Authors: Felicia Rogers
By God's Grace (4 page)
Cainneach hadn't pushed. He believed there was time to convince Lyall to bear a son. This was not the case. Unexpected death claimed him.
The servant interrupted her reverie. “Mistress, the festivities are starting.”
A sprig of wisteria placed behind her ear, Lyall smiled at her good fortune.
****
Grant and Bryce flanked their new laird as the parade of young lasses commenced. The tournament's events were set to take place on the morrow. The lasses coming forward were to give Duncan ample time to choose a future bride.
A large shelter was erected outside the castle walls. In the middle sat Duncan in a red velvet, high-backed chair. He fumed. When this method of acquiring a bride had been agreed upon, he hadn't realized every clan in the Highlands would bring every unwed lass in their keep!
Before an eligible woman stepped forward, their clan was announced in a loud, booming voice. “Clan McKinnon.” Clan this, clan that, every name and word blended together. The announcer's voice grated on the nerves.
Each time a girl passed, Grant would ask, “What do ye think, my laird?”
“I think she is too thin,” Duncan responded.
Then another lass would step on the block to be inspected, and Grant would ask, “What do ye think, my laird?”
“I think she is too meaty.” On and on it went with each proceeding girl.
“Too many teeth.”
“Not enough teeth.”
“Her nose looks like a bird's beak.”
“Way too short.”
“Way too tall.”
“Way too much hair on her face.”
“Not enough hair on her head.”
“Her head is way too large.”
“Her head is too small.”
“Way too muscular.”
“Way too puny.”
“Way too smelly.”
“Not smelly enough.”
Excuses rolled on and on.
There was a recurring theme. Duncan had no intentions of marrying any of these women of his own free will. As the afternoon progressed, Duncan's anger increased. His palm smacked against the chair arm. “This is ridiculous. They have brought me nothing but blemished lambs.”
When the endless parade of women ceased, Duncan left and returned to the keep, heading to Cainneach's old quarters. The words said to Grant and Bryce about the women from today had not been entirely true. Some rare gems had been in the group. While the adorned women marched in front of him, he was assaulted with the fact that he wanted more than what they offered.
Lyall had physical beauty. Tall and reed thin. Hair the color of golden wheat, eyes a pale blue, and skin like alabaster. As much as beauty intrigued him, he wanted more. Someone like Sarra, who was not only beautiful on the outside but beautiful on the inside as well. An intelligent and giving woman. A woman who could share his faith.
To imitate the relationship between Cedric and Sarra with his own bride would be ideal. A woman with whom to have intelligent and rewarding conversations. One to discuss household issues with. A woman who wouldn't be intimidated to express her opinion. A woman who wouldn't be afraid to own a copy of God's word and display it proudly in her home.
As Duncan mused, there was a knock on the door. Opening the door revealed Lyall. No longer dressed in black mourning clothes, she now wore a vibrant red dress. The front cut at a deep angle, hanging too low for a recent widow.
Duncan shifted his body to block the entrance. “Ah, Lyall. How may I help ye?”
Leaning forward, Lyall's peculiar scent wafted through the air. “I understand ye found no one to yer likin' today. What a shame.”
Duncan was in no mood for petty games. “Lyall, straighten up and act right. Ye are a widow of only a few months. Ye shouldn't be flaunting yerself around like the town harlot.”
Ignoring Duncan, she said, “Oh Duncan, don't try to fool me. I seen how ye looked at those parcels put before ye. Ye are refusing to accept a wife among the women brought to ye. My only issue is I can't figure out why.”
“It is none of yer concern.”
Her hand rose. Using her finger she traced the exposed skin at the open V of his tunic. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “That is where ye are grossly mistaken. Ye see, once ye take a wife, I will no longer be mistress of the keep. Therefore, I have a vested interested in who ye choose to take my place.”
Duncan grasped her hand, twisting it in a rough grasp. “Ye will never touch me in such a manner again. Do ye understand?”
She pulled her hand to her bosom and replied in a tone of pain. “Aye.”
