The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Dugan raised a brow. “Aye? Ye dinnae take my advice, then?”

  Birk shrugged. “I couldnae have her thinkin’ I’d release her. And she dinnae think marryin’ me was much better than facin’ th’ hangman.”

  “I’m guessing building a gallows dinnae make the best marriage proposal.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Birk sent the mug and flask crashing to the floor.

  “Ye should’ve listened,” Dugan said. “A lass likes to be wooed. A woman like yers doesnae like to be told what to do.”

  “Bah! I’d rather fight pirates!”

  “Ye will have enough time for both. There’s been no word on those who struck the village last night. They grow bolder, laird. Or mayhap angrier. There remains unrest between the Norse and Scots. Raids on both sides to gain land and plunder.”

  Birk roused from his personal woes, pricked by a curious thought. “Could the pirates be Norse marauders?”

  Dugan shrugged. “There is a difference?”

  “These could be acting to stir up unrest. They are better organized than the typical ilk I’ve seen. Ye raise a valid point, Dugan.”

  “’Tis been rumored they berth near Islay. MacDonald aligns with the Norse king.”

  “We align with the Norse when it’s prudent. MacDonald has been known to kiss King Alexander’s arse.”

  “More like thumb his nose,” Dugan chuckled.

  Birk stared into the embers on the hearth. Their pulsing glow caused his eyes to blur, heightening the dulling effect of the whisky.

  “What do ye suggest?” he asked, his voice husky with a plaintive tone. “I dinnae really know her, yet I know she is the wife I need. If I release her, she would never return to me.”

  “Would that not be a good test? If there is an attraction between ye, she will give ye another chance.”

  “There can be no second chance,” Birk replied. “There is no MacLean heir. Gillian’s lads are braw, but they are MacCains and neither is interested in the merchant business. Signy’s lad will follow his da on Mull. My da wouldnae wish his enterprise to fail.”

  “Being head of the largest fleet of merchant ships on the western coast of Scotland is something a lad should be born into,” Dugan agreed. “None of the other lasses will do?”

  Birk’s muscles tensed. “I want Carys.”

  Dugan pushed his feet out, slouching in the chair. “Then ye have yer work cut out for ye. I hope the priest says an extra blessing over ye tomorrow.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “And mayhap a wee prayer for when yer ma discovers ye wed without her blessing.”

  * * *

  Lightning streaked the sky and thunder rumbled, shaking the foundations of the castle. Torrents of rain poured from the roof tiles, creating a roaring sound almost too loud for speech to penetrate.

  Carys eyed herself in the silvered glass. Her gown—her wedding gown—had been borrowed from another woman at the castle, though the maid sent to her this morning had been reluctant to name the donor. The simply cut design was nonetheless of a wool so fine it was almost weightless.

  Green. The color reminded Carys of the majestic pine and juniper trees that lent their bracing scents to the winter air of the Welsh mountains. A hint of blue caught her eye as she turned before the glass, inspecting herself from all angles.

  The neckline swept wide across her shoulders, nearly baring them, and someone with a fine hand at embroidery had wrought tiny red and silver flowers at the borders of sleeve, neck and hem, shimmering like rowan berries in frost. Narrow sleeves belled at her wrists, the cloth draping halfway to the floor. No servant’s dress this. What would her station be once she wed? Was Birk captain of the guard? The steward? ’Twas certain, he was no lowly man-at-arms.

  The silent maid tied strands of silver ribbon in Carys’s hair, twining the long ends in with the dark waves that hung nearly to her waist. Carys twisted a strand of hair behind one ear. The maid clucked her annoyance and pulled it back to frame her face, winding it about her finger to form a long curl before patting it in place.

  It looks fine, but I doubt I could draw a bow whilst garbed thusly. Carys kept her sigh to herself, feeling poked and prodded like a mare at market. The cloth tightened as she tentatively flexed her arms. She gripped the soft flared skirt and lifted the hem from the floor, exposing the dyed-to-match chemise.

  “Ye look like a faerie princess.” Eislyn’s adoring look gave Carys pause. She caught the child’s gaze in the mirror and smiled.

