Bride of Lochbarr

Letting out his breath slowly, disappointed in his quest, he wondered why the sand smelled as it did.

Then he realized it wasn’t the sand. There were bunches of plants hanging down from the rafters—fleabane and rosemary, to be sprinkled on the rushes that covered the hall floors.

He turned and spotted a pile of rushes in the corner behind the door, perhaps excess from the last time they were swept and replaced.

He had his excuse.

TRYING NOT TO PAY any attention to the huge German mercenary leaning against the wall five feet away, Marianne sat in her brother’s hall with her embroidery, a small table bearing a silver carafe of wine and a goblet at her elbow. Polly was seated on a stool across from her, threading the needles with brightly colored woolen strands.

Polly wasn’t even trying to ignore the German. She kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Herman, who was over six feet tall, with a hideous scar down the left side of his face. It was as if his skin had been wet clay and someone had scraped their fingers from his eye socket to his chin.

“Heavens above, my lady,” Polly murmured in Saxon. “Ain’t he a horror?”

“He’s supposed to protect me,” Marianne replied, her mastery of Saxon basic at best as she gave Polly the explanation Nicholas had given her shortly after the Scots led by Seamus Mac Taran had departed.

She’d been afraid he’d discovered that she’d been out in the yard at night, but Nicholas had said nothing about it.

Perhaps Nicholas wisely feared she’d try to flee before the wedding, even if he didn’t know she’d made one attempt already, and this German was his means of assuring she would be here when Hamish Mac Glogan came to claim her.

How little Nicholas knew her! It would take more than a guard to dissuade her from escaping, if a marriage against her will was the alternative. She was just as determined as ever to get away, and no unsympathetic brother, or apparently sympathetic Scotsman—even one who’d kissed with such passion and who’d haunted her dreams every night—was going to stop her. Unfortunately, time was running out, and it was but two days before she was to be wed.

She’d considered trying to speak to the priest Nicholas had sent for before the ceremony, to tell him that she was being made to marry, but Nicholas would probably make that impossible.

The only other plan she’d come up with was to feign illness on her wedding day. Yet Nicholas might suspect her of trickery, and insist she attend nonetheless.

Polly shifted nervously. “He looks like something straight from hell.”

Marianne couldn’t disagree with that. “Pour me some wine, will you, Polly? It’s warm today.”

Indeed, it was warm enough to make her think this terrible country might actually have a summer, after all.

Polly set down her work and did as Marianne asked. As she handed the goblet to Marianne, Herman suddenly moved, bending down to pat the head of an inquisitive, and very ugly, brown boar hound that was sniffing the fur wrapped about the German’s stocky legs.

Polly started with a jerk, sending wine slopping over the edge of the goblet and onto Marianne’s embroidery.

“Oh, no!” she cried, immediately setting down the wine and starting to mop the spill with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined it! I’m so sorry, my lady!”

“It’s all right,” Marianne hastened to assure her. “You only got a little on the corner.”

Polly didn’t seem to hear, either because she was too upset, or because of the noise of the workmen outside. They must be doing something on the wall behind the hall, perhaps finishing the merlons.

“It’s nothing to be so upset about. Truly,” Marianne said soothingly. She slid a glance at the hulking German, who was still petting the dog and muttering in his native language. “He scares me, too.”

The young woman stopped dabbing, raised her red-rimmed eyes and sniffled. “You aren’t angry with me, my lady?”

Marianne shook her head and gave Polly a conspiratorial smile. “Once, before I came here, I spilled a whole…” She searched for the right word. “Bucket? No, carafe,” she amended. “I spilled a whole carafe of wine on the Reverend Mother’s head.”

Polly stared, her mouth an astonished O.

Marianne nodded and leaned back in her chair. “I did,” she confirmed. “The Reverend Mother was very angry. She said I must have been sent by the devil to trouble her, and if I didn’t want to burn in hell, I had to pray for forgiveness twice a day and…”

Again she searched her memory for a word. Not finding it, she acted out dipping a cloth and moving it in a circle.

“Scrub?” Polly offered.

“Yes, that’s it!” Marianne cried. “Scrub all the floors for a week.”

Polly’s eyes grew round as wheels. “You never had to wash floors!”

“I did,” Marianne confirmed. “So what is a little wine on my sewing? It isn’t very good anyway.” She studied the stain that was about the size of a coin. “That might even make it look better.”

