Blow after blow, Michaell advanced on the older man. Concern crossed Lord Henderson’s face. He grunted in pain as Michaell’s sword laid open a long stripe along his arm. Breathing heavily, Henderson dropped the tip of his sword to the floor, opening up his guard. Offering a truce. For an instant Mhàiri feared Michaell would not accept.
Michaell halted, breathing deeply, hand clenching and unclenching on the sword hilt as he fought for control. He pointed the tip of his sword at Mhàiri. “Release her.”
Lord Henderson’s eyes blazed, but he nodded. The soldier withdrew his spear and used the tip to slice through Mhàiri’s bonds.
Michaell lowered his weapon. “She willnae be yers.”
“’Tis within my right to claim her.”
Mhàiri ran to Michaell’s side, halting a few steps away where she would not hinder him. She glared at the older man. “I willnae agree to wed ye!”
A roar of confusion swept the crowd as men surged from the edge of the room and converged on the two combatants. A ragged circle formed, William and Gregor lining up with Michaell and Mhàiri.
“We can continue until more than blood is on the floor,” Michaell said. “Or we can discuss this in private—without further bloodshed.”
Mhàiri closed her eyes against the rage in Michaell’s eyes. Let them come to peaceable terms.
Aware she could do no more, she awaited Lord Henderson’s decision.
* * *
Mhàiri sat at the head table as time for supper approached. She had no appetite and no patience for the men who closeted themselves in the lord’s private chamber to decide her future. Servants reset the tables and filled them with platters of roast duck, lamb, and a haunch of venison. Vegetables in a cream sauce followed, with baskets of bread, and bowls of cheese. People milled about, uncertain if they should be seated or await the lords’ arrival.
William snatched a loaf of bread from a basket and tore off a chunk, offering it to Mhàiri. She shook her head and went back to strangling the linen cloth she’d used to dry her hands earlier after she washed and changed into clean, dry clothes. Michaell’s other brothers availed themselves of the Yule offerings. Andrew watched her silently, shaking off their requests for him to recount the fight between Michaell and Lord Henderson.
Duncan and Thomas finally gave up and dug into their trenchers, elbowing each other good-naturedly for room at the table.
“Henderson’s men are alert but nae anxious,” Duncan, the red-haired Kerr noted cheerfully. “Pax, Mhàiri. Things will go well.”
“A week ago, I had just learned I was betrothed to Lord Henderson. I couldnae allow it to happen, but when I looked for a way to ransom my uncle so that I wouldnae be forced into the marriage, I got more than I wished for.” A smile softened the tense muscles in her face at the thought of the man who’d risked his life for her.
“That’s better,” stout Thomas approved through a spray of bread crumbs. He downed a gulp of ale from his mug. “Yer uncle will see to it Lord Scott’s influence is minimized, and Michaell knows what to say to bring Henderson around.”
Mhàiri cut him an amused look. “Truth? What could possibly soften the blow that he will likely lose a great deal of land he coveted?”
“The harder bargain would be to admit defeat where ye are concerned, lass. Dinnae sell yerself short.” William leaned back in his chair, toying absently with the bread on his trencher. “Yer presence will be demanded shortly. Agree that ye are poor as a mouse in a kirkyard, and ye’ll do fine.”
She narrowed her gaze, wondering what he was up to, but before she could ask, a Scott guard appeared at her side, asking her to accompany him above stairs.
She stood, relieved to hear chairs creak as the Kerr brothers rose to follow her. They mounted the stairs and climbed to the open chamber two flights up where Michaell, Gregor, Lord Scott, Richard, and six guards awaited.
Michaell’s warm smile reassured her and she breathed deeply, suddenly buoyant with hope.
Richard’s arm lay on the table next to a parchment and quill, a thin line of blood staining the thickly wrapped bandage. His skin appeared sallow in the light of the candles perched in an ornate candelabra on the table, and his mouth was drawn to one side—in pain or anger or disappointment, Mhàiri did not know. She was pleased to note, however, he was not gloating.
