tightened her lips before she could commit treason. Pointing at Rory, but addressing her father, she said, ‘I want him gone.’
The Lochmore in question only said, ‘No.’
She waited for an explanation—none came. All the while she felt everything, betrayal being foremost. She had been kept in the dark about the King’s decree and McCrieffs’ obligations to Lochmores. She certainly hadn’t been told she had to marry.
‘No?’ Brandishing her shears, she strode over and pointed them at him. ‘Did you know of this?’
‘Ailsa! Put them away!’ Frederick called out. She ignored him.
‘What...this?’ the Lochmore replied with barely a glance at the shears.
The marriage, the welcoming feast, the King’s decree!
‘Any part of it,’ she bit out.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘Yes.’
So only the female was kept in the dark even though it was her life in play. ‘Father, I ask for privacy.’
‘This matter must stay secret, so here we remain until it’s resolved,’ Frederick said, leaning further in his chair.
Ordered about like property. Her father had never treated her as such. Shame washed hotly with the betrayal. Her father deigned to bargain her off to a Lochmore. A clan that was, even now, their enemy. All her life, she’d been told to run or hide from Lochmores should she should spy them. Now she was told to marry and bear his children.
There wasn’t a redeeming factor to him. Lochmores knew nothing of McCrieff land, the way their hills sloped or how the sun hit the trees. He wasn’t amused by the erratic guttering of the worn paths that wound around the back of the castle or dismayed by the leaking corner in the chapel’s roof.
Even if he wasn’t a Lochmore, he was a man she had never met. His age could have been anything. His countenance, his strength and personality could have been the vilest of all. But her father, who never gambled, never guessed on the weather, risked her happiness and that of their clan that Rory Lochmore would be suitable for her.
‘Is this what you will decide with my sisters as well? Just sell them off to the best alliance?’
‘Sisters?’ Rory interjected.
Ailsa huffed. ‘Two of them and too young for your plotting, Lochmore.’
‘Ailsa!’ her father reprimanded. ‘Think it through.’
‘I have and I want no part of this!’
Ailsa strode to the door where the noises flooded in. It appeared by their absence that conversation began. She could storm from here. Nothing would resolve and everyone would know. Let them. Her friend had been murdered by Lochmores. How could her father ask this of her?
Her hand was almost on the latch, when her father banged his hand against the table. It made her jump. It made her turn.
The pounding of a fist was a demanding sound and one she would have ignored, but she couldn’t ignore the look in his eyes. Her father’s eyes pleaded with her. Her father never pleaded.
Did he plead with his daughter who had lost her precious friend? If so, her answer would remain no. A political alliance? Countries were built and torn down. She was a healer, what did she care for alliances except that they often stopped—
Ah. A quick twist in her heart and her mind listened. Political alliance stopped war...stopped deaths from occurring.
What care did she have for Lochmores? None, even though Rhona tried to soften her with a story about a babe named Rory, who was born and lost. No! She wouldn’t think of that tale now. And she wouldn’t forgive Lochmores for Magnus’s death.
As a healer she had an obligation to stop further deaths. Now wasn’t the time to not care for others. Now wasn’t the time to be selfish even if it was justified and in self-preservation. Though their numbers were great compared to the few Lochmores who travelled here today, if McCrieffs waged a battle only more Lochmores would arrive and these wouldn’t allow their swords to be taken.
Allow. That moment when her father captured Lochmore, their men had been quick, but something about this warrior’s manner... He’d allowed his capture...maybe even expected it the moment he stepped through the gates.
What did she know of this man, the only heir to the Lochmore’s Chief? Formidable even now though he stood silently and watched the exchange between a daughter and her father.
This man; her husband? Never, but what wouldn’t she do for her clan as daughter to the Tanist, as their healer? She would do anything. With utmost resolve she turned away from the door.
* * *
Rory regretted the small shocked sound he released when Frederick had made his declaration. Through all the challenges in his life, he thought himself better equipped to mask his emotions.
But this challenge, a Lochmore marrying a McCrieff, wasn’t one he could ever have prepared for. It seemed Frederick’s daughter felt the same.
She was one flick of the lock away from leaving the room before her father brought her back. From where he leaned against the wall, he couldn’t see the looks exchanged. He couldn’t determine why in the silence that followed she did listen to him and sat in a chair though the shears stayed available on her lap.
Anticipating that finally she would behave as other women, to bow to the orders of her father, to present mild and pleasing manners, he kept his gaze to her. Yet though she sat, her chin was raised, her fingers clasping the shears. No meekness at all and far too much defiance. He couldn’t predict this woman’s behaviour and thoughts.
But though she was tense and her brow was creased, she continued to sit. She was reasonably contemplating her father’s words.
It was time to do so himself. If it was even true. ‘You want me to marry your daughter?’ Each word felt unreal.
Frederick exhaled. Part relief that his words were listened to, part something else...like grief or loss.
‘Yes. Marry her. As she is my daughter, you would have influence on this clan.’
Influence, but not power. ‘You would remain Tanist and inherit the rule of McCrieffs.’
‘Of course,’ Frederick replied. ‘Further, there would be no guarantee that you would gain any more than that.’
A swift glance to the woman at his left revealed she was listening, but the tight grasp on the shears told him the cost of her remaining silent.
This was a woman who thought with her mind. She was beautiful and intelligent. Such a daughter would be prized and even an old swordsman would have hopes that his issue would do better than merely marrying a man from an enemy clan, even if that man was the Chief’s son.
‘You are saying, that even upon your death, I, as a Lochmore, may not be accepted by McCrieffs.’
‘In truth,’ Frederick said, ‘it would be...beneficial for me to remain ruler of McCrieffs.’
‘A