Polly smiled tremulously. “I think you sew very well, my lady. And the colors are very pretty, the red especially. It’s as bright as holly berries.”

Marianne knew flattery when she heard it.

She didn’t sew well because she hated it. She’d only started this because she wanted some excuse to talk to Polly, for a servant knew many things about the running of the household, such as who would be where, when. Polly was also familiar with the countryside and the people who lived outside the castle, as well as the roads leading away from Beauxville.

As Marianne went back to working on her ugly embroidery that looked like miscellaneous blobs of color linked by green strings instead of intertwined roses and vines, two male servants came into the hall and set new torches in the sconces in the wall. A middle-aged serving woman swept out the hearth, leaving some coals at one side to kindle the fire anew in the evening.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne caught a movement to her right. Another servant laying rushes.

Whatever for? They’d just been changed yesterday.

There was something odd about that man….

Marianne stiffened and her hand went instinctively to her lips as the memory of the Scot’s kiss returned full force.

What in the name of the saints was he doing here? And he had to be up to no good—again—to come in disguise. She should call out the guards or summon Herman.

Yet if she did and the Scot was imprisoned, who knew what he might say to Nicholas? He might reveal that she’d been alone with him. Then Nicholas would surely lock her in her chamber until the wedding, with Herman to guard the door. She’d have absolutely no chance of escape.

She had to get that Scot away from here before anybody realized who he was.

She hastily slipped her needle through her linen and addressed Polly, doing her best to sound as if everything were perfectly normal and there was no need for alarm. “I think I’ve had enough sewing for today. Please go to the laundry and see if my shifts are dry.”

Polly rose, reaching for the tray bearing the wine. “Yes, my lady.” She sighed. “I wish you weren’t leaving here so soon. Only two more days, and you’ll be off to Menteith.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Polly,” Marianne truthfully replied. “Now hurry along. I really ought to begin packing. Oh, and see if there’s some extra linen to line the chest, please.”

“Yes, my lady,” Polly replied before scurrying away.

When she was out of sight, Marianne got to her feet. “You there, with the rushes,” she called out. “Come here.”

CHAPTER FIVE

AT MARIANNE’S SUMMONS, the Scot slowly straightened. “Yes, my lady,” he said humbly, and in a broad Yorkshire accent.

As he walked toward her, she couldn’t understand how he’d tricked the guards at the gate. It should have been obvious this man was no peasant, and not only because of his powerful build. He had the same warrior’s walk as her brother, a rolling gait of unexpected and lithe grace.

When the Scot came to a halt in front of her, she gestured at her embroidery frame.

“Pick that up and come with me,” she commanded, lifting her wooden sewing box. She started toward the curved staircase that led to the bedchambers, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the Scot followed her.

Herman pushed himself off the wall, lumbering after them like a bear just waking from the winter. As always, though, the German halted at the foot of the stairs. Her brother’s bedchamber was between hers and the hall, so Herman went no further during the day or the night. The only other entrance to the apartments was at the opposite end of the upper corridor and led to the courtyard. It was always guarded by two men, and had been since her arrival there, lest somebody slip in from the yard and gain entry to the hall, or assassinate her brother in his bed.

“So, he’s set his hound to watch you,” the Scot said softly in French as he followed her up the stairs. “Does he know about the other—?”

“No. You have nothing to fear about that.”

“The only thing I feared is that he’d discovered our meeting and taken his anger out on you. I’ve come back to make sure you’re not suffering for that. Or anything else.”

“I’m quite well.”

“That’s not what I meant. Is he trying to force you to marry against your will? Is that why you were running away when I met you in the courtyard?”

Her heart did an odd little twist. He sounded so sincerely worried. Yet it was impossible that this man, this foreigner, this barbarian who barely knew her, could be concerned about her fate. It was much more likely he’d come back to the castle for other, more devious reasons. “Nicholas isn’t the fiend you seem to think he is.”

“So you’re marrying that old blackguard because you want to? I thought you were trying to run away because you didn’t. I’m disappointed to learn otherwise.”

She didn’t answer as she entered her chamber and put her sewing box on the bed. The Scot put the frame in the nearest corner and threw back his hood, revealing a mottled bruise on his cheek.

