Knight Defender (Knight Chronicles) Page 9

  The women fell silent.

  “You have our attention and our concern, brother,” Lady Neilina said.

  Raeb rubbed the back of his neck. “I learned today that a debt is owed to Lord Iver MacTavish of Argyll.”

  “Does he know we have no coin and naught to offer in payment?”

  “Aye. Actually the debt was to the Lord Lachlan MacTavish, Lord Iver’s father, who passed away recently. Lord Iver states he will forgive the debt if he may have the bride of his choice from among the seven MacKai jewels.”

  Artis nodded as if she’d guessed the nature of the problem. The other sisters gasped collectively.

  “But I have hopes to marry elsewhere,” Maeve protested. “I’ll no be coerced into giving up my dreams.”

  Jessamyn could sympathize, but if her family’s survival depended on giving up those dreams, she might be more willing to make the sacrifice. The one thing she was certain of was that her family suffered from nothing more than her father’s overweening need to acquire the best horseflesh available.

  “We all know you wish to marry Dougal,” Neilina stated flatly. “None would ask this sacrifice of you.”

  Maeve subsided.

  “Nor would anyone wish to listen to you whine for days on end,” Artis muttered under her breath.

  Jessamyn choked back laughter at the youngest sister’s assessment of Maeve.

  “’Tis no an occasion for selfishness” was Brighde’s contribution.

  “What is known of Lord Iver?” asked Seona.

  “Very little,” Raeb said. “Rhuad MacFearann, who brought the message, said the man was about my age and arrogant.”

  Artis snickered. “He’s a Highlander. Of course the man’s arrogant.”

  “Be serious,” Brighde admonished. “Raeb is asking us no only to sacrifice our futures but to do so with a man of unknown character.”

  “I do not know the man,” Jessamyn spoke up. “But one of my brothers was acquainted with Lord Iver before he inherited. What Amis had to say of MacTavish is not pleasant. According to my brother, Lord Iver is a cross between a pirate and a reiver, with a care-for-nobody attitude and a tendency to use women then cast them off when he loses interest.”

  “So you would have one of us wed a thief and whoremonger?” Brighde asked.

  Raeb rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands. “With all due respect to Lady Jessamyn and her brother, the information she gives us is from the past when Lord Iver had no responsibilities. Now that he’s inherited his title he must seek a bride and get an heir of his own. His father had been widowed for some time. No doubt Iver seeks a woman who can help run his household. And it sounds as if he doesna spend much time at his castle, so you mightna have to endure his company much.”

  “’Tis all speculation, Raeb,” Seona said.

  “Aye, but until the man presents himself to choose one of you, speculation is all we have.”

  “You have committed us to this course then?” Neilina asked.

  “As I said, ’tis a debt our family owes his, and one we canna afford to pay. He’s offered us an honorable way out.”

  “What of Jessamyn’s dowry?” Seona spoke, but every head turned in Jess’s direction.

  Oh heavens, with the best will in the world she could not give up the dowry. “It is not really mine or your brother’s until we are wed, and that will not happen until midsummer.”

  Her gaze met Raeb’s, and the gratitude she read there surprised her.

  “I’d prefer no to use the dowry,” he said. “For we need that coin to restore and repair things at Dungarob.”

  The sisters sat back.

  “Aye, that makes sense,” Seona said. “We all know that Jessamyn’s dowry is the means to recovery for Clan MacKai, and we are all grateful for it.”

  Six heads nodded.

  “Then ’tis up to us to give Raeb an answer,” Neilina announced. “He is marrying for the good of the clan—though I hope ’twill prove a happy match for both of you. Those of us who have no interests elsewhere will have to examine our consciences and decide accordingly.”

  “When will Lord Iver come to make his choice?” Seona asked.

  “About two weeks before midsummer. But I must send him a reply accepting or rejecting his offer within the next day.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Now all heads turned to Keeva. Jessamyn had nearly forgotten about her. How would such a shy, unassuming woman fare if matched with an arrogant boor of MacTavish’s reputation?

