Margaret Mallory - The Guardian

“I’ll wait to go to Dunscaith Castle until I know which way the wind blows,” Connor said, as they dragged the boat above the tide line. “Duncan and I will take Shaggy’s boat to the other side of Sleat and find out the sentiment there.”

“I still think I should go with ye,” Ian said.

Connor shook his head. “We’ll send word or come find ye in two or three days. In the meantime, talk to your father. He’ll know what the men are thinking on this part of the island.”

“I know ye can’t mean to leave your best fighting man out of this,” Alex said. “Should I come with ye or go north to hear what the folks there are saying?”

“Stay with Ian,” Connor said, the white of his teeth bright in the growing darkness. “He faces the greatest danger.”

“Verra funny.” At the thought of Sìleas, he took another swig from the jug—and choked when Alex elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“You’d best give Ian a full week,” Alex said. “Ye don’t want him leaving his poor wife wanting after such a long wait.”

The others laughed for the first time since they had heard the news about Connor’s father.

Ian, however, was not amused.

“I have no wife,” he repeated.

“Sìleas’s lands are important to the clan, especially Knock Castle,” Connor said, draping an arm across Ian’s shoulders. “It protects our lands on the eastern shore. We can’t have it falling into the hands of the MacKinnons.”

“What are ye saying?” Ian asked between clenched teeth.

“Ye know verra well my father did not force ye to wed Sìleas out of concern for the girl’s virtue. He wanted Knock Castle in the hands of his nephew.”

“Ye can’t be trying to tell me to accept Sìleas as my wife.”

Connor squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “All I’m asking is that you consider the needs of the clan.”

Ian shrugged Connor’s hand off him. “I’m telling ye now, I’ll no keep this marriage.”

“Well, if ye don’t,” Connor said, “then ye must find a man we can trust to take your place.”

“Perhaps ye should wait until you’re chieftain before ye start giving orders,” Ian snapped.

CHAPTER 3

ON THE SLEAT PENINSULA OF THE ISLE OF SKYE

The wind whipped at Sìleas’s cloak as she stood with their nearest neighbor, Gòrdan Graumach MacDonald, on a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. The mountains of the mainland were black against the darkening sky. Despite the damp cold that penetrated her bones and the need to get home to help with supper, something held her.

“How much longer will ye give Ian?” Gòrdan asked.

Sìleas watched a boat crossing the strait, its outline barely visible in the fading light, as she considered his question.

When she didn’t answer, Gòrdan said, “ ’Tis past time you gave up on him.”

Give up on Ian? Could she do that? It was the question she asked herself every day now.

She had loved Ian for as long as she could remember. Almost from the time she could walk, she had planned to marry him. She smiled to herself, remembering how kind he had been to her, despite the teasing he got from the men and other lads for letting a wee lass half his size follow him like a lost puppy.

“Five years he’s kept ye waiting,” Gòrdan pressed. “That’s more time than any man deserves.”

“That’s true enough.” Sìleas brushed back the hair whipping across her face.

Her wedding was the worst memory of her life—and she was a woman with plenty of bad memories to choose from. There had been no time for the usual traditions that made a wedding a celebration and brought luck to a new marriage. No gifts and well-wishes from the neighbors. No washing of the bride’s feet. No ring. No carrying the bride over the threshold.

And certainly no sprinkling of the bed with holy water—not with Ian threatening to toss the priest down the stairs when he attempted to go with them up to the bedchamber.

None of the traditions for luck were kept, save for the one. Ian’s mother insisted Sìleas wear a new gown, though Sìleas didn’t see how a bit more bad luck on top of what she already had could make a difference. Regardless, Ian’s mother wouldn’t hear of her wearing the filthy gown she had arrived in. Unfortunately, the only new gown to be had upon an hour’s notice was one Ian’s mother had made for herself.

Sìleas rushed through her bath, barely washing, so she would be out and dressed before Ian’s mother returned to help her. Quickly, she dabbed at the long gashes across her back so she would leave no telltale blood on the borrowed gown.

When she slipped the gown over her head, it floated about her like a sack. She looked down at where the bodice sagged, exaggerating her lack. If that were not bad enough, she wanted to weep at the color. Such a violent shade of red would look lovely on Ian’s dark-haired mother, but it made Sìleas’s hair look orange and her skin blotchy.

When Ian’s mother burst in the room, her startled expression before she smoothed it confirmed Sìleas’s worst fears.

“ ’Tis a shame we can’t alter it,” his mother said, clucking her tongue. “But ye know that brings a bride bad luck.”

Sìleas was sure the gown’s color canceled out any good luck its unaltered state was likely to bring her. A bride was supposed to wear blue.

Then came the worst part of all. As she descended the stairs, with his mother’s hand at her back pushing her forward, she heard Ian shouting at his father. His words were the last blow that nearly felled her.

Have ye taken a good look at her, da? I tell ye, I will not have her. I’ll no say my vows.

But with his father, his chieftain, and a dozen armed clansman surrounding him, Ian did say them.

Sìleas blinked when Gòrdan stepped in front of her and took hold of her shoulders, bringing her sharply back to the present.

“Don’t try to kiss me again,” she said, turning her head. “Ye know it’s not right.”

“What I know is that ye deserve a husband who will love and honor ye,” Gòrdan said. “I want to be that man.”

“You’re a good man, and I like ye.” Gòrdan was fine looking as well, with rich brown hair and warm hazel eyes. “But I keep thinking that once Ian returns, he’ll…”

He’ll what? Fall on his knees and beg my forgiveness? Tell me he regretted every single day he was away?

Truth be told, she wasn’t ready to be married when they wed. She had needed another year or two before becoming a true wife. But five years! Each day Ian didn’t return deepened the wound. By now, she should have a babe in her arms and another grabbing at their skirts, like most women her age. She wanted children. And a husband.

Sìleas drew in a deep breath of the sharp, salty air. It was one humiliation after another. Ian could pretend they were not wed, because he was living among a thousand French folk who did not know it. But she lived with his family on this island in the midst of their clan.

Where every last person knows Ian has left me here waiting.

“If you cannot ask for an annulment…” Gòrdan let the question hang unfinished.

Though she could ask for an annulment, she could not tell even Gòrdan that—at least, not yet. She had been lectured on that point quite severely by both Ian’s father and the chieftain. If her MacKinnon relatives heard that her marriage was never consummated, they would attempt to steal her away, declare the marriage invalid, and force her to wed one of their own.

Yet her marriage to Ian was not a trial marriage, as most were. Through some miracle, the chieftain had found a priest. The chieftain had wanted them bound—and her castle firmly in the hands of the MacDonalds of Sleat.