  “You are lovely,” Carys said in all sincerity, noting the pink, freshly scrubbed cheeks and rumple-free gown of lightweight blue wool. Abria crept next to Carys and tucked her fingers in Carys’s hand. Her simple dress of deep burgundy echoed her pinkened cheeks.

  “I am quite privileged to have such lovely ladies at my side today,” Carys said.

  Abria flinched and shuffled closer as thunder rumbled.

  “Don’t mind the thunder.” Carys spoke lightly, seeking to banish the girl’s fear of the sound as well as her own apprehension of the possible portent of such weather on her wedding day. “’Tis but a warning for us to remain inside whilst the rain waters the trees and crops.”

  “Ma died in a storm,” Eislyn stated bluntly.

  A shiver shook Carys. “What happened?” The question slipped out before she thought better of it. Who asks a child how her mother died?

  “She got on a ship and left us. Da dinnae know about it, and he was angry when he found out. A bad storm sank her ship and she died.”

  Carys dropped to her knees before the girls.

  “My brother was also killed in a storm only a few months ago. I know how you must feel.”

  “Was it your fault?” Eislyn asked. Abria crept beneath Carys’s arm.

  Carys cupped each girl’s face in her palm. “Nae. Storms are never anyone’s fault.”

  “Do ye miss him?”

  “Very much. I try not to think about it often. And when I do, it hurts for a while. So, I try to remember how much he loved me. It helps a bit.”

  A rap at the door sounded and Carys rose, a hand on each girl’s shoulder. Birk strode into the room, his gait slightly awkward, his shoulders stiff. She perused his face for a hint of his temper, noting fine white lines at the corners of his eyes. His mouth drew down at the corners, matching his stormy look to the weather raging outside. Was he in pain? Or aggrieved over their marriage? Did it matter?

  He came to an abrupt halt, eyes widening as he stared at her. Carys stifled the ripple of pleasure—or perhaps mockery—to know he was taken aback by her appearance. The gown transformed her from bedraggled poacher to, if not quite the princess she was, at least a woman facing her wedding day.

  “Da! We’re getting married today!” Eislyn burst at the seams with excitement.

  “So it seems,” he murmured, a slight wince crossing his face. His brow furrowed.

  Carys was at a loss. Mistrust churned in her belly. Whatever gripped Birk in worry did not bode well at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Birk’s head throbbed. His back ached from spending the night sprawled in a chair, and his damned vision seemed blurred. He blinked his eyes repeatedly, uncertain of the sight before him.

  When did the rough warrior woman who slew men and lived alone in the forest become the beautiful woman in the steward’s wife’s best gown?

  His daughters clung to Carys on either side, staring at him expectantly. He gave his head a slight toss to clear it and winced at the painful result. He frowned—and would have groaned if the prospect of such an utterance wouldn’t have unmanned him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten roaringly drunk, but now clearly remembered why he hadn’t continued the practice.

  “I am blessed to have three lovely ladies at my side today,” he remarked, relieved when the throbbing eased. Abria tilted her head, her large, dark eyes wide. Slipping her hand from Carys’s, she crossed to Birk and nested her palm in his. Whether from sympathy with the pain creasing the corners of his eyes, fr
om acceptance, or perhaps love, her gesture warmed his heart and formed a lump in his throat. He gently squeezed her fingers. Her hesitant smile banished the last of his drink-induced bad mood and he faced his bride with half a grin.

  “My lady?” Giving Carys a slight bow and the bend of his elbow, he indicated she should join him. After a moment’s hesitation, Carys stepped to his side and accepted his arm.

  Her touch, light as it was, sent crackling waves of shock racing through him. His cock bumped against his sporran, profoundly interested in the woman at his side. A harsh reminder of the previous night’s indulgence drummed behind his eyes as his heart pounded. It was going to be a long day. And perhaps a longer night. He’d not yet decided how to approach the future with a woman capable of killing him once she discovered his ruse.

  Without a word, he matched Abria’s tiny stride through the hall, careful not to set his feet down too firmly lest he jar his brain loose.