  Artis nodded. “We need more than one volunteer. I am willing.”

  Raeb eyed his youngest sister. “You are too young. I’ll no permit it.”

  The girl sighed but did not argue.

  “I volunteer,” said Brighde. “The man sounds to be a godless oaf and could probably benefit from someone bringing him the word of God.”

  Artis rolled her eyes but pressed her lips together. Jessamyn had to admire the youngest MacKai’s restraint.

  “I volunteer as well,” Seona said. “If the MacTavish household needs management, I am best suited for that.”

  Raeb nodded. “I thank all three of you and give you the night to consider. If you change your mind by morning, you must tell me. I will inform Lord Iver that four of my sisters are promised to others already and tell him that he may chose among the three of you. I will name you all in my letter to him. Rhuad MacFearann has agreed to deliver the message and will leave just before noon tomorrow.”

  Jessamyn had to admire all of the sisters. Save for Maeve’s brief outburst, they’d each handled a difficult request in their own calm and orderly manner. Her opinion of Raeb MacKai rose as well. He could not have found asking such a sacrifice of his sisters easy.

  “’Tis late,” announced Neilina as she stood. “We’d best all find our beds. Lady Jessamyn, walk back to the hall with us?”

  Jessamyn rose with the others. “Yes, please.”

  Raeb unbarred the door and let them out. He took Jessamyn’s arm as she passed by. “Thank you, for your help and for not interfering. I hope you will forgive my earlier behavior.”

  “’Twas not my place to interfere, and ’tis nothing to forgive.” She stared at his mouth and nodded. The memory of his lips on hers, the undeniable comfort of his arms held her hostage. She could not want him, would not. She would keep her virtue and her dreams. Men, as her father had taught her, cared naught for anyone’s wishes. And still she stared. In her head a small voice whispered, “Has he not just spent time and effort considering his sisters’ hopes and desires?”

  One instance of thoughtfulness does not make him different from any other man.

  “Perhaps,” and the voice fell silent.

  His brows rose. “You almost make me wish ...”

  “Are you coming, Lady Jessamyn?” Artis asked.

  “I’ll be but a moment,” she replied. Then she focused on Raeb. “What is it you wish?”

  He shook his head. “’Tis nothing. Goodnight, Jessamyn Du Grace.” He bussed her cheek then released her arm before striding away. She stood a moment, a confusing ache that absolutely could not be loss centered in her heart. She ignored the feeling and hurried to catch up with his sisters.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In an effort to distract all the women from the anxiety of MacTavish’s looming choice. Jessamyn spent the next few weeks riding the hills and glens of the MacKai holding with one or more of Raeb’s sisters. With midsummer little more than a month off, she came to know the sisters and their individual strengths. Seona would make the best bride for an unpredictable and arrogant man. Brighde would be happier as a nun, and MacTavish would probably agree. If he chose the strenuously devout woman, he might just send her back before he ever got her to Argyll. Then there was Keeva. Quiet, shy, and self-effacing, she would never survive marriage to a man of MacTavish’s reputation. The other sisters worried as well and pestered Artis to try to see the future and determine who the chosen bride would be. Artis had glowered at them all
and reminded them that her “gift” did not work that way. She would say only that she was certain MacTavish would end up with the right wife.

  Thinking Artis wise beyond her years, Jessamyn threw herself into a frenzy of activity with the excuse of distracting the sisters. She did not wish to admit that she, too, needed distraction. For since the day Margery and Brighde had interrupted that passionate embrace, Raeb had reverted to avoiding her, even to the point of rudeness. Worse, it seemed she cared, when it was the last thing she wanted. She would let nothing stand in the way of her dreams and could only pray for a ship to arrive soon, allowing her to escape from the man and the feelings he roused.

  A day came when the sisters were all occupied, and Jessamyn found herself at loose ends. She’d ridden so much in the past few weeks that she knew Persia would be grateful for a rest. Nor did she think the mare would tolerate her rider’s peculiar mood. She’d found herself wool-gathering all morning.

