Bride For A Knight Page 0,14

you agreed for the pleasure of seeing me yoked to a Fairmaiden lass?"

Jamie lifted a brow, betting he'd latched on to the truth. "'Tis no secret those sisters - "

"The Lady Aveline deserves far better than the likes o' you!" Munro blurted, snatching a savory from Jamie's hand. "And I was cozened into the match, led to believe a groom would be chosen from your cousins. The council only saw fit to tell me yestermorn that Alan Mor specified you!"

He all but choked on the savory.

His eyes bugging, he leaned forward. "I'll not besmirch my name by having Matheson and his ring-tailed minions claim I reneged on my word," he vowed, wagging a cheese-flecked finger. "And, to be sure, you're the lesser evil, much as it pains me to say it. I'm right fond of the wee lassie and I'd see her away from her da. He's a scourge on the heather and I dinna like how he treats her."

Jamie stared at him, his mind whirling.

All knew Munro Macpherson had little time for women, save bickering with Morag or shouting orders at serving wenches. Tongue-waggers even claimed he hadn't once lifted a skirt since losing Jamie's mother. Yet his agitation indicated he genuinely liked Jamie's intended bride.

"Dinna gawp at me like a landed fish," he groused, reaching for the third savory.

"Now keep your word and leave me be."

"As you wish," Jamie agreed, moving to the door. He looked back over his shoulder, not at all surprised to see his father still frowning at him. But at least he was eating.

Jamie smiled. "I'll send up someone with the promised ale. See that you drink it."

But as he made his way back to the hall, the victory in getting sustenance into his da's belly warred with the revelation that his cantankerous, hard-bitten father had a soft spot for Aveline Matheson.

It remained only to be seen why.

Chapter 3

Jamie's good humor lasted until almost noontide the next day. But every shred deserted him as soon as he arrived at Fairmaiden Castle and two of Alan Mor Matheson's burly stalwarts escorted him into the stronghold's great hall. Whether the louts appeared friendly or not, he stopped just inside the shadowed entry arch, planting his feet firmly in the rushes and folding his arms over his chest. The back of his neck was prickling and that was never a good sign. Indeed, it was all he could do not to put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Perhaps even draw his steel with a flourish. But he'd come to Fairmaiden as a friend and had thus far seen no true reason for wariness.

Even so, the fine hairs on his nape were stirring and it wasn't the two fool-grinning loons crowding him that caused his discomfiture. Big as he was, he towered over them and every other clansman milling about the aisles between the hall's well-filled trestle tables.

Truth was, he'd surely stand head and shoulders over the table-sitters, too. Though were he to heed the urge to wheel about and leave, he knew he'd be pounced on. Not that he minded a good, manly stramash. Even if Alan Mor's underlings weren't known for fair fighting.

Minions his da called them and Jamie had to agree.

Ne'er had he seen so many different plaids under one roof. Or such a large assemblage of wild-eyed, lawless-looking caterans. Broken and landless men, some were even said to hail from Pabay, a tiny islet off the Isle of Skye and home to any Highland undesirable able to make it safely to that isle's ill-famed shores. But with generations of Fairmaiden lairds proving unable to sire more than overlarge clutches of daughters, there were few in Kintail who'd rumple a nose at where each new Matheson laird harvested his men.

"Ho, lad! You look like a doomed man standing before the gallows and trying to ignore the dangling noose!" The crooked-nosed giant to Jamie's left clapped him on the shoulder, flashed a roguish smile.

Leaning closer, the brute lowered his voice, "You've no need to fear dipping your wick in aught unsavory," he said, wriggling his brows. "There isn't a man in this hall save Alan Mor himself who'd not give his very breath for one hour with the Lady Aveline beneath him."

Jamie frowned. A nigh irresistible urge to rearrange the oaf's already crooked nose seized him.

But he'd rather not start a melee in Fairmaiden's hall before he'd even come face-to-face with its laird, so he ignored the temptation. A word of warning, however,