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

by Cathy MacRae

  She is wild and willful, and completely at odds with the women the council wished me to take to wife. A smile broke across his face. He couldn’t wait to see what the council made of his new wife. There were many reasons Carys was a better choice than MacBrehon’s spineless daughter or MacDonnell’s lass of only fourteen summers. And especially better than the sultry widow looking for her fifth husband.

  It didn’t matter that Carys wasn’t bound to his clan by blood or alliance. What mattered was her heart and her courage. The fact that she set his bed aflame added passion to their union, something he’d not dreamed possible after his disastrous marriage to Rose MacDonald.

  Birk shifted in his seat to ease the tightness of his breeches, his temper taking a turn for the worse. Hanna could see to the weans. He wanted his wife—who was spending too much time with his ma. His brow furrowed. Having both women under the same roof might not have been his best plan.

  Hanna strolled through the open doorway without knocking, Carys only a few steps behind. Birk eyed them warily. Hanna lowered herself gracefully to a chair near the hearth and Carys chose a seat next to her. Their bond was apparent, and though Birk had to admit he preferred it to bickering or distrust, the back of his neck tingled with apprehension. He needed to give Hanna the reasons he’d married—and how—before the tale got out of hand.

  Birk rose and stalked to the tray a servant had left on a corner of his desk. Hanna and Carys glanced up and he raised a mug in silent offer.

  “Put it down, Birk. I am not here for refreshments.”

  Hanna’s calm command only raised his level of unease. Birk sloshed a measure of whisky into the mug and tossed it back, sucking in a breath at the fiery bite that slid to his belly. He set the mug down with a clatter and strode to a spot by the hearth where Hanna and Carys did not have to turn to look at him—and immediately felt like a recalcitrant lad before his elders.

  He leaned a shoulder against the stone. “I have . . ..”

  Hanna lifted a hand. “I am glad ye are home safe. I have missed ye and my granddaughters. But I am trying very hard to not tear a strip from your hide for your silence whilst at Dairborrodal—and your selfish audacity.” Her voice rose. “Have ye any idea how hurtful it is to discover your son has married, without invitation to the wedding or any notice whatsoever? Or to discover my precious granddaughter who has not spoken in two years has found her voice again? Not a single word from ye to bring me joy of either occasion.”

  Tears would have been less effective. Her pain was clear, and Birk understood why. Sten, her son from her first marriage had died when Scots had raided their village, her last sight of him standing resolutely before the door of the long house with two of his friends, ten summers of age, determined to protect the women and children sheltered within. His body had never been recovered, but the entire village had been razed to the ground, a fitting pyre for their courage.

  Hanna lived in Birk’s home, cared for his daughters, had raised his half-sister as though she was her own daughter. She might rejoice over his marriage and Abria’s return to normalcy, but he’d put off the lengthy explanation which would have required including news of his marriage—which he felt was best done in person—and he’d not included her. He winced. He hadn’t considered the impact on his own mother.

  Birk’s reasons for not waiting to marry Carys when they arrived at MacLean Castle fled. He glanced from Carys to Hanna. “I humbly apologize for neglecting ye. Ye deserve better.”

  “I assumed she was my granddaughters’ new nurse!” Hanna’s hurt slipped into indignation.

  “How did ye know I’d dismissed Ina?”

  Hanna waved a hand in the air. “Och, she arrived here a fortnight ago, distressed over being replaced by a woman his lordship has taken up with.”

  Birk lifted an eyebrow. Carys grinned. “Ye at least did not accuse me of being his mistress when we first met.”

  Hanna shook her head. “The words that could have crossed my lips before I knew ye’d wed my son . . ..” She glared at Birk. “Ye have a lot to answer for.”

  Birk’s unease spiked. “Aye. I do.”

  “I approve your choice in wife, though not the way in which ye went about it.”

  Birk grunted. If she knew the entire truth, she’d like it even less. He wondered what Carys had said. Another glance at Carys’s face told him nothing—except he was on his own.

  “Ye know I cared not for being pushed into marriage. I had reasons to refuse each woman—lass—put forth by the council.”

