Page 1 of Eloping with the Laird
Chapter One
Argyll, Scotland, October 1740
Scores of men competed in the vast open field in various tests of skill and strength that Moira Fraser’s father, Bran Stewart, the Laird of Glenhaven, held each autumn. The annual Tournament of Champions had been a tiresome tradition every year, with this year being even more bothersome than most for she had to select a husband.
‘Who is it to be, sister?’ Ewan Stewart, eldest of the siblings, approached and settled next to Moira. He leaned against the trunk of one of the many rowan trees surrounding them.
‘I choose none of them. Is that a fine enough answer for you?’ Moira Fraser faced her favourite sibling and frowned. She attempted to be cross with him, which was impossible.
‘Nay, sister. You must select a husband and soon. Tomorrow is the last day of the tournament and then these lairds and their eldest sons will scatter back to whence they came. If you do not choose, Father will do so for you. Is that what you wish?’ His warm brown gaze settled upon her. His sympathy sent an undercurrent of panic beneath her skin.
They both knew how her last marriage had ended. Badly.
‘You know what I wish,’ she whispered. She clutched at the bark of the tree until it impressed itself upon the soft flesh of the inside of her wrist. ‘Why can I not just be left a widow? Why must I remarry?’
‘It is the best way to protect you.’
‘Is that what my last husband was doing?’ She stifled a laugh.
Ewan reached out and touched her hand. She flinched involuntarily, a gift from her first husband. Touch sometimes sent her back to a place she never wished to be: her memories. ‘Moira, you know what I meant. None of us knew. If we had...’
The familiar agony emerged again.
She smothered the shame and interrupted him. ‘I know that. But that does not mean that I wish to ever be bound to a man that way again.’
‘Father has given you the option to choose this time, sister. An option a woman usually does not have. Take that chance. I know it isn’t much, and it doesn’t undo anything that has happened, but seize it before it is gone. Otherwise, he will merely choose the laird with the largest coin and castle in hopes it will secure your future.’
Just like the last time.
She studied the field. The two dozen lairds and their sons looked like reasonable, average, perhaps even kind men, but one couldn’t see everything about a person until they were alone with them in the wee hours of the night consumed in darkness. That was when their monsters emerged.
When a large stone caber crashed to the ground, she startled and stared out at the sea of men. ‘How can I possibly know if any of these men will be good to me, Ewan? They all seem...the same.’
And she no longer trusted her judgment. She’d met Peter Fraser at a gathering such as this. Father had introduced them, hoping for just such an attachment to form. The eldest son and soon-to-be laird over his clan had wooed her with his kindness and charm. His attentions had been gentle, steady and predictable, and over three days she had fallen for all he had pretended to be. They were married but a month later, and within a few weeks of their vows, Moira had wished she were dead.
Well, more specifically, she wishedhewere dead. She never told anyone all that happened on the night he died, and she never would. Some secrets were meant to be buried, and her secrets were buried with Peter.
‘Shall I give you some recommendations? I have spent time with some of these men and can tell you their virtues and vices. Will that help?’ Ewan offered, hope dancing in his features.
‘Aye.’ She would humour him. ‘Tell me your top three choices. I will speak with them, make my decision and report it to Father by the end of the day on the morrow.’
His eyes narrowed on her. ‘You will?’
‘Aye, brother. Now go on,’ she answered. She had to placate Father. He was ill and his worry over seeing her settled was taking a toll on him. Heaven knew he also blamed himself for what happened with Peter even though he’d never said as much. She’d promised to provide him a name for a future husband by the end of the tournament, and she would keep her promise, even if she dreaded becoming a bride once more.
‘Your first candidate in the northwest corner preparing for the caber toss is Phineas Grant, eldest son of a large estate north of Loch Ness. Strong, capable and fairly clear-headed.’
‘And?’ She sensed his hesitation.
‘He is a bit of a gambler from what I hear, so you’d need to mind the purse strings of the clan, for your children’s sake, of course.’
‘Not a chance. Who’s next?’
He sighed. ‘Sean MacIntosh to your left, also an eldest son, lining up for his next shot for arrows. A bit young for you perhaps at three years your junior, but your strength could be a virtue for him. Smaller estate though, near Inverness on the Moray Firth. You’d need to pack your furs, sister. It’s a bit blustery in the winter with the wind coming in from the sea.’ He shivered.
She frowned as MacIntosh missed his mark entirely. ‘Is he blind? I could have hit that target blindfolded.’
He laughed. ‘Perhaps he does have a vision issue, now that you mention it. He’s never been good at shooting either. My top choice for you would be Garrick MacLean. He’s next up to shoot. Garrick was a second son, but his older brother died a year ago from fever. He’s now set to inherit a sizeable estate along Loch Linnhe, a day’s ride from here. He’s a good man, Moira. One of the best you’ll find.’
