Chapter 2

Griogair looked around at the bedraggled castle as he followed after the old king’s emissary, the drunken laird, and the terrified maid. It would kill him to live like this until the Laird died or he fathered a bairn. Even if he and his wayward lady conceived this very day it would be well into winter before he took charge and next spring before he could get this clan started on the path to prosperity. At least both of his brothers had a pretty woman that they knew they favoured and were lairds of decent keeps from the day they wed. This place was a disaster, and he hadn’t even known Sinclair clan had a marriageable lass as heir. He still didn’t know what she looked like!

There was not a single portrait of her in the keep as far as he had seen. On top of that, he’d have to wait to rule here until her father died, passed the title voluntarily, or the next blood heir was birthed. That had seemed fine at first. It would give him time to get used to the idea of being a Laird and taking on all that responsibility he’d never really wanted. He would have time to meet and befriend the people and learn what they were like, train with the warriors and come to know whom he could trust. He had never wanted to rule a clan, but he knew he could do it. He hadn’t expected to find the place near ruin though, with the laird deep in his cups before the sun was high and his wife’s whereabouts completely unknown. Her father had said she was missing again. Did she disappear often? Where did she go? Why did she not do anything to get the staff to care for the keep? As third in line he’d never expected to rule a clan on his own, but now that that was his future he didn’t want the clan to look like this one.

The tapestries were filthy, the mortar by the windows crumbling, and what little rushes were strewn about made the place smell moldy, not like fresh straw or wildflowers. The staff all cowered in the Laird’s presence, but didn’t appear to want to do any task, or at least not put in the effort to do it well. He stumbled on loose stones as they stepped out into the back gardens and he thought the gardener snickered about it. It seemed nobody here took pride in their work. Then again, with a Laird who could scarcely hold himself upright, there probably wasn’t much to take pride in. Hopefully, his wife was not missing because she had passed out from too much drink.

“There ye be daughter!”

Griogair turned his attention forward and caught the barest glimpse of wild red curls before his view was blocked by the emissary who exclaimed,

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“I always dress like this in me own home! Who be ye to be asking such a thing as that of the lady of the keep?”

“I am emissary to your king.”

“Oh,” she did an overly exaggerated and not in the least bit polite bow to the man. “Begging yer pardon then. Not a soul told me we were expecting you.”

“Well if I’d a told ye, you’d a gone off hunting or fishing so as to be sure not ta be here!” Her father yelled. “You!” He grabbed the maid by the hair and hauled her forward, “take her upstairs and make her presentable. I expect her back down ta meet her man in ten minutes.”

“I will meet my wife now,” Griogair’s voice was calm and firm, leaving no room for doubt. He knew his rights as her husband, and they superseded that of her father from the moment he’d been wed to her. Even if in all honesty, he hadn’t been. The king had wed her to Alasdair. Until he signed, Isobel was technically married to Alasdair, and his brother was currently wed to two women. Griogair ground his teeth. No matter what she looked like nor how intoxicated she was, he had to make this woman his wife before the emissary discovered the ruse. If King Charles had not intended the missive as a joke the emissary could have his brother hanged for having two wives. Or all of them for lying to him, and therefore to the king.

The emissary and the drunken laird stepped to the side revealing his bride to him. She stood taller than most lasses, just past his shoulder. Her hair was shorter than what most women preferred, but the curls framed her face in a very becoming way and brought out the colour of her freckles. Her emerald green eyes snapped at his, though he couldn’t tell if it were anger or fear looking back at him. He was relieved to see they were clear and bright, not clouded by drink.

She wore a tunic the same shade of green as her eyes. It was a little longer than a man’s tunic, but not long enough to call it a dress, not even long enough for a young lass’s dress. Under that, trews clung tightly to her long, shapely legs. He felt his body stir in response.

“Pleased to meet you, Lady Isobel.” He said calmly, bowing politely and trying not to show any reaction to her appearance show in her voice. The laird, the emissary, the maid, and likely even his wife, were expecting shock or outrage and he refused to play into that.