  “Good reasons,” Hanna granted. “But you must agree this is quite sudden, even shocking.”

  “I dinnae mean to hurt ye, Ma. I knew Carys held every virtue I valued in a wife, and I dinnae wish to bring her here to fall beneath the scrutiny of the council until after we were wed.”

  Carys’s eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. She blinked as if uncertain whether to speak—her hands clenched.

  “Ye thought so little of your ability to sway Gregor?” Hanna mocked. “They do not all follow his lead.”

  Birk’s neck heated. His ma baited him, and he deserved it.

  Hanna sent Birk a narrowed look. “She thought ye were a gaoler. Do ye wish to explain this to me? My son, Baron MacLean, Lord of Morvern, head of the largest shipping concern in Scotland—represented himself as a gaoler?”

  “Not the best way to woo a wife,” Carys affirmed, her expression guarded. “Though fairly original.”

  Birk folded his arms over his chest, refusing to be drawn into the discussion further.

  Hanna sent him a look he immediately recognized—and refused to be intimidated by. “I will have the entire true story when I am not distracted by the attempt to neither scandalize nor alienate your wife. I will have ye know, Birk Alexander MacLean, that ’twill be some time before I forget I first greeted Carys as a servant—not as your wife. I pray I have her forgiveness, and I would hope ye have the wits to understand what position ye placed her in by your silence on the matter.”

  The room sparked with tension, then Carys inclined her head. “I harbor no ill-will toward ye, m’lady.” Her gaze shifted to Birk. “My husband and I will no doubt have this settled between us in short order.”

  Birk ground his teeth. Ruled by a pair of conspiring women! And if Carys thought sending him from her bed—a common ploy of Rose’s when she was out of sorts with him—was the answer, he would set her straight before nightfall.

  Hanna rose, the light of battle in her eyes. “Ye, my son, had best hope your tale is convincing. I would not have dreamed ye hrafnasueltir. If your father were still alive, he would be ashamed of your handling of this.”

  She left the room, her head high. Birk did not bid her stay.

  The door closed behind her and the room was bathed in silent recriminations. Birk spoke first. “I have news of Tully’s family, though it can wait if ye wish to speak of other things.”

  “As much as I could shoulder a bit of the blame since I did not await your escort from the ship, I will not since there should have been no reason for me to be forced to explain myself in my own home. A formal introduction, aye, but as far as Hanna was concerned, I, as your wife, did not exist.”

  She sighed. “I confess I am at a loss as to why ye married me, as much as I cannot fathom the deceptions ye have played along the way. But as I may never fully understand these things, I would have ye explain one thing before we speak of Tully.”

  Relief gnawed at Birk’s desire to fight, to have the argument over and done with. She was right. He did not believe he could convince her of the many subtleties of his plan, nor his desire for her once he’d finally met her. Nor could he explain to himself the reasons he showed her only his passion—and not his admiration.

  He hadn’t wanted to address this. Had wanted only to secure a wife he could more than tolerate—be proud of. He hadn’t wanted to love her. Did he love her? He was convinced Rose had cured him of that foolish emotion years ago. He had no fear of falling in
to that trap again.

  He eyed her warily. “What is it ye wish to know?”

  “What is hrafnasueltir?

  Birk’s heart stuttered. Coward. The import of Hanna’s words swept over him. Though she’d scarcely raised her voice, there was no doubt she was truly angry. His actions might have been important to him, but he had betrayed her.

  “Raven-starver. A man who is afraid to fight.”

  Carys gave him a puzzled look.

  “Only a man who has the courage to fight dies on the battlefield. His body will feed the ravens. A man who does not fight willnae become carrion—and thus, starve the ravens.”

  Birk walked to his desk, feeling the heat of the hearth too much. “Hanna is Norse. Though a follower of the Christ, the auld stories were a part of her history—and mine. Ravens were a fearsome sight, hovering over battlefields, awaiting their chance at the fallen. To the Norse, ravens had the power of gods. They, along with the Valkyries, chose who would live or die in battle.”

