He chuckled and led her back to his men. “I’ll make the announcement,” he said.
A shudder passed through her. They were really going through with this farce.
As soon as they reached the men, he cleared his throat. “We are to be married.”
The men nodded, Fin let out a cheer, and Keith stared at them as though they’d gone mad. Perhaps they had.
“But the MacBeans,” Keith said, drawing to attention their decades old clan rivalry.
“An alliance is being formed, and past transgressions will be forgiven,” Brogan said.
Past transgressions? She winged a brow at her fake betrothed, and he winked back.
“Mount up.” He let her arm drop and went to his horse, climbing into the saddle.
How deeply did his feelings about past transgressions go? Did it matter? She supposed it really didn’t.
But as Fiona put her foot in the stirrup and rose up onto her own horse’s back, snapping her fingers at Milla to follow, she realized she didn’t know all that much about the man she’d just agreed to pledge her life to except that he was a bastard and at odds with the chief of his clan, his father. Even if their marriage was supposed to be fake, he could change his mind. Seduce her and then they’d lie together and there’d be no turning back.
Would that bother her?
Fiona bit her lip, refusing to think about it again until she was standing before the priest giving her vows. This was nothing more than a business transaction. A way to make her safer and to give their party more allowances in villages. It would make them all safer, and that was definitely something she could get on board with.
Ten
The higher they climbed into the mountains, the more arduous the journey became.
The rain fell in torrential droves, slanting down sideways, spiking hard against their skin, and making it difficult to see. The craggy ground grew slick with mud, and more than one horse slipped, so they all climbed down to make walking easier. Rivers of mud ran over their boots, and the rain pelting down soaked the horses, their clothes, their supplies.
The wind picked up, pushing trees they could have used for shelter sideways.
“We need to go into town,” Fiona said. “We need to seek shelter for us and the horses. We’ll get nowhere like this.”
“Ye’re my wife,” Brogan said, and she nodded her agreement, though they’d yet to find a priest. “She’s my wife,” he said to his men.
“And he’s my husband.” Saying so in front of witnesses would be good enough for now. Still, it made the entire idea of dissolving their union a lot easier in the end. She was both relieved and disappointed.
The men nodded and sounded off a cheer, offering their congratulations through the pelting rain.
Down a valley and perhaps a mile or so away was a small village. They had no way of knowing who lived there and where their loyalties lay, but they had to take a chance. The rain was showing no sign of slowing, and even as she thought that, a round of thunder hollered from above and lightning struck not too far away.
One of the horses whinnied and reared up, making the other animals skittish. Even Milla darted away, afraid of what was to come.
They made their way down a slick, winding path that looked to have been trod upon many times, and after what felt like an hour but was in reality perhaps only twenty minutes, they arrived at the small crofters’ village. As expected, there was no one outside.
Light came from the windows of a building, where a sign near the door waved rapidly in the wind, in danger of coming loose. Fiona was able to make out the name as it blew: Cluanie Thistles Tavern.
Brogan tried the handle, but it was locked, so he rapped on the door while the rest of them huddled in a circle.
An older gentleman opened a square in the door to peek out at them.
“What do ye want?”
“We’re in need of a warm meal and shelter,” Brogan said. “My wife and I along with our brothers.”
“Large family.” The man shut the little door without another word, and the lot of them exchanged glances, wondering if he’d open it back up again.
Brogan was raising his hand to knock again when the door whipped open. “Ye can come in. Horses around back.”
Brogan tugged Fiona forward while the rest of the men took the horses.
“I’ve one room upstairs for the two of ye, and your men can sleep either in the stables or in here somewhere. Most men seem to find a spot on the floor.” He nodded toward the tavern with tables and a hearth, then stated the price.
Brogan nodded, handing the man some coin. The innkeeper counted the payment in his palm, then nodded toward the dining area.
“Food and drink in there. I’ll have the missus make up your bed.”
Your bed.
They were to share a single bed. They were, after all, pretending to be husband and wife. A warm shiver raced over her spine. Nay, nay, nay. She would take the floor.
With Brogan’s hand on the small of her back, she walked into the main dining area where two long tables and benches dominated the center of the room, and several smaller tables were shoved against the far wall. There were only a few people inside, drinking ale and slurping stew.
They eyed her and Brogan with curiosity. Brogan nodded and then directed Fiona toward one of the tables in the back with only two chairs. Once they were seated, he looked across at her, his blue eyes hooded, and held out his hands. She stared down at his extended palms, studying the lines and calluses.
“Hold out your hands,” he said.
She did so, placing her hands into his. “Is this what married couples do?” she asked, teasing.
“Aye.” He chuckled, his thumbs rubbing over her knuckles. “We need to set a good example.”
“Hmm,” she said, thinking about what kind of example she could set; say, leaning over the table and kissing him. Heat crept up her neck and cheeks at the thought and she looked away, trying to hide her reaction.
Their six companions came boisterously into the room, each of them halting and practically running into one another when they spotted Fiona and Brogan, hands clasped. Sorley was the first to shutter his stunned expression, followed by Fin who shouted, “Drinks on me for my brother and his new bride.”
Keith observed them suspiciously, but as soon as Fiona locked eyes with him, he looked away. What was he thinking?
The men had taken over a long table, and a serving wench brought out a jug of ale, passing them cups before bringing cups over to her and Brogan.
“Stew and bread all right, sir? ’Tis all we have.”
Fiona’s mouth watered. “Perfect.”