The Sinclair Jewels Books One-Three: A Scottish Medieval Romance Series Bundle Page 15

  The experience had sent him lunging for a flagon of ale.

  “He doesnae need me,” Jaimie snarled, his ruined fingers tightening around the flagon. “He has ye two. He has the entire clan.”

  “He needs his uncle.” Jean stepped toward the desk, her lips tight. “He needs his laird.”

  This time, Jaimie growled, “I’m no laird.”

  “Ye’re all but!” His aunt threw up her hands. “’Tis yer duty to protect no’ just him, but all of us. ’Tis yer duty to protect the Mackenzies, Jaimie.”

  “Ye can take that duty and shove it up—”

  “Milord,” Edward interrupted, stepping forward to draw Jaimie’s attention. “’Tis done.”

  Irritated at having his rant cut off, Jaimie blinked at the older man. “What’s done?”

  “The alliance, milord.”

  The way he said “alliance,” ominous and foreboding, sent the hairs on Jaimie’s forearms standing up. Without meaning to, his gaze dropped to the desk, then flicked to the empty shelves along the wall. What alliance? Had he missed burning something? Had the damned seneschal gone behind his back?

  Before he could ask, Aunt Jean tsked loudly. “Whether or no’ ye want the duty, Jaimie, it falls on ye to protect the clan. The easiest way is through a strong alliance.”

  She held out her hand, palm up, and Edward hurried forward to lay a scroll in her palm. Where had he been holding that? Jaimie shook his head once in a hopeless attempt to clear his vision and mind.

  “Now, yer brother kenned how important it was to keep the powerful Sutherlands from our borders.” Jean unrolled the parchment as she spoke. “’Tis why he married one of the Sinclair Jewels. With his death, the marriage—and thus the alliance—was voided, which could mean disaster if the Sutherlands are ever bright enough to ally with the Rosses or MacKays.”

  Jaimie did his best to follow her brisk speech, but his head felt too heavy. With the sunlight and the fresh air swirling around him, he wondered how rude it would be to demand his aunt take the crusty old seneschal and leave him to die in peace.

  “What are ye saying, Aunt?” he all but sighed, willing her to get to the point quickly.

  With a flourish, she spread the parchment on the desk beside the map, nudging his boots off the wood as she did so. As his feet hit the floor, Jaimie was propelled upright with a curse.

  A curse he repeated when he shut one eye and tried to read the letters which swam on the contract.

  Whereas… alliance… familiarity… acceptable…

  “Jean?” he croaked in dread.

  “’Tis a marriage contract, lad,” she said, not unkindly. “The Sinclair has agreed to send us one of his daughters again. Ye’ll be wed as soon as she arrives.”

  Jaimie’s dark gaze snapped back up to his aunt’s, but the little dragon had the nerve to smile and nod in encouragement. She wasn’t the only one; Edward was bouncing with excitement.

  “And ye’ll never guess, milord!”

  Shaking his head in denial, Jaimie changed his mind and agreed with the old man. “Ye’re right, Edward. I’d never guess.”

  “’Tis her, laird! The Sinclair is sending her back!”

  God, this was making less and less sense. A marriage? Him? His aunt’s purpose sounded reasonable, although Jaimie could barely understand. If he’d been sober—if he’d been a better man—he might have been able to admit she was right. But married? Yoked to one woman for the rest of his life? Another spoiled, cruel, power-hungry noblewoman?

  He shuddered. Nay. Nay, he wouldn’t be able to stand another woman like Aileen in his life.

  But the seneschal’s excitement had penetrated his dull thoughts. “Her?” he mumbled.

  “Lady Agata, milord!” Edward declared joyfully. “Yer brother’s wife. She’s much loved here, and although ’tis unorthodox to send her here to be yer bride, we’re all pleased.”

  Blearily, Jaimie turned his disbelieving gaze to his aunt. But the old woman’s smile grew as she nodded, confirming the seneschal’s words.

  “Agata is a dear woman, Jaimie, and I was thrilled when Duncan Sinclair suggested her. She kens the keep, and is strong enough to impose some order and control here again. Besides, she’s already been the object of an alliance between our clans once before. It made sense for her to return.”

