Page 1 of The Laird's Unwanted Wife
1
Aileen stared at her reflection against the polished metal surface, the tinge of bronze and the convex shaping distorting the image that stared back at her. Even without it, she could tell that her wedding dress—as expensive as the fabric was, or how precious the shade of scarlet was used to dye it—simply did nothing to complement her in any way.
The design was made for someone with curvaceous hips and a busty bosom, aspects that Aileen sorely lacked. And bright red only worked to wash out the taupe shade of her hair, creating a terribly unflattering flush across her face.
“Laird Carswell clearly had a different image of his wife-to-be,” Aileen sighed softly, pulling at the hem of her sleeve in an attempt to salvage the overall look. But there simply wasn’t anything that could be done. Not when the ceremony was quite literally on her doorstep.
Even now, the gentle thrum of fiddles could be heard from the outer courtyard, signaling the beginning of what would be the end of her betrothal period. She glanced across the bronze mirror, eyeing the careful detailing of knotwork along its frame. It truly was a beautiful piece; the only memento her brother allowed her to take once the time came to move into Castle Carswell.
‘Ye can fill yer hand with the Laird’s own, or ye can have yer hands empty for the rest of yer life.’
Aileen shuddered slightly, the blunt words of her brother somehow jabbing into her chest like knives. He had been right, of course; a bastard like her had no future within the MacGunn clan. This was her best chance at a proper life, one not relegated to the cold, unforgiving cruelty of the Highlands. “And nae just for me own life,” she reminded herself curtly. “Ye’re doing this for Mollie.”
The reminder seemed to help calm whatever nerves had worked their way into her fingers, having still been fidgeting with her sleeves until this moment. She smoothed her gown with one more glance at the mirror, following the intricate metalwork of the knots and imagery.
As she briefly imagined her own life undone, a knot unspooled and branched in several directions. But, with a sudden outcry of bagpipes just outside her chambers, Aileen quickly banished the thought and turned to the doorway. It would all be over soon enough; she just had to get through the ceremony in one piece.
The kin of Carswell were decent enough folk, if Aileen were being honest with herself. She had grown used to a life without being noticed, walking throughout the keep without so much as a glance thrown her way.
But when she and Mollie had first arrived at the gates of Carswell, both kinfolk and servants alike treated her as if she had grown up right alongside them. She experienced genuine eye contact for the first time in years, was asked multiple times for her thoughts, feelings, and her opinions on matters both grand and mundane.
And now especially, she felt that heavy weight of eyes as she walked down the length of the castle’s garden. Everyone who could have conceivably fit into the courtyard had, with hardly enough chairs or benches to seat the masses.
Of course, there were only two faces Aileen was on the search for. The first was the easiest to spot, belonging to the Laird himself, Malcolm Scott. He stood at the end of the garden beneath a stone archway wound in ivy, his greying hair and beard tamed and braided in a manner befitting of his position.
Tall and well built, Aileen reminded herself that she had been quite lucky with her match. There were certainly crueler men than Malcom; those who may have found pleasure in violent acts and cruel belittlement, those who would have turned their noses up at the prospect of raising a child outside of their bloodline.
Even so, he exuded no warmth toward his betrothed, being a perfect personification of the very worst traits of wintertime. Bitter winds, biting cold, and a long, painfully slow existence; Aileen was expecting as much from their union. She had grown used to it; Malcolm’s own icy-blue eyes were reminiscent of her brother’s own. Of the farce of a relationship she had with him.
Of course, said relationships mattered very little to her. There was only one that truly mattered, one that belonged to the second face she finally picked out from the crowd, a little girl no older than six years old. Aileen could have mistaken the girl for her own brother in his youth, as she sported the same startlingly blonde-white hair and crystal-blue eyes.
But that’s where the similarities ended entirely; if both Marcus and her betrothed were the worst of what winter had to offer, her little sister was the absolute best. She was powdered snow and the beautiful glimmer of a frozen tarn, a gentle whisper as the world grew silent beneath a blanket of snow.
As soon as Mollie finally noticed, she frantically waved toward Aileen, rosy cheeks lifting beneath her wide, infectious smile. Aileen could only nod slightly back, though her own lips twitched at the antics of her sister. From beneath Mollie’s chair moved her shadow, eventually forming into the head of a massive black deerhound. Her ear twitched, staring at Aileen as if entirely uncertain who she was.
“Oh, Bannock …” Aileen made a slight face, wondering if age had finally caught up to the poor dog. She’d been around since Mollie’s birth, after all, and it was rare for a beast like her tolive as long as she had. But her deadpan expression must have caused a spark of recognition, as Bannock began to thump her tail beneath Mollie’s chair.
In turn, Mollie bent over to pat the monstrous deerhound’s head, grinning and speaking something that Aileen couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it seemed to soothe the beast further, and Bannock settled back beneath the chair, her head settled atop her paws as she continued to watch the day play out before her.
“Good girl,” Aileen whispered, turning her attention forward once more as she took her last few steps of freedom. Once she stood beside Laird Carswell, her days as Aileen Hughes came to an end. In his hands, he held a silk dyed crimson red, staring expectedly at his wife-to-be. With a deep breath, Aileen offered her wrist forward, grimacing as the silk wound tightly around her wrist.
But before she could do the same with Laird Carswell’s, one of his guards suddenly scrambled forth, having seemingly appeared and run down the garden pathway as if his life depended on it. Aileen watched as the Laird’s face twisted up in rage, his voice booming out over the instruments. “Blackbelickit, lad! What are ye doin’ trompin’ through me weddin’ like it were some muckin’ battlefield?”
The air immediately grew tense, practically frigid. A winter’s storm had been summoned by his bellowing, and everyone in the audience turned to watch what equated to a dead man walking. Or running, Aileen supposed; even after LairdCarswell’s scolding, his warrior kept pace, fighting to catch his breath before approaching his leader.
It was clear from his face that the young man was terrified of what Laird Carswell would do to him after the ceremony, but whatever was dancing on the tip of his tongue was evidently worth the punishment. “Me Laird, it’s about MacGunn’s clan. Their keep … I just received a missive from Laird MacLiddel himself!”
The warrior managed to fish a rolled parchment from his vest, and as Laird Carswell snatched it from his hands, Aileen managed to catch the wax seal. There was no doubt about it; the insignia did indeed belong to the Beast of Braeriach himself.
There and then, the message was torn open, Laird Carswell’s eyes scanning the contents as his kin stood nervously about. Glances were exchanged alongside near-silent whispers; no one wanted to further sour their laird’s already agitated mood, but their curiosity won out.
Eventually, Laird Carswell’s eyes snapped to Aileen, his gaze cold enough to freeze the very blood in her veins. “Go to yer chambers and pack yer things. This wedding willnae go forward.”
Aileen blinked, not fully processing the words. “What?”
“Are ye deaf, lass?” Laird Carswell’s tone grew louder, sharper, his frame looming dangerously over Aileen’s. “I gave ye an order.”
“I … I heard ye, but I daenae understand?” A pained cry escaped her throat as Aileen found her wrist snagged in the Laird’s grasp. A chorus of gasps erupted from the crowd, followed soon after by a snarling growl from beneath Mollie’s chair. “Stop, please!”