Lord Scott slouched in his chair, and Mhàiri felt a pang of sadness to see the state in which his brain fever had left him. Seated to the right of his son, his left eye peered at her while the right side of his face drooped downward. His right hand lay in his lap, the left picking at the edge of the table. It was clear clan leadership would soon pass to Gregor.
“Mhàiri,” Gregor Scott, seated at the head of the table, began, his tone serious, his eyes merry. “Acting on behalf of my father, Lord Scott, who entered into a contract with Lord Henderson one month ago this day, ’tis my duty to inform ye that the betrothal between Lord Henderson and one Mhàiri Burns, legal daughter of Alan and Fenella Burns, nee Scott, has been dissolved. Upon discussion, it has been revealed yer dowry has fallen into other’s hands through battle and fair claim. Ye are destitute and at the mercy of yer closest male kin. Reparation to Lord Henderson will be made in the amount of fifty sheep, ten cows, one tun of wine, and a hogshead of Dunfaileas whisky which has been discovered in the storeroom below. Do ye understand?”
Mhàiri’s eyes widened. I am destitute? It dawned on her that heiresses were married to men who could control their property, though lasses with naught could marry where they wished. She glanced about the table, eyes lighting on Michaell’s face. Betraying little emotion, only the slight tilt to one side of his lips asked his silent question.
He had done this for her. Would she have him?
Squelching the desire to shout for joy, dance, or otherwise spoil the seriousness of the meeting, she folded her hands before her and nodded solemnly.
“I understand the terms,” she murmured. She risked another glance at Michaell. His grin widened.
Lord Henderson grasped the quill awkwardly in his left hand and signed the parchment, a splatter of ink spoiling his elegant signature. He handed the quill to Mhàiri and she read the words printed before dashing her name beside his. She set the feather in the inkwell, drew her hand back, and slapped him full across the cheek.
“That is for the rough handling by yer men.”
A bright hand print blazed on his pale face. The entire room fell into shocked silence. Michaell half-rose from his chair and the Kerr brothers leaned forward as Lord Henderson’s guards laid hands on empty scabbards, all weapons left at the door. Mhàiri lifted her chin and fisted her hands on her hips.
Without a word Lord Henderson rose and, giving Mhàiri a short bow, quit the room, his guards on his heels.
William nudged Gregor’s chair with his boot as the last Henderson soldier exited through the door. A man lifted Lord Scott’s frail form and carried him from the room. Mhàiri’s uncle stood.
“We will see ye in the hall for supper.” He gave Mhàiri a wink. Duncan, Andrew and Thomas clustered about, giving Mhàiri deferential space and grins of respect. They congratulated Michaell with hearty clouts to the shoulder, complaining about missing his fight with Lord Henderson—accusing silent Andrew of sharing no details.
Duncan draped an arm over Mhàiri’s shoulders. “Ye are a braw lass. Michaell has done himself proud this night. Ye’ll spend next Yule with the Kerrs.”
Gregor cleared his throat loudly, rounding up the three elder Kerr brothers, rousting them and the rest of the guards from the room. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Mhàiri faced Michaell across the table. Words flew through her mind, but nothing seemed to match what she wanted to say.
I dinnae suppose he was pleased.
Was it difficult getting him to agree . . .?
How will we find the livestock to pay . . .?
Practicality choked her, rendering her speechless, so she simply stared at Michaell. A lo
ck of hair fell over his forehead. His cloak, still damp with melted snow, hung over the back of his chair. A smudge of ink darkened the edge of his hand.
His eyes beckoned her. She walked around the table, intent on his stare, shedding doubts as she closed the gap between them. Reaching his side, she knelt and took his hand. His fingers wrapped gently about hers, his palm warm and supple as she placed it against her cheek.
“I am in awe of ye,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from quivering. “Ever do ye have my interests foremost in yer heart. Never have ye held back to defend me. I cannae imagine Lord Henderson was pleasant to deal with, even after he yielded the fight, yet ye freed me from a burden I dinnae want.”
She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Michaell Kerr, I promise to love ye and do my best to live up to the standard ye have set. Will ye marry me?”
