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

by Cathy MacRae

  “Ye dinnae get a prick from her dirk during the night?”

  Birk spread his arms wide and turned to show his unmarred torso and arms. “I’m the one who did the pricking, lads.”

  Brody shook his head. “I’d be afeard to take a lass like her to bed. Too likely to wake up missing parts.”

  “Not if ye use them right, eh, Dugan?”

  “Yer parts or the lass’s?”

  Birk pounded Dugan’s shoulder. “Och, she’s a bonnie one. No doubt about it,” he grinned, lounging back on a bench, his legs sprawled before him. “I’ll need a wee nap to keep up with her wild ways.”

  “She fell for yer charms, did she?” Brody laughed as he limped up to the water barrel, performing a like ritual and slinging fine droplets from his shaggy mane. “We noticed ye were quite the laggard this morn.”

  “His lady wasnae so affected as our laird. He dinnae limp down the stairs until nearly mid-morn. She was already up and seeing to her duties.” Dugan elbowed Birk. “Mayhap we should take it easy on ye, auld man.”

  “She’ll be back in my bed by sundown,” Birk boasted. “I’ve a thing or two to show her.”

  “That’s good to know, Laird. Considering she was up afore ye, mayhap she wasnae impressed with what ye showed her last night,” Dugan suggested.

  Chuckles rose to laughter. Birk scowled as Dugan’s lighthearted words unintentionally drew blood.

  Iain approached, gripping the pommel of his sword in its sheath. He jerked his chin over his shoulder at a guard lingering on the edge of the yard. “I dinnae think she’ll be back by sundown if she’s the lass Alain saw ride through the gates a bit ago.”

  Birk roused, leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “What?”

  Alain took a hesitant step forward. “A woman riding a bay horse, m’laird,” he offered.

  “Are ye certain ’twas my wife?” Birk demanded.

  Iain raised an eyebrow. “There are precious few women at Dairborrodal, as ye know. And fewer with the audacity to steal a horse and ride alone into the forest.”

  “She’s a braw lass, m’laird,” Oran chimed in. “And ’tis nae stealin’ now that she’s Lady MacLean.”

  The men grinned.

  Birk stormed to his feet. “Where the hell was she headed?”

  Alain stood frozen. “The forest.”

  “Bah!” Birk kicked over his bench and snatched his belt and scabbard from the hook on the wall behind him. He slid the blade a few inches out then slammed it back into the sheath and buckled it about his hips. “I want four riders with me. Find yer horses.”

  Dugan, Iain, Brody and Oran hastily refastened their weapons and tossed the ends of their plaides over their shoulders, leaving their leines to dry on the boards. They called their reluctant horses from the pasture, grabbing saddles and headstalls from stable lads who rushed to do their bidding.

  Birk swung onto Bran’s back as the beast snatched a final mouthful of grass. His men mounted and filed in behind as they galloped through the gate and rode into the forest.

  Before one of the men thought to ask where to look for the errant bride, he reined Bran toward the north in the direction of Fergal’s cottage.

  Dugan’s suggestion that Carys wasn’t as impressed with their wedding night as he was twisted in his gut. Why else would she leave the day after he granted her freedom? No matter what she thought, she belonged to him now. He’d either convince her to return with him or he’d tie her up and sling her over a horse himself.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Carys slowed her horse to a stop near the edge of the beach, not wanting to risk a broken leg on the scattered rocks. She tied his reins to a low branch and proceeded to the cave on foot, careful to watch for signs of intruders, hoping Tully had remembered to get his belongings and remain with Fergal once Dewr returned.

  She hoped the dog had made it.

  Crouching behind a large boulder, she surveyed the area near the waterfall, the rush of water drowning out any audible signs of people, knowing they were not likely to hear her, either. After several minutes spent scanning the area, she was satisfied no one had discovered her and Tully’s home, and she slipped behind the curtain of water. Tully’s pot lay on its side near the back of the cave, evidence of his turmoil when she did not return from her hunt. His small cache of belongings was gone, as was the collection of tools they had brought from the ship.

