Eloping with the Laird
Autore
Jeanine Englert
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Chapter One
Scores of men competed in the vast open field in various tests of skill and strength that Moira Fraser’s father, Bran Stewart, the Laird of Glenhaven, held each autumn. The annual Tournament of Champions had been a tiresome tradition every year, with this year being even more bothersome than most for she had to select a husband.
‘Who is it to be, sister?’ Ewan Stewart, eldest of the siblings, approached and settled next to Moira. He leaned against the trunk of one of the many rowan trees surrounding them.
‘I choose none of them. Is that a fine enough answer for you?’ Moira Fraser faced her favourite sibling and frowned. She attempted to be cross with him, which was impossible.
‘Nay, sister. You must select a husband and soon. Tomorrow is the last day of the tournament and then these lairds and their eldest sons will scatter back to whence they came. If you do not choose, Father will do so for you. Is that what you wish?’ His warm brown gaze settled upon her. His sympathy sent an undercurrent of panic beneath her skin.
They both knew how her last marriage had ended. Badly.
‘You know what I wish,’ she whispered. She clutched at the bark of the tree until it impressed itself upon the soft flesh of the inside of her wrist. ‘Why can I not just be left a widow? Why must I remarry?’
‘It is the best way to protect you.’
‘Is that what my last husband was doing?’ She stifled a laugh.
Ewan reached out and touched her hand. She flinched involuntarily, a gift from her first husband. Touch sometimes sent her back to a place she never wished to be: her memories. ‘Moira, you know what I meant. None of us knew. If we had...’
The familiar agony emerged again.
She smothered the shame and interrupted him. ‘I know that. But that does not mean that I wish to ever be bound to a man that way again.’
‘Father has given you the option to choose this time, sister. An option a woman usually does not have. Take that chance. I know it isn’t much, and it doesn’t undo anything that has happened, but seize it before it is gone. Otherwise, he will merely choose the laird with the largest coin and castle in hopes it will secure your future.’
Just like the last time.
She studied the field. The two dozen lairds and their sons looked like reasonable, average, perhaps even kind men, but one couldn’t see everything about a person until they were alone with them in the wee hours of the night consumed in darkness. That was when their monsters emerged.
When a large stone caber crashed to the ground, she startled and stared out at the sea of men. ‘How can I possibly know if any of these men will be good to me, Ewan? They all seem...the same.’
And she no longer trusted her judgment. She’d met Peter Fraser at a gathering such as this. Father had introduced them, hoping for just such an attachment to form. The eldest son and soon-to-be laird over his clan had wooed her with his kindness and charm. His attentions had been gentle, steady and predictable, and over three days she had fallen for all he had pretended to be. They were married but a month later, and within a few weeks of their vows, Moira had wished she were dead.
Well, more specifically, she wished he were dead. She never told anyone all that happened on the night he died, and she never would. Some secrets were meant to be buried, and her secrets were buried with Peter.
‘Shall I give you some recommendations? I have spent time with some of these men and can tell you their virtues and vices. Will that help?’ Ewan offered, hope dancing in his features.
‘Aye.’ She would humour him. ‘Tell me your top three choices. I will speak with them, make my decision and report it to Father by the end of the day on the morrow.’
His eyes narrowed on her. ‘You will?’
‘Aye, brother. Now go on,’ she answered. She had to placate Father. He was ill and his worry over seeing her settled was taking a toll on him. Heaven knew he also blamed himself for what happened with Peter even though he’d never said as much. She’d promised to provide him a name for a future husband by the end of the tournament, and she would keep her promise, even if she dreaded becoming a bride once more.
‘Your first candidate in the northwest corner preparing for the caber toss is Phineas Grant, eldest son of a large estate north of Loch Ness. Strong, capable and fairly clear-headed.’
‘And?’ She sensed his hesitation.
‘He is a bit of a gambler from what I hear, so you’d need to mind the purse strings of the clan, for your children’s sake, of course.’
‘Not a chance. Who’s next?’
He sighed. ‘Sean MacIntosh to your left, also an eldest son, lining up for his next shot for arrows. A bit young for you perhaps at three years your junior, but your strength could be a virtue for him. Smaller estate though, near Inverness on the Moray Firth. You’d need to pack your furs, sister. It’s a bit blustery in the winter with the wind coming in from the sea.’ He shivered.
She frowned as MacIntosh missed his mark entirely. ‘Is he blind? I could have hit that target blindfolded.’
He laughed. ‘Perhaps he does have a vision issue, now that you mention it. He’s never been good at shooting either. My top choice for you would be Garrick MacLean. He’s next up to shoot. Garrick was a second son, but his older brother died a year ago from fever. He’s now set to inherit a sizeable estate along Loch Linnhe, a day’s ride from here. He’s a good man, Moira. One of the best you’ll find.’
She watched the handsome, sandy-haired man, as the shooting paused and new targets were placed closer to the grove. What did Ewan really know of him? She’d have to find out for herself about the man before the sun went down tomorrow. Otherwise, Father would make the choice for her. Her stomach curdled.
