Page 79 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

If only the damned documents from Eire attesting to his parents’ marriage and relieving him of the title of ‘bastard’ would arrive.

He shook off the sleet and a few snowflakes from his cloak and took a seat before the fire with a heartfelt sigh. He was meeting with the council again tomorrow and they were almost as eager as he was for the news from Eire.

A manservant entered with a flagon of ale, a trencher, eggs and bannocks to break his fast. Once his fingers were warmed, he ate his hearty breakfast and prepared for his morning’s work. His table was littered with parchments, matters that required his adjudication and resolution. There were grievances of all kinds, from a pig who had wandered from his owner’s yard and ended up in the cooking pot of a neighbor, to a dispute over the measurements of a plot of land. Some of them tried his patience while others tugged hard at his compassion.

His morning passed quickly as he immersed himself in the problems of his clansmen and it was a welcome break when his mother bustled in, her eyes alight with excitement.

Emilia had happily taken over the role of housekeeper and busied herself each day, in company with the new castle seneschal, returning order to the castle. Following news of Bairre’s death, many of the castle staff, freed from his tyranny, had chosen to return to their villages. Emilia had been slowly selecting and training a retinue of new servants.

“There’s news, Arran.”

He glanced up, pleased to see her looking well, a plumpness in her cheeks and a new spring in her step.

“We’re tae receive guests. One of our scouts located a small party on the road a few miles off, heading to the castle.” She looked around. “I must get one of the servants tae tidy this room. Ye dae make a mess.” She scanned the bundles of parchments on the table and the books piled up on the floor beside his chair

“Dinnae fuss, Maither.” He chuckled. It was impossible for Emilia to accept he was a grown man and not her wayward boy in need of chiding and tidying.

“Who are these guests who are arriving without invitation or prior notice?”

Her face broke into a smile, displaying two dimples on her pink cheeks. “It seems they’re on their way from Castle MacLeod.”

His heart leapt, beating hard against his ribcage.Dear God. Could it be the news he’d been waiting fer? And who was in thisparty from Castle MacLeod?It was too much to hope that the Lady Dahlia might be among them.

Emilia hastened off to alert the cook and the kitchen maids that they were expecting guests and to advise the chambermaids to ensure there were sufficient freshly laundered bed linens, and clean bedchambers and chamber pots ready.

After a hasty visit to his own rooms to change his clothes, wash his hands and face and brush his mane of fair hair, Arran dashed up the stairs, returning to the battlements. There he strained his eyes, impatiently scanning the road.

It was not long before his surveillance was rewarded as, at last, the riders came into view. He was busily trying to count them when Emilia joined him. “I count ten of them,” she turned to Arran, grinning mischievously. “And there are ladies among them.”

His stomach lurched as hope rose in his throat. He’d missed Dahlia with an ache that only grew worse when he was in his bed. If this cavalcade from Castle MacLeod was bringing the news he’d been waiting for, the mayhap Dahlia was one of the riders. He could only pray this would be so.

By the time the first of the horses clattered into the courtyard, Arran and Emilia were eagerly waiting on the steps to the keep, their eyes glued on the portcullis.

Leading the group was Laird Haldor, accompanied by his wife Sofia. Arran went forward to greet him and shake him by thehand as he dismounted. His mother took the diminutive Sofia in her arms, all smiles. The next to enter was Ivar MacLeod, with his pretty wife Catalina.

Arran was greeting Ivar when the next rider entered.

And, there she was at last, the one his somersaulting heart had been longing for these past months. The Lady Dahlia, radiant, smiling, her long hair flying behind her, as she trotted her little mare across the cobbled courtyard toward him, bringing the horse to a standstill by his side.

He reached up both arms as she dismounted, enfolding her in his embrace, breathing in her lavender fragrance, planting kisses in her hair, sighing, laughing with delight that she was there and he was holding her.

“Me love,” he whispered.

Her arms were around him, clinging tightly. “I’m here,” was all she said. The sweetest sound Arran had ever heard.

As the remainder of the group dismounted and the grooms took possession of the horses, taking them to the stables, Arran took Dahlia by the hand. With Emilia beside them, he led the little assembly inside the keep, where a group of servants clustered, ready to attend to the guests and see to their luggage.

Arran released Dahlia’s hand with great reluctance so she could join the other ladies and their maids being escorted to theirchambers. “I shall meet ye in the great hall toward evening,” he whispered. As the ladies disappeared up the stairs, Haldor stepped forward and gripped Arran’s arm.

“Much as I look forward tae brushing away the morning’s travels, I wish tae speak urgently with ye. Is it possible fer us tae meet without delay with ye and yer maither?”

“Of course.” Arran gestured to one of the manservants. “The Lady Emilia and I will be in me solar if ye could serve us and our guests’ refreshments there.” The man hurried off and Arran and Emilia guided Haldor and Ivar along the passageway leading to the laird’s solar.

Following a few steps behind was a grey-haired monk in his robes who had somehow escaped Arran’s notice in the courtyard.

They assembled in the solar and were about to take their seats at the timber table before Haldor introduced the dignified old man.

“This is Faither Deiran, the priest who performed the marriage ceremony fer yer parents.”

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