  “My brother’s wife?” Jaimie rasped.

  “Aye. Ye never met her, of course, what with ye being so needed at court, and then at yer cousin’s holding. That’s the excuse ye gave us for being away so long, aye? But being away, ye never met Agata. She’s dear to all of us, especially Callan. She’ll be a welcome lady of the keep once more.”

  Jaimie’s dull gaze landed on the map again. Spread out before him was the might of the Sutherlands, their power sitting squarely in the middle of the Highlands to the south of the Sinclairs. He blinked, the lines on the map wavering before his eyes. Married? They wanted him to marry? Marry to protect the clan, marry to ensure a powerful alliance to keep the Sutherlands at bay.

  But what kind of man married his brother’s widow? What kind of man married a woman who’d never look him in the eyes, never think of him with anything beyond pity?

  And what kind of man sent his daughter to marry someone like him?

  “Come now, lad,” Jean said softly, moving to stand on his left side.

  Jaimie didn’t hide his wince when he felt her hand drop to his shoulder comfortingly, but doubted she saw it past his curtain of lank, dark hair. Besides, the damage to the left side of his face meant few noticed any movement there at all.

  Whether she saw his reaction or not, his aunt continued in a soothing tone. “We ken marriage wasnae yer plan, but yer plan needs to change for the good of the clan. I acted as Callan’s representative in the negotiations with Sinclair, but ye are his regent. None of us can force ye to marry.”

  Marry.

  Could he do it? Could he shackle himself to one woman? Slowly, still staring at the map, he shook his head. It wasn’t worth it. Not for himself, but for her.

  “Jaimie,” his aunt cajoled. “The days of yer youth are past. Ye might be a charmer and a lover, but—”

  He cut her off with a snarl, snatching the flagon off the table and downing the remainder of the ale, not even caring when the vicious movement caused the amber liquid to splash and dribble through his sparse, ill-kept beard and onto his shirt. His throat worked frantically as he guzzled the liquid, as if he could erase her words.

  Charmer? Lover?

  Not since winter had robbed him of his looks, his hands. Not since Aileen.

  The ale was gone too soon, but his heart was still tight from anger. With a snarl, he hurled the empty flagon at the window. With the room spinning the way it was, he missed entirely, but the sudden explosion of liquid as it sprayed over the stone, caused Edward to step backward with a yelp.

  “Jaimie.”

  He might’ve ignored his aunt’s soft call had she not placed her palm on his chin and turned his face toward hers. Suddenly feeling too weak to resist, he just scowled at the old dragon. He’d had enough pity, the awkwardness as people tried not to stare at his scars.

  But when Aunt Jean wanted something, she was a force to be reckoned with.

  “Lad, ye’re doing the right thing, and ye ken it. After all,” she flashed a quick, almost sad smile, “Ye’re too old to be waiting on yer south-land treasure.”

  At her version of the old proverb, Jaimie pulled his chin from her grasp, not sure if he was defeated yet.

  Yer treasure land is to the south. Yer treasure lies in the south-lands. Waiting on yer south-land treasure.

  They were all versions of the same theme, and Jaimie had grown up knowing the elders who used it all meant the same thing. He was always looking elsewhere for fulfillment. It was why, well before Father had passed on and David took up the mantle of lairdship, Jaimie had made a place for himself at court. He’d spent so many years as an emissary, traveling between holdings and castles and courts, enjoyin
g the exciting differences and treasures to be found.

  Aye, his treasure had always been someplace else, not here on Mackenzie lands.

  But now he was stuck here, for Callan’s sake. And because fate had damaged him beyond use.

  Could he be useful again? If only by marrying the Sinclair lass? His brother’s widow?

  “Lady Jean? Lady Jean!”

  All thoughts of marriage fled with the sound of small steps in the corridor. Aunt Jean’s face bloomed into a genuine smile. Just before the steps reached the door, they halted, as if a running little boy had halted to adjust his breathing and practice decorum, the way his father had instructed him.

  When Callan finally stepped through the open door, a proud smile on his face and a piece of parchment clutched in front of him, Jaimie’s heart lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see the boy’s confusion and embarrassment at accidentally stumbling upon his crippled uncle.

  But he still heard it.