“As for my wife-to-be, it is of no concern to ye who I choose.” He moved in closer, speaking in a harsh whisper. “And know this, it shall never, and I repeat never be ye!”
Stepping into the room, he slammed the door, shutting out her surprised face.
****
Lyall retired. Once in private, she undressed. The red dress flew across the room, landing in a heap. Pacing back and forth, her fingers spread wide over her naked stomach as a plan was formulated.
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Ladies marched into Duncan's tent, smiles plastered upon their faces, and came out the other side wearing huge frowns. A few were in tears. Arbella was happy she wasn't one of the women in the line of doom. All afternoon they poured in and out. Just as Jamus predicted, Duncan found fault with every one.
The dressing screen in the tent hid her attire for tomorrow's tournament. She stroked the headpiece. Annot had designed the covering, assuring both Jamus and Arbella her identity would remain a secret until she was ready to reveal it.
Tavis, Tavish, and Arbella trained for weeks on the various events expected at the St. Michael's tournament. Every muscle ached from their efforts. The twins were relentless in their pursuit of her excellence.
“Lass, ye must run faster. And when ye get to the end, ye must have enough energy to pick up the rock and throw it.”
Arbella fought the urge to strike. Chest heaving, she answered, “Tavis, I'm doing the best I can.”
“I am Tavish.”
“I don't care who you are,” she yelled. Tears formed and ran down her face.
After Tavish finished abusing her, she plopped on a bench, removed her tight shoes, and rubbed her aching feet.
No sooner had she finished with her self-ministrations, than Tavis appeared at her shoulder, holding a musical pipe. “You must be jesting.”
“Nay, lass. There are few events ye actually have a prospect of winning. We must make sure ye are ready for the ones ye have a chance in.”
“Ah, I know this well. Give me the infernal pipe.”
After the piping lesson came horseback riding. Fortunately for the twins, Arbella was a quick study. Within a fortnight, Arbella was as prepared as she could be, which was good, because the time for physical training was over.
Annot, Uncle Jamus's sister-in-law, was still working on making Arbella more feminine. She was graceful and determined Arbella would be the same way. After the passing of Jamus's wife, Annot had instructed all of his daughters in the art of how to be a good wife and a proper lady. Therefore she would teach grace and pose to Arbella if it killed her.
“Nay, nay, nay, child, not that way. You must follow my lead.” Annot's hands were placed upon her head, ready to pull out her graying hair. “You can learn to ride a horse with one hand, you can jump farther than most rabbits, and you can copy any tune put to you on the pipe, but this you cannot do!”
“Annot, please tell me why a Scottish lass would ever have to stand straight enough to keep a book from toppling off her head. I believe I would fit into Duncan's world more if I burped and made other rude bodily noises.”
The elderly woman slapped her forehead with exasperation “You are not a Scottish lass, my dear. You are a fine English lady.”
“Maybe I should return to Jonas and Martha's house then. Because I am sure the elders are looking for a Scottish lass for Duncan, and they will be none too pleased if they discover I'm otherwise.”
“Humph⦠you are Scottish enough.”
“Annot, do you truly believe this will get Duncan's attention? I am sure someone runs his household. And he doesn't need me to have a stiff back. In fact, I am pretty sure the only thing he needs me for is to bear children. Now if you want to teach me how to perform such an act and enjoy it, then I am sure it would be a more useful skill.”
Annotâs mouth dropped open, her hand flying to cover it. Then without warning, the woman threw her hands up in the air and started talking to herself about mouthy children speaking out of turn. Before Arbella knew what happened, Annot left the room, and she was alone.
A few weeks later, and she was here at a festival hosted by the Sinclair clan. Arbella Kincade, the girl with the banned Scottish father and the singing English mother. The girl who had been sent off to live with an uncle when her Scottish father perished. The girl whose mother left this world the moment she'd entered it.
Even with all this stacked against her, it was hard to complain. Raised by her Uncle Jonas and Aunt Martha, who had had no children of their own, she was treated well. After a time, the love provided to her felt like she was their own. They shared their faith and their love of the Lord Jesus with her. In turn she worked hard to make them proud. When they perished, she was left alone once more.