  I cannae imagine what drove me to empty a flagon . . .. He paused thoughtfully. Two flagons of whisky. She’s a bonnie lass and ’twill be no hardship to sire a dozen lads by her once I convince her life with me is better than living alone in the wilds.

  A smile tugged one corner of his mouth. Reassurance buoyed in his chest, overriding the apprehension that had driven him to consume the better part of a small cask of whisky. He’d coerced his bride—given her no choice, actually—and the thought continued to needle him, adding to his headache. Though she’d vowed to embrace the hangman’s noose rather than the bonds of matrimony more than once, she’d clearly seen the error of her ways and was only moments away from sealing her life with his.

  He cut a glance at her. Waves of glistening blue-black hair cascaded down to her hips, pulled back from her crown in two slender braids twined with silver ribbon and held at the back of her head by a silver clasp. The green gown hugged her figure to her waist then fell to the floor in sweeping folds. Silver and red embroidery winked at her neckline, framing creamy skin rising from her softly rounded breasts.

  His fingers twitched, as did his cock. He imagined the weight of her breasts against his palms. He swallowed, mouth dry. It wouldn’t do to show himself over-eager before the priest. It had been difficult enough to talk the man into the precipitous marriage but promise of a new chapel to replace the one likely original to the castle and sadly in need of either repair or replacement had helped.

  They crowded through the door and into the hall leading to the laird’s study. Built on the same level as the great hall, the spacious room overlooked a plunging view of the ocean from one wall, as well as the road to the village from another. A young girl with a cheerful grin on her face gently steered Abria and Eislyn to a corner of the room. Birk led Carys to his desk, halting a few steps away. A piece of parchment lay upon the surface, held in place by an inkpot on one corner and a thick, leather-bound book at the other. The priest eyed him across the expanse, arms folded, hands hidden within the sleeves of his long brown robe and resting atop his round belly. The steward and his wife stood on either side of the priest, witnesses for the ceremony.

  The priest turned his attention to Carys. “If the bride will give me her name, I will complete the contract.”

  Lifting her chin a fraction, Carys avoided Birk’s gaze.

  “Dinnae fash. He’s been well-compensated for overlooking the irregularities of the wedding.”

  She blinked. “You bribed a priest?”

  “Nae. Compensation comes after he performs the ceremony. Bribery would indicate payment before he does as I ask. I am not that foolish.”

  Carys squared her shoulders and addressed the priest.

  “Carys Wen, filia Pedr.”

  Nodding, the rotund priest carefully inserted her name in the proper place on the document, with a bit of help in spelling from the bride.

  Birk dropped Carys’s arm and stepped boldly to the desk. He plucked the quill from the stand and, dipping the tip in the ink, scrawled his name at the bottom of the parchment. With an instant of uncertainty, he handed the quill to Carys.

  To his surprise, she waved it aside and approached the desk. Splaying her fingertips upon the wooden surface next to the parchment, she studied the contract.

  She can read? Birk’s breath left him in a small whoosh. Shite!

  Her shoulders stiffened and she ran one blunt fingernail over the parchment as if clarifying what she saw. Whirling, she pinned him with an enraged look.

  “You lied to me?” She blinked furiously and drew a deep breath, stuttering once before she found the words she sought. “You lied to me! You aren’t the steward, or the captain of the guard, or even the head gaoler. You bastard! You’re the chief of Clan MacLean!”

  Aware of the small crowd avidly listening to every word, Birk folded his arms over his chest. “I dinnae lie to ye. Ye dinnae ask.”

  Her eyes blazed. “You skirted the issue,” she accused, jabbing a finger beneath his nose. “You skirted it as you would maggots on a rotted carcass!” She flung her hand toward the marriage contract. “You didn’t think I’d be able to read the contract, did you? As laird, you could pardon me without thinking twice, yet you insisted I marry you. Why? Can you not find a woman willing to marry you? Is the bribe of being Lady MacLean not enough?”

  Her chest heaved, fury radiated from every inch. Birk surveyed her laconically. “Are ye finished? Have ye run out of spite?”