Michaell rose, drawing Mhàiri to her feet with him. “Is that truly what ye want?” He kissed her fingers, lingering over each one. Mhàiri’s heart thudded so strongly, she could scarcely breathe.
“Aye. I made a wish . . . .”
“Shh. Dinnae tell me yer wish. Let me guess.”
His eyes twinkled as he slowly perused her face. With a slight shake of his head, he continued his study, spreading her hands wide as his gaze slid the length of her gown and back. Mhàiri grinned at his antics.
“Och! ’Tis much better use of yer lips than an anxious frown.” He stepped closer, tucking her hands against his chest. “Though I can think of an even better use more in line with granting yer Yuletide wish.”
He placed a palm on either side of her face, warm and inviting. She leaned forward, rising slightly on her toes, lips parting in anticipation.
His kiss was everything she remembered—and more. Freedom to touch him, to hold him, raced intoxicatingly through her veins. Placing her palms against his chest, she slid them over the firm expanse. She explored his shoulders, his neck, ran her fingers through his hair. His lips slanted across hers, seeking her response. She gave it, holding nothing back as she pledged her love.
With a satisfied sigh, she broke the kiss, leaning her cheek against his chest. His heart thudded beneath her ear, its elevated pace an indication of his reaction. She smiled.
“My Yule wish isnae complete,” she murmured.
“It isnae?”
Mhàiri shook her head. “Ye havenae answered my question.”
Michaell chuckled, the gentle rumble sending languid shivers all the way to Mhàiri’s toes. “I was going to ask yer grandfather permission to marry ye.”
“That question should fall to Gregor now,” she replied. “Who, I believe, likes ye.”
“He loves his niece, and will hopefully approve of me.” He nuzzled the side of her head.
Mhàiri drew back to give him a grin. “Shall we go find out?”
Michaell appeared pained. “Are my brothers still here?”
Mhàiri laughed. “Of course they are. Though I fear they may outlast the Yule feast.”
“They can clean out a storeroom of food faster than Henry can wiggle down a hole after a rat.”
Mhàiri drew a line with her fingertip from his chin to mid-chest. “They love ye.”
“They protect me as if I was a wean and incapable of helping myself.” His mock growl lacked its earlier force.
She tapped his chest. “They love ye,” she repeated. “And they dinnae interfere with yer fight with Lord Henderson. Nor with yer negotiations.”
Michaell’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Nae. They dinnae. A month ago, they would have taken over everything.”
“They see yer worth. And how well ye handle yerself.”
Michaell hugged Mhàiri close. “Ye see things I dinnae. Thank ye. I am relieved to find my brothers’ attitudes greatly changed, but I believe I understand them a wee bit better now.”
Mhàiri prodded his ribs. “’Tis all well and good, but will ye marry me?”
Michaell bent his head and this time left her no doubt as to his answer to her Yuletide wish.
EPILOGUE
Claver Hill
2 weeks later
A knock rattled the door. Startled, Mhàiri sat upright. Had she overslept? Her pulse raced madly. Today was not a day for sleeping late. The room was still plunged in darkness, only a red glimmer glowed from the hearth. Pale gray light outlined the shutters on the windows, almost too faint to see. The air was cold and Mhàiri burrowed deeper beneath the covers. Henry grumbled and rose, circled twice, then plopped back onto the rumpled blanket.
’Tis scarcely dawn. Had she truly heard a knock at the door—or had she dreamed it?
A tap sounded again. Louder. More insistent. Mhàiri threw back the covers and scrambled from the bed. She dragged a heavy velvet robe from the chair by the fire, shivering into its warm folds gratefully. Excitement raced through her, announcing—as if she hadn’t remembered—it was her wedding day, and Agnes was here to help her dress.
Her skin prickled and a smile blossomed as she grabbed the latch and pulled the door open.
Michaell’s dour face greeted her, eyebrows knitted together, the corners of his mouth tight. Mhàiri’s stomach lurched.
“What’s wrong?”
Michaell rubbed the back of his neck, clearly upset. “May I come in?”
Mhàiri blinked. It was hardly proper to invite him into her room, but this did not appear to be the time to worry over appearances. She stepped to one side. “Aye.”
