The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  “Maneuvering?” She looked at him with an arched brow, waiting for further explanation.

  “Aye. Maneuvering.” He straightened his jacket and neckcloth, then slid the tapestry curtain aside the barest bit and peered out. All seemed clear. He thought to turn back and steal one last kiss but decided against it. Every time he tasted her sweetness, he didn’t wish to stop. “I’ll call out when ye can follow.” With stealth born from hundreds of battles and just as many dalliances, he slipped out of the room.

  “Shamie, shame, shame, I know yer name!”

  “Dammit, woman!” He whirled about, clenching his teeth to keep from cursing more.

  Jenny greeted him with a mischievous smirk. “Aye, that’s what ye get for skulking about like a wee thief.” She parted the curtain a tiny bit and peeped inside. “’Tis safe enough, I reckon, dear sister. I dinna think anyone saw the two of ye sneaking away to steal yer kisses but me.”

  “We were not stealing kisses,” Sorcha said as she exited the room.

  “Liar. Ye’re red as a freshly squeezed berry.” Jenny winked at Sutherland. “Dinna fret. I willna give away yer secrets.” She glanced around, then took a step closer. “But if ye hurt my sweet foster sister here, I’ve got friends who’ll hang ye by yer bollocks in the highest tower, ye ken?”

  “Jenny,” Sorcha scolded.

  Sutherland had no doubt that the lass was serious. He had noticed several of the guards following her about like devoted pets. He offered Sorcha his arm while focusing a stern glare on Jenny. “Never would I hurt this woman, but if ye ever dare startle me like that again, I’ll ask the chieftain to have yer arse thrashed for ye, I grant ye that.”

  Jenny laughed away the threat as she waved them toward the entry hall. “Come this way so it looks as if ye stepped to the door to check on the storm.” She winked. “By the by, the ground’s already white in case anyone doubts yer story and asks ye.”

  Jenny bounced along beside them, chattering nonstop. After what seemed like an eternity in the lass’s bubbling presence, Sutherland sympathized with Magnus completely. He yanked open the heavy oak door and peered outside. Sure enough, a heavy dusting of snow already covered everything. Huge fluffy flakes whispered down from the night sky, quickly adding more to the layer. He shoved the door shut as a gust of wind fought to push it open wider.

  “Ye didna believe me?” Jenny asked, her insult evident.

  “I’ve an aversion to lying,” Sutherland snapped, wishing the girl would find entertainment elsewhere. “Now, I can honestly say I looked upon the weather.”

  “Where’s Heckie?” Sorcha asked as she stepped between them. “Ye should run and find him, or he’ll wiggle out of his promise to sit with ye.”

  Jenny smiled. “Dinna fash yerself, Sorcie. I’ll leave the two of ye to yerselves. I’m not a bairn that needs distracting with another play pretty.” She flounced away, disappearing behind a wall covered in rows of shields decorated with the Greyloch clan crest of a pair of fierce dragons.

  Sorcha stiffened beside him. Following her line of sight, he instinctively pulled her closer. Lady Culane and her son had just emerged from the archway to the wing housing rooms for guests, the same wing where he and Magnus had stayed since their arrival.

  “She wants ye as her next husband instead of Da,” she said without taking her glare from the loathsome pair as they made their way to the chief’s table. The two paused to visit with several of Clan Greyloch’s advisors as they strolled through the room.

  “Well, she canna have me,” he assured quietly as he led her to the table and helped her into her seat, then took the chair beside her.

  “I should be closer to the chief!” Lady Culane complained loudly as one of Greyloch’s personal guards directed her to sit at the other end of the table. She flitted a hand toward her son. “And Garthin should be closer to the Lady Sorcha.” She assumed a taunting smile that resembled the snarling of a dog. “He and the lady are dear friends. I am certain they have much to discuss over dinner.”