Subduing any curiosity about his bruise, she stepped toward the window, yet not so close that she could be seen from the courtyard. Clasping her hands together so that they were covered by the long cuffs of her gown, she mustered her dignity, and her skepticism. “I think you’ve come back to see the plans and you think they might be in my brother’s solar. In that case, you’d best leave, because he keeps that room locked.”

“If you had the plans handy, I wouldn’t mind a look, but I’ve told you why I’ve come—and I still think I’m right to believe your brother’s forcing you to marry Hamish Mac Glogan. That’s why you’ve got that delicate new lady’s maid waiting below, the one who looks like he can crush a man’s skull with his bare hands.”

“Herman’s supposed to protect me.”

The Scot’s eyes narrowed. “From what?”

“Scots, I suppose.”

He crossed his arms. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. Even if your brother doesn’t know you’ve tried to run away once or that we met, he suspects you’re going to try to flee, doesn’t he?”

“I told you, he thinks I need protection. And clearly, given your boldness in coming into his hall, he’s right to be cautious.”

“Especially when the prize is a lovely and spirited and very clever woman he can use to further his own ambitions.”

Marianne struggled not to be affected by anything this man said, whether good or bad. “You make me sound like something to be won in a contest. I’m not.”

“I’d wager your brother treats you as if you are. He seems the ruthless, ambitious sort who’d sell his own mother to get what he wants—just like Hamish Mac Glogan.”

“Our mother is dead.”

“Sister, then.”

She tried not to let the Scot upset her, or think that he was right. “Perhaps you wanted to make certain you hadn’t been seen skulking about the castle. If you had, my brother would never have let you leave. He would have thrown you into the dungeon.”

The Scot came closer. “Or else he suspected we’d been together and thought it better to say nothing. Hamish Mac Glogan would want a virgin bride, and if your brother confronted me or threw me in his dungeon, he’d have to explain why. He wouldn’t want that.”

She backed away. “No, he wouldn’t, any more than I want my reputation to be damaged by being associated with you—which it will be if we’re found here.” She pointed to the door. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call for Herman and tell my brother you were trying to steal the plans for Beauxville.”

“Dunkeathe,” the Scot muttered as his intense gaze searched her face. “Would you really call the guard?”

“Yes!”

“Even though I’m willing to help you get away from here, my lady?”

She mustn’t believe that. This had to be a trick, and he was using his seductive voice and eyes as he probably had a hundred times with a hundred different women, for all sorts of reasons.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, refusing to accept that this offer of assistance could be in earnest, or chivalrously intended.

He looked surprised, then bowed with surprising grace. “I forgot we’ve not been properly introduced. I’m Adair Mac Taran, the eldest son of Seamus Mac Taran, chieftain of our clan and a thane of Scotland. Now will you let me help you?”

He was the chieftain’s son?

For a moment, she was tempted—very tempted—to accept his offer. But what then? Where would she go? And, chieftain’s son or not, what might he want in return?

Something you might be willing to give.

As she forced away that lustful little thought, his gaze held her motionless and it was as if he was trying to pierce the defenses she was desperately erecting against the feelings he aroused in her.

“One word from you, my lady,” he said softly. “Just one word, and I’ll do everything I can to stop your marriage to Hamish Mac Glogan and free you from your brother’s tyranny.”

Oh, God help her, why did he have to sound so sincere, and look at her that way? She wanted so much to trust him, to put her life in his hands, to believe that he would and could help her, expecting nothing in return.

But in the end, she dare not. No matter who he was, or what he said, she dare not trust any man. “I’m quite sure that any offer you make to me is in service of your own cause. Now get out, or I’ll call Herman.”

The Scot backed toward the door. “I’m willing to help you, my lady.”

“Go!”

At last, and with one final, questioning look, he did.

She stood still for a moment, telling herself there was nothing else she could have done. She couldn’t trust him, or any other man. She could only trust herself.

Yet in spite of her doubts about his motives, she ran to the window and looked out into the courtyard. Her heart racing, she watched as Adair Mac Taran, warrior and heir to a chieftain, joined a gang of laborers and safely sauntered out the gates.

Whatever his reasons for coming there, she was glad he hadn’t been caught. And relieved, too, of course.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’re not going back to Lochbarr?” Lachlann demanded as he faced his brother in the clearing by the river where they’d left their horses. The sun was low in the horizon, and Adair had just arrived.