Her gaze skipped along other men dotting the field like a rock skipping along water before clunking into the abyss. A man she’d never seen before sat alone far off from the crowd atop one of the last of the timbers the soldiers had set out for those who wished to watch the men compete. The man’s dark features and flat brow read boredom and his scowl irritation, which was exactly how she felt. For a moment, at least one person shared her disdain for the day, which warmed her spirit.
‘What of him?’ Moira squinted and quirked her lips. ‘The one sitting alone in the back. He wears a noble crest on his overcoat. Who is he?’
Ewan shook his head. ‘Laird Rory McKenna? Nay, Moira. He is not an option. Have you not heard about Black Rory?’
‘Black Rory? What are you talking about?’ She watched the man, and he stiffened as if he’d felt the intensity of her gaze. She stepped back to shield herself in the shadowy leaves of the rowan tree.
‘They say he’s ill, gravely ill.’ Ewan dropped his voice low. ‘Some sort of family curse. He grows weaker by the day. His uncle is eager for him to marry as Rory is a laird and has no male siblings or cousins, but no one wishes to bind their daughter to a dying man.’
Moira perked up, raising her head higher, boldly staring at the man as he stood. Rory McKenna was tall and wore grey trews that showed his rather muscular legs. A black collarless frock coat with large cuffs detailed in silver buttons covered an equally pleasing upper torso. Not exactly the look of a dying man. His dark hair was wavy, perhaps even a bit long for fashion, but it flattered his sharp features. He had a commanding air about him, and his scrutinising eyes didn’t seem to miss anything. ‘Are you making this up to trick me? He doesn’t seem ill. He’s quite fit. And you and I both know curses are nonsense.’
Ewan leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Every single direct male descendant of the McKenna family has died before the age of four and twenty for generations. Ask anyone. And if that isn’t a curse, what is?’
‘You just stated his uncle lives. Doesn’t that in itself prove the curse to be untrue?’ She frowned at him and crossed her arms against her chest. She knew it seemed too perfect an option to have merit.
‘It is long rumoured that his uncle was sired by a man other than a McKenna. He has never made a claim for laird either, so it is largely accepted as truth.’
Her curiosity peaked. She studied McKenna’s easy fluid movements as he approached the edge of the field where men were practising shooting at various targets. ‘His age now?’ she enquired, a bit breathless and eager for her brother’s answer. Maybe he could be an answer to her prayers after all.
‘Three and twenty. They say he only has months to live.’
Her stomach fluttered and flipped. Those were exactly the words she longed to hear.
She much preferred the idea of being a widow than a wife.
She sucked in a steadying breath, squared her shoulders and pressed a kiss to Ewan’s cheek. ‘Thank you, brother. I believe I have just found my future husband.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ Ewan cocked his head.
‘And why wouldn’t I be? He is a laird, pleasing to look upon and days away from death.’
He clutched her arm. ‘You cannot throw away your future because of the past.’
‘I won’t be,’ she whispered. ‘This, he, is how I shall seize my future without having to comply to the demands of a husband for the rest of my days.’ For what man would have her after burying two husbands before the age of five and twenty? They’d believe she was cursed, and she would fan such gossip until it burst into flame.
‘Moira, you aren’t thinking clearly. There is no future with a dying man.’
She shushed him and walked through the rowan trees towards Black Rory, ignoring her brother’s protests. Oblivious to anything other than the dark, mysterious man who would solve all her problems, she lifted her skirts and moved with purpose out of the grove and into the open field. Rory McKenna, Black Rory she would call him now in her heart, met her gaze, and she smiled.
‘Hold fast!’ he called, thrusting out an arm to halt her advance a few paces away.
Confused by his call she carried on, unburdened by his words. Alarm lit his features and he ploughed into her as an arrow hissed by her ear. They hit the ground hard. She gasped, unable to take in air, as he lay atop her. The weight of his muscular body a reminder that he was strong and formidable, despite what Ewan said.
‘What were you thinking? You could have been killed,’ he stated.
When she struggled for air, he moved off her but kept hold of her hand. A soft prickle of awareness as his warm, calloused fingers wrapped around her own travelled along her arm and she shivered. She pulled her hand away. His touch sparked an odd, unfamiliar sensation she hadn’t felt in ages: safety. She shifted away from him. She knew far better than to believe such.
‘Give it a moment. You had the breath knocked out of you, is all.’ His grey eyes were hard and unflinching. His voice commanding and certain. She believed his words despite not knowing him at all, which was ridiculous. ‘Take one slow breath in,’ he ordered.
Air rushed into her lungs, and she coughed and sputtered. A crowd formed around them. Their faces peered down at her. ‘Are you well enough to stand?’ he asked.
Indeed, she was well enough to rise...and die from embarrassment. Her face flushed with heat and she nodded. He stood and offered his hand. She hesitated, but accepted it, as she couldn’t gain her footing on her own. Pulling her up easily alongside him, he muttered, ‘Here, sit a spell.’ He gestured to a nearby timber. He attempted to guide her by the elbow, but she shifted away from his touch, and his arm fell back to his side.