She wasn’t a ravenous beauty like Eliana, nor soft and serene like Mairead. But she was pretty in that unconventional way that had always drawn his attention. It was the look of a lass who didn’t know herself as beautiful so put on no airs, tending to be more humble and honest. So far her personality seemed to suit him too. She was hot and fiery, just like her hair.

Carrying a sword, sharpening arrows... and her father had mentioned she would go hunting? He’d never considered hunting with a woman. Griogair almost grinned. He’d never known a lass who enjoyed the bush. They could get a lot more than hunting accomplished among the trees. Perhaps Dair had been right and Charles had been playing matchmaker. It did indeed seem likely that he would enjoy getting to know this lass.

“And who be ye?” Isobel demanded, her hands on her hips, “for I have no husband and no plans on taking one.”

“By order of his majesty the king,” the emissary said with less of his regal heir than Griogair had ever heard from him, “Alasdiar is your husband and future laird of the Sinclair clan. The king wed you by proxy and we brought a priest to seal the vows through the church.” Her eyes widened and she fumbled with the sanding stone she was using, dropping the arrowhead into the grass. Griogair narrowed his eyes. Something about the way she dropped it told him she had done it on purpose and was not as surprised as she wanted them to believe.

“Ye should have warned me, father.” He didn’t miss the crack in her voice and the hands that came up to smooth over her curls seemed to be trembling. She may not have been completely taken by surprise, but she was not at all comfortable with the idea either.

“Would ye a been in a dress and waiting in the keep doing something proper like stitching if I’d asked ye?”

“Nay,” she admitted softly.

“Take her to her rooms. See to it she is washed and properly dressed,” the emissary ordered the maid. “Be sure she knows what will be expected of her after the papers are signed and the priest blesses the union. You have half an hour.”

“I have no objection to the lady wearing whatever she wishes,” Griogair said. He was rewarded with a look of shock and then almost a smile on his wife’s lips.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” the emissary admitted, his distaste obvious as his gaze flickered over Isobel, “you’ll only be removing it again to provide proof the vows are consummated.” Now his bride looked terrified. Her father laughed loudly, making Isobel jump and Griogair scowl.

“It is not so bad Lady Isobel,” the emissary said, “your husband can simply hand out the sheet when he has done the deed.”

“She can no show you a maiden’s blood!” Her father seemed to be boasting about the fact. “I offered her hand to a warrior if he could get her with child. Not only can she no give ye a maiden’s blood she’s likely never gonna give ye an heir!”

Griogair saw his wife bite down hard on her bottom lip and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her chest looked nearly flat, her eyes wide and her skin smooth and although speckled it was free of the blemishes that came with age or illness. She barely looked old enough to wed even now, how old had the lass been when her father forced that on her? And now she thought herself barren? Of all the things to do to a young woman. His urge to protect her had him speaking almost without thinking.

“It matters not. If I have no bairns of mine own I will gift the clan to a child of one of my brothers. Three lads and a lass have been born already so I am sure there will be no lack of kin to choose from.” He had no idea what had possessed him to say that just now. For some reason, he wanted to protect this lass from more hurt. Her father seemed to be heaping it on her by spades and the emissary was not being kind either. What sort of father tries to get his daughter pregnant before marriage?

“With no maiden’s blood I will have to witness the consummation,” the emissary said, his voice sounding more than a little displeased by the thought. That struck Griogair as odd since he’d been so eager to watch the other two couples. Apparently, he didn’t find a woman in trews alluring. Gair’s eyes dropped to her legs again and he felt himself stir beneath his plaid. He definitely did not share the emissary's opinion. He'd never seen a lass in trews before. He didn't mind at all, though he expected he wouldn't be too pleased if he found other men oogling his wife. The trews left little to the imagination, and he definitely liked the shape of what he saw. “I watched Griogair and his new wife and will watch Padraig with the widow Fraser on my return trip. You aren’t the only lass in this deal to be put to a ritual wedding night. Let’s get on with it.”