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  Aila entered her father's solar with some difficulty, since her feet grew heavier with every step. Confirming her fears, MacLaren stood next to her father. The two imposing men stared at her, saying nothing. This could not be good. Her father folded his large arms across his massive chest and turned to MacLaren.

  Aila was struck at the change in MacLaren. She had known him years ago when he had been a friend to her brother. The warrior now before her hardly resembled the braw, cocksure young man who had left Scotland to fight the English in France. He looked older, his slate eyes cold. A red scar carved a wicked path from the corner of his left eye down to his chin.

  "Well?" demanded her father.

  MacLaren looked her up and down in a manner that brought heat to her face.

  "Aye, I'll have her."

  Aila's mouth dropped open, and she stared at one, then the other. MacLaren frowned and turned to Laird Graham.

  "Ye've no' told her then?"

  "I've told no one," replied her father. "Watch yer back, laddie. I warrant there will be some what will take offense to yer marriage."

  Marriage?

  Two

  "WHAT DO YE MEAN, 'MARRIAGE'?" AILA'S VOICE squeaked. What was happening?

  Her father spoke with authority. "I mean ye to marry MacLaren here. He's a good lad and will be kind to ye." Graham gave MacLaren a hard look. "Or ye'll be answering to me, laddie."

  "Aye, m'lord."

  "But I'm for the convent…"

  Her father sighed. "Nay, lass. Since yer brother, along wi' most o' our kin, died at Neville's Cross, unless I sire another son, ye stand to inherit all my holdings. I'll no' be giving all of Dundaff to the Church, no' wi' Barrick as abbot. He'd be turning out my tenants afore I was cold in the ground. Nay, I owe more to our clan than that. And I'll be damned if I let that bastard McNab have ye." Graham's voice raised and he pounded his fist in his hand. "Now, we are to the Church."

  "Now?" MacLaren and Aila spoke as one.

  "Aye, children, let's be done wi' it."

  "But, father, I canna… Ye dinna mean… marry

  him?" It was unfortunate that coherent speech chose that moment to abandon her. Aila felt slightly dizzy, as if the air in the room had gone thin. MacLaren was uncom monly large, his even larger claymore strapped to his back. This man could not be her future. She was going to be a nun. She had been promised to the Church as a young girl, and a new convent and monastery had been built on her dower lands—lands that would be given to the Church. Marriage was not possible.

  "Daughter," said Graham in a low voice that resonated with danger, "I say ye will marry MacLaren, and marry ye will." Graham looked at Aila, then MacLaren, as if daring either to brook opposition. "'Tis time to be wed."

  In numb silence, Aila followed her father as he limped across the courtyard to the tower chapel, MacLaren directly behind her. She sensed his presence behind her and knew he was staring at her. A shiver went up her spine, and the nape of her neck tingled.

  As they crossed the courtyard, a tall, attractive knight Aila had never seen before fell into step with MacLaren. He spoke to MacLaren quietly in French, and though it was not good manners, Aila strained to hear their conversation.

  "How did it go with Graham?" asked the tall knight.

  "I'm getting married," replied MacLaren evenly, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

  "What, now?"

  "Oui."

  "Are you ready for it?"

  "No."

  "Will you go through with it?"

  The question remained unanswered as they entered the chapel tower and marched up the stairs. Aila followed her father blindly, feeling naught but a hazy bewilderment. At the landing before the chapel door, Laird Graham left them to speak privately with the priest. Aila turned to MacLaren, her future hanging on his answer to the French knight.

  MacLaren looked appraisingly at Aila, causing her once again to fluster. Men did not look that way at her. Everyone knew she was bound for the convent. Besides, she knew there was nothing in her appearance that would interest a man. Her kirtle was plain and modestly cut. A white linen wimple covered all of her hair and wrapped around her chin, revealing nothing of her mass of red curls. Her face she knew to be plain, her ivory complexion hiding none of the freckles no amount of buttermilk could wash away. Worst of all, at least according to her mother, she had grown much too tall.

  MacLaren continued his assessment in a manner most unchivalrous. It would have been more modest to look away, but with a rising sense of indignation, Aila squared her shoulders and met his gaze. Perhaps if he saw her undesirable features more clearly, he would change his mind about proceeding with the union.

  "Aye, we'll be wed," MacLaren answered in Gaelic with a tone of finality.

  Aila's knees gave way and she stumbled to a bench beside the chapel door. How could this be happening? This could not possibly be real. Surely she would awaken soon. She felt the lump in her pocket and pulled out the yarrow plant, staring at it suspiciously. She knew St. John's Eve was a dangerous time, for mischievous spirits were abroad, but she hardly thought a little plant could be quite this magical. What was in this thing?

  Aila put her head in her hands, her mind having difficulty keeping pace with all that was happening around her. Up until this morning, her life had been utterly predictable. She knew her duty well. She was to tend to her ailing mother until she passed, and then she would take her vows. Her mother! Saints above, her mother would be furious to find her married. Her ears burned thinking of what her mother would say. And how could she possibly explain this to the sisters of St. Margaret's? What would her mentor, Sister Enid, think?