What good would it do for Duncan to fall in love with her? Her love was like the kiss of death. Everyone who loved her perished. Jamus was the only one left. To love Duncan was to doom him.
Until darkness descended, she wondered the tent full of worry. A pile of pillows situated to the side of the structure beckoned. With her head resting on a fluffy square, Arbella settled in for the night.
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The day of the tournament started bright and early. Each clan paraded through the middle of the playing field, carrying their colors and shouting their name.
Duncan's red velvet chair had been moved outside and placed under a special awning so the entire playing field could be seen in one glance. All the eligible maidens dismissed the day before sat in chairs surrounding the new laird. Mortified by his rude behavior toward the ladies, Duncan faced forward, unable to meet their eyes.
There was a certain kind of relationship he wanted with a future wife â one which would last and not be a one-time bedding just to have an heir. This important of a decision could not be made just by looking at a woman for five seconds.
“Grant, do I have to sit here?” whispered Duncan, shifting in his chair and looking up under veiled lids. This current situation gave him the appearance of a king.
“Aye, my laird, ye must stay where ye can see the games. This day, ye will know who yer wife will be.”
Duncan sighed. There was no way out. Perhaps he would be better off to pick one of the initial offerings. How many of the tournament participants held a grudge against him? How many couldn't wait to pick his future bride?
Motioning Grant closer, he asked, “What will happen first?”
“I believe each clan will introduce the warrior who will compete on their behalf.”
“Verra well. Let's get this over with.”
As each tournament player stepped forward and was introduced, comments could be heard from the spectators in the crowd.
“He's huge!”
“Look how scary he looks.”
“Look at those legs! Why they are as big as a tree trunk!”
“Look at those arms! They would be perfect for wrestling or for crushin' a man in half.”
“Look at his chest. It looks like a barrel!”
The comments followed uninhibited until a warrior for clan Kincade stepped forward and presented himself as Aonghas. Short in stature, he wore a head covering which looked big enough to fell him. The comments ended abruptly while the lad introduced himself, then a new sound was heard. It was slow, but soon encompassed every individual spectator. It was unbridled laughter.
Someone shouted, “Look at his legs. They're as smooth as a babe's buttock!”
Another picked up the thread. “Wonder if the lad is old enough for armpit hair.”
And yet another added, “Mayhap he still suckles at his ma's teat!”
The laughter continued. A red hue climbed up Aonghas cheeks, his hands forming fists at his side.
The young lad was no doubt attempting to control a rising temper. Duncan reasoned that compared to the behemoths strutting around the grounds, the lad was on the small side, but what right did the others have to insult him? He stood and slammed his hands on the armrests, the sound reverberating across the field as he yelled, “Enough! Clan Kincade is allowed to choose whomever they desire to compete on their behalf.”
To stop the name-calling and get the games started, Duncan asked Grant, “What is the first event?”
“The footrace, my laird.”
“Verra well. Get on with it.”
****
Before the events, Arbella stood in the middle of clan Kincade flanked by the twins. As she peered at the participants, an urge to flee back to England assailed her. This was impossible! What had Jamus gotten her into?
The footrace started at the tournament field, went to the base of a small hill, wound halfway up, and then turned back onto itself, ending in the middle of the field where it had begun. Many of the Scotsmen started out like a bolt of lightning but tired due to the bulk of their size. However, Arbella set a steady pace. People in the crowd claimed the Kincade lad ran like a gazelle. She won the race without even one Scotsman nearby.
To allow the participants time between the more strenuous activities, the piping competition was next. The warrior was to listen to a tune and repeat back each note in sequence. Arbella passed with flying colors, not missing one sound.
The last event was the horse race. During the piping event, the field had been set with barriers for the riders to navigate. Arbella was to ride Goldie, one of Jamus's mares. She wasn't much to look at, but she held courage and a drive to win. Arbella felt a kindred spirit with the horse. During the race Arbella and Goldie held a close second. As they rounded the last corner, Arbella whispered encouragement, and the horse shot forward, winning the event.
