Forbidden Night With The Highlander

Alastair nodded. ‘My men will accompany you to ensure your safety.’ He rose from his chair and said, ‘Under most circumstances, I would join you and Lianna on your journey back to Montbrooke for the formal betrothal. But I think it best if I remain behind, to ensure that my people do not rise up in rebellion.’

‘You assume that I will wed her,’ Rhys said. ‘I will not claim her if she displeases me.’ Unbidden came the memory of her mouth beneath his, the softness of her kiss. But once she learned who he was, she would despise him.

Alastair’s expression tightened with firm resolution. ‘She will do as I command.’

* * *

Lianna stared at her father in shock. ‘I will not.’

How could he even imagine she would wed the Norman who had murdered her brother? The very thought was monstrous. Her heart pounded, and she gripped her hands together so tightly, her knuckles turned white. ‘The men are digging Sían’s grave as we speak. How can you ask me to wed the man who put him there?’ She rose from her place, panic gnawing inside her.

‘Because if you do not make this alliance, he will drive our people out of Eiloch.’ Her father’s pallor was grey, and he sat down, resting his hand on his forehead. ‘Lianna, you don’t ken what lies ahead. Our people cannot survive if he drives us out.’

‘Then fight back,’ she insisted. ‘We have more men than he does!’

‘If we slaughter the heir of Montbrooke, his father will send Norman troops by the hundreds. They would kill every last one of us, and you ken this.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Sían made a terrible mistake, and I should have listened to you. I regret not sending men after him, but I never thought he would do something like this.’

‘And yet, you ask me to marry his murderer.’ Her voice broke away, and terror poured over her in a wave. ‘I cannot do it. I will not do it.’

‘He is coming to dine with us this evening after the burials. You will meet with him then,’ her father said.

‘I would rather die than wed Rhys de Laurent,’ she shot back. Her rage poured over her, and she stood from the table. Right now, she needed to be on horseback, to ride hard and release the storm of tears building inside. She started to back away from the table, but her father raised a hand, and two of her kinsmen blocked her path.

‘You will not leave, Lianna,’ he said. ‘It is not safe now. With all that has happened, you must stay here.’

And be his prisoner, she realised. A blinding anger overcame her, and she tried to shove her way past the men. But Eachann gripped her arm, staring back at her father for his orders.

‘Go to your bedchamber,’ Alastair warned. ‘You may bide there until we bury Sían and the others. And you will meet with Rhys de Laurent later tonight.’ Though he spoke calmly, she didn’t miss the tremor of emotion in his voice. It seemed that he was holding back his own grief by a single thread.

‘I will not meet with him.’ Not now or ever. If he meant for her to stay in her room, stay she would. He could not force her to wed the Norman.

‘Take her,’ Alastair said.

Eachann was not gentle, but pulled her towards the stairs and marched her up each tread. When she reached her room, he opened the door and shoved her inside. She had no time to speak, but heard the tell-tale click of the key turning in the lock.

Lianna drew her knuckles into a fist and slammed her hand into the door, not even caring if it bruised. Her life was falling to pieces all around her, and she could not gather control of it. Anger roared through her, and she dropped to her knees on the floor. There was a stiff brush and a bucket of water in the corner, and she reached for them. She scrubbed the floor over and over, obliterating all traces of dirt. Her shoulders shook with rage and grief, and she wept for the loss of her brother...but most of all, for the loss of her freedom. She scrubbed until her fingers were raw from the effort, and her knees were damp from the water.

Then, a sudden thought took root in her mind. What of the coins she had saved to buy her freedom? Would the Norman consider the bribe? It was still a fragile glimmer of hope that she clung to.

She ran to the opposite side of the room and dropped to her knees again. With the blade of her dagger, she pried up the floorboard and reached for the sack of coins she had saved over the years.

It was gone. With horror, she reached her hand into the darkness, trying to see if it had somehow been pushed aside. But there was nothing at all, save something tiny, a scrap of fabric she could not see. When she pulled it from the hiding place, the tears sprang up again. It was a handkerchief she had embroidered for Sían.

He had taken her coins and used them for God only knew what. When had he done this? She had told him only a day ago, but it was clear that he had seized the coins long before that.

Where were they now? She recalled that he had gone ‘hunting’ with his men, but that was during the afternoon. They had not attacked the Norman camp until nightfall. Where had he been all that time?

She knew he had not kept the coins with him during the attack, for she had spent the past hour preparing his body for burial. A queasy feeling passed over her, and she sat against the wall, drawing her knees up. There was truly nothing left for her now. No silver, no means of convincing the Norman to leave her alone.

Her father wanted her to meet with the man this evening, but she could not fathom doing so. Her heart was ravaged with grief and frustration. If she laid eyes upon his face, it would only bring back her anger.