  Trying to focus her thoughts, Aila considered all she knew of this man her father wished her to wed. MacLaren had returned to the Highlands less than a year ago, after spending many years in France fighting against the English. He must have been successful, since he had been knighted for valor and brought back a considerable force of seasoned warriors. She also knew that MacLaren's clan had suffered during his five-year absence, and he returned to find there was not much left. Aila's thoughts were interrupted by the laughter of the French knight.

  "Faith, man, not like that, I pray," said the French knight to MacLaren in a jovial tone. "You cannot intend to enter the house of our Lord wearing naught but a blanket." Apparently, the French knight took issue with MacLaren's Highland garb. At the well-dressed Frenchman's chastisement, Aila thought to remove the simple smock she used to cover her silk kirtle.

  "I'll leave it to ye to be concerned wi' fashion. I'll no' compete wi' ye on that score," MacLaren answered without concern.

  "Few men can, to be sure," replied the Frenchman immodestly.

  Since the men were paying her no heed, Aila took a moment to make her own assessment of the two knights. They were both tall, well-formed, and moved with the fluid grace of skilled warriors. The Frenchman was a wee bit taller and slimmer. He was richly dressed in the latest court fashion and stunningly handsome, as he was clearly well aware.

  Despite the Frenchman's fine looks, it was MacLaren who held her gaze. MacLaren was dressed in the rough attire of the Highlander. His large plaid was belted at his waist and thrown over one shoulder, pinned to his linen shirt. It was not a garb worn frequently by her clan, but living on the border of the Highlands, she was accustomed to their style of dress. The plaid revealed his lower legs and, occasionally—she noted with a sudden skip of her heart—a glimpse of a muscular thigh.

  Aila swallowed hard. MacLaren was as tall as her father, with broad shoulders and a powerful presence. Yet where her father was large and barrel-chested, MacLaren was more lean and muscular. His black wavy hair fell about his face in an unkempt manner, framing his gray eyes, cold as granite. She had spent her entire life preparing for the convent, praying with the sisters, studying the scriptures. Nothing had prepared her for this. MacLaren turned toward Aila and caught her staring. He raised an eyebrow, and this time she had the decency to turn away with a blush.
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  "Come now, children," Graham said, bursting back onto the landing, his large frame dominating the small space. "The priest is ready to proceed."

  Moments later, Aila was in front of the altar, standing beside Sir Padyn MacLaren. Father Thomas, the elderly priest who served Dundaff, recited the order of marriage from memory, though in his dotage he could remember little else. Aila was speeding toward a precipice and would soon fall if she did not act quickly. She tried to think of what to do, but her brain seemed to move at the speed of day-old porridge. She prayed for guidance but received no discernible answer. She glanced around, desperate for someone to come to her aid, but the elderly priest prattled along, oblivious to her concern. Her father stood, looking determined, the tall knight seemed quite amused by the whole scene, and MacLaren did naught but stare grimly down at her.

  The priest reached the point of asking MacLaren the covenantal questions of marriage, which he answered in the affirmative without any hesitation. Yet his grasp on Aila's hands tightened until she gasped. He released her instantly, a flash of surprise flickering across his otherwise expressionless face. The priest posed the same questions to her. She looked at her father, who gave her a curt nod to proceed. Still she hesitated. Aila waited for some sign as to what to do. MacLaren said nothing, but gently claimed her hands, his hands rough, yet warm. Looking up at MacLaren, she was captured by his gaze. Though his face remained expres sionless, his eyes told a different tale. She guessed there was much behind the cold mask he wore.

  "Do you take this man?" the priest asked again. Aila gathered the frayed edges of her courage and took a deep breath.

  Three

  MACLAREN LOOKED DOWN AT THE WOMAN HE WAS about to marry as she struggled to find an answer to the priest. She appeared to be as happy to be standing at the altar as he was. Perhaps she would say no. A twinge of relief crept through him at the thought. Go on, lass, turn me down.

  He glanced at Chaumont and wished he had not. The bastard was grinning like a fool, obviously taking vicious delight in this turn of circumstance. Chaumont had proved his courage and skill in the crucible of battle and earned his place as MacLaren's second in command, yet the Frenchman had an irritating habit of always finding amusement in life, often at MacLaren's expense. Chaumont was most decidedly laughing at him. Perhaps with good cause. MacLaren wished he had not been so adamant in vowing never to marry. After his disastrous engage ment to Marguerite, he'd sworn he would never trust another woman. And now here he was at the altar. Well, trusting and marrying were two distinctly different things.

  MacLaren turned back to glare at his reticent bride. The proposal he'd received from Graham yesterday was most unexpected and one he could ill afford to refuse. As part of the proposed alliance, MacLaren was to fight against Graham's enemies, and in return, Graham would give MacLaren his daughter Aila in marriage. More importantly for his clan, MacLaren would get her dowry. Graham needed warriors; MacLaren needed land. It was a fair trade. Aila's fortune would provide for his clan.

