The moment she was spotted, the men went silent, the sudden quiet almost louder than the din. Her heart began to pound as men parted to clear her path to the dais end of the hall.
It was then that she saw Kendrew.
He wore the smile she loved best on him. It was a crooked, boyish smile that, before Isobel, drew women to him in droves. He was looking right at her, his eyes alight with brotherly affection. He’d clearly been waiting for her and the pleasure on his face dashed her last hope that she and Isobel might’ve erred about Alasdair’s nuptials.
Little else would put Kendrew in such a good mood.
So she did the only thing she could do and took her place at the high table.
“Everyone is in fine fettle this morn.” She reached for a freshly baked bannock. She began buttering it with care, casting Kendrew a look from beneath her lashes. “You appear particularly pleased.”
“So I am.” He beamed. “I have grand tidings. Great news that will-”
“Let me tell her.” Beside him, Isobel gripped his arm. She looked even unhappier than the night before in Marjory’s bedchamber. Her face was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes, her expression tense.
Marjory wished she could reassure her, but she couldn’t reveal they’d met in the night. “There’s no need for anyone to tell me. I already know.”
“You cannae.” Kendrew flashed a suspicious look at his wife. “No’ unless-”
“Don’t blame Isobel.” Marjory glanced at Hercules, standing with his front paws on her knee. She gave him a tiny piece of buttered bannock. When she returned her attention to Kendrew, she spoke calmly. “You were speaking of Alasdair last night. Voices carry at such late hours. I heard you from the tower stair. That’s how I know Alasdair is to-”
“Hah!” Kendrew snorted at the mention of his arch-fiend. “I dinnae care what he’s up to, so long as he stays away from Nought. And your ears must be on backward. All I said about him was that I hope he chokes on a herring when he hears our news.”
“Our news?” Marjory glanced at Isobel.
She looked as though all the blood had drained from her face. “I’m so sorry, Norn.”
Marjory’s chest tightened. She turned back to Kendrew. “What is this about?”
“Your betrothal, that’s what.” Kendrew beamed again, pride ringing in his words. “I’ve finally found a husband worthy of you. A Viking warlord of considerable note. By all counts, he’s a handsome devil. Tall and blond, with looks to rival Thor. Word is he wears more arm rings than I do.”
He grinned, as if expecting her to swoon.
Marjory feared she’d be ill.
“A true Viking, Norn. A warlord.”
“I don’t care if he’s Thor and Odin in one.” Marjory stared at him, the weight of his words crushing her as surely as if the ceiling had crashed on top of her. “How did you find him? There weren’t any other Norse lords on your list.”
“So there weren’t.” Kendrew took a long drink of ale. “But we’re fortunate. Word spreads as quickly in Norway as in the Highlands. I didn’t have to seek another suitor. He came to you. And he wants you badly enough to offer a hefty sack of silver as your bride price.”
Hercules barked and darted beneath the table, no doubt planning to bite Kendrew’s ankle.
“Hercules.” Isobel scooped the little dog onto her lap, stroking him. “That’s a good lad.”
Marjory scarce noticed, her gaze on her brother. “You’d sell me for a bag of coin?”
“Sakes, Norn! You speak nonsense. I wouldn’t sell you for all the world’s gold.” Kendrew leaned forward, gripping the table edge. “I will see you made a shining light of the north. Our old homeland, Norn, think of it. You’ll be married to a man about to become a great noble. All Norway will know your name, respect you.” He sat back, looking pleased. “The silver means naught. I’ll save it as a birthing gift to your first child. It’ll be our secret. Your husband need ne’er know.
“He’s a warlord of untold fame.” He looked round at the others lining the table, his chest swelling. “Men in the north sing ballads of him. He’s a legend there and he wants you as his bride.”
“Indeed.” Marjory didn’t know how she managed that one word.
“He holds vast lands in the Trondelag on Norway’s rich western coast, directly on the Trondheimsfjord. Soon he will lord it over even more territory.” Kendrew was enthusiastic, unaware that the floor had split open beneath his high table. That his sister was sliding into a deep, dark abyss, scrabbling desperately at the edge to keep from falling any farther.
