before he responded. He was sure the man was telling him—without the
slightest hint of sorrow—that his daughter had drowned, which explained the
confusion in the outer keep, the torches, the people who looked as if they were
searching for someone, and the woman’s tears of moments ago. What he didn’t
know was whether her death was an accident or not. If not, then whoever had
killed Marion de Lacy was now his sworn enemy. In spite of the fact that he’d
never met her, she would have been his wife. The moment she had become his
future wife, she was his to keep safe. If she had been murdered,
it
made
no difference if the person had not known she was Iain’s. Ignorance changed
nothing. He didn’t ever intend to fail to keep a woman that was his safe again.
He didn’t care what Father Murdock kept telling him about Catriona’s death.
It
mattered not
that he knew she’d been wracked with sickness all
her life. His heart told him he should have been able to save her from
anything—including herself.

He flicked his gaze to the inner
bailey where smoke still rose up in the distance, and another possibility
struck him. Had a fire been set to distract the knights so the Sassenach could
be captured and whisked away? He would keep the thought to himself for a time.
“Are ye thinking she was murdered?”

“No,” the baron replied, his voice indifferent.
“There’s no Englishman fool enough to cross me.”

Iain didn’t miss the way the baron
tapped the king’s scroll against his leg. The implication that there was one
unnamed fool was apparent.

“Marion couldn’t swim,” de Lacy
continued. “And the dim girl seems to have gotten too close to the sea cliff
and fell over.” He drove a fist into the palm of his hand, then stilled,
seeming to realize he was showing emotion. “Andrew there”—he pointed at a
knight who hung his head in what appeared to be shame—“found her cloak, but he
didn’t manage to find her. Did you, Andrew?”

The knight slowly looked up, his
gaze settling on Iain. “I did not. I failed to keep her from all dangers.” His
voice was hoarse and full of sorrow, and made Iain wonder if there had been
something between this knight and the baron’s daughter.

Not that it mattered a great deal
if she was dead.

“What makes ye sure she drowned?”
Iain asked.

“Her cloak was found tangled in the
tree brambles by the cliff’s edge. She was always a foolish girl. And now she
has ruined—” He stopped and scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “Forgive me. I am
simply
distraught.”

The stiff words rang false. The man
was not upset at all. Iain felt sure de Lacy was angry that he no longer had
his daughter to entice Froste to join him in overthrowing the king. Iain also
didn’t
doubt
that de Lacy would secure Froste’s allegiance some other way. He could still
offer to make Froste a baron, and if de Lacy became king, he could easily grant
Froste land. There would still be war between the king of England and de Lacy.
Iain was sure. What he didn’t know was what new
requirements
King Edward would demand before he’d talk further of David’s release. Iain was
certain his sword arm, and those of his men, would still be needed.

Iain eyed the baron for a long
moment. The man sickened him. No loyalty meant no honor. And not loving your
own child meant the man had a black heart. “I’m sorry for yer loss,” Iain
managed to choke out through the offense compelling him to tell the baron what
he thought of him.

“Yes, it’s a pity,” the man
answered with no trace of sadness. “Her marriage to William Froste would have
allied me with a great many knights. And of course,” he added, “her marriage to
you would have pleased my king, and I always aim to please Edward.” Sarcasm
rang through each word.

The man’s callousness further
kindled Iain’s ire. The woman was dead, the marriage off. It was time to head
for home. He’d been ordered by King Edward to send confirmation of the marriage
through one of the king’s knights stationed with the Dominican Friars in
Newcastle. Iain would abide by that plan, as he and David had talked of what to
do if the marriage did not occur for some reason. David wished for Iain to go
to Skye and speak with Gowan about securing funds to offer King Edward to come
to the table of negotiations.

“We’ll be going now,” Iain said,
“since ye’ll nae need our help searching for yer daughter’s body.”

“Do stay. I’m sure as a beastly
Scot you enjoy a good beating, and I have several to deliver,” the baron said
with a smirk.

“I dunnae enjoy the discipline of
any man,” Iain replied through clenched teeth. Sometimes it was necessary but
never pleasurable.

Beside him, Rory Mac, who had surprisingly
held his tongue thus far, made a derisive noise from deep in his throat,
implying without words what he thought of de Lacy.

“That’s a shame,” de Lacy replied,
flicking his gaze to Rory Mac and then back to Iain. “The first one will be a
good one. The man is stout as a tree. I would guess it will take twenty licks
to attain a response. The idiot set fire to my stables.”

Iain frowned. “Purposely?”

“He says not, but he’s the stable
master. He should know to be careful. If you care to stay, I’ll even let you
have the first turn punishing him.” An odd smile pulled at de Lacy’s lips.

Iain knew plenty of leaders who
enjoyed punishing their men, but he wasn’t one of them. With a nod of farewell
to the baron, Iain tapped his horse gently and motioned Rory Mac to follow.
Once they were a good distance from the baron and his men, Rory Mac spoke.

“We’ll be going to war,” he
grumbled.

“Aye,” Iain agreed, stress already
vibrating through his veins. “I do believe Edward was correct about de Lacy and
Froste, and I dunnae have a doubt the man will still demand we fight for him
before he will release David.”

“Are we going back to speak to
David?” Rory Mac asked. His tone didn’t display the misery the idea brought
him, but his grimace did.

Iain laughed. “Nay. David told me
to go home and speak to Gowan about raising money if the marriage did nae
proceed.”

Rory Mac blew out a sigh. “That’s
good to hear. Are ye glad that ye’ll nae have to marry?”

“Aye,” Iain admitted. “And I feel
terrible about it. I would never wish ill on anyone, nor death.”

Rory Mac nodded. “Still, ye likely
would have had to kill de Lacy in the future, and then yer wife would have
hated ye.”