The Highland Laird's Bride. Nicole Locke

this competition will help.’

      A lady? Clan’s mistress? He might as well have been speaking French. Even his manner had gone all courtly. She wasn’t gentle born. She had never cared about cookery or ensuring freshly swept staircases, or gentling tempers. She had given Aindreas her bow and arrows, but she felt the comfort of her small blade hidden in the folds of her tunic. The small blade she currently wanted to throw at Bram.

      ‘You cannot be sincere about these games,’ she said. Although what else did she expect from a Colquhoun who laughed all the time? ‘This is a trick, a...jest.’

      ‘Nae a jest. Nae a trick. Simply games. A competition,’ he enunciated. ‘We need a swimming contest across the lake, wrestling, bowls, horseshoes and archery.’

      ‘With teams, scoring, prizes?’

      ‘Aye.’

      He sounded relieved, as if she agreed with him! After everything she’d been through this year—death, vulnerability and soon starvation—he wanted to play games. ‘Frivolous amusements. They serve nae purpose.’

      Bram rolled back on his heels. Lioslath understood nothing, or she wilfully battled against him. Neither would do. This woman wasn’t who he thought she would be. Her father died in April. Surely, by now, she had knowledge of clan affairs? After all, women cared about the temperaments of the people around them, even if they did not deal with the politics of leadership.

      And now, in both of the clans, the men’s temperaments were too high. They needed cooperation and a way to release the tension.

      ‘They serve the purpose of men who want to fight each other. They give direction to their aggression so it is not spent on each other. We need to set it all up and fast or these men will be at each other’s throats by midnight.’

      ‘Those games will not feed my clan, or make their homes stronger, or provide—’

      ‘Those issues would have been addressed weeks ago if you had opened the gates.’

      Lioslath winced and he knew he’d hit his target. Being blunt wasn’t normally in his nature when courteous words worked just as well. But courteous words were wasted with her.

      ‘We need cooperation and there’s nothing else more expedient to address raised tempers than a competition. What they need now is a test of wills.’

      ‘This isn’t a test of wills. I’ve hunted plenty to know when a prey is being manipulated from the safety of their lair. Come here, little vole, you’ll get some food for your belly and then I’ll get food for mine!’

      ‘I set this up so our clans doona start fighting!’

      ‘You make it all my fault. Aye, vole, it’s all your fault you’re in my soup because you were so hungry you ate the scraps in my trap!’

      He would have his way in this. ‘Are you saying I manipulated you when I put the food outside the tunnel?’

      ‘Aye, what else was it?’

      ‘A peace offering. A gift to show nae ill will!’

      ‘And the fact that I took it? Didn’t that obligate me then to open the gates?’

      He’d done it to soften her towards them. ‘You opened the gates to save your honour.’

      ‘Because you were in my bedroom,’ she pointed out. ‘Ah, I’ve been blind. You’ve done it over and over. Here, starving people, here is some food. Here, Clan Fergusson, here’s the promise of sheep and a strong alliance.’

      Her words cut too close to the truth. ‘Careful, Fergusson. Who is twisting words now? The deal we made was a matter of diplomacy between your father and me, made by consenting parties—’

      ‘We’re not consenting. You merely starve our bellies until we feel as if the starvation is somehow our fault! These games you suggest aren’t a compromise, they’re coercion!’

      ‘I am Colquhoun. I am laird. I do not coerce!’

      She smiled. ‘Of course you wouldn’t, how silly of me. We are only here for your pleasure.’

      Shaking his head, he looked around. Their words were not going unnoticed. They were outside the gates now, past the camp and too near the village. There were no benches and tables here, but freshly cooked food lay on carts. Many villagers were taking the food and carrying it to the communal tables. Too many villagers who walked slowly and could hear their every heated word.

      Bram ran his hand through his hair. Frustrating Fergusson! Did she not know women were meant to be gentle? To smile? To be meek? That was what was needed today, a biddable female. She was unexpected. And he was constantly guessing with her. It wasn’t only her beauty he couldn’t ignore, it was the mystery of her. How she hesitated around her siblings and clan.

      How she ignored his status as laird and his coaxing smiles. How she angered at his reasoning. Frustrating female!

      He was again brought to a point he didn’t want to be with her. So quick to lose his patience. She put him in a position of defence again and he would not have it. ‘Are you saying you doona want this competition?’

      Lioslath pointed to the village. ‘Aren’t we walking so I can show you what you so generously want to improve?’

      He’d get no further with her. Stubbornness. She might have eaten, but he hadn’t. He eyed their offered food, but the colour of the pottage wasn’t appetising, so he grabbed two of their rolls and some boar.

      Following Lioslath, he took a bite of the bread and quickly spat it out lest he risk breaking a tooth.

      ‘Bread not fresh enough for you?’

      ‘Nae, ’tis fine.’ No bread should have stones and pottage shouldn’t be grey. But he wouldn’t admit that. She believed he liked easy and thought him pampered. Confirming this idea wouldn’t get her agreement to the rest of his intentions for today.

      The feast was only the beginning of mending relations with this clan. It would take the games event to truly achieve cooperation. Then his plan to remain for the winter would be secure.

      As if she knew he lied about the bread, Lioslath smirked and hurried her steps towards the village.

      * * *

      Restless, agitated and still too far away from her forest, Lioslath wanted the afternoon to end. It wasn’t only Bram and his demands, it was their clans observing each other, observing her and Bram. Though she was outside, she felt trapped. Trapped by the role here that she didn’t know how to do and trapped by her longing to be better.

      Barely keeping her temper, she pointed to the roofs, and to the wood rot. Talked of the ploughing still to do in the fields and the trenching through the village. All needing to be done before the dirt froze.

      Bram asked questions, and she knew he missed nothing. She felt the familiar prick to her pride. Fergusson keep and land were falling apart.

      It hadn’t always been so. When she was a child, her parents had worked tirelessly and the keep had been beautiful; the clan had been prosperous.

      Then the wolves had come and raided the village right before a sudden frost descended. The wheat harvesting hadn’t yet been completed and most of the bales of oats and barley hadn’t been stored properly. They suffered too much as the harsh winter continued. Suffered more with her mother’s cough and sudden death.

      They’d never suffered a winter like that again, but they never recovered from it either. Her father most of all.

      As the years went by her father took riskier chances. Desperation to recover what they lost engulfed his every action. The marriage to the Colquhoun clan was simply another attempt. When the letters of agreement occurred, when her father left to secure his bride, he regained some pride. His sense of purpose, of optimism, returning.

      But Clan Fergusson was cursed. For when her father returned from that fateful trip to Colquhoun