  She’d had little in the way of possessions that she didn’t carry with her, but she rolled up the weathered blanket she used for sleeping, tucked it beneath her arm, and gathered her javelins. She left Tully’s pot, deciding it was too bulky to bother with and, hopefully, not needed. With a cautious tread, she exited the cave.

  Once again, she peered up and down the beach. Determining she was still alone, she paced off the required steps behind a large boulder sitting askance beneath a weather-beaten tree. Kneeling, she used her oldest dagger to scrape away the rocky soil until she encountered the chest of coins. Beset with memories, she opened the top and peered at the contents, her brother’s ring sitting amid the silver and gold coins like a glowing ember, linked on the chain with her own wedding band and the ring she’d taken from the English soldier.

  She quickly strung the necklace over her head, tucking the rings beneath her cowl. Removing two leather bags from her belt, she dumped the coins inside and drew the drawstrings tight. She stood, gripping the heavy bag tightly as she made her way back to the patiently waiting horse, leaving the empty chest beneath the tree.

  Carys tied the bags with leather straps behind her saddle, wrapping the bundle with the blanket so it would pass silent and unremarked. Mounting her horse, she reined him onto the faint trail through the woods to Fergal’s and Lorna’s cottage.

  Dewr’s warning bark rent the air on her approach. Tully and Gorrie looked up from splitting kindling for the hearth. Dressed as she was, it didn’t take either lad more than an instant to recognize her. They tossed their tools to the ground and ran toward her as she rode into the yard.

  “Carys!” they shouted, clambering about her like excited puppies as she drew the horse to a halt. Dewr joined their antics, dancing in circles, equally glad to see her.

  Her heart swelled as tears sprang into her eyes. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Tully, how much she’d worried over him. Alighting to the ground, she gave both lads a tight hug and a clout to the shoulder.

  “We knew ye’d come back!” Gorrie declared, face beaming.

  Carys grabbed her horse’s reins beneath the bit and ruffled Dewr’s ears as the dog bounded about her feet. “You did?” she teased. “I only knew it myself a couple of hours ago. How’d you know?”

  Both boys fell silent, their gaze drifting to the house where Lorna and Fergal stood, Birk and Dugan on either side.

  To the left of the house, beneath a tree, five horses waited, tails swishing at the occasional fly. Three men squatted in the shade a few feet away, watching silently.

  Carys laid a hand on Tully’s shoulder. “Be a good lad and fetch your belongings.”

  “Are we leaving?” the lad asked, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Aye,” Carys replied. “We’re going to help you find your way home.”

  * * *

  Birk stared at his wife as she rode into the yard. The lads and dog greeted her excitedly, leaping about as she dismounted her horse. Her gaze cut to the house and he knew he’d been spotted. He stepped from the doorway and crossed the yard.

  “A little bird told me ye left the castle unattended—and without permission.”

  Carys tossed her head. “You should question your little birds. There should have been an entire host of soldiers on my heels.” She cast a look at the three men waiting in the shade. “Last time you sent men after me, it took six to bring me in.”

  Furious with her flippant attitude, he grabbed her arm—and found the tip of her dirk at his belly. He deflected the point with a quick turn to the side, presenting his sword scabbard and thick belt inste
ad of his less protected belly.

  “Put the knife away, Carys,” he murmured, his voice low and threatening. “I willnae have ye scarring my leathers.”

  “If a scratched scabbard is all that bothers you, mayhap I should point out ’tis unlikely we’ve conceived a child as yet. Even with as much effort as you put into your marital duties last night, I wouldn’t gamble on it so soon.”

  Birk eyed her dirk again, his stomach clenching to note the wicked gleam of the slender blade and the ease with which it could slip past his guard if he didn’t control the situation—and his temper. He took a step back, drawing a deep breath.

  “Why did ye leave the castle?” he demanded. He dropped her arm, satisfied when she slid the dirk into a sheath at her belt.

  “When did you plan on fetching Tully?” she countered. “Sometime along our journey south to MacLean Castle? We are a bit too far north to make that practical.”

  “I would have seen to the lad,” he growled. “I gave ye my word.”

