Bride For A Knight Page 0,3

plan of yours." Aveline snatched the parchment scroll from her father's hand and held it out of his reach.

"Munro Macpherson ne'er spoke fondly of Jamie. He's even been heard to call him a dirk thrust beneath his ribs."

Alan Mor sucked in his breath, his surprise at her bluntness all the answer Aveline needed.

Neither the Macpherson nor Young Jamie knew her father still meant to uphold the proposed alliance.

"Word is, Jamie's grown into a fine, strapping lad. A knight." Alan Mor recovered quickly, thrusting out his chin. "He even fought alongside King David at Neville's Cross last autumn, his bravery and valor earning him much acclaim. Munro will change his mind about the lad once he's home."

"Still ... " Aveline tightened her grip on the parchment. "I do not think this should be sent to Jamie until Laird Macpherson is fit enough to decide if he, too, still wishes a union between our houses."

To her horror, her father laughed.

As did his inky-fingered scribe.

"Too late!" Alan Mor's eyes lit with mischief. "That scroll in your hand is naught but a letter to your sister in Inverness, asking of her health and thanking her for the casks of wine her husband sent to us. The many jars of their heather-tasting honey."

Aveline dropped the parchment. "You mean you've already sent word to Jamie?

Without informing Macpherson?"

The look on her father's face turned smug. "Someday you'll thank me. You, and that blethering fool, Macpherson."

"And Jamie?"

Alan Mor snorted. "Him most of all - once he sets eyes on you!"

His foul temper forgotten, he beamed on her. "What young loon wouldn't be pleased with such a delicate bloom?"

But Aveline wasn't so sure.

Glancing down, her gaze skimmed over her thick braid, not acknowledging how it gleamed like gold in the candlelight, but rather settling on her tiny hands and feet, the smallness of her breasts. Anything but a full woman, lushly curved and ripe, she doubted any man would find favor with her.

Or the distasteful circumstance that would propel her and Young Jamie into a marriage bed.

No man liked being duped.

Long-lost son, or no.

Across miles of darkling hills and empty moorland, thick with bracken and winter-browned heather, Clan MacKenzie's Cuidrach Castle loomed above the silent waters of Loch Hourn, the stronghold's proud towers and that great sentinel, the Bastard Stone, silhouetted against a cold, frosty sky. A chill night; icy stars glittered in the heavens and knifing winds whistled past the windows, rattling shutters and making those within glad for the leaping flames of the great hall's well-doing log fire. Eager-to-please squires circulated with trays of hot, spiced wine and steaming mounds of fresh-baked meat pasties. Men crowded benches drawn close to the hearth, jesting and jostling amongst themselves, their rich masculine laughter rising to the ceiling rafters, bawdy good cheer ringing in every ear.

Only one of Cuidrach's residents shunned the comforts and warmth of the hall this night, seeking instead the privacy of a tiny storeroom filled with wine casks, blessed torchlight, and James Macpherson's mounting frustration. Holding back an oath that would surely curl the devil's own toes, Young James of the Heather, sometimes teasingly called Jamie the Small, glared at the tiny red bead of blood on his thumb.

The fifth such jab wound he'd inflicted on himself in under an hour. And, he suspected, most likely not the last. Not if he meant to complete his task. Sighing, he licked the blood off his finger, then shoved his stool closer to the best-burning wall torch. Perhaps with brighter light, he'd have a better chance of restitching the let-out seams of his new linen tunic.

A birthday gift from his liege lord's lady.

And the finest tunic he'd e'er possessed. Softer than rose petals and with a bold Nordic design embroidered around the neck opening; just looking at it brought a flush a pleasure to his cheeks, and even made his heart thump if he thought about the long hours Lady Mariota had spent crafting such a gift for him. A gift he was determined to wear to his birthday revelries later that night. He would, too.

If only the tunic weren't so tight across the shoulders, the sleeves a mite too short. And his fool fingers so damnably clumsy.

Frowning, he picked up his needle and set to work again. Truth be told, there was nothing wrong with the tunic ... it was him.

Always had been him.

He was simply too big.

And, he decided a short while later, his hearing a bit too sharp. Leastways keen enough to note the sudden