  Sorcha’s father rose, interrupting Lady Culane’s prattling by lifting his tankard and banging on it with the haft of his sgian dhu. “While the last of winter rages outside, Clan Greyloch’s blessings rage within.” He turned and beamed a proud smile on Sorcha, then included Sutherland in the pleased look. “Lady Sorcha has agreed to ensure us a strong alliance with Clan MacCoinnich by marrying Sutherland MacCoinnich, their chief’s youngest brother.” He lifted his mug higher, his voice booming across the room. “When the moon shines full, weather permitting or not, my daughter shall become Lady Sorcha MacCoinnich.” He lifted his other hand, encompassing the entirety of the room. “We have a priest, a bride, and a groom. What more do we need? I see no reason to delay the union. Do ye not agree, my kinsmen?”

  “Aye!” The room shook with the hearty assent of those gathered. Tankards, knives, and fists banged on the tables.

  By the full moon? Sutherland locked eyes with Magnus as the racket reached a fevered pitch, then was augmented with stomping feet. The waxing moon had lit their journey to Greyloch Castle, and that had been almost a sennight ago. Within another day or more, the shining orb in the night sky would be fully swollen. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sorcha watching him. The uncertainty and trust he had tried to chase away shadowed her face once again. Before he could reassure her, she knotted her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead.

  “I am certain he fears one of us might seek an escape from what we have put into play,” she explained quietly when the noise in the hall died down. She looked out upon the crowd with a strained smile after giving Lady Culane and her son a surly nod. “I’m surprised he didna have us bound before we seated ourselves to ensure ye felt too shackled to risk sneaking away in the night.”

  “I never sneak away from anything—and especially not yerself.” It was time to prove she could trust him, and he knew exactly how to do it. The lovely Lady Sorcha would soon learn that when he claimed something as his own, he never let it go, and nothing or no one could pry it from him.

  Sutherland pushed away from the table and stood, holding out a hand to Sorcha as he did so. “Stand with me now, m’love,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “As yer father so wisely pointed out, why should we wait any longer?”

  “What?” Rather than taking his hand, she gripped the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles whitened.

  “Fetch the priest,” he ordered even louder. “Let us celebrate a wedding this night rather than a mere betrothal.” He reached down and pried Sorcha’s grip free of the chair and pulled her up to his side.

  “Father Stephen!” Chieftain Greyloch roared above the laughter, cheers, and clapping.

  The gaunt man of the cloth, probably tall at one time but now bent with age, wove his way through the crowd from the far side of the room. He paused here and there, scolding and shoving aside any who blocked his path. Halting a few feet in front of the head table, he beckoned Sorcha and Sutherland, then pointed at the floor in front of him. “Come. Stand here before God, my children. I willna be joinin’ anyone who’s hidin’ behind a table.”

  Sorcha remained rooted to the spot in front of her chair. She stared at Sutherland, her eyes rounder than the full moon.

  He thought to scoop her up and carry her, then decided against it. Nay, when the lass finally shook free of her shock, there’d be hell to pay if he did that. Best to handle this a bit more delicately. With a steady pull, he looped her arm through his and, inch by inch, led her off the dais and around the table to stand in front of the priest.

  Father Stephen leaned forward, peering closer at Sorcha. “Ye’ve gone whiter than the milk in the buckets, lass. Be ye about to fall dead away? Need ye some wine or whiskey to stand ye through yer vows?”

  She jerked her head from side to side and tightened her hold on Sutherland’s arm.

  The priest’s bushy brows arched higher on his forehead. With a nod in Sorcha’s direction, he turned to Sutherland. “Best hold tight to her, l
ad. I’ll speak the words fast, so we get them said before she hits the floor.”

  Sutherland freed her death grip on his arm and wrapped it around her waist. He held tight to her hand for good measure. A belated realization hit him as Father Stephen pulled his worn Bible from an inner pocket of his robe. A ring. He had no ring to put upon her finger. Damn it all to hell and back. Sorcha deserved the finest of rings. Still holding her steady, he sidled forward and whispered to the priest, “I have no ring for my lady.”

  “A ring isna what makes a marriage whole and strong,” the priest admonished while opening his Bible. After licking his finger and thumb, he flipped through the pages. Still squinting, he glanced up from his book and nodded. “Gift her with a ring of gold upon yer first anniversary, ye ken?”

  “She’ll deserve a chest of gold if she doesna kill him by then,” Magnus said as he appeared at Sutherland’s side.

  “I dinna need a ring,” Sorcha said loud and clear, her chin lifted proudly.