  “I have taken care of it and retrieved some belongings of mine I did not wish to leave behind. And I thought mayhap I’d encounter a deer along the way. Seems ’tis no longer poaching to feed my friends now I’ve become a respectable member of Clan MacLean. There was no need to come after me.”

  “Ye dinnae have permission to leave,” Birk pursued stubbornly. He knew they were the center of rapt attention, yet he could not help himself. The blow to his gut to learn his wife of less than a day had left the castle—left him—had been too much. He would not believe her faithless as Rose had been, yet the old, deep hurt would not let it go.

  “I was unaware I needed your permission. ’Twas not in the marriage contract. I did read it, if you’ll recall,” Carys replied archly. “Where did you think I’d gone?”

  Birk’s lips thinned, refusing to speak to her of his dead wife. Yet she must have guessed, for her eyes narrowed and her chin tilted.

  “I gave you my vow—only yesterday. I do not know how things are done in Scotland, but in Wales, we honor our promises.”

  The barb struck home. He’d forgotten to bring Tully to the castle. It wasn’t a promise deliberately broken. He was known as a man of his word. No one could dispute that. And yet, in short order, his new wife had reduced him to a man who appeared to make false promises—and who allowed past memories to cloud his judgment. He reined in his anger. He would not be accused of being a brute on top of not keeping his word.

  Tully slipped to Carys’s side, sending Birk a wary, unfriendly look. He tugged Carys’s sleeve. “We dinnae have to go with him, do we, Carys?” He stepped closer as if reluctant for Birk to hear him, though he did not lower his voice.

  “We could live here with Lorna ’n Fergal. And Gorrie. I like Gorrie.”

  Birk’s ire rose. The one thing that had kept him from losing all sense of proportion was the knowledge that if Carys had left him in truth, at least she had not left in the arms of a lover. Tully was obviously someone she cared for, and the idea she’d been willing to set her marriage aside to help someone else reminded him all too much of his dead wife.

  Help someone else. The realization drew him up short. That was certainly unlike Rose. Wasn’t that one of the reason’s he’d married Carys? Through rumor and his own knowledge, Carys Wen filia Pedr was a woman who unselfishly helped others. Selfishness was something he abhorred. He needed time in the saddle to think this through before he made more of a muck of the situation. He could play the gracious laird and lay the angry husband aside—for now.

  “Things are a bit different, Tully,” she told the lad. “I go with Laird MacLean. You, however, have a choice. You are free to remain here with Lorna and Fergal and Gorrie, or you can come with me to MacLean Castle. If you wish, we will help you find your mam. The decision is yours.”

  Tully fidgeted, clearly uneasy with making a decision. “What will happen to Dewr?” He glanced about, looking for the dog. She lay a few feet away, ears alert, intent on the people in the doorway.

  “I’m certain Laird MacLean will allow her to come with you,” Carys replied, sending Birk a questioning look.

  “I apologize,” Birk said, pitching his voice low with contrition, catching the startled look in Carys’s eyes. “I havenae introduced myself, though I met ye once aboard the Seabhag. I am Birk, the MacLean chieftain. I knew yer da and was very sad to hear of the shipwreck.”

  “Da died,” Tully said. Sorrow flashed across his face, but quickly cleared. “Ye know Gorrie’s brother!” He turned adoring eyes on Dugan.

  Dugan shrugged lightly, clearly confused to find himself a hero in Tully’s eyes.

  “I’ve told Tully lots about ye,” Gorrie admitted as he stepped up to the group. “I will be a warrior like ye one day.”

  Dugan gave his younger brother a smile. “Do as da asks and build those muscles, aye?”

  “I promised Carys I’d see to continuing yer training—while ye help yer ma and da.” Birk added his provision, hoping to soften the hard, accusing look on Carys’s face. The grin on Gorrie’s face sealed the gamble. Carys’s lips tilted slightly and Birk hid his sigh of relief.

  “When my wife assures me ye are ready, I will send for ye.”

  And I will remember this promise.

  Fergal and Lorna clutched each other, concern—or possibly dismay—on their faces. They were clearly approaching an age where they could not care for the croft on their own. Laird MacLean had taken one son and now promised to take the other as well.