  Whatever his personal feelings on the matter, MacLaren knew his duty. He had returned from France to find his clan impoverished, his herds raided, his fields fallow. He had done what he could to rebuild, but he needed coin for the clan and addi tional land for the knights he had brought back with him from France. His men deserved their reward. Aila's dowry, along with the hope of inheriting all of Dundaff someday, amply provided for all.

  The wench only needed to say "aye." MacLaren scowled down at Aila, waiting for her to give her answer. Behind him, Graham cleared his throat and glared at his only offspring. Aila blanched but continued to dither. Since there was naught to do but wait, MacLaren took another good look at his maybe bride.

  Aila was a bit tall for a lass but had a trim figure, at least from what he could tell from her modestly cut kirtle. A large white wimple covered all of her hair, and she was a bit long in the tooth to be still unmarried. He quickly did the math based on what he recalled from his friendship with her brother; MacLaren was twenty-six, which would make Aila about twenty-two. Old for a first marriage, but if she had been intended for the convent, it would explain why she had not married earlier. Her face was pleasant, and he could find no obvious fault with it, except the poor lass looked terrified. She looked up at him, and the green of her eyes caught his attention. His stomach did a sudden flip. Odd… must be marriage did not agree with him.

  He continued to gaze into her eyes, unable to turn away. With sudden clarity, he decided he did want her to consent to the marriage. The longer he looked into her eyes, the more certain he became. He took her hands in his, enveloping her cold hands with his warm ones. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened. A tingle flushed through him, warming places he thought long dead. Everyone else faded away. Marry me. He gently rubbed the palms of her hands. Marry me.

  "I do."

  A slap on the shoulder brought MacLaren back to reality. Chaumont was smiling like a fox in a henhouse. MacLaren scowled. He was not sure what had come over him. He could not possibly be weak enough to be tricked again by a woman's beauty. Not again. Never again. He glared down at Aila. He was not sure what power she thought she could wield over him, but he would have none of it. She was his wife by Church and by contract, nothing more. He would do his duty by her. His heart would not be touched.

  With a bow to the altar and a curt nod to the priest and Laird Graham, MacLaren led Aila outside. Best not to look at her. Might fall into the trap of those

  eyes again. They were quite remarkable eyes, but no matter. He would not be deceived again.

  Blinking dazedly into the sunlight, Aila walked out of the chapel tower on the arm of her new husband. What had happened? Was she truly… married?

  "Fire!" The yell came from a lookout on the castle wall.

  "Fire on the fields!" The cry was taken up by watchtowers throughout the castle. Without a glance at his new bride, MacLaren took off, running down to the lower bailey, with the French knight close at his heels. Aila's father hobbled behind.

  "Go at 'em, lads!" bellowed Graham to his new son-in-law as they ran ahead. "Saddle me a horse. We'll get the bastards this time!"

  Aila stood alone, watching them run away, wondering when she would awake from this most odd dream. With a bland smile, Father Thomas shuffled out of the tower.

  "Father." She acknowledged the elderly priest as he came up beside her.

  The old cleric smiled and took her hand with a squeeze. "There's a good lass, Molly."

  "No' Molly," said Aila a little louder, leaning over to yell into the old man's ear. "I'm Aila, Aila Graham… er… MacLaren."

  "Lady Aila?" asked the priest with surprise. "Why I have a message for ye, I do." He pulled a folded parch ment from his robes, handed it to her, and continued to shuffle along his way.

  Wondering who could have possibly written her, Aila broke the seal. The brief contents had been dictated by Sister Enid, her dear friend from St. Margaret's Convent.

  My Dearest Lady Aila,

  I am writing to warn you against falling away from the path of righteousness. I am deeply concerned that you may soon be pressured to marry. Remember you are promised to Christ alone, so take great care to remain true to your commitment to the Most High Lord. I fear the ungodly may try to lead you astray, so I urge you most fervently to take your final vows and join the convent with all possible haste. In this regard, the abbot and I are of one mind. I hope to embrace you soon as a fellow Sister in Christ.

  Your friend in the Lord,

  Sister Enid

  Aila read over the missive twice, trying to under stand its contents. A horrid sinking feeling gripped her, and her stomach dropped as if plummeting from the tallest tower. Had she done wrong by marrying MacLaren? How could she have defied her father? Her neatly ordered world was shaken all to pieces. What kind of man was she married to? For a moment in the chapel, he had looked at her in a way no one had before. In his eyes, she believed she had seen interest, kindness, maybe even compassion. Yet when she
had consented to the marriage, he turned away and ignored her once more. What was she to do now?

  Despite it being unladylike, Aila sat down on the chapel-tower stairs and put her head in her hands. It was all too much. Around her, the castle dwellers and village burghers went about their daily business, oblivious to her distress.

  "What is she doing?" Aila heard the whispered question as someone passed her by.

  "'Tis Lady Aila, probably deep in prayer," answered another. "She's verra pious, bound for the nunnery, ye ken."