“All the most powerful Norse lords hail from the Trondelag.” He made it sound as if that truth sealed everything. “It is a fine match. You could do no better.”
“That is not so and you know it.” Isobel spoke up, her voice strained.
“I know she won’t waste herself as a brine drinker’s wife.” Kendrew’s tone hardened. “She’ll be a fine lady-”
“She already is.” Isobel met her husband’s gaze, her own challenging.
Marjory stared at them both, hoping she didn’t look as aghast as she felt. “Who is this man?” She had to know. “He surely has a name.”
“And a fine one, it is.” Kendrew’s enthusiasm returned. “He is Ivar Ironstorm and he’s already on his way to claim you.”
Marjory’s relief that he wasn’t Rorik the Generous vanished upon hearing the man would soon arrive at Nought.
“How do you know this?” Her stomach clenched painfully. Yet there was still a chance Kendrew erred. That he’d read too much into the ramblings of wayfarers. So she took a moment to school her features and then asked the question that would determine her fate.
“I know you heard this from the travelers who stopped here yestere’en. Did they bring a missive with them? Something more substantial than gossip gathered on the road?”
“I take no stranger’s word without proof.” Kendrew’s answer sent her heart plummeting. “They brought a letter,” he announced, retrieving a scrunched parchment from beneath his plaid.
He held up the proclamation and she saw the inked lines, the imprint of a seal in the broken glob of wax that had kept the scroll closed.
“Ivar Ironstorm’s overlord wishes him wed so that he can settle greater lands and riches on him.” Kendrew tucked the scroll beneath his plaid again. “In Norway as here, high-ranking nobles need heirs. And” – he patted the place where the parchment rested – “they are far-seeing enough to ken that a highborn daughter of a good Scottish house will make a worthy bride.”
“Then I hope they find one for Lord Ironstorm.” Marjory took another bite of her bannock, chewing delicately. “I appreciate your efforts to see me well wed, but I shall not be journeying to the Trondelag. I will not marry a Viking warlord.”
“It’s too late.” Kendrew’s expression was hard again. “I’ve agreed to the match.”
“No one asked me.” Marjory dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. “I’d remember if that were so.”
Around them, the hall fell silent again. The men who were craning necks or crowding the aisles, pushing forward to hear what was going on at the high table, now froze. Each man looked on in stunned horror as if expecting a thunderbolt to slam down into the hall.
Marjory waited, too.
Her palms were slick and her knees trembled. Her stomach was a tight, painful knot and the place where her heart should be felt like a hollow, empty void. But she was pretty sure her face was all cold, hard refusal.
She hoped so, anyway.
“Next time” – she raised her ale cup, took a sip – “you might ask me first.”
“What’s this?” Kendrew’s brows rose. “You’re my sister. It’s my duty and privilege to see you wed. I only want the best for you.”
“That I know. I still wish to remain unwed.” Marjory held his gaze, letting her own pierce him until he blinked first.
A test of wills she’d always won.
“I gave my word.”
He stood, turning to glance out over the hall, glaring at his men until they returned to their trestle benches. “I’ll no’ have you shame us by making a liar out of me.”
He sat back down, his face closed. “You’ll marry Ivar Ironstorm when he comes for you and you’ll make him a good and willing bride.”
“We shall see.” Marjory sat straighter in her chair. Composure was her best weapon.
“Nae, you will see.” Kendrew narrowed his eyes at her, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “If you think to refuse, I’ll lock you in your bedchamber until Ironstorm’s arrival.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Humph.” Kendrew took a big bite of cold roast, chewing with relish. It was a sign Marjory knew and answer enough.
He would indeed ban her to her quarters if she defied him.
Except…
She wasn’t about to let that happen.
Above all, she wasn’t going to marry Ivar Ironstorm.