“I have to stop that marriage,” Adair said as he reached down for his dirk, taking it from his boot and shoving it into his belt.

“By yourself? That’s a good way to get yourself killed—or start a war. Leave this to Father, Adair. He’s the chieftain.”

“It’s only two days till the wedding and that bastard’s got a guard on her. If he realizes how desperate she is to get away—”

“How do you know she’s desperate?”

There was no time for long explanations. “I know, that’s all,” he said as he went to Neas. “And once Father understands I had no choice, he’ll—”

“No choice?” Lachlann cried, following him. “By the saints, there’s a choice, a choice between what you think is best, and what’s best for the clan. I know she’s a bonnie woman, but—”

“It’s naught to do with her beauty. She’s a woman and I can’t stand by and do nothing while a woman suffers. Your heart must be a cold one if you can.”

“It’s not that I don’t pity her if her brother’s making her marry,” Lachlann protested. “But you can’t rescue her all by yourself. Come back with me and we’ll tell Father.”

“Who may or may not do anything.” Adair looped Neas’s reins over the horse’s neck. “It won’t be as risky as you fear,” he said, leading Neas away from the trees, and trying to sound reasonable, as Lachlann always was, instead of revealing the tumult of emotions surging through him that had been roused by the sight of Lady Marianne’s hulking guard. “I saw a way into the castle, little guarded. I can get in and bring her out with me, then we’ll ride to Lochbarr.”

“And if you’re caught?”

“Then I’m caught.”

Lachlann took a deep breath. “Adair, please, think again. I agree this marriage isn’t good for us, but you can’t just take matters into your own hands. Father is a thane, and chieftain. If he goes to the king—”

“Aye, if he goes. And if he doesn’t?”

“Then that’s the way it must be. We can make alliances of our own.”

Adair knew that—in his head. But his heart, which saw only a woman in jeopardy, had already decided otherwise. “I’ll be making an alliance of sorts. Lady Marianne will be grateful for our help. And once Father realizes that she truly doesn’t want Mac Glogan, and the sort of brute her brother is—”

“This isn’t some little mishap or misunderstanding, or another fight with Cormag,” Lachlann exclaimed. “This could lead to real trouble with the Normans. And even if you do help her, she’ll probably go running back to Normandy and forget all about you. She’s not Cellach, you know.”

Adair threw himself into his saddle and glared at his little brother. “I know she’s not Cellach.”

But for the sake of the girl he couldn’t save, he’d rescue another. “I’m going to Dunkeathe, and there’s an end to it.”

“Very well, Adair, go back,” Lachlann said, throwing up his hands. “But if you’re caught, your life could be the price. Are you really willing to rot in that Norman’s dungeon, or even hang, for this Norman woman?”

Resolute, Adair looked down at his younger brother. “Aye, I am.”

“No good can come of this, Adair.”

“I have to do what I have to do, Lachlann. And I cannot wait.”

With that, Adair punched Neas’s sides with his heels and galloped down the path toward Dunkeathe.

SHE COULDN’T BREATHE.

Startled awake, frantic, too terrified to scream, Marianne struggled against the strong hand pressing against her mouth. Desperately attempting to hit the man holding her even though she couldn’t see him in the dark, she tried to get up.

“Wheesht!” the man whispered harshly in her ear. “I’ve come to help you.”

A Scot. The Scot—Adair Mac Taran.

His hold loosened and the moment it did, she scooted backward on the bed, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.

He was dressed in those same peasant’s clothes, and he held a sword in his hand. Surely he hadn’t fought his way into her room. She would have heard that. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a whisper, mindful of her brother in his chamber close by, and Herman at the foot of the stairs.

“I told you. I’ve come to help you. Come, get up and get dressed. We haven’t much time.”

He rose and held out his hand, obviously expecting her to take it. “The guards I knocked out might wake soon, or somebody might realize they’re not at their posts.”

She stared at him, aghast.

“Don’t be afraid. We can be well away from here before anybody realizes you’re gone. Now get dressed. You won’t be able to take anything. We can’t carry it down the wall.”

The wall? He wanted to her to climb out the window and down the wall, like some kind of monkey? She could see the end of a rope tied to something metal braced against the inside window frame. He must have thrown it from outside, like a grapple.

She wasn’t about to risk falling to her death and she wasn’t going anywhere with this stranger, this Scot, for any reason.

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