He strode through the door then paced the length of the room. Pivoting about, he faced Mhàiri. “My da is coming to the wedding.”
Mhàiri blinked again. “Of course. I invited him.”
Michaell groaned. “How could ye? Ye know he and I dinnae get on well.”
“Ye meant to marry without his blessing? What are ye thinking, Michaell?”
He shoved his chest out. “Just because ye and yer uncle get along doesnae mean everyone else does.”
Mhàiri grew very still, the irritation in his voice creating a hollow in her belly. “Are ye that upset, Michaell? Do ye not wish to marry me?”
He heaved a great sigh. “That isnae what I meant. I cannae wait to call ye my wife and was in a fine mood until I received word a few moments ago that he would be here before the noon hour and to wait the wedding on his arrival.”
“I’m sorry, Michaell. Please dinnae be cross. I dinnae know how much this would upset ye. I thought it might help matters between ye if ye shared a celebration.”
“To have him ruin my wedding day?” Michaell frowned. “’Tis I who am sorry, Mhàiri. ’Tis not yer fault ye dinnae know how overbearing he is, and how much I wanted to do something this important without him looking over my shoulder, telling me how to do it better.”
Mhàiri tilted her head. “’Tis not like he’ll join us here tonight,” she teased. Stepping closer, she drew a fingertip down the front of his unlaced tunic.
A smile threatened Michaell’s mouth. “’Twill be a challenge to make love to my wife with my da in the same house. ’Tis a daunting image.” He gently nudged her forehead, tilting her face upward. He slid his lips across her brow, nibbling her nose lightly as he skimmed past.
Mhàiri’s heart fluttered as she waited breathlessly for his kiss. Her hands fisted in his tunic, betraying her impatience as he took his time, caressing her cheek before settling on the corner of her mouth, light as a butterflee.
She moaned and stretched up on her toes, sliding against him as she reached to deepen the kiss. His arms closed about her, tucking her tight, claiming her. Fingers wove through the loose braid at the back of her head, one palm splayed across the small of her back.
Closer. She wanted to be closer. Nothing could ever go wrong as long has he held her close.
Nothing.
* * *
The morning meal was delayed as the kitchen adjusted for the Kerr’s late arrival. Mhàiri’s stomach rumbled when Agnes set the covered platter on the table beneath one window. Henry leapt from the bed, be
ating Mhàiri to the table, stubby tail beating the air furiously.
“Cook sent ye a bone, laddie,” Agnes said, coaxing the pup forward. Henry eyed the meaty bone in Agnes’ hand and, seeing no harm in making a new friend—especially one bearing such a succulent gift—he politely took the bone and retreated beneath the bed.
“I’ll need to remember to retrieve that,” Agnes said as she straightened. “Ye dinnae wish to smell that in a sennight.”
“I doubt there will be much left of it,” Mhàiri laughed, hearing Henry’s teeth as they worked the bone. She sat on a stool next to the table and pulled the linen cloth onto her lap. She made short work of the steaming bowl of porridge and mulled wine, sighing as her belly signaled its satisfaction.
“That should hold ye until the wedding luncheon, late though ’twill be,” Agnes noted as she refilled Mhàiri’s mug. “We dinnae wish to overburden yer belly—brides are known to be nervous, aye?”
“I’m not nervous,” Mhàiri said. “I cannae wait to be married to Michaell. He was my verra best friend as a child, and I am happy to know he will be my husband.”
“’Tis a rare thing to find such contentment, lass. I am happy for ye. But dinnae expect things to continue as they were when ye were a wean. Men arenae the same once they’re grown.” She shrugged. “Some wee blighters become more sensible, and some quiet ones become quite rowdy.” She fixed a pointed look on Mhàiri. “But they all want their time in bed with their wives. Do ye have any questions about that?”
Mhàiri struggled to contain her laugh. She’d already noticed the difference between Michaell the foster lad and Michaell, lord of Siller Stane. The changes were startling, but they did not frighten her. Quite the opposite. They excited her. Not that she’d admit as much to Agnes.
Merry Medieval Christmas Page 43
