Chapter Seven

Graeme didn’t need to look at the two sisters to decide which one he would choose. It didn’t matter what they looked like, as he had no intentions of ever wedding a lass from his enemy clan, no matter that his brother had done just that nor that his sister-in-law had argued the Campbell lasses might well truly know nothing. His interest lay with revenge. He and his brother were simply delaying the king’s plan so they could gain time to prove Brody Campbell was every bit as treasonous as his father. And if they failed to do so in the year and a day the king had relented to for the handfasting terms, then Graeme would fight Brody Campbell and win, thereby keeping the land the man had been trying to take.

Graeme settled his gaze on Maisie Stewart, and she glared at him in return with glittering green eyes as she patted her sister on the hand. If gazes were daggers, then Maisie’s would have been lodged in his heart. Her blatant hostility toward him didn’t bother him in the least; in fact, it pleased him. He had no doubt that Brody Stewart had known his father was a traitor and had actively aided him, and after seeing Maisie Campbell come to his defense, he didn’t doubt that the lass, if she hadn’t known when she’d met him, now knew exactly who her brother and father were and what they’d done.

It would also give him immense pleasure to keep her brother from gaining the alliance with Aidan Buchannan he so clearly desired. If worse came to worst, and they could not find Bernard, Atholl, or any of the other monks, then Graeme would capture Maisie Campbell’s lust and trust and use her to give them the proof they needed to destroy her brother. Then if Buchannan still wanted her, he could have her.

Graeme purposely raked his gaze up and down the lass’s body, watching her squirm as he did so. He’d seen enough women now in his time away from captivity to know Maisie was especially lovely in appearance, but he was certain her outer beauty hid devious insides. He allowed his lips to curve upward as he brought his gaze to her face and locked eyes with her. Dismay slowly crept into her gaze, making him smile wider. How often had he been distraught, thinking that he would never leave the abbey, never return to the home he could not remember, and never be reunited with his siblings. It was her family’s turn to feel the cold bite of distress.

“I’ll take the eldest lass,” he said, making sure to instill notes of boredom in his voice. He wasn’t bored, in fact, but eager to taste the sweetness of revenge.

He watched, keen for her response, but he had to credit her—she didn’t so much as blink. Whereas, next to her, her sister burst into tears—whether she was relieved or greatly saddened for her sister, he couldn’t say, nor did he care.

“Step forward then, both of ye, and my priest will bind yer hands and make it official.” He stepped forward, as did she, yanking her arm away from her sister. “Father Godfrey!” the king bellowed.

The king’s page scrambled forward from his place against the wall and whispered in the king’s ear, to which the king nodded. “I apparently failed to tell my witless page to have Father Godfrey attend this meeting,” the king announced, “so we’ll have to wait until he’s fetched to finish the handfasting.”

“Is that man nae a priest?” Graeme’s sister Sorcha asked as she pointed to the door. There stood a frail, bald man, in the robes of a priest.

“Ye there,” the king demanded, “are ye a priest?”

When the man didn’t answer, the king bellowed, “Is this man deaf?”

“He’s hard of hearing, Sire,” Maisie Campbell said. “Father Ollie!” she bellowed. “The king is talking to ye!”

The priest blinked at her, then said, “Eh?”

“The king is speaking to ye!” Maisie bellowed even louder.

“Oh! Aye?” the priest said, bowing painfully slowly. When he stood again, he said, “Sire?”

The king shook his head, but then said, “I wish ye to handfast these two.” He waved a hand between Graeme and Maisie, but the priest stared blankly at the king.

“Sire,” Maisie said, “might I relay yer wishes?”

“Aye, if ye must.”

“Father Ollie, ye are to handfast us,” she nearly shouted.

The priest blinked. “Of course.” He shuffled toward them, not stopping until he was in front of them. He looked to Maisie first. “I thought ye were going to wed Buchannan?”

“The king says I am to handfast with a Stewart,” she said in a loud voice, “to end the battling between our clans.”

“Ah, ye poor wee lass.” The man turned his clouded gaze to Graeme and scowled. “Ye are lucky to have this lass as yers.”

Graeme snorted, and the man’s scowl deepened before he turned a kindly gaze back to Maisie. “Face the barbarian.”

The lass had a smirk on her face when she turned to Graeme, and when she raised her chin and squared her shoulders, he nearly snorted again. She was trying to show him how tough she was, but he’d been a survivor since he was a lad. Tough was all he’d known. There was no room for weakness or soft emotions, especially for his enemy’s sister. Her now dark green gaze revealed nothing. As they waited for the priest to unwind the rope from around his waist for the handfasting, he took Maisie in.