  “Oh! I…” A shuffle, as if the boy debated backing out again. “I was looking for ye, Lady Jean,” he finished quietly.

  Lady Jean. She’d been David’s aunt, the same as she was Jaimie’s, their father’s sister who’d never married. Growing up, she’d been their dragon, as strong and sure as Father had been, but full of compassion as well. She’d been the one to encourage them, to push them to be better men.

  And still, David had called her lady instead of aunt, and raised his son the same.

  Jean’s gasp was proud. “Oh, Callan, another masterpiece?”

  Curious, Jaimie opened his right eye so there was only one set of dragon and boy and seneschal floating around the room. Jean stood beside Callan, peering over his shoulder and making interested cooing sounds as he pointed out various things on the parchment in front of him.

  Jaimie dropped his hands to the chair arms, forcing himself upright in an effort to see what they were doing. The movement caught his aunt’s attention, and she looked up with a smile.

  “Wee Callan has become quite the artist, Jaimie. Would ye care to see this beauty?”

  I care nothing for beauty.

  He wanted to yell the words, to tell them all to leave him to his peace, to ignore the revelations of the last moments. He wanted to hurt them the way he hurt.

  But staring blearily at the hopeful look on the boy’s face, so like Aileen, Jaimie knew he wouldn’t.

  “Aye,” he managed to croak.

  It was impossible to miss the way the boy didn’t move until Jean nudged him, pushing him toward the large desk. But eventually, he was standing to Jaimie’s left, where his aunt had been.

  His ruined side.

  What remained of Jaimie’s fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. With the boy standing so close, he itched to reach out. To touch him.

  For so many years, he’d relied on touch. It was what he was known for, Jaimie Mackenzie was a charmer, a lover. But in the last years, so few touched him.

  And the boy? Callan would surely flinch if Jaimie tried now.

  “What is it?” he asked gruffly, knowing he sounded like a bear.

  “I… I drew this.”

  Callan placed the parchment on the desk atop the wooden map. It was covered in charcoal, a simple line drawing, smudged here and there. Jaimie leaned forward, attempting to make sense of it.

  When he did, he sucked in a breath.

  It might’ve been simple, but it was a fairly decent representation of a valley with the loch shining below. What he’d thought were random smudges now seemed carefully placed, to indicate distant snowfields on the north side of the mountain or the field of wheat in the meadow below.

  Jaimie closed one eye again, hoping to bring the scene into better focus. The lad had even added a few faint lines which looked like the sun’s reflection on the water. How had he managed that with only charcoal? And at age seven?

  The itching was back in his palms. He wanted to hug the boy, to tell him he was proud. But instead, Jaimie forced himself to lean back once more.

  “’Tis good,” he said. “Ye have a gift.”

  “Oh, no,” Callan was quick to deny it as he snatched up the parchment, but Jaimie saw the way the boy’s cheeks turned pink as his lips pulled up. Because of a compliment? “Lady Agata taught me p—per—perspective.”

  Jean smiled proudly at the boy, but Jaimie didn’t know if it was because of his manners or his use of the word. Jaimie’s tongue flicked out over his dry lower lip, suddenly ravenous for a drink.

  “Lady Agata?”

  The boy nodded eagerly, holding the parchment in front of him like a shield. “My father’s wife. She was verra nice.”

  Nice. Orderly. Well-loved.

  She sounded like someone who didn’t deserve to be married to a failure of a man.

  Jean must’ve seen something in his expression, because she clasped Callan’s shoulder and drew his attention. “Yer uncle is impressed, lad. Will ye save this piece or scrape it as Agata taught ye?”

  To Jaimie’s surprise, the boy seemed to seriously consider it. Were other seven-year-olds so intense? He remembered little of being that age, except endless energy and optimism.

  “I’m no’ verra good at it,” Callan finally confessed with a shrug. “Do ye think I might keep it as it is?”

  Jean nodded. “If yer nurse will allow it, I willnae object. And neither will yer uncle.”

  They both turned to Jaimie, who reeled back under the combined weight of their identical-blue Mackenzie gazes. Jean’s expression was commanding, Callan’s hopeful.

  Hopeful? Hopeful Jaimie wouldn’t deny him the chance to keep his own artwork?

