The Seer - Hildie McQueen Page 0,33

and Fiona, whose wedding was scheduled for seven days henceforth.

Before he could get his bearings and turn around to face the room, Dallis grabbed his hands and pulled him across the room as people watched. They rounded a staircase and out a side door to the garden.

“Are ye as overwhelmed as I?” Her gaze searched his face as she bit down on her bottom lip. “It’s so unexpected. Although I must admit, my father is a fair man and wants me to be happy above all.” She fiddled with his tunic front and dropped her gaze. “Say something.”

With tender care, he cupped her face and lifted it. “I am more than pleased.” With that he covered her mouth with his. It was not the kiss he wanted to give, for in his mind, there was little to keep from taking his soon to be wife fully. However, no doubt the people inside the great room watched the door for their re-entrance.

“Come, we should return inside,” he said.

When her lips curved, his chest tightened. She was so very lovely and so very much more than he could have ever hoped for.

There was much drinking and celebration at the announcement of the laird’s daughter marrying. So many great meals and cause for gatherings had everyone in good spirits.

One man had nothing to celebrate was a guardsman who watched the festivities with distaste.

It was always the entitled that got everything, which were gifted with more and more. Never men like him who worked hard every single day, just to get up and struggle through the next. Someone like he was never gifted with feasts or beautiful wives.

The newcomer, Alasdair, was no one. And yet he’d been granted not only a position as head archer, but also the hand of the laird’s only daughter. How was this possible? What had that man done to deserve so much more than he?

Now as he pondered what to do, his fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Fill my tankard.” He reached for a serving wench, who tried unsuccessfully to avoid his grasp. When he pulled her atop his leg, she elbowed him. “Let me go.”

“Why?” He teased sliding his hand up her skirt.

“Allow her up now.” Niven’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a tavern. Ye will respect her.”

The maid jumped to her feet and hurried away without refilling his tankard. It didn’t matter. He needed a clear head to plan what to do next.

“Is he to be head archer?” he asked with distaste. “What has that man done to be worthy of gaining a position some of us have waited years for?”

Niven looked across the room to Alasdair. There were questions in his gaze too, but the man would never speak or go against their laird’s command. “It is not for us to question. Obviously he will be the laird’s son now. The laird did not say he was to lead the archers, but to be a member of the group.”

He huffed and spit at the ground. “Entitled sons of...”

Niven grabbed him by the tunic, pulling him up to his feet. “Leave. It’s best ye show yer ire elsewhere.”

Of course. He had somewhere to go and with luck, the man he was to speak with would ruin things for the newcomer. His last plan, using the stupid Tavish brothers to inform the Macpherson had not worked to his benefit. It was best to do this himself, not depend on idiots.

If he had his way, both weddings would not take place. The first would be ruined due to a “sudden” death of the groom, the second because someone would interject.

With a wide grin, the guard hurried to the stables. In his mind, he should have been the head of the guard, the laird’s right hand and more worthy than the newcomer to be granted the laird’s daughter’s hand.

However, there were ways to get revenge. The laird barely acknowledged him through all the years he’d been in service. He would never forgive the slight. His mother swore, he was the laird’s son. Neither the laird nor anyone else confirmed it. Instead, the laird had denied it over and over.

Donall Muir, his mother’s name, not the laird’s, had remained there year after year, anger and resentment growing, festering until all he could think of was how to get what was owed to him. Position, marriage and wealth should be his.

Chapter 11

Dallis’ hand trembled as she knocked on Alasdair’s door that night. It was late. In her estimation the sun would rise