He could not deny how lovely she was. He wasn’t dead, after all. She had full lips and a face that would likely cause an ache in his chest if she weren’t a Campbell. Her dark hair tumbled nearly to her waist in glistening waves over her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. Her coloring was darker than most other lasses he’d met. Her skin had a tint about it as if she spent every day out in the sun. And it looked smooth—so smooth, in fact, he wondered for a breath if his fingers would slide over her skin as easily as they did over the steel of his sword.

Bringing his gaze back up over her body, he paused at the shadowy dip between her collarbones. There, as he stared, he thought he caught a faint glimpse of the rapid beat of her heart. She was either anxious and trying to hide it or furious and wishing to plunge a dagger into his chest. He’d wager on the latter.

“Barbarian, take the wee gentle lass’s hands in yers,” Father Ollie said.

“Father,” the king said in a low warning, but it was clear the nearly deaf man did not hear the king.

“Sire, ’tis fine,” Graeme assured the king, surprising himself. He understood, he supposed, that the priest was merely trying to protect Maisie, whom he likely thought of as his charge to guard, much as Graeme had protected Eppie throughout the years.

Graeme didn’t relish holding Maisie’s hands, but there was little choice. He held his hands out and waited for her to place her own in his. She did, and when he closed his fingers over the tops of her hands, he was struck by how small and delicate they were, and the smooth texture of her skin that did indeed feel as unblemished as the steel of his brand-new sword.

His own skin was calloused from all the labor he’d been made to do for years at the abbey, and now from his constant training with his sword. Scars crisscrossed the tops of his hands and his palms from Father Atholl hitting him with a switch when he was young, the monk swearing he needed to exorcise the devil that dwelled within Graeme.

“Graeme Stewart, do ye pledge yer troth to Maisie Campbell?”

“Aye,” he said quickly, wanting the ceremony to be over. It felt uncomfortable to take a wife, even if temporarily, that he had no intention of keeping.

“I said, do ye pledge yer troth?” Father Ollie demanded in a loud voice.

“Father,” Maisie said, her tone loud but patient. “He gave ye an ‘aye.’”

“Ah! Verra well then. Dear sweet, Maisie Campbell, do ye pledge yer troth to Graeme Stewart?”

“Aye,” she bellowed, and Graeme had the urge to laugh. Despite the tension, the situation seemed suddenly comical.

Father Ollie looked between them. “Then I declare ye as husband and wife for the next year and a day. As such, ’tis a sin in the eyes of God to take another to yer bed.” The man looked pointedly at Graeme. “And ’tis a sin nae to safeguard the wife ye have taken as yers. If a man allows another to hurt his wife, then the man shows his lack of honor to the world,” the priest said.

Graeme held the priest’s gaze. “I dunnae want the lass,” Graeme said, raising his voice to be heard by the half-deaf man, “but ye dunnae need to fret. I’ll nae let another harm her.” And it was true. He did not trust nor want her, but he certainly would never stand by and allow her to be harmed by someone else. She was his wife for the next year and a day, regardless of his wishes; therefore, even as he strove to prove her brother’s guilt, mayhap even hers, he would protect her person from physical harm.

“Do ye nae have any dire warnings for the lass?” Graeme demanded.

“Aye,” Father Ollie said. “Sleep with one eye open. Ye go to dwell amongst people who wish ye ill for sins that are nae yers.”

An idea suddenly occurred to Graeme. The ancient priest had surely been with the Campbells for a long time. Likely, buried in that man’s head was useful information. “If ye’re so worried about the lass’s well-being,” Graeme said loudly, “then ye are welcome to journey with us back to the Stewart stronghold.”

“Nay!” Brody Stewart blurted.

Maisie’s eyes widened considerably, surprised by her brother’s protest.

“’Tis fine, my lord,” the priest said. “I appreciate yer concern for my welfare, but I am certain yer sister will need my comfort and I’m happy to go to the stronghold. Do we leave on the morrow after a wedding feast?”

Graeme nearly laughed at the absurd suggestion. “Nay, Father. We leave now. The sooner I’m home and get the two of ye situated, the better. I’ll be off once ye’re settled—if not sooner—to hunt down Bernard and the missing monks with my brother.”

“I told ye I will find him and present him at Court,” Campbell said.

“Aye,” Graeme replied. “I heard what ye said, but I’d rather he ends up at Court alive than silenced by death.”