  “Spite?” Her voice squeaked up the scale, eyebrows punctuating her indignation less than an inch from her hairline. “Cer i grafu!”

  Birk’s eyes narrowed. “Ye’ve said that to me before, and I dinnae think it means I do.”

  “It doesn’t,” she bit out, clearly angry enough to spit nails.

  His head throbbed again. Harder. “Sign the contract, Carys,” he growled.

  “Ye willnae force the lady,” the priest protested.

  A whimper from the corner of the room silenced Birk’s response like a deluge of frigid water.

  Carys froze, her anger instantly dashed by the sound of a child’s distress. Painfully aware she and Birk were the focus of the small party in the room, something akin to shame slid through her as she met two wide-eyed gazes. Abria shoved a thumb in her mouth and hid behind her temporary nurse’s skirts.

  This is why Abria does not speak. She has witnessed too much strife and does not know how else to respond. The realization the child had been witness to her parents’ problems tore at her heart. Letting her shoulders relax, she approached the girls with slow, careful steps. She sank to the floor before them.

  “I am so sorry, fy merched. I am so sorry I’ve hurt and frightened you.” She gave each of the girls a solemn look and placed her hands in her lap. “I do not wish to spoil our friendship. ’Tis true your da and I are not in accord.” She firmly refused to cast a glance his way as a shadow fell over her shoulder.

  Abria glided forward and curled against Carys. Eislyn took position at Carys’s shoulder and whispered into her ear.

  “Ma ran away after she and da fought,” she confided. “And then she died.”

  There must be more to the story than what they can tell me. He is infuriating, but surely not so much a mother would leave her girls.

  Birk’s hand clasped her shoulder, fingers tightening briefly—pledging unity? Agreement? Apology? There was not enough force in his grip to think he tried to warn or intimidate her. She laid her hand over his.

  “Only God knows when ’tis our time to die, little one,” she said, giving the girls a soft smile. “But I will not run away.” Once again, the crone’s words of death echoed in her mind. Carys caught the gaze of each precious girl and swore she’d not let the prophecy haunt her or her new family. She knew but one way to approach life, and it was to not worry about events over which she had no control.

  Birk’s grip eased. Did he not believe her capable of keeping her word? With an effort, she kept her opinion behind her teeth. If that was his experience with women, she would not add to it.

 
; “Return with your sister, bychan,” she urged, giving Abria’s arm a reassuring pat. The child rose reluctantly then rejoined Eislyn and the older girl who met Carys’s appraising look with an easy smile.

  “My name’s Margaret, my lady. The weans are safe with me.”

  Brody and another man Carys recognized but could not name, stood in the doorway, arms crossed over massive chests, feet braced apart. They also gave her a slow nod and she hid a smile to think of anything less than an English army attempting to breech their protection.

  Birk’s hand appeared before her, palm up, offering assistance. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to raise her to her feet. They faced the silent, stricken pair on either side of the desk.

  “My steward, Archibald, and his wife, Elspeth.”

  Archibald nodded his head. “My lady.”

  Elspeth bobbed a curtsy. “My lady.”

  Noting Elspeth and she were of a size, Carys realized who had loaned her the wedding dress. “I thank you for sharing your beautiful gown with me on such a special occasion.”

  The woman’s cheeks pinked. “The honor is mine, my lady,” she replied.

  Yielding to Birk’s slight tug on her hand, she sighed deeply, then joined him again at the desk and added her signature to the document. Her hand bobbled slightly as she replaced the quill.

  I am tied to these Scots now, and this man in particular. The rest of the ceremony is only a formality. I have signed my life over to him.

  Two years of fighting for her life ran hot through her veins.

  God help him if he betrays me. The MacLeans will need to choose a new chief.

  The priest’s words droned around her, and she belatedly closed her eyes for prayer when she caught the priest’s disapproving frown.

  This is not the marriage into obscurity and peace I envisioned when Hywel and I spoke of our retreat into Scotland. If I had to marry—if that is the path chosen for me—I would have wished for a simple crofter. A man of the land with an appreciation for wealth that comes from hard work, care, and, if not love, quiet companionship.