Malcolm
"Old Archie has only slept within the earth a full moons time, and already Lachlan is stirrin' the waters."
Malcolm nodded in agreement with his cousin Iain, who paced alongside the length of the hearth that held a steady fire holding off the spring chill that swept in at night. His closest friends crowded his study in various positions around the room. Growing up together, they were more like brothers and had come to talk to him about their concerns of word spreading that Lachlan McDougal was planning to expand his lands.
Archibald McDougal, Lachlan's sire, had been the laird of the clan in the west. Throughout the years, he and Malcolm's father had maintained a respect for each other and held a truce maintaining peace between the two clans.
"I have no problem lettin' Lachlan meet the tip of my sword," Donnan, his blood brother chimed in, always ready for a fight.
Once Malcolm's father, Hamish Kinley, had passed, Archibald had traveled to the Kinley's front door to personally offer his condolences and reassure Malcolm that he still intended to honor the agreement he and Hamish had ironed out years ago. Now that Archibald was dead, Lachlan was trying to test his people's strength and make a name for himself. Rumor had it he was thirsty for power and considered his father weak for not claiming more lands.
"What do you plan to do?" Iain asked, stopping for a moment to look his way.
Malcolm mentally shook his head while running a hand through his jet-black hair.
Iain was the youngest of the group at nineteen and looked up to his leader in a reverence sort of way. Whatever Malcolm decided, he had no doubt his little cousin would support him in his decision.
"We cannae jus' start lookin' fer a war when we dinnae have facts," Cameron said, eyeing Donnan.
"What're you lookin' at me fer?" came back an annoyed voice.
Cameron, for all his level-headedness, wasn't the type to back down. "I'm lookin' at you cause you're always lookin' to get yer sword wet with blood," he shot back.
"And other things," Donnan grinned.
Iain groaned. "I dinnae wanna hear about you an' yer rumblin' with the kitchen wench again."
Donnan rolled his eyes. "Maybe you'd learn a thing or two." He paused, and smiled wickedly-- the same smile that drove the lasses weak in the knees. "It was nae the kitchen wench this time. It was the wench down at the tavern."
At that, Cameron grew interested. "The lass with the red hair?"
"Aye," he answered unashamedly. "Those perky tits can make a mon—"
"Lachlan," Malcolm interrupted, before the conversation turned into who had bedded which wench and how many times. Not that he minded the conversation but he had a feeling something needed to be done, and soon, before things got out of hand.
The room grew quiet as the four men thought. As laird, it was Malcolm's responsibility to make the tough decisions and protect his people, but he wasn't adverse to hearing suggestions and ideas other than his own. His father had always taught him a wise lad was smart to have around, but two was all the better.
"Does she have a friend?" Iain broke the silence.
Malcolm couldn't help but laugh along with them as Donnan got up to heartily slap the young lads back.
"I'll ask her for ye. But remember... do nae get to attached." He visibly shivered. "A lass will wannae get wed and talk about bairns."
"Aye," Cameron agreed. "And..." he trailed off, then slowly looked at Malcolm.
"Wha?"
He didn't speak. Just stood there staring at him a few moments more. Malcolm could literally see his brain swirling with ideas.
"Wha mon?" he repeated, ready to hear if he had a plan to get rid of this Lachlan problem.
"Why nae get wed again?" he asked.
The room fell silent as the three other men stared back at Cameron as if he lost his wits.
Then laughter cracked in the night at his lunacy.
Iain clutched his sides as he leaned against the wall wiping stray tears from his eyes. Donnan fell back into his chair trying to catch his breath and failing miserably. Malcolm was the first to recover breathing deeply and straitening in his seat.
"I dinnae hear any of
you
comin' up with ideas," Cameron snapped.
"You saw how bad my last marriage was," Malcolm said good-naturedly. "The poor lass was scared of me just as sure if I were a ghost."
"An besides," he added. "I dinnae want to get wed. Constance lets me in her bed an gives me pleasure whenever I want. I dinnae need a wife."
"If ye wed a lass from another clan, her people would make us even stronger," Cameron insisted. "An we would'nae have to go to war with the McDougals."
"Aye," Donnan agreed.
Malcolm looked at his younger brother in surprise. "Wha? Are you sidin' with him now?"
The handsome devil shrugged. "He has a point."
"I'm not gonnae let some sniveling lass in my castle to whine about her fear of me and whore around with the stable boys," Malcolm argued, growing angry.
"No one says ye have to love her," Cameron said gently. "Just use her for her people. We are a large clan, but we dinnae want to assume Lachlan is nae growing an army even as we speak. It's better to be prepared."