  She wandered away from the stable, watching the activity around her. A child in tattered clothing kept watch over a small flock of chickens near where the smokehouse belched gray clouds into the sky. Nearby a blacksmith labored over his forge, but careful observation showed he re-worked old metal and had no new supply to shape.

  Even the brewery had few kegs in view, empty or full, and no visible stores of barley or hops. She saw some small sacks of oats and a scattering of beehives for the harvest of honey, but nothing like what she knew a keep with this size population would need to survive long term. Maybe they had stores located elsewhere, but from conversation with the sisters, Jessamyn felt certain poverty was the most likely cause. She had the means to relieve Dungarob’s destitution. Because she would not, perhaps a place in Purgatory waited for her. The decision cost her more than a few hours of sleep. But no man—or woman—could serve two masters, and the nuns of St. Bartholomew’s had needs as great as Clan MacKai.

  As she approached the great gate and the portcullis, she noted shocking signs of disrepair—rusted iron and rotted wood. They would not serve to protect the keep. Should an enemy conquer the difficult approach, they would find little to bar the way into the bailey. Even worse, the curtain wall foundation crumbled in a number of places. Only laziness or poverty could account for such neglect to maintain necessary defenses. She did not believe the cause was laziness.

  No one she saw was idle. Even the smallest child worked at some task. Nor was the baron an exception. On the rare occasions when she spotted him, he was training with the other knights or laboring over some task with the common folk.

  Today she discovered him shirtless and using his body to brace up the rotting post that did little to support one half of the main gate. His arm and shoulder muscles bunched when he grasped the post on both sides. As he lifted, his lower back and buttocks tensed. Dizzy, she found herself leaning against the nearest wall. Trained to recognize good muscle when she saw it, a man’s naked torso should not have affected her so. It must be the intensity of the sun. Since the post still carried the weight of the gate as well, he shook with the strain of holding it upright. Sunlight gleamed on the sheen of sweat that covered his back. A droplet or two slipped down the slick surface to disappear beneath the waist of his breeches. Jessamyn licked her lips and swallowed. Anyone would, she assured herself, watching such thirsty work.

  On the ground to his near side lay a set of newly made iron hinges and a freshly hewn post. Clearly the intent was to remove the old post and frayed leather hinges then replace them. On his far side, a group of men and women dug at the soggy ground that mired the majority of the gate.

  “’Tis hard work, my lord,” remarked an old woman who observed the activities. Her gnarled hands gripped a worn wooden cane that she used to push aside dirt from around the post. “But ’twould be impossible w’out yer help. I thankee for lending us yer strength this day.”

  “’Tis I who must thank you, Mistress Foster. Your example has made it much easier getting others to leave their usual tasks to aid in this one.” The baron grunted and nodded in the direction of the young men and women making inroads on the muddy obstacle.

  “Och,” the woman scoffed. “’Tis ye they follow. Ye provided a puir widda wi’ a home and food when me own clan turned me out because I’d no gold t’ offer for th’ shack my man could only afford to rent. Worked himself t’ th’ bone t’ keep a roof over us.” She shook her head. “We should have left. He might still be alive, if we had.”

  “We can never know.”

  A great shout from the other workers interrupted the conversation. Raeb looked up.

  “’Tis done, my lord MacKai,” one of the workers called. “Th’ gate is free of the mire.”

  “Excellent,” he acknowledged. “All of you put your strength into lifting the gate upward, while I remove this old post. Mistress Foster, cut loose the leather hinges. Then move back while the rest of your fellows shift the gate away.”

  “Aye.” She did as he asked then scuttled to a safe distance several paces nearer to Jessamyn as the gate was moved and laid carefully on dryer ground.

  Jessamyn watched in fascination as the baron shifted his grip and adjusted his stance. Then he embraced the post and, using the force of his entire body, twisted the post upward. Sweat streamed from the straining tendons in his neck and arms.

  The post crept slowly upward until suddenly it broke free of the ground. The huge piece of wood tilted, bending Raeb at an awkward angle.

