Bride For A Knight Page 0,1

lad, he is. He will make you forget. In time - "

"I will never forget," Munro vowed, staring past her, watching the horrible glaze coat his wife's vacant eyes. "And I dinna need a tenth mouth to feed. I didna even want this one! Nine healthy sons are enough for any man."

"Sir, please ... " The midwife handed the babe to her niece, hastened after him when he made for the door. "You must at least name him."

"I must do naught!" Munro swung around; he would have hit her were she not so old and bent. "But if you would have a name then call the lad Jamie - James of the Heather!"

The midwife blinked. "'Of the Heather'?"

"So I have said," Munro confirmed, already stepping out the door. "'Tis there he was spawned in a moment I'll e'er regret, and 'tis there he can return. So soon as he's old enough. Baldreagan has no room for him."

Chapter 1

FAIRMAIDEN CASTLE

NEAR BALDREAGAN, AUTUMN 1347

"The tenth son?"

Aveline Matheson paced the length of the high table, her father's startling news echoing in her ears. Equally distressing, her sister's red-rimmed gaze followed her and that made her feel unpleasantly guilty.

She took a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the sensation that her world was spinning out of control.

"To be sure, I remember there was a younger son, but ... " She paused, finding it hard to speak with Sorcha's teary-eyed stare boring holes in her. Indeed, not just her oldest sister, but every kinsman crowding the great hall. All of them were staring at her. Swiveling heads and narrowing eyes. Measuring her reaction as if the entire future and fortune of Clan Matheson rested upon her shoulders.

And from what she'd heard, it did.

Wincing inwardly, she stopped in front of her father's laird's chair and stood as tall as her diminutive stature would allow.

That, and Alan Mor Matheson's fierce countenance. A look her plaid-hung, bushy-bearded father wielded with as much skill as he swung his sword. Seeing that look now, she swallowed, wanting only to escape the hall. Instead, she held her ground. "For truth, I am sore grieved for Laird Macpherson," she began, scarce able to grasp the horror of losing nine sons at once, "but if you mean to insist upon a union between our houses, shouldn't Sorcha be the bride?"

Upon her words, Sorcha gave an audible gasp.

Alan Mor's face hardened, his large hands splaying on the high table. "Saints of glory!" he boomed, his choler causing his eldest daughter to jump as if he'd struck her.

Ignoring her distress, he leaned forward, kept his attention on Aveline. "Your sister was to be the bride. She was to wed Macpherson's eldest son, Neill. As well you know. Now, with Neill and the others dead, only Jamie remains."

He paused, letting the last two words hang in the smoke-hazed air. "Sorcha is more than fifteen summers the lad's senior and your other three sisters are wed. I willna risk the alliance with Macpherson by denying his only remaining son the most suitable bride I can offer."

Aveline lifted her chin. "Be that as it may - "

"It doesn't matter. Not now." Sorcha touched her arm, blinking back the brightness in her eyes. "'Twas Neill who should've been mine. I-I ... would have followed him to the ends of this earth, even through the gates of hell," she vowed, her voice thick. "I've no wish to wed Young Jamie."

"Even so, I still grieve for you." Aveline released an uneven breath, a surge of pity tightening her chest. "And my heart breaks for the Macphersons."

Alan Mor hooted. "Your sister is a well-made young woman with fine prospects. Another husband will be found for her," he declared, glancing around as if he expected someone to gainsay him. "As for that cross-grained old goat, Macpherson, that one has e'er claimed the devil's own luck. His hurts will lessen once he remembers the bonny bit of glen he'll be getting to graze his precious cattle. Not to mention the well-filled coffers he wheedled out of me."

A chill slid down Aveline's spine. She said nothing.

If her father had brimming coffers to offer Munro Macpherson, he'd likely filled them with stones - or empty words and bluster.

Sure of it, she watched Sorcha whirl away and move toward the hearth fire. With her shoulders and back painfully straight, the older girl's face looked pale in the torchlight, her eyes shadowed and puffy. Worse, her stony expression voiced what every Matheson knew.

Neill Macpherson had been her last