Her mind raced. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled and wind rushed past the hall’s high, narrow windows. A few candles gutted as cold air swept the dais, bringing the smell of approaching rain. A movement near the hall’s entry caught her eye, making her heart leap. In that moment, she hoped to see Alasdair striding in to challenge Kendrew and put an end to this madness.
But it was only Grim.
The big warrior didn’t advance into the hall. He remained in the shadows where he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, and his face expressionless.
He didn’t even look her way.
Marjory’s heart sank, knowing no support would come from him. If she hoped to wriggle out of this mess, doing so would fall to her.
So she leveled her most direct gaze on her brother. “The Trondelag?” She let a bit of worry edge her voice, trying a different angle.
Beneath his misguided attempts to do right by her, he did love her.
That she knew.
So she’d appeal to his brotherly concern rather than his lairdly pride.
“So I said, aye.” Kendrew eyed her suspiciously.
“You surely know the Trondelag is the most inhabitable region of all Norway?” She set down her eating knife and glanced around the high table, hoping for agreement.
But none of the men present would meet her eyes. Most kept their gazes on the food before them, busily eating or sipping their ale. One rubbed at a wrinkle on his sleeve. Another had drawn Hercules’s attention and was feeding the little dog bits of cold roasted mutton. A glance across the hall showed that even Grim was gone, his disappearance proving how alone she was.
Only Isobel’s face held sympathy.
“I’ve heard nothing good of the Trondelag.” Isobel took her side. “It’s known to be craggy and barren, a wasteland of ice where even the soles of your shoes freeze to the ground. The men there keep many wives because one wouldn’t be enough to warm them in the long, endless winters.”
“Hah!” Kendrew looked between his wife and Marjory. “So little do you both know of the Tronds and their vast and prosperous land. Trondelag is a favored place, much prized for its rich grazings and the fine crops of its well-doing farms. If a bit of snow falls in winter” – he tossed an annoyed look at Marjory – “since when is my sister one to complain of the cold?”
Marjory smiled. “Perhaps since I have no wish to marry a red-nosed, icy-fingered Trond.”
“Nae, you’d rather wed a web-footed, brine-drinking MacDonald.” Kendrew grabbed his ale cup, quaffing a long swig. “Ironstorm is a warlord, not an ice fisherman. Nor has he ever waved a sword in my face or slain good Mackintosh men just because they lifted a few scrawny cattle beasts in well-deserved retribution for Clan Donald’s repeated harassment.”
“I never said I wished to marry Alasdair.” Marjory flicked a speck of lint off her sleeve.
“You dinnae have to.” Kendrew’s voice took on a hard edge. “A man only has to see you look at him to know. Ironstorm is far worthier for you.”
“I’ve said no, so it scarce matters.”
“Aye, it does. Ironstorm wants you for his wife and his lord is aged, already on his deathbed. It’s the noble’s dying wish to see his best warlord wed to you before he draws his last breath.”
“A dying overlord?” Marjory and Isobel exchanged glances.
“Aye, and that’s why Ironstorm is eager to fetch you and be away.” Kendrew leaned forward, ignoring Hercules, who’d popped up beside his chair, growling. “His lord cannae wait much longer. Ironstorm hopes to wed you before his lord’s burial.”
Marjory’s insides went cold. Her ambers caught fire, burning her so badly she lifted a hand and slipped her fingers between the heated stones and her skin.
Beneath the table, Isobel nudged her foot, showing she shared Marjory’s suspicion.
Marjory tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
Isobel spoke for her. “Who is Ironstorm’s overlord? Do you know the man’s name?”
“To be sure, I do.” Kendrew didn’t hesitate. “He is Rorik the Generous.”
“Dear gods.” Isobel’s eyes rounded. “She’ll be killed if these men take her.”
Kendrew blinked, shook his head. “What kind of tall tale is this?”
“The truth.” Marjory found her tongue. “I dreamed of this. These people mean to send me to Rorik the Generous’s funerary pyre. They want me to take the place of his wife. I saw it clearly, remember all of it.
“That’s why I know the names.” She glanced at Isobel. “Ask your wife. She knows.”
