Margaret Mallory - The Guardian

“I swear,” Alex said, “since Connor became chieftain, he grows more devious by the day.”

“Drunk or sober, we would have agreed,” Duncan said. “We couldn’t let Connor come himself.”

A chieftain didn’t travel the Western Isles without war galleys full of men—the risk of being taken hostage or murdered by another clan was too great. With Connor’s uncle Hugh Dubh still threatening to take the chieftainship, Connor had to keep most of his warriors at home to defend Dunscaith Castle.

The four of them—Alex, Duncan, Ian, and Connor—had returned from France to find Connor’s father dead, his blackhearted Uncle Hugh living in the chieftain’s castle, and their clan in a dire state. While they had succeeded in driving Hugh Dubh from the castle and making Connor chieftain, Hugh Dubh had escaped. Worse still, Hugh had returned to pirating with his brothers. Now, at a time when their clan was badly in need of allies, Connor’s uncles were harassing clans all over the Western Isles.

Alex and Duncan’s task, as Connor’s emissaries, was to assure the other chieftains that Connor’s uncles weren’t raping and pillaging their shores on their new chieftain’s orders.

“Ye could make this easy by marrying one of the MacNeil’s daughters,” Duncan said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“I see ye do remember how to make a joke.” Not many men teased Duncan, so Alex did his best to make up for it.

“Ye know that’s what Connor wants,” Duncan said. “He has no brothers to make marriage alliances for him—so a cousin will have to do. If ye don’t like one of the MacNeil lasses, there are plenty of other chieftains’ daughters.”

“I’d take a blade for Connor,” Alex said, losing his humor, “but I’ll no take a wife for him.”

“Connor has a way of getting what he wants,” Duncan said. “I’ll wager you’ll be wed within half a year.”

“Ye must still be drunk.” Alex sat up and grinned at his friend. “What shall we wager?”

“This galley,” Duncan said.

“Perfect.” Alex loved this boat, which was smaller and sleeker than a war galley and sliced through the water like a fish. They had been arguing over who had the better right to it ever since they had stolen it from Shaggy Maclean.

The MacNeil castle, which sat on a rock island in a bay off the coast of Barra, was in sight now.

“You’re going to miss this sweet galley,” Alex said, as he guided the boat into the bay.

A short time later, a large group of armed MacNeil warriors were escorting them inside the castle’s keep.

“I see we’ve got them scared,” Alex said in a low voice to Duncan.

“We could take them,” Duncan grunted.

“Did ye notice that there are twelve of them?” Alex asked.

“I’m no saying it would be easy.”

Alex laughed, which had the MacNeils all reaching for their swords. He was enjoying himself. Still, he hoped he and Duncan wouldn’t have to fight their way out. These were Highland warriors, not Englishmen or Lowlanders, and everyone knew MacNeils were mean and devious fighters.

Almost as mean and devious as MacDonalds.

But the MacNeils had more dangerous weapons in their arsenal. Alex heard Duncan groan beside him as they entered the hall and saw what was waiting for them.

“God save us,” escaped Alex’s lips. Three twittering lasses were sitting at the head table. The girls were pretty, but young and innocent enough to give Alex hives.

One of them wiggled her fingers at him, then her sister elbowed her in the ribs, and all three went into a fit of giggles behind their hands.

It was going to be a long evening.

“Quiet!” the chieftain thundered, and the color drained from the girls’ faces.

After exchanging greetings with Alex and Duncan, the MacNeil introduced his wife, an attractive, plump woman half his age, and his young son, who sat on her lap. Then he waved his arm toward the girls, saying, “These are my three youngest daughters. My eldest will join us soon.”

The missing daughter would be the one they’d heard about. She was rumored to be a rare beauty who had been turned out by her husband in disgrace.

She sounded like Alex’s kind of woman.

Before the chieftain could direct them where to sit, Alex and Duncan took seats at the far end from the three lasses. After a cursory prayer, wine and ale was poured, and the first courses were brought out.

Alex wanted to get their business done as soon as possible—and leave. “Our chieftain hopes to strengthen the friendship between our two clans and has sent us here on a mission of goodwill,” he began.

The MacNeil kept glancing at the doorway, his face darker each time. Though he didn’t appear to be listening to a word, Alex forged ahead.

“Our chieftain pledges that he will join ye in fighting the pirates who are harassing all our shores.”

That caught the MacNeil’s attention. In a sour tone, he asked, “Isn’t it his own uncle who leads them?”

“His half uncle,” Duncan put in, as if that explained it all.

The MacNeil chief tilted his head back to take a long drink from his cup, then slammed it on the table, sputtering and choking.

Alex followed the direction of his gaze—and almost choked on his own ale when he saw the woman. Ach, the poor thing had suffered the worst case of pox Alex had ever seen. The afflicted woman crossed the room at a brisk pace, her gaze fixed on the floor. When she took the place at the end of the table next to Alex, he had to move over to make room for her. She was quite stout, though not in a pleasing sort of way.

Alex tried not to stare at the pockmarks when he turned to greet her. But he couldn’t help it. God’s bones, these weren’t old scars—the pox were still oozing! Blood never troubled him at all, of course, but he was a wee bit squeamish about oozing sores.

“I am Alexander MacDonald.” He put on a bright smile for her, which she missed altogether because she kept her gaze on the table before her.

He waited, but when she didn’t introduce herself, he asked, “And you are?”

“Glynis.”

Since she refused to look at him, Alex could stare freely. The longer he looked, the more certain he was that the pockmarks weren’t oozing—they were melting. Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“I confess, ye have me curious, Glynis,” he said, leaning close to her ear. “What would cause a lass to give herself pockmarks?”

Glynis jerked her head up and stared at him. Despite the distracting red boils that were easing their way down her face, Alex couldn’t help noticing she had arrestingly beautiful gray eyes.

“It is unkind to poke fun at a lady’s unfortunate looks,” she said.

It was disconcerting to hear such a lovely voice come out of that alarming face. Alex let his gaze drift over her, taking in the graceful swan neck and the long, slender fingers clenching her wine cup.

“Your secret is safe with me, lass,” Alex said in a low voice. “But I suspect your family already knows it’s a disguise.”

He was hoping for a laugh, but he got none.

“Come,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Ye must tell me why ye did it.”

She took a deep drink from her wine, then said, “So ye wouldn’t want to marry me, of course.”

Alex laughed. “I fear ye went to a good deal of trouble for no purpose, for I have no intention of leaving here with a wife. But does it happen to ye often that men see ye once and want to marry ye?”

“My father says men are fools for beauty, so I couldn’t take the risk.”

The woman said this with utter seriousness. Alex hadn’t been this amused in some time—and he was a man easily amused.

“No matter how lovely ye are beneath the padding and paste,” Alex said, “ye are quite safe from finding wedded bliss with me.”