  “One who ignores a raven must then be seen as a fool.”

  Birk gave a curt nod. “She isnae happy with me.”

  A slight smile played along Carys’s lips, but she made no response.

  She is amused? Birk narrowed his gaze then sat, willing to turn to less-weighty matters.

  “I received word of Tully’s ma and siblings just a bit ago. They live in Kinlochkillkerran, on the eastern side of the tip of the Kintyre Peninsula. She owns a small tavern near the docks. ’Tis a busy port and I imagine she makes a bit of coin, though the work is undoubtedly hard.”

  Carys leaned forward. “How far is that from here?”

  “By ship, mayhap two days. I have sent a letter regarding Tully’s whereabouts to his ma. When Tully is ready, I will take him.”

  “I will go with ye.”

  It was on Birk’s tongue to say nae, to remind her of her responsibilities to Abria and Eislyn. But she had an earlier tie with the lad, and he could not bring himself to demand she remain behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Carys breathed deep. A mixture of happiness and sorrow washed over her. Once Tully left, her last tie to Hywel and their final journey together would end. Each time she saw Tully, visions of their voyage along the coast of Scotland filled her heart. Hywel had insisted this was the place and life he wanted, but now she’d never tease him again about being a difficult husband or know the heart-wrenching love of seeing his child for the first time. Had she chosen the forests of Éire and taken a different path, would they still be together? Carys shook such morbid thoughts away. God, not Carys, had control over who lived and died. She wondered—not for the first time—if she’d been better off not hearing the words spoken by the old crone all those months ago. Those prophetic words changed nothing of the bitterness of her losses.

  Her gaze settled on Birk. What other secrets lurked beneath his scowl? She was foolish to think him a simple gaoler when they first met. Seeing him now, there was naught simple about him. But a baron? She still struggled to accept his lofty status, now hers as well. Carys readily understood why he chose not to present himself as nobility when they first met. But, why would a man choose a wife from the gallows?

  Even more important, why would a baron choose such a wife? What attributes did he see that he’d not found in any other woman presented to him? His earlier revelation had stunned her. As had the realization he’d set up her capture for the sole purpose of forcing her to marry him. She wavered between furious and puzzled. Why her?

  He married me because I care for his daughters and can—with God’s blessing—give him an heir. There was more? She studied his face—the brooding dark eyes and tight-lipped frown. He did not appear anxious to reopen the discussion. And she wasn’t certain she was ready to ask.

  “Ye have ordered a feast for tomorrow eve,” she said. “We could take Tully home mayhap a day or two later, if that is what he wishes.”

  “Pirates have been sighted near Oban, a couple of hours’ sail from here.” Birk faced her. “Are ye certain ye wish to go? We could take an overland route if ye prefer, though it would be more arduous.”

  Carys tilted her head. “Ye think to frighten me with tales of pirates?”

  A reluctant smile lit his eyes. “Mayhap ye tire of fighting.”

  His observation took the wind from her sails. “Aye. I have had enough to last me the rest of my days. But I will not run from a fight. Nor will I allow fear to shape my choices.”

  His nod seemed to hold admiration behind it, though Carys thought it unlikely. Her fighting abilities could not be something he looked upon with favor. Such skills, honed in battles for her life and country, had thwarted him more than helped—her actions to keep the girls safe during the attack at Dairborrodal notwithstanding. Again she wondered what virtues she possessed that he admired. What characteristics had he had found in no other woman that had pushed him into his bizarre plot? She remained puzzled—and perhaps a bit intrigued.

  “We will take the Már. ’Tis easier for her to slip down the coast than a larger ship.” The right side of Birk’s mouth tilted with a half-grin. “I promised ye a wee trip, and ’twill be only us and the crew on the return. They will be discreet.”

  Warmth settled low in her belly. Would spending two uninterrupted days with Birk open doors between them? Or close them?

  “I will speak with Tully. I have no doubt he’ll be overjoyed to know he is at last going home.” She rose. “I believe I will indulge in a brief nap after I check on the girls. Hanna sent a lass the girls knew to watch over them.”