  Sutherland smiled. His lady had found her courage. “Ye may not need a ring, but ye deserve one, m’love.”

  “Do as Da did for Mama,” she said, her voice falling to almost a whisper. “Give me a ring upon the birth of our first child.”

  “And so I shall,” he promised, squeezing her hand, then giving it a quick kiss.

  “Well, then.” The priest cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Now that we’ve settled the matter of the ring, let us be getting on with it so we can all eat. I smell roasted boar and smoked salmon, and dinna fancy either of them when they’ve sat long enough to grow cold. Both are best good and hot from the pits.” He wrinkled his nose, peered closer at the yellowed pages of his book, then glanced first at Sutherland, then at Sorcha. “When I pause and look at ye, say yer full Christian names. I canna for the life of me remember those long strings of names anymore. So, take care of that yerselves, aye? Ye know yer own names much better than I.” Without waiting for either of them to agree, Father Stephen turned and glared at a corner of the room still rumbling with quiet mutterings. “And if all here will mind their manners and stop their yammering, we’ll get on with it.”

  If not for the heightened sense of what he was about to do scaring the living hell out of him, Sutherland would’ve laughed. Instead, he swallowed hard and concentrated on appearing relaxed, not just for Sorcha’s sake but for his own as well. Maybe if he appeared relaxed, he might start to feel such.

  Father Stephen rolled his narrow shoulders and stood as tall as his bent frame allowed. He pinned a fierce scowl on Sutherland. “Do ye…” he paused.

  “Sutherland Islay Fenn MacCoinnich,” Sutherland supplied.

  “Merciful saints, I wouldha never remembered that mouthful,” the priest muttered. “Aye, do ye take…” he halted again and shot a raised brow in Sorcha’s direction.

  “Sorcha Elaine Greyloch,” she said in a voice so soft, everyone leaned forward to hear her.

  Father Stephen nodded his approval. “Aye, do the two of ye take one for the other, swearing yer oath here in the presence of God Almighty and both kith and kin? Do ye swear love, fealty, and faithfulness to each other, forsaking any and all others who might tempt ye to stray and make ye forget that ye now be one rather than two?”

  “Aye,” Sorcha squeaked, her voice cracking. “I do.”

  “I do so swear to love this woman wholly and without restraint, in sickness and health, in plenty and poverty, in this life and beyond, where we shall reunite and claim our love again.” No one else in the room existed for him other than Sorcha. He lost himself in the depths of her gaze, in the soft weight of her hands in his. “Ye are mine Sorcha Elaine Greyloch, as I am yers, until the end of time.”

  Sorcha came to life, appearing pleased and relaxed for the first time since they had emerged from the secluded alcove. “Ye do have a way with words, Sutherland Islay Fenn MacCoinnich. Aye, I will be yers ’til the end of time, just as ye will be mine.”

  “Well done. That’s settled then.” Father Stephen snapped his Bible shut and tucked it back inside his robes. Lifting both hands high, his voice rang out loud and strong. “I pronounce thee man and wife until death shall part thee. Let no man put asunder what God hath joined this day.” He turned and pointed at the crowd. “And upon their binding, all God’s people said?”

  “Amen!”

  The holy man faced them again and smiled. “Get on with sealin’ this union with a kiss, aye? ’Tis time we set to eatin’.”

  When Sorcha wrapped her arms around his neck, it nearly undid him. He’d expected a shy, hasty kiss from her in front of her clan, but he should’ve known better. There was nothing shy nor hasty about his woman, and he loved her all the more for it. Arms tightening, he pulled her velvety softness close and bent to the task. He’d ensure this kiss told all and sundry this woman was his and his alone.

  All in the great meeting hall roared, Sorcha’s father being one of the loudest. Sorcha gave him a shy smile as she slipped free of the embrace and took his arm. “I suppose we should sit so Father Stephen might eat.”

  “Heaven help us both if we keep the holy man from his meal.” Sutherland clapped a hand to Magnus’s shoulder as the three of them made their way back to the head table. “Thank ye for standing at my side, friend.”

  Magnus thumped a fist to his chest. “It was my honor.” With a bow, he smiled at Sorcha. “May God bless ye both with many years of happiness and a keep filled with strong, healthy bairns.”

