Chapter 3

3

S tanding in the back of the great castle's chapel, Beitris watched as the lairds and ladies, clad in rich plaids, sat at the high table with the man who was soon to be Laird MacKenzie.

Knowing she and Andrew Middleton did not see eye to eye, she felt uncomfortable being there and out of place with the rest of the guests in their finery.

Although the dark blue gown of serviceable wool fit the curves of her body to perfection, along with the borrowed arisaid made out of the MacKenzie colors of green, blue, red, and grey, she still felt mismatched to the others.

Touching the simple brooch that held the garment together, Beitris hoped the ceremony would end soon so she could slip away. It was time for him to take the oath, and she stood still as Middleton rose and approached the pulpit.

I heard that every clan has a different way of inaugurating their laird. What shall I see now?

Dark trews fit snugly over his well-muscled thighs, and his boots looked near to bursting as they were wrapped around thick calves. Today, he wore a moss-green tunic and the MacKenzie Great Kilt draped across one shoulder and cinched about his waist, held by a heavy gold brooch. She caught glimpses of asgian-dubh, stuck into his kilt hose.

His handsome face was set into austere lines, and she could only imagine what it felt like to be taking oath of commanding a clan. Tall and intimidating, his hair was combed away from his piercing blue eyes, and his jaw looked set in stone.

The priest held out a sword which the laird took and held in front him, point down; he stood like a warrior of olden times, a crusader, a medieval knight from the tales she'd heard at her grandpapa's knee.

"Kneel," the priest ordered, and Middleton did and rested the blade over his knee. "Andrew Duncan Middleton, will ye respond to these troths? Will ye use yer knowledge, wisdom, skill, and compassion to lead Clan MacKenzie to its heights?"

"I vow."

"Will ye maintain and strengthen the laws of the clan, respect the rights and dignity of all people; in times of peace or war, harvest or famine, prosperity or poverty?"

"I vow."

"Will ye conduct yerself with the highest level of integrity with the king, our allied clans, and maintain peace with our enemies? Will ye use our good name for whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, and whatever is commendable?" the priest asked.

"I vow."

"Rise." The priest held out a thick bible. "Say yer vow and let the people witness."

Resting his right hand on the book, Middleton said, "I swear, by the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ and by the holy iron that I hold,to give ye me fealty and to pledge ye me loyaltyto the name of clan MacKenzie. My words is me bond."

The priest turned to the guests. "Do the witnesses hold these words at a yer bond?"

"We do," everyone responded.

The priest removed the brooch Middleton wore and replaced it with one of the clan's seal and sigil, one of an eagle with its wicked claws outstretched but its beak holding an olive leaf, then stepped away.

"All hail Andrew Duncan Middleton, son of Malcolm Middleton, honored nephew of the late Mathias Middleton, now Laird of MacKenzie Clan!"

The people cheered, and in the middle of the din, Beitris slipped out and away from the chapel. The evening was balmy, and the sun was setting a vibrant ochre on the horizon while dark clouds streaked the sky.

Thinking about Middleton, she did not know the man well enough to judge anything about him—except that he struck her as an overly arrogant man. Only time, she decided, would tell, but crossing words with the man could prove to be quite dangerous for her stability there.

She drifted to the great hall while thinking about the next few days shadowing the healers and learning their techniques.

"Whoa lass." Wallace, the guard, managed to shift her away from walking right into a table. His broad hand on her side felt warm and firm. "Watch where yer going."

Face burning, Beitris stammered out an apology. "T-thank ye."

His expression was kind. "Ye were woolgathering, I take it?"

"Aye," she replied, appreciative of the man's help. "To me detriment." Gazing at the empty hall, the head table already set, the tapestries hung behind it, and the large golden eagle now holding a sword, set on a field of blue, was eye-catching. Turning to him, she asked, "May I ask ye a question about Laird MacKenzie?"

"I daenae mind," Wallace said. "What do ye want to ken?"

She swallowed. "How well do ye ken him?"

"Nay much," Wallace replied, his brows lowering. "But what do ye mean?"

"Is he always so…" She paused, trying to find the right word. "…stone-faced?"