“I know the two of you love to scheme.” Kendrew sat back and folded his arms. “It won’t work this time. Ne’er have I heard greater foolery. I understand you’re no’ pleased, but you’ll forget the MacDonald in time and-”
“I already have forgotten him.” Marjory stood. “And you can forget any plans to wed me to Ivar Ironstorm or any other Viking warlord.”
Kendrew pushed back his chair, standing as well. “Now see here, lass-”
“I have seen. That’s why I’m refusing.” Marjory didn’t wait to hear whatever he might say. The loud rushing was back in her ears and she wouldn’t have heard him anyway.
So she simply left the hall, Hercules running after her.
She didn’t know what her rebellion would get her into, but she knew what it would save her from.
That was enough.
Chapter 18
Escape.
The word sat like a carrion crow at the back of Marjory’s neck, pecking at her until she lifted a hand and rubbed her nape. But the hot throbbing between her shoulder blades didn’t go away. The pain only worsened, spreading through her until her temples pounded, her stomach knotted, and her chest tightened so fiercely she could hardly breathe.
It was gloaming and she stood in her favorite bower of Nought’s stone garden. Isobel was at her side. Hercules squirmed in a small wicker basket at her feet.
This was the most beautiful hour of the day at Nought.
Her beloved peaks soared all around her, a clean cold wind blew, mist was just beginning to curl through the stony vale beneath Nought’s walls, and the deep tranquility of this special place almost broke her heart.
What she was about to do nearly crushed her spirit.
Fleeing wasn’t in her nature.
Living was.
And now that she’d known such joy in Alasdair’s arms, she was especially keen to enjoy a long and happy life. If the gods were kind, that would be at his side. In time, they’d surely find a new home they could both love. They’d enjoy their days, glory in their nights, and – a ray of hope warmed her – raise many strong, strapping sons and equally strong, vibrant daughters.
But to seize such happiness, she first had to run.
“You must go, my heart.” Isobel touched her cheek, her dark eyes glistening.
Marjory gripped her friend’s hand, squeezing tight. “I will get word to you as soon as I can, letting you know I’ve reached Blackshore safely.”
Isobe
l nodded, blinking rapidly. “I do not like this anymore than you,” she said, proving she understood how much it grieved Marjory to steal away. “Desperate measures are never good. I’ll try to make Kendrew understand. He will someday, I promise you.”
She didn’t add that she hoped such a day wouldn’t come too late, but Marjory heard the unspoken words as clearly as if Isobel had voiced them.
“He’ll be livid.” Marjory leaned down, slipping her fingers into Hercules’s basket to calm him.
“He’ll be more than that.” Isobel looked unhappy. “He’ll know exactly where you’ve gone and will set out after you. I daren’t think what will happen.”
“Blackshore is impregnable.” Marjory hoped that was truly so. “Alasdair has told me there’s a fresh-water well inside the stronghold and even if their stores were depleted, there are always fish in the loch. Kendrew would tire quickly of such a senseless siege.”
“If Ironstorm brought his Vikings, their ships, Blackshore could be attacked.” Isobel spoke what Marjory didn’t want to consider.
“Alasdair has galleys. MacDonalds have a history of fighting Norsemen.” Marjory bent to settle Hercules again when he began whining.
When she straightened, she glanced at a heavy cloth sack on nearby stone bench. Prepared with care, the sack held more than oatcakes, cheese and cold slices of meat, and two flasks of wine. Also hidden in its depths were a rolled plaid to sleep in if necessary, swaths of black linen, jars of peat juice, and a small leather pouch filled with soot. Goods she’d use to make herself a night-walker once Isobel returned to the hall, leaving her alone in the stone garden.
“I should help you with the night-walker gear.” Isobel followed her glance. “I’ve seen Kendrew and his men don the like often enough.”
“So have I,” Marjory reminded her. “And if you did assist me, someone would surely see your blackened hands when you go back inside. Kendrew would know what you’d done and come after me much faster than if you don’t attract attention by entering the hall wearing smudges of soot and peat juice.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 30