She lowered her face against her knees. Nothing would ever force her to wed the Norman—not after what he’d done.

She swore, with every breath in her body, that she would not let her enemy claim her.

Chapter Three (#ulink_c6aabb9f-8042-532c-a7ff-f3b91954b6fa)

Rhys spent the remainder of the day inspecting the crofters’ homes, surveying every inch of occupied property. He continued to wear his conical helm and chainmail armour, for he wanted the Highlanders to realise that he was indeed a threat if they dared to assault him or his men.

He saw four graves dug in the clearing beside the kirk. Inside, he knew that they had prepared the bodies, and the burial would happen within an hour or two. The people were gathering flowers, and he saw another woman enter the stone kirk, carrying a length of linen.

Earlier this morning, he and his men had already buried Ailric beside the forest, saying a prayer for the man’s soul. It seemed impossible that they had broken bread with him last night, speaking of his wife and unborn child. Life was fleeting, and Rhys promised himself that they would somehow provide for Ailric’s widow, Elia.

The priest stepped outside by the graves, wearing a long brown robe knotted with a cord. His expression was sombre, and he approached Rhys and his men with a lowered head.

‘I offer you the peace of Christ,’ he said by way of greeting, using the Norman language. ‘The MacKinnon told me of this grievous tragedy. I will pray for the souls of these men.’ Rhys inclined his head, but knew the priest had another reason for speaking. As he’d anticipated, the priest continued, ‘But I beg you not to inflict your vengeance against our people. They are not your enemies.’

An invisible tension knotted across the space, and Rhys answered, ‘We will only attack those who raise arms against us.’ He glanced around at the people gathering for the funeral. ‘Those who keep the peace have nothing to fear.’

His words would not convince the MacKinnons, he knew. Several mothers held fast to their children, as if they feared he would cut them down where they stood. He nodded to the priest by way of farewell and strode across the space.

But he had seen what the clan chief had spoken of. These people were thin and suffering. Their clothing looked as if the garments had been worn year in and year out. There was no prosperity, no sense of security here.

That was the reason why Rhys’s grandfather, Fergus MacKinnon, had named Edward the heir, instead of a trueborn Scot. Without any children of his own, he had selected Margaret’s grown son from her first marriage as the heir. And by bringing an alliance between Normans and Scots, Fergus hoped to end the vast poverty here.

His father had not lifted a finger, Rhys knew. Edward had no loyalty here, and he cared nothing for Scotland. To his father, this was a vast wasteland of primitive people whose customs were very different. And so, it fell upon Rhys’s shoulders to change that.

A part of him wanted to walk away from this marriage and these people. He owed them no loyalty at all, not after what Sían had done.

But then, Rhys caught sight of a young boy standing near the kirk, perhaps thirteen years of age. The lad’s hair was dark, like his own brother Warrick’s, and his face was gaunt with hunger. Though he was taller than Lianna, the boy’s arms were too thin. Most likely he would die this winter, if there was not enough food.

A weariness settled over Rhys, for this was the reason why he could not walk away. He had inherited Eiloch, and that meant taking responsibility for these people and their poverty. Regardless of his personal feelings, he would never turn his back on starving children. Providing for them was the right thing to do. He possessed the means to change their lives, forging new alliances that would serve his king in times of war.

As a boy, he had suffered his own personal nightmares of abuse. He’d tried to shield his brother from their stepmother Analise, but their father had never believed the truth about her. They had been alone, unable to defend themselves. No one had offered to help, and when Rhys stared at this boy, he saw the shadow of himself.

There was no turning back now. Not from these people, and not from this alliance.

Slowly, he walked with his men towards their camp. They had deliberately left their belongings there, with the intent of returning tonight to take shelter within Alastair’s house. He decided to remain isolated throughout the afternoon and early evening. Let them bury their dead without a Norman threat hanging over them.

And when he returned, he would wear their clothing as a sign of peace.

* * *

Her father released Lianna from her chamber to attend the funeral Mass for her brother and their kinsmen. By then, she had regained command of her emotions, steeling herself as they lowered the linen shrouds into the ground. She hid her shaking hands by gripping them tightly, and when the rain fell upon their graves, it felt like the tears she could not bring herself to shed.

After the bodies were buried, her father led her back to the house. Quietly, he said, ‘You will return to your chamber and await Rhys de Laurent. I will send him to you, so that you may speak with him.’

She wanted nothing of the sort. But if she told her father she had no intention of opening the door, he would drag her below stairs and force her to meet the man publicly. She doubted if this Norman would listen to reason. His fierce bearing revealed a ruthless man who would act only upon his own accord.