"Ah, that's what ye mean." Wallace nodded. "I think it's a family thing, Miss. I've served under his late uncle, and Laird Mathias was nay one to show his emotions either. In the last ten years, Miss, I can only remember him shouting once, and that was when war was upon us with our enemy clan."

His shoulder dropped in ease, and he rested his hand on his sword. "I have seen the current laird's faither, and he too was nay one to show much emotion."

"I see," Beitris replied. "And that happened because—"

"Me grandson took after his faither who took at his faither," a frail female voice said. "Me husband."

Startled, Beitris turned to find a diminutive woman dressed in a matronly dress, a thick arisaid, and holding a cane. The lady was smiling softly. "It certainly is a family trait, Mister Grant."

Sensing the woman was a very important lady, Beitris got to her feet and curtsied. "Lady… Middleton?" she asked hesitantly.

The elderly woman nodded. "Aye, lass and ye are one of the newest healers Maither Agatha has placed here, I take it."

"Aye, me lady," Beitris said, suddenly horribly worried about whether her question about Middleton would get her into trouble.

Her expression betrayed her as she laughed. "Daenae fash yerself about wanting to ken more about me grandson. Many others before ye have asked the same question. The truth is that boy is one to feel things deeply, but he willnae show any of them."

"Why?" The question left Beitris' mouth before she could call it back.

Lady Middleton smiled. "That, me dear, is a question ye should ask him." And with a nod to her and Wallace, the older woman walked off to the high table.

Rushing to her side, Wallace helped her up the dais, leaving Beitris to think about what the lady had just told her.

Ask him that question? How? When? Why did I even ask? It's none of my concern at all.

Resolute in keeping her mouth shut, Beitris found a table at the back of the hall while the guests from the chapel began to fill the feasting hall in droves.

Soon, all manner of meats, fowl and beef, fish and rabbit roasted over open fires outdoors, were carried in for the feasters. All manner of other foods and sweets were pilling on the tables, and while happiness filled the room, Beitris felt the knot in her stomach barely lessen. She didn't have the mindset to eat.

The feasting and drinking went on throughout the afternoon and into the evening. As the time slipped past, fiddlers were set up in a corner of the room and began to play. Footmen shifted the tables for dancers, and Beitris suddenly found it hard to keep her eyes from drifting to the head table.

While the women and men around him were feasting and drinking merrily, Laird MacKenzie was like a monolith, sitting in the middle but strangely separated from those around him. Instead of engaging with others, he was slowly sipping wine while gazing around the room—and his gaze landed on her.

The cup of sloe wine almost slipped from her grasp at his penetrating gaze, and she felt frozen where she sat. His head tilted to the right, and his gaze was now more assessing than piercing, and an odd warmth birthed in her chest. What was he seeing?

His gaze shifted, and Beitris sucked in a breath over her burning lungs. Taking a sip of wine, she breathed out after the delicious spicy liquid ran down her throat and warmed her belly.

Why did my heart leap into me chest a while ago?

"Miss Beitris?" Wallace came to her side, his smile warm. "Will ye dance with me?"

Resting the cup, Beitris smiled. "Aye, Wallace. I would enjoy dancing, but I warn ye, I havenae danced in a while."

"It'll come back to ye." He extended his hand, and taking it, Beitris followed him to an open space and clasped hands to join into a country reel.

Like shards of iron snapped up by a lodestone, Andrew's gaze shot to the lass, Beitris, as she joined with one of his guards, Wallace Grant, and the two started to dance.

Her gracefulness shocked him, and he watched as they moved with a fluidity that made her seem to float across the floor. When the rhythm picked up and they stomped their feet, she lifted her skirts above her ankles and laughed. Though he could not hear it, something about the joy on her face and the carefree freedom with how she moved completely enchanted him.

Reaching for his cup, he took a healthy mouthful of sloe wine and rested it when the lady to his side, the matriarch of the Ross Clan, leaned in. "I hear ye are seeking a wife, or are the whispers nay true?"

Andrew slanted her a look; how could she have heard that when that discussion had been a private encounter between him and his grandmother?