He knew his friend was right. Sighing, he swiped his hair again, staring at the fire. Rowena, his deceased wife, had been his world in what seemed like another lifetime. She was the epitome of beauty with silken raven-colored hair and almond shaped light blue eyes. He had fallen in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her and started the process in trying to win her affections.
At the time, he didn't know she had given her heart to another. All he could see was his love for her and knew they had to be together. For weeks, he showed her favor and granted her family with comfort and numerous gifts from livestock to the finest clothes anyone in the north ever owned. He didn't see the disdain on her face when her father insisted she marry their laird. He didn't see her argue and cry when her father told her it was an honor to be wed to a Kinley.
Rowena had laid cold in their marriage bed. Even though Malcolm had tried to buy her whatever her heart desired and gave her space to come to terms with moving away from her family, she remained frigid to his love.
"I think it's the best plan." Iain's input broke him from his thoughts.
Wed her and bed her. That's all he had to do.
As laird, he knew he had to make sacrifices. He just wished, this wouldn't have to be one of them. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"Tomorrow, get me names of suitable lasses."
Kaelyn
Kaelyn was considered on the shelf at nineteen. She just never seemed to find the right one when it came to marriage at the dismay of her mother, the dowager Duchess of Lansbury. No matter how many parties her mother hosted, she never felt the sweeping love the romantics spoke of. The flutter within her chest, the ache of being parted. She had a feeling she may never find it and, like her mother was prone to tell her, was being too picky.
But she decided that if she must spend the rest of her
life
with someone, she wanted to be certain it was the right "someone". It was a very important decision indeed. A decision that Kaelyn didn't take lightly. And it was all so very hard when she knew half of them only wanted the privilege of saying they had captured the Dukes little sister. The other half she assumed only wanted her because of her looks, and while she, like any other girl, was flattered, she refused to marry just because a gentleman proclaimed she was prettier than the fairest rose. What else would she talk to him about if he only wanted to talk about her face?
Heavens, maybe she
was
being picky.
Her maid, Lucy, finished tightening the stays of her dress and handed her the mask she planned on wearing tonight for the ball her mother was hosting. No doubt hoping her only daughter would fall in love tonight and give her all the grandchildren her heart desired.
Kaelyn took one last look in the looking glass to access herself. Light blond, almost silver hair was swirled up upon her head in some concoction Lucy had spent almost an hour laboring over. Her strands were caught in a pearl comb and cascaded down towards her shoulders. Her petite frame was swathed a pearl buttoned corset that dipped at a respectable décolleté. At her waist, the dress fanned out into a large amount of more silk with ivory beads sewn in. Adjusting her mask on top of a pert nose, she grabbed her fan and headed out towards the hall to greet her mother downstairs.
Technically, the house was her brothers, now that her father had passed and he had assumed the role of Duke, but while he was away on his honeymoon her mother took every opportunity to host as often as she could.
The grand ballroom could be seen from the hallway upstairs and leaning down, she surveyed the area. Masks of every color and size concealed the sea of faces below. Ladies voices drifted over the music in light laughter while the men's voices stayed an acceptable low hum. She knew no one would start dancing until she or her mother did, and seeing as her mother hadn't danced in five years since her husband had passed, Kaelyn knew it would be her responsibility to show off her footwork.
Slowly, she descended down the long stairway, conscious of not making a fool of herself and tumbling down the stairs. Plastering a practiced smile on her face, she accepted the waves of murmured "My Lady's" that followed her with ingrained grace as she floated through the bodies inhabiting the room.
"Lady Kaelyn."
She groaned inwardly at the voice yet turned around with a bright smile at the young man who was quickly at her side. In spite of his mask, she knew who stood before her.
The Lord of Rochester always seemed to seek her out much to her dismay. He didn't seem to realize that his body odor was an assault to one's nose and his breath could water a person's eyes in an instant.
Lady Kaelyn held her breath as she smiled at him and tried to appear as though looking for someone.
"Good evening Lord Rochester. I'm happy you could attend tonight's ball," she said, with practiced politeness.
"I would never miss the chance to lay my eyes upon your beauty Lady Kaelyn," the middle-aged man said, his face growing a darker shade of red by the second.
"You do flatter me Lord Rochester. I should float out of this room from an enlarged head if you do not stop."
"Oh no. I'd never want you to float away Lady Kaelyn... unless, perhaps..." he stammered, looking at the ground. "Perhaps if you would float with me on the floor in the first dance."
Kaelyn stopped looking past him and met his eye. She couldn't say "no" to him, especially when he was being so kind.
With a genuine smile, she lifted her skirts and gave him her hand. "I'd be delighted."