  “About the feast,” Birk said, halting her steps toward the door. “By holding the gathering tomorrow, rather than tonight, most council members will have time to arrive.”

  Carys raised an eyebrow. They were wed. What could a few highly placed men in the clan do to cause Baron MacLean’s unease? They had no power to undo what she, Birk, and the Holy Church had done. Any talk of her being put aside would not end well for anyone foolish enough to suggest such.

  “They wished me to wed for power, alliance, and wealth. I wished to wed the woman of my choice. They will question ye—and they willnae be kind.”

  Her temper flared. He would not protect her from the meddlesome men? She was a princess of Cymru and above such interrogations. Howbeit, she could handle a few surly old men. Without doubt, conflicts within Clan MacLean could not hold a candle to the court intrigue she’d experienced back home.

  “I willnae allow them to go too far,” he added. “But they will have questions.”

  “Do not worry yourself,” she seethed. “I have nothing to hide.”

  * * *

  Carys peered tiredly over the crowd. Even before drink had gotten the better of them, they had been boisterous, overbearing, and rude. There was not a man on the council she would trust farther than a well-thrown blade. And she’d be certain to aim well. Gregor MacLean already topped her list.

  The lairds loyal to the the MacLean had been polite—no, cautious. It was clear Birk’s marriage had knocked them off-kilter. Some of Birk’s family had arrived midafternoon with various responses to his announcement.

  James Campbell, whose wife Gillian had remained at home with their infant daughter, had greeted Birk with the intent to bloody his nose, passing along his wife’s indignant response to his marriage without Birk’s older sister’s knowledge. Hanna’s watchful eye had thwarted near-disaster as she diverted him with grandmotherly questions about his bairn, her new granddaughter. Bram MacKern, laird of the neighboring Clan MacKern, and his son Keir, had welcomed Carys into the family, offering her a place of refuge should she tire of Birk’s brooding. Carys had smiled sweetly—puzzled at Birk’s reaction to their offer—and assured them she was content.

  The feasting would likely simmer for hours yet, but Gregor had indicated he and the rest of the council would like a word with her and Birk. Favoring Gregor with an imperious look learned at her cousin’s knee, she slipped gracefully to her feet, thankful the
gown Hanna had loaned her had required only moderate adjustments. The soft wool was dyed a deep blue, offset with a blindingly white surcoat richly trimmed in silver embroidery. Embellished with a fortune in rubies anchored in the heavy shimmering thread, the exceedingly fine garment had forced her to reassess her opinion of the magnitude of Birk’s holdings once again. The weight of the embroidery and stones reminded her of her infrequent days at Prince Llywelyn’s court, and she resolved to put a stop to the murmurs swelling among the MacLean council.

  It was Gregor’s mistake to seat himself in the most comfortable chair in Birk’s solar before Carys was two steps into the room. Instead of accepting the chair he indicated with a curt nod of his head, she glided serenely across the floor and halted before him, the tip of her dagger placed firmly beneath his chin. His ears and bald pate reddened as he fought to control his reaction. Clearly, he’d not dreamed he would be thwarted in his petty play for power.

  Concern buzzed in the room. Birk folded his arms over his chest, feet braced comfortably apart, his stance effectively halting the two men who had started to Gregor’s assistance.

  Gregor dropped his furious gaze from Carys, sliding it from one man to another, a deep scowl on his face for their deep insult. How dare they assume he needed protection from a lass? After a moment, he rose to his feet, careful not to duck his chin against the glinting steel. He glared at Carys.

  Her nostrils flared as if she scented something foul. “Had ye offered the courtesy due me, I would have given the better chair to a man of advanced years such as yourself. However, I will give courtesy only as ye define it, old man.” She lowered the dagger and motioned for him to move.

  He reluctantly abandoned his seat.

  With a graceful settle of her skirts, Carys sat. Birk paused by her chair, placing a palm on her shoulder.

  “Ye have made an enemy where he was merely a nuisance before,” he murmured.