"I wonder where ye heard these whispers?" Andrew asked. "Or is it a natural expectation that a laird must have a wife?"

The woman's wizened cheeks pinked. "That could be the case, aye. But am I wrong, Laird?"

"Nay," Andrew replied, then gave her a searching look. "Is it that ye have a prospect for me?"

"Me granddaughter," Lady Ross replied. "She is a lovely lass, and she has been saving herself for marriage, a good one, and I can see ye two as one. If ye dae marry, our houses will be one an' ye will have our infantry at yer service. Ye ken our horses are five hundred strong an' our warriors are trained to a pinnacle that even the capital is asking for our men to join them."

To bide time, Andrew reached for his goblet and sipped his wine. "I see. And is yer granddaughter here this night?"

"Nay," Lady Ross said, expectancy tightening her face. "But if ye permit, I shall send for her on the morrow?"

Unwilling to let the chance go, Andrew agreed. "I would love to meet the lass, aye."

Relief and satisfaction washed over the lady's face, and her smile reflected in her rheumy eyes. "I shall do so."

His eyes turned to the expanse of the great hall and noted the villagers, the castle's guards posted around the room, the serving women, the honored guests, and the few children nodding off in their seats. His eyes landed on Beitris again— and his jaw stiffened at the sight of the guard tugging Beitris to a corner of the room.

"Tell me of yer granddaughter," he asked Lady Ross, training his attention from the two—and wrestling with the odd emotion in his chest.

The music began again, and it was a much slower tune, which meant a more intimate dance. While the lady told him about the girl, Delilah, and how the lass was educated and erudite, he caught glimpses of the two pressed close.

With her hair falling over her shoulders and down her back and his dark hair matching his, there was a definite connection between them. She had her body to fit his, pressing her breasts up against his chest. They appeared to be in a sliver of their own world.

Why do I want to yank her away from him or put me fist into his face?

"What's got yer kilt twisted ‘round yer neck?" Vincent asked as he stepped into Andrew's meeting room. "Ye look like ye've been ready to spit fire for the last two days. Yer the newest laird. Shouldnae ye be happy?"

"It's naything," Andrew replied tightly.

While Vincent was right, Andrew could not get the image of that lass— Beitris out of his mind; but what aggravated him more was that he did not know why that was. He was oddly off-balance, his mind clouded.

From the moment she'd tumbled in his hall, his interest had been drawn to her, and it wasn't just her fresh and wholesome looks, wide eyes, and dark sable tresses. The way she had so subtly insulted him the day after still rankled him— he would wager half his wealth that she did not know how to approach a man.

Or mayhap she does but hardly cares.

If that was the case, it irked him even more. The obstinate lass had captured his attention, but it was the dance with Grant that burned him right through and the memory sizzled through his blood.

"Clearly, it is nae, because ye are still enraged about it," Vincent replied. "What is bothering ye?"

"It matters nay," Andrew snapped. "Leave it alone, Mills."

"As much as I would like to." Vincent dropped himself into a chair across from Andrew. "I willnae. I will have ye tell me what it is, or I will stay here and guess what it is."

"Mills," Andrew's tone dropped in warning, but his stubborn second plowed on anyhow.

"Is it that ye ken ye must marry, but ye would rather control the clan by yer lonesome?" Vincent asked blithely.

Grinding his teeth, Andrew turned away and reached for the nearest paper—god knew what it was. He pretended to read over it, but the words made no sense. Fixing his jaw, he read over it again and found it was a report he had looked over and signed away two days ago.

"Or is it that the woman ye would like is nae available for ye?" Vincent asked, his head cocking to the side.

"Shut yer gob," Andrew scowled.

Vincent rubbed his chin. "Or is that lass Beitris Craig?"

Andrew jolted hard enough that some papers fluttered to the ground. He scowled while snatching them from the floor. "What about her?"

"Exactly," Vincent smirked and leaned in. "What about her?"

His lips curled with derision. "She is trouble an' a distraction more than what she is worth. I'd rather her be somewhere else."

"And where would that be?" Vincent asked.