  “I will see about finding a lad to help Gorrie with the chores,” he said. “If he proves acceptable, mayhap he could make his permanent home here.”

  It was a compromise, and one that didn’t entirely meet with the couple’s approval. With two healthy lads of his own, Fergal had little love for giving his life’s work into another’s hands. It was plain Lorna already grieved the loss of her sons.

  “’Twill be some time before Gorrie is ready to take up soldiering,” Carys soothed. “He may yet meet a lass and decide to raise sheep instead of a sword.” She rumpled Gorrie’s shock of hair as his face flamed.

  “Aye.” Lorna allowed a small smile. “Ye cannae predict what’s in a man’s heart.”

  Carys helped Tully stow his meager belongings behind the saddle on Brody’s horse. Keeping the two leather bags hidden beneath her blanket, she draped them, one on either side, across her horse’s withers. She mounted and helped Tully up behind her with Birk’s assistance. The lad gripped her about the waist within a tight hold, his knees and legs pressing hard against the horse’s flanks, causing him to prance nervously.

  “Loosen your grip, Tully,” Carys murmured. “He’ll settle when he realizes you aren’t about to fall off.”

  Tully eased his hold slightly, only to tighten it once again when Carys urged the horse forward.

  “’Tis much like being on a boat. You know how different being on a boat is from being on land, aye? Sit comfortably and let the horse rock beneath you.”

  Alternately soothing the horse then Tully, Carys finally managed to get the lad settled. The ride to Dairborrodal Castle was a long one, but a gait faster than a walk was beyond Tully’s skills.

  “I understand ye’ve charmed quite a few of the servants at the castle,” Birk remarked.

  Carys raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe vexing them is a good way to run a household.”

  Birk was silent a moment. “Where did you learn to run a household of this size?”

  Carys made a deprecating sound. “You know so little of me, yet I know your cook’s name is Ava, and your stable master likes his whisky a bit too much.” She cast a look over her shoulder. “He was fast asleep when I saddled my horse.”

  Making a mental note to replace the stable master, Birk attempted a different approach. “Would ye tell me of yer family?”

  Carys shrugged. “We were caught up in Prince Llywelyn’s fight with King Edward. There is nothing left for me there.” She turned her head aside, and Birk allowed her a moment
to compose herself. As a gambit to get his new wife to share her memories, he’d failed badly.

  She cast a look his way. “I also know you have a sweet spot for your girls. You may appear tough and difficult to get along with, but they are your pride and joy.”

  “Difficult?” He glanced at her in surprise. “I am the epitome of tact and graciousness when ’tis warranted. I admit I have a short supply of patience, however.” He tried for a long-suffering look. She quirked one eyebrow.

  “I have much to do and dinnae like having my time wasted,” he protested.

  “Aye,” she replied softly. “A man with all of Clan MacLean to see to, as well as a busy shipping business and port, has little time to indulge in political posturing. You are a blunt man, Birk MacLean. You know what you want, and you get it. But you keep your schemes close. What do you have in mind when you marry an unknown woman from a distant country, one whom you could have as easily pardoned? And why did you choose to hide your identity?”

  Birk eyed her steadily, returning her thoughtful gaze.

  “I could ask the same of ye, lass. I remember the name ye gave the priest. Carys Wen, filia Pedr. I know this means yer da’s name was Peter. What does Wen mean?”

  A flush lightly stained her cheeks. “Wen means fair in Cymraeg. Much like your word gael.”

  “Where did ye learn speak Scots Gaelic?” he asked, believing a Welsh woman far more likely to be familiar with English.

  “Umm,” she replied vaguely. “We lived near the coast. There were people of many countries in the village. I pick up languages rather easily.”

  “Good to know.” He eyed her thoughtfully, noting the blue-black sheen to her hair, her pale skin that glowed with delicate health—even when he knew there was nothing delicate about her.

  “Carys the Fair?” He grinned as her lips thinned, daring him to tease her. “I suspect an ode has been written to ye, has it not?”

  She slipped him a haughty look. “And the best minstrels Cymru has to offer have sung it in the highest courts. You’ll not hear better any place in Scotland.”