Buchanan flashed his wife a knowing grin.
“Besides, Rolfe is a good man. It’s time he took a bride. Because ye…” Buchanan placed a hand on her distended belly, “are my wife.”
Rhedyn felt her second child kick. She was truly wed and by her own choice. She looked out the gate where the Mackenzie riders could be seen just disappearing over the rise in the road. The Mackenzie Retainers had several words for Cora. They enjoyed her strength, but there were growing rumblings for her to shoulder the responsibility of making a match, which would secure a good alliance for the clan.
Rhedyn knew the burden too well. Fate had been kind enough to bless her with a husband she loved. Was it too much to hope Cora might find Rolfe Munro to her liking?
Who knew?
At least it was better to have a little hope left, even if Rhedyn recognized it was the last one that might be afforded to Cora. At twenty-two, the time had come. Rhedyn would have to pen the letter to the Grants herself as Mistress of the Mackenzies.
But for now, there was a possibility of something else. Rhedyn smiled and silently wished for good fortune for her sister-in-law.
One chance. Of course, life rarely offered even that.
*
There was gossip about her.
Cora wasn’t oblivious to the way the Mackenzie Retainers were casting looks her way. They had expectations—ones steeped in traditions and rich with benefits for the clan.
She wasn’t insensitive. Life was hard, and no one made it alone. No matter how enticing the idea of pitting oneself against Fate and life might be, it was something that only happened in songs and legends. Real life required working together. The Mackenzie clan was strong because of every soul who placed allegiance above their personal need for glory.
As the laird’s daughter, she needed to be practical. Her father had made a match for her with Cormac Grant. It would secure an alliance that would ensure peace. Fighting meant suffering for everyone. Moonlight raids translated into lost homes and crops. One death in the heat of battle could spark a feud that might stretch for generations. Every member of the clan had their place, and with it came responsibilities. Hers was to wed with an eye on alliances. Cormac wore the same yoke.
Cora sighed. She felt a tightening around her throat. A sense of panic was growing inside her lately; one all of her logical thoughts seemed powerless against.
At least her brother seemed willing to give her more time. Most men would have already pressed Cora to prepare to go to her intended husband’s holding. But the laird had obligations as well. The Mackenzie Retainers gave Buchanan their obedience, and in return, her brother would be expected to make her accept her responsibilities to her clan.
Cora felt that tightening around her throat again.
This time, there was also a tingle on the back of her neck. The wind blew in a hard, sudden gust. Dry leaves rattled in the trees adding to the sense of unease raising goosebumps on her skin.
Fate might just be stirring.
As Samhain approached, it was the time for spirits, both good and bad, to rise all around them. The harvest was in, and now, the battle to survive until the next season would begin. Winter was always the time when everyone was shut inside and had ample opportunity to talk. There were no fields to tend, no roofs to mend. Conversation would flow. The growing number of looks being cast her way confirmed the topic her clansmen were discussing was her future.
But where to go?
The path in front of her was as unreadable as ever. Hours of prayer and soul searching hadn’t yielded any clear idea of where she should seek whatever it was out in the world that would ease the growing tension inside her. She was restless, but what did that mean? Running away seemed pointless unless she had some destination in mind. Something to become or someone to be with.
So, she’d go up to Munro land. Her brother had sent her to deliver a letter. It was a less than important task. Cora saw through it, and yet, she was grateful to her brother for offering her one last ride across the Highlands before winter closed in. She leaned forward, enjoying the chill of the wind across her cheeks. Some of her hair worked its way free, and the strands blew back across her cheeks.
Unbridled…
She truly was.
And completely unrepentant as well!
*
“I’m amazed yer brother allowed ye out so late in the season.”
Rolfe Munro wasn’t laird yet. But his father hadn’t been in good health for years. There was a hardness in Rolfe’s eyes, which spoke of the toll leading the Munro took from him. He was young, and yet, he was a man because life demanded it of him.
The way he’d risen to meet the expectations placed upon him was by far the most attractive feature he had.
Cora did feel a twinge of guilt over the thought. She was being overly harsh.
Ye mean judgmental.
It was true. Rolfe had golden hair and blue eyes. He was built tall and had thick muscles on his shoulders and arms to prove he didn’t just lead in name alone. No, the man trained with his men. Rode with them. He would be Laird of the Munro by more than bloodline. He’d spent years earning the respect of his men.
Yet, he moved her, not at all.
Rolfe suddenly chuckled. “Mistress Cora,” he muttered as he lifted a measure of whiskey up in a silent salute to her. “Would ye be kind enough to not slice me to the bone while I sit at me own table?”
Cora blinked, forcing herself to focus on the conversation. “I do nae understand yer meaning, Laird Munro.”
“Ah,” Rolfe muttered with a narrowing of his eyes. “No mercy for me, it would seem.” He drew a sip from his whiskey and took a long moment to enjoy the bite of the strong brew. When his eyes widened again, she felt the look he sent her all the way to her toes.
“Has Cormac no’ taken the time to meet ye lass?” Rolfe asked.
It was a blunt question. One which skirted the boundary of decency. Rolfe knew it, too. There was a flash of boldness in his eyes that tickled her. She leaned forward, maintaining his gaze.
“Ye,” Cora declared softly, “are not nearly as civilized as ye attempt to convince the world.”
Rolfe lifted a toast to her again. “I am a Highlander, lass. There are expectations….” He made a slow-motion with his glass. “If I am too congenial…well someone might start saying I am civilized and more suited to…the low lands. I’ll be expected to wear britches before too long.”
Cora laughed at his explanation. “We can nae have that.”
She tossed the last of her whiskey into her mouth before setting the cup down with a solid sound on the tabletop. It earned her approving looks from Rolf’s men. The Mackenzie Retainers didn’t miss it either. The men were contemplating what a fine match she and Rolfe were and how it would keep the peace between their clans solid as stone.
That damned feeling was back around her neck. Her clansmen were doing a good job of appearing to ignore her and Rolfe while noting every last detail of the meeting. And the Munros were doing precisely the same thing to Rolfe. She saw the glitter of frustration in his eyes as he maintained a perfect position in his chair and never allowed his gaze to drop lower than her chin.
She battled the need to make an excuse and leave the high table before she’d afforded the meeting enough time to give it a fair chance at success. If she failed, the Munro would have a reason to accuse her of slighting their hospitality and their laird’s son.