‘Give her some air,’ he commanded, his clear tone cutting through the throng of people with authority.
The crowd dispersed. Ewan stood back, watching. He began to approach, but she shook her head to stave him off before glancing away.
She struggled to regain her composure, her thoughts and her voice. Her heart hammered in her chest and her back ached from the fall. Her lungs brought in uneven breaths, and overall she was plain startled by what had happened. She could see they had moved the target now. How had she failed to notice earlier? She had never been so careless before during a tournament. What had come over her?
She frowned. Her urgent desire to find a suitable husband had blocked out her reason. If he hadn’t intercepted her, she’d have an arrow through her chest, or worse. She rubbed her arms.
‘Is this your first time here as well?’ he asked, glancing over. He leaned forward on his elbows, assessing her.
‘Nay. I have been at these as long as I can remember. I am Mrs Moira Fraser, daughter of the Laird of Glenhaven.’
His face paled. ‘Whom I have just tackled unceremoniously to the ground.’ He cringed. ‘My apologies. I’ve never attended the tournament before and arrived only today due to an unexpected delay. I’ve yet to meet everyone. I’m Rory McKenna, Laird of Blackmore.’
‘You saved my life. I should thank you.’
His brow crinkled. ‘So, if you know a great deal of tournaments and shooting, why did you charge headlong out into the practice field where the targets were? You could have been killed.’ He held her gaze awaiting an answer.
‘Honestly, I wished to speak to you, my laird. Urgently.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘I wished to ask you to be my husband.’
Rory frowned at her. Poor lass must have cracked her head during the fall. Or perhaps he had.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ he asked.
Her lips quivered into a half-smile and she leaned closer so no one would overhear, her turquoise eyes bright and hypnotic. ‘I want you to be my husband. I’m looking to remarry as my husband passed but a year ago, and I hear you are also on the quest for a wife. Perhaps we could come to an agreement that benefits us both.’
While Rory wasn’t a man of many words, it was by choice, not because he had nothing to say. Except for this moment. Her words dumbfounded him. He knew his chances of finding any woman who would agree to marry him were slim at best. He was a dying man after all.
‘Do you know anything about me?’ he asked.
‘Aye, my laird, I know who you are and that you are ill. Dying, they say, but I believe you look quite healthy. Perhaps it is all a rumour to create a more mythical presence about you.’ She bit her lower lip and peered closely at him. ‘Are you truly sick or is that just nonsense?’
‘Are you always so direct, Mrs Fraser?’ he asked.
As much as he should be annoyed by her enquiries that bordered on rudeness, he found her directness quite refreshing. Most of those around him walked about as if nettles were underfoot as they never wished to discuss his sickness, let alone his looming death.
‘My past experiences have taught me that sometimes there is no time for subtleties and hints, or reasons to be so. Directness suits me quite fine. I hope you don’t find it offensive, my laird.’
‘Surprised, but not offended,’ he offered. ‘The rumours you have heard are true. My physicians seem to think me but months from an unfortunate demise. That is why I am here. My uncle wishes for me to find a bride, as do I.’
She lifted her eyebrows at him in encouragement.
‘In hopes of somehow siring a child, a direct descendant, to carry on the family name...before I die.’
‘Even though you may not live to see the birth of your own child?’ Her eyes widened and softened. ‘Seems a rather sad mission to attempt to fulfil.’
‘Aye, perhaps. It is all a bit of a last attempt to secure a strong future for our clan, but he asked me to try.’ He shrugged. ‘So I am here to honour his wishes. He has cared for me since I was a boy. I owe him a great deal.’
‘Then maybe we could make an arrangement. One that could please us both in our current and unfortunate circumstances.’ She played with the end of her long raven plait of hair. The woman was a beauty, but he’d been fooled before, and he’d not be mesmerised by a woman’s physical charms again.
He sat back and crossed his arms against his chest, clearing his throat, commanding himself to focus once more on her words. ‘I’m listening.’ And he was. He was intrigued by what the lass would say next, as it was never quite what he expected. For the first time in ages, he wasn’t bored.
‘I have been married, but now find myself a young widow without children. After my husband died,’ she began quietly, ‘I left the Frasers, my husband’s clan, and returned here, my childhood home. Now that more than a year has passed, my father grows weary of me putting off his attempts to find me a new and suitable husband. I weary of trying to find one. I have until the end of the tournament tomorrow to tell him my choice. Otherwise, he shall choose for me, as he did last time.’ She laced her hands together in her lap so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
The hitch in her voice and her pinched features made him curious to know more about why she would leave her married family to return to her father’s home and why the idea of remarrying was so objectionable, but he set it aside for now. He needed to know if the lass was serious. He’d not the time to waste on whims of fancy.
‘Am I your last choice for a husband, then?’ he asked, wanting to get to the crux of the truth.
‘Nay, my laird,’ she answered, gifting him a full smile that finally reached her eyes. ‘You are my first.’