  “Thank ye, Master de Gray.” With a sweet smile barely hidden behind her glass of wine, Sorcha lifted a brow. “Maybe we should set to finding a helpmate for yerself now that the last MacCoinnich brother has been tethered.”

  Sutherland nearly choked on his drink. Setting his glass to the table, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at Magnus. “Aye, man. Perhaps the time has come for the wildest stallion of the woods to take his place in the stable.”

  Magnus responded with an icy look, his customary pallor flushing to a bright red to the roots of his startling silver-blonde hair. “And may yer bairns be just as wicked as yerself to repay ye both for all yer jesting,” he swore into his cup as he emptied it of its contents.

  Sutherland’s amusement was cut short as a man burst into the room shouting, “Fire in the calving house! Hie to the stables! Hie to the wells!”

  Chapter Six

  “My Peigi and her calf!” Sorcha jumped to her feet and struggled to maneuver her voluminous skirts and petticoats out from between the closely spaced chairs. Her poor sweet cow. And the new wee one. Both had to be terrified. She had to save them. “Damn this dress!”

  Sutherland latched hold of her right arm, and Da grabbed her left. Twisting to free herself from both, she yanked to no avail. How dare they slow her even more! “I have to get to Peigi and her baby. I have to get them safe. Let me go!”

  “Nay!” Both men barked in unison.

  Da suddenly released her arm as though the touch of it burned him. He took a step back, shaking a finger as he rounded the table. “Ye will listen to yer husband, daughter. Stay here where ye belong!” Without another word nor a look back, he charged out of the hall.

  Sutherland spun her around to face him. “As yer father said, stay here. I shall see that both yer cow and calf are safe. I swear it.”

  She tried to pull loose. “She doesna know ye well enough. She’ll do naught but fight ye.” The harder she jerked to be free, the tighter his grip became. “Let me go, now! I have always helped with the cattle.” A fold of her skirt snagged on a chair arm, inhibiting her progress even more.

  Sutherland seized on the opportunity, pointing at the furniture trapping her. “And just how much help will ye be in a dress ye canna even walk in?” He leaned in close, bringing them nearly nose to nose. “The longer ye delay me with yer foolish fighting, the longer it is before I can help yer wee cow and her calf. Now, leave off and listen to me. A fire is no place for ye, and I willna have ye putting yerself in danger! Understand?”

&n
bsp; The part he said about delaying him made sense, but the rest just aggravated her even more. Hands clenched, she finally agreed with an angry nod. “Fine. But swear ye will see to her first, no matter what the other men ask ye to do.”

  Sutherland gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

  A sudden rush of worry for the man she had just wed joined her fear for her pet. “Wait!” She snatched the bothersome dress free of the chair and hurried after him.

  He cast a look back, the stern set of his jaw revealing his suspicion that she was about to renew her argument to come with him. “What now?” he said with what she recognized as strained control.

  She leaned in close, framed his face between her hands, and gave him a quick kiss. “Take care, and see to yerself above everything else, ye ken? I dinna wish to become a widow on the same day I became a wife.”

  A slow smile softened his scowl as Sutherland tenderly cupped her chin. “I will return to ye, my hard-headed love. Dinna fret yerself, aye?” He stole another kiss, then hurried away.

  Sorcha watched him go, wishing she was right beside him. She kept her gaze locked on his broad back until he disappeared out the door.

  “Never have we had a fire in any of the buildings,” Jenny said as she fell in step beside Sorcha. “And in the calving house, no less. What in the world couldha caused it?”

  “I dinna ken.” Sorcha grabbed up her skirts to easier skim up the steps to her chambers. “All I know for certain is I mean to be shed of this dress so I can go and see what’s happening for myself.”

  “But the chief and yer new husband bid ye stay inside.” Jenny rounded her as they blew into the sitting room. The lass was a great deal less encumbered by the extra layers of petticoats Sorcha wore. She flittered about with ease.

  Sorcha waved away Jenny’s words, then turned and pointed down her back. “Unlace me, aye?” With a glance back over her shoulder, she made her case, hoping her dear foster sister would understand. “With my work clothes on and hair bound in a kertch, they’ll never know it’s me fighting the flames beside them in the smoky darkness.”