chance to wed.
Few were the suitors willing to accept Sorcha's large-boned, overly tall form for well made. And even Alan Mor's most cunning double-dealing and swagger couldn't transform her plain face into a pleasing one. Indeed, not few were those who shook their heads over Neill's acceptance of her. But he'd agreed for the sake of an alliance.
And now he was dead.
Shuddering, Aveline curled her fingers into her skirts, the image of the MacPherson brothers' last moments flashing across her mind. Not that she'd been there.
But everyone born of these hills knew the treacheries of the white-water cauldron known as Garbh Uisge, the Rough Waters. They filled the deep, birch-lined gorge that divided Matheson and Macpherson lands.
A danger-fraught chasm, alive with a wildly plunging waterfall and splashing, boulder-strewn burn, the surging cataracts and clouds of spume now posed a forever reminder of nature's wrath. Leastways when served by the splintering of damp, age-warped wood.
The unexpected collapse of a narrow footbridge neither clan had been willing to refurbish, each laird insisting his neighbor made more use of the bridge and ought to dole out the coin for its repair.
A hotheaded foolhardiness that had taken a grim toll, and now sent Aveline striding across the hall, away from her father's black-browed arrogance.
"You err," she said, keeping her back to him as she wrenched open the shutters of the nearest window. "Naught in this world will ease Laird Macpherson's pain."
"Mayhap not," Alan Mor shot back, "but the man's a good deal more daft than I thought if he isn't at least comforted by the boons he'll reap through this alliance."
To Aveline's dismay, an immediate ripple of assent swept the hall. Murmured agreement swiftly followed by the clinking of ale cups and boisterous cheer. Alan Mor's own self-pleased grunt.
Aveline tightened her jaw and stared out at the misty, rain-sodden night, the outline of rugged black hills and the glimmer of distant stars twinkling through gray, wind-torn clouds.
"God grant you have the rights of it," she said at last, welcoming the evening's chill on her face. "Nevertheless, I would speak out against taking advantage of a man who is down and foundering."
"'Taking advantage'?" Alan Mor's deep voice shook the hall. "You'd best speak plain, lass. And hie yourself away from that window."
Stiffening, Aveline kept her gaze on the silvery glint of the river winding through the trees not far from Fairmaiden Castle's curtain walls. Older than time, the slow-moving river gave itself much more placid than the white-watered Garbh Uisge that had claimed so many innocent lives.
And brought others to this unexpected pass.
Herself included.
Her temples beginning to throb, she turned from the window. Sorcha now stood in a darkened corner, her ravaged, tear-stained face shielded from the reach of torchlight. Everyone else was turned her way, her father's face wearing an even darker scowl than before.
Aveline squared her shoulders, then took a step forward.
"Well?" Alan Mor demanded, his stare almost searing the air. "Are you accusing me of trying to deceive Macpherson?"
"Nay, I - " Aveline broke off, unable to lie. Her father's famed sleights of hand and well-oiled words were known throughout the Highlands.
Coming forward, she sought a way to cushion her suspicions. "I would not accuse you of aught," she ventured, hoping only she heard the cynicism in her tone.
"And to be sure, I am willing to wed, am even eager for the day I might have a husband and household of my own."
"Then why are you looking as if you've just bit into something bitter?"
"Because," Aveline admitted, "I do not think Munro Macpherson will appreciate us meddling - "
"So now I'm a meddler?" Alan Mor shot to his feet, the movement scattering the parchments spread before him. "Helping the old fool is what I'm doing! Did you not hear me say tongue-waggers claim he's taken to his bed? That he fears leaving his privy chambers because he thinks the ghosts of his sons have returned to Baldreagan? Are haunting him?"
Alan Mor glared at her, his nostrils flaring. "Munro isn't yet in his dotage, but he soon will be if no one takes him in hand. He needs Jamie."
"Since when have you cared about Macpherson's well-doing?" Aveline challenged, stepping onto the dais. "You and Munro were ne'er friends."
"We are neighbors." Her father looked down, took a sudden interest in examining the colored string tied around a rolled parchment. "Knowing he's right in his head is a lesser evil than annoying the bastard."
"I vow you'll vex him mightily if you persist in this fool