“I said naught to upset her,” Duncan repeated, glancing up at the tower window he knew to be her chamber. “I simply told her very little would be expected of her.”
“And how did you word that?” Marmaduke pressed further.
Duncan blew out a breath. “For the love of St. Mungo, you persistent swine, I only said naught else would be asked of her except the use of her sight and tending to Robbie.”
Marmaduke whistled, then slowly shook his head. “’Tis worse than I feared. How could a man who’s spent so much time in the company of Robert Bruce manage to make a blundering fool of himself with a woman?”
Something that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter came from Lachlan, then rippled through the ranks of his men, earning them each a furious glare.
By the heavens, they were laughing at him!
“If you think you are such a charmer, English, then why don’t you hie yourself up to her chamber and fetch her down here?”
“’Twould be my pleasure.” Marmaduke made him a low bow, then headed toward the castle. After ten paces, he stopped and looked back. “Mayhap someday I shall give you lessons in how to treat a lady.”
To Duncan’s surprise, Marmaduke emerged from the keep a short time later, followed by his bride and her servant. Immediately, his pages blasted their trumpets and his knights fell into place behind the trio as they crossed the cobbled bailey, the lot of them cheering as if they were about to witness a real wedding and not a farce.
The nearer they came, the more Duncan began to regret his decision to make the MacDonnell lass his wife. Aye, he should have kidnapped her, forced her to quell his doubts about Robbie, then sent her back to Dundonnell. Instead, he’d soon be burdened by a second wife he did not want.
’Twas only a small comfort she looked equally unhappy about the situation.
Everyone else present seemed determined to make fools of themselves.
His men cavorted about like a group of silly women. Shouting jests and cheering, they behaved as if they were all simpleminded. Even his bride’s old servant beamed, blushing at his men’s antics as if she were a young girl of ten-and-four and not a mature woman long past her prime.
“She’s a fetching sight, aye, milord?” Lachlan commented, as Marmaduke escorted the two ladies nearer.
Duncan kept silent. He did not want to admit, even to himself, that Linnet MacDonnell did indeed make a lovely bride.
She wore a heavy silk tunic of deep blue, fastened at her waist by an intricate girdle of gold. A full-length cloak of the same blue protected her from the rain and a jewel-encrusted circlet held a long golden head-veil in place. She’d kept her hair unbound, letting it spill from beneath her veil to flow in a shining curtain of bronze waves to her waist.
Duncan uttered a silent oath, angry at himself that, even for a split second, he’d wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through such tresses.
By the saints, ’twas like spun gold!
Ne’er had he suspected she would have such glorious hair. Why, ’twould tempt St. Columba himself!
Thunder of heaven, he’d have an explanation for this. He’d been assured the lass was plain, as unappealing as a sow’s hindquarters.
He didn’t want a comely wife.
Never again.
Not after Cassandra and the suffering she’d wrought with her evil ways.
Nay, ’twas not a fetching wench he’d wanted, but it appeared he’d gotten one despite his wishes to the contrary.
Ignoring the way her hair flowed over obviously full breasts which he’d not truly appreciated earlier because of the ill-fitting garments she’d worn on the journey, Duncan set his face in what he hoped to be a fierce grimace as Marmaduke guided her up the chapel steps.
He would simply force himself to see her as she’d appeared the day before: plain and garbed in rags.
Aye, he would concentrate on that image and not look at her hair. In fact, he’d insist she wear her red-gold tresses braided and wrapped around her head and hidden beneath a veil at all times.
As for her breasts… he’d simply pretend they weren’t there.
He only hoped his men did not insist on a bedding ceremony. They knew full well why he was marrying the lass. The subject had been much discussed of late. If they’d conveniently forgotten his reasons and expected him to perform the role of besotted and eager groom, he’d personally challenge each of them to a round of swordplay in the lists and cheerfully carve them to ribbons!
“’Tis time, milord.” Marmaduke propelled his bride toward him. “Do you not want to escort your lady up the chapel steps?”
Duncan glowered, not bothering to hide his displeasure. The only place he wanted to escort Linnet MacDonnell was back to her father’s miserable keep. Instead, he offered her his arm and took small satisfaction in the fear he read in her large brown eyes.
If she feared him, she wouldn’t regret his absence from her bed.
Unfortunately, he’d noticed more than the expression in her eyes. He’d also noted they were flecked with gold and would likely be most appealing were they lit by a smile rather than dulled by resignation.
Then his men pressed forward, giving him no alternative but to guide his unwanted wife-to-be up the few stones steps to where the priest waited before the opened chapel door.
As if the holy father knew Duncan would flee if given the slightest chance, he immediately began the ceremony that would bind the MacDonnell wench to Duncan for the rest of his days, God willing.
Sheer curiosity, nothing more, made Duncan steal a glance at his bride during the opening prayer. Sooty lashes rested on her cheeks… cheeks that, if possible, had grown even more pale since the priest had begun his sacred monologue.
Her lips moved in silent prayer, and, saints preserve him, he couldn’t help notice how full they were. Luscious and supple-looking, she had lips he would’ve claimed in a swift and possessive kiss in earlier years.
Before he’d cast aside such foolhardy notions.
Unshed tears clung to her thick lashes, and at the sight of one of them breaking away to roll down her cheek, the cold knot in his stomach tightened and some accursed muscle in his jaw began to twitch with a vengeance.
By Lucifer’s knees, surely the prospect of wedding him wasn’t that unbearable?
He was the one getting the lesser end of the bargain, after all, not her. She had much to gain.
One look, though, at the way she clasped her hands tightly before her, assured him she did indeed dread becoming his wife.
Duncan fought the urge to swear. He was not an ogre, and he had tried to offer her comfort last night. