Page 13 of The Winter Laird
“I didn’t say they wantedmeto stay. They’d much prefer me dead. You’re the one they want, Bri.” He glanced meaningfully at the brooch on her chest.
She twisted around to stare at him, and Evelyn’s words from yesterday came back to her in a rush:The only way to know if she was truly the chosen daughter would be that she was wearing this brooch… One family member from each generation is given the ability to move time itself, but only for the greater good.He shrugged and kicked the horse into a gallop. They only traveled a few hundred paces when the horse reared, almost throwing them. He reared again, and Brianagh screamed. They toppled off the horse, Reilly twisting in midair so she landed almost fully on top of him. She snapped her head up to see the horse take off with a very bloodied back leg. Trying to catch her breath, she frantically searched Reilly’s face. His eyes were closed, and he had blood on his tunic, although she couldn’t tell if it was old or new.
“Reilly!” she screamed as she scrambled off him. She shook him. “Reilly! Wake up!” He didn’t move, and her throat constricted. She put her head on his chest, but she couldn’t tell if he was breathing over the sounds of her choked sobs.
Without warning, she was grabbed underneath her arms and hauled roughly to her feet. She screamed again, but someone quickly stuffed a gag into her mouth and secured it around her head. Even as she struggled to get away, her arms were bound behind her and her ankles tied together.
Once she was trussed, she was hefted onto a mount. She glanced back and saw Reilly, still lying on the ground—dead or unconscious—and wished with everything she had that she hit the ground first.
Her rider wrenched her back around, and as fear clouded her mind, Brianagh started to shake. Apparently, that annoyed her kidnapper. He barked something unintelligible at her, then clunked her on the head with something solid.
* * *
“Aidan, it’s been twenty-two years.”Nioclas MacWilliam, laird of the clan MacWilliam, stood in front of the large hearth in his great hall.
The laird’s younger brother, Aidan, was his most trusted—and most bothersome—clansman. Aidan’s green eyes danced as he tried to contain his mirth; there was little else he enjoyed more than irritating his brother, despite their advanced ages of thirty-four and thirty.
“The O’Rourke sent his messenger just this morning. Care you to hear what he says, or shall I just send him to the kitchen, pat him on his head, then send him home? The man did travel an awful long way just to see your pretty face. The least you could do is feed him and hear his claims of a vow you made.”
Nioclas tried to unclench his jaw. His brother’s humor was, as usual, unwelcome. He had waited years for his missing betrothed to appear. He’d honored his promise to wait for her for as long as possible. But his clan needed him to choose a wife; news of skirmishes was increasing with each passing month.
A fortnight ago, two lesser lairds to the north sent their best daughters to him. This time, one of the lasses, aged only ten, carried a note that promised full clan allegiance to the MacWilliams if he married her, and the promise of retaliation if he chose the other lass.
Nioclas was tired of entertaining unwanted guests and sidestepping threats of warfare. He sent them both back to their sires, then doubled the guards at his gate.
The MacWilliams clan was strong, and though many threatened, few dared to engage them in battle. Nioclas knew he couldn’t hold off from his duty forever. If he didn’t marry soon, the veiled—and not so veiled—threats would arrive at his castle.
All his clansmen wanted was peace. By the saints, he wanted peace as well.
Just last week, Nioclas quietly agreed to marry a lass from the Kildare clan in the east. Her father assured him she was tractable, that she was more than happy to marry, and, most importantly, came from a long line of fecund women. The O’Rourkes hadn’t sent back their official word that they accepted the troth-break, but once he was married, there was little they could do. He looked forward to the day when the O’Rourkes had nothing more to hold over him and his clan.
Aidan shrugged. “Let the messenger have his say, then release him. O’Rourke is daft if he seeks our alliance.”
“Laird O’Rourke is not daft,” Nioclas grumbled. “I made a foolish vow when I was a lad, and he’s held me to it.”
Aidan frowned. “What vow?”
Nioclas shuffled a stack of parchment and capped the inkwell. “Shortly after I took control of our clan, I met with Kiernan. To keep his alliance, I agreed to marry his daughter.”
“The O’Rourke has a daughter?”
Nioclas’s steel gray eyes held his brother’s emerald green ones pointedly. “Aye. He does.”
Aidan choked as realization suddenly dawned. “You can’t be serious. You agreed to marrytheO’Rourke lass? The one who can walk into the future?”
He snorted. “She cannot walk into next month, brother. She’s not a sorceress. The whispers of her supposed powers are merely mystical stories the O’Rourkes bandied about to encourage clans to keep their distance.” Nioclas sighed. “And it worked for all but me.”
“You’re a powerful ally,” Aidan supplied helpfully. “If I were a laird, and I had a daughter, I’d want to secure your hand.”
“If you had a daughter, I’d best know about her posthaste,” Nioclas replied with a long-suffering sigh. He rubbed his hand over his eyes as if to erase the last few hours from memory.
“No daughters. Although the MacDermott lass won’t give up.”
“Stay away from the MacDermotts,” Nioclas commanded. “That clan is troublesome. They’re bloodthirsty and poor.”
Aidan held his hands up in surrender. “Aye, brother, I’m aware. She follows me like a hound.”
Nioclas snorted. “I wouldn’t say that to any other, Aidan. If MacDermott hears that his daughter’s true love thinks her to be a hound, the only price he’ll accept is your head on a stake. And then I’ll be honor-bound to marry the lass, which, thank you anyway, is something I’d rather avoid.”