  Jessamyn gasped in unison with the watching crowd of workers. Pray heaven, do not let him be crushed.

  If asked she could not have described the agile move that shifted the balance of weight and ended with the tree trunk-sized post held aloft in the baron’s rugged grip.

  “Watch out,” he yelled.

  The observing crowd ran for cover. Jessamyn ran with them, turning to watch just as the baron heaved the gatepost halfway across the bailey.

  Another cheer went up from the crowd. Then several men ran to the old post, attacking it with axes.

  “Firewood for all who share in this labor, as soon as we set the new post and attach the new hinges and gate,” Raeb announced.

  Jessamyn remained where she was, watching the group reverse the process they’d just completed, planting the new post, securing hinges to the post then gate to hinges. She might not like the baron, but she had to respect a man who used his strength for the common good. A man who gave badly needed firewood to common folk while smoky peat burned within the keep proper. A man as passionate in defense of his land, people, and family as he was skilled in kissing. She knew he was generous with his time, strength, and material goods. He cared deeply about his sisters and did not shrink from facing them with difficult decisions. Yet he ran from her, who had less power over him than the humblest crofter. If he feared the incendiary lust that burned between them, he was right to do so. But she did not think him a coward, so something more must cause him to avoid her. Since she preferred to confront problems, it was past time to force the issue.

  Raeb, with the help of two other men, was checking the movement of the new gate. His back to her, he bent to adjust the fit of the lower hinge. Jessamyn moved to a position that prevented the gate from closing.

  The clansmen halted when they saw her. Knowing grins stared at her from a dozen faces. Had rumors of that kiss spread? Only Brigdhe could have spoken of it. Margery never would. Or perhaps Raeb MacKai boasted of how she’d not resisted him? The knave. She’d give him something more important to worry about.

  Raeb continued fussing with the fit of the hinge until he became aware of the silence.

  “What ails all of you?” He turned as he spoke and spotted her.

  A light of welcome flashed in his storm dark eyes and dimmed almost before she saw it. A glare and clenched fists replaced the flash of light. Did she imagine it? So what if he is glad to see me and does not wish to be? He needs a lesson on what it means to be on the receiving end of such confusing expressions. She put on her sweetest smile and cu
rtsied.

  “Good day to you, Baron MacKai.” Pausing long enough for his speaking silence to grow awkward, she turned on her heel and left, but not before she saw his mouth drop open. A whisper of amused titters accompanied her.

  That night, after another supper spent listening to the chatter of his sisters, she contemplated how many other ways she might school Raeb MacKai before she left Scotland for good.

  • • •

  Raeb cursed the slowness with which the evening meal passed. Every moment spent near Jessamyn Du Grace was a moment in Hades. She was thoughtful, kind, generous, and challenging, to say naught of her beauty and modesty. Oh, and deceitful. He must not forget the performance she gave the day she arrived or that devilish performance this afternoon. She was dangerous, and to keep safe his plans he’d stay as far from his betrothed as possible. Jessamyn’s dowry may be the saving of Clan MacKai, but the woman herself could cause a man to lay heart, secrets, and all at her feet. She’d stomp on the heart and spread the secrets far and wide just because she could, especially if she’d no love for her victim. Good thing he didn’t love her either.

  He envied Artis, who left the great hall early for some reason known only to her. His youngest sister needed the guidance of an older woman, and she dealt well with Jessamyn—better than with her siblings. ’Twas a shame Jessamyn could not be that woman.

  The sweets were being served when a squire came with a request from Artis that Lady Jessamyn was needed in the stables immediately.

  “Persia?” Without waiting for a reply from the squire, Jessamyn rose and hurried from the keep.

  Raeb breathed a short sigh of relief as temptation left the hall. But why had Artis asked for Jess, not him? A call to the stables from his youngest sibling usually meant an injury to an animal that required his strength. Jessamyn had greater strength in body and mind than he’d ever imagined, but surely the type of problem Artis dealt with needed more muscle than Jessamyn could offer.