  Then he remembered David, who saw most art as frivolous. Useless. Callan had learned from his father’s wife when David had still been alive. Had they both been subjected to David’s hard views on the subject?

  Jaimie’s head began to pound, trying not to remember the way home had been when David ruled here. When Aileen had been alive. When Father’s way had been the “right” way.

  “Aye,” he mumbled, dropping his forehead into his palm, resisting the urge to squeeze his temples. “I mean, nay. The drawing is yers, and—and perfect. Keep it.”

  Something passed between the other two, because Callan’s, “Thank ye, milord,” was hesitant. But Jaimie didn’t look up, not even when Jean escorted the boy to the door and bid him to wash for supper.

  The silence stretched. He didn’t even hear her footsteps and began to hope she’d left as well. Left him to silence and his drinking. Was there more ale? He couldn’t recall. Had he demanded more or only thought of it? Was it possible to fall asleep upright, his head in his hand? Or would his elbow slip from the arm of the chair…?

  “Jaimie.”

  At his aunt’s gentle call, he jerked upright, slamming the back of his head into the wood of the chair. He slid down with a moan, half in pain and half in disappointment that she was still there, even if Edward had apparently left with Callan.

  There was a smile in her voice when she nagged him again. “He’s a good lad, and ye handled that well.”

  He didn’t want or need her compliments, and made sure his scowl said so.

  Under her wimple, one dark brow raised in challenge. “Ye’ve been home for months, Jaimie, and done everything in yer power to avoid the wee lad. But he’s yer responsibility, the same as the clan. Ye need to protect him, to raise him to be the man—”

  He slammed his palms down on either side of the wooden map and leaned forward. “To be the man his father was? The man his grandfather was?” he interrupted her. “Hard and unbending?” Cruel? Cold? But he didn’t say that—Father had been her brother, after all.

  Jean’s expression softened. “I was going to say, to be the man ye are.”

  He wished he had another flagon. He’d drain it and toss it at her this time. Instead, he satisfied himself with scowling, his head pounding from the drink and the sunlight and the blow from the chair and the feats of concentration he�
��d had to perform.

  “I’m no’ the man he needs to be.”

  “Ye used to be, Jaimie.”

  The pity in her voice sent him over the edge. With a snarl, he propelled himself to his feet, holding to the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. “What do ye want, ye dragon? Why are ye still here, tormenting me? Do ye hate me so?”

  But she just clucked her tongue and drew herself up, managing to look somehow taller than she was. She twitched one eyebrow again in challenge. “I torment ye, lad, because I expect better from ye. I expect ye to do yer duty by the lad, to teach and protect—”

  “Fine!” he nearly roared. “I’ll do yer precious duty!”

  “No’ mine,” she snapped, “but yers. ’Tis yer duty to ensure our alliance with the Sinclairs is strong! Yers to marry the lass and—”

  “Aye! Aye!” he repeated at the top of his lungs. Then, his strength drained by anger and sorrow and ale—always far too much ale—he slid back into David’s hated chair. “Aye,” he whispered on a wince. “I’ll marry the lass.”

  Jean pounced on the agreement. “Ye will?”

  “Will ye leave me to die in peace if I repeat myself?”

  She waved away his dramatic words. “And once she’s here, ye’ll treat her well?”

  There’d been a note of… of something in her question. Jaimie met his aunt’s gaze, and was surprised to see real concern there. She was afraid he’d… what? Hurt the lass? Treat her coldly?

  It wasn’t up to him. He was certain once Lady Agata returned to the Mackenzie keep, she’d realize what a horrible mistake she’d made.

  Staring into his aunt’s blue eyes, Jaimie forced himself to rasp out, “She’ll hate ye for it, ye ken.”

  “For arranging this marriage?” His aunt didn’t wait for his agreement, before she shook her head briskly. “She will no’ hate me.”

  “She will,” he repeated. “Ye’ve done her a grave disservice.” He flexed his ruined fingers.

  “Because ye’re no longer handsome?” Jean scoffed. “Ye have a low opinion of her already, I see.”

  How could he not? She’d been married to David. Surely, for all his aunt’s praise, Lady Agata was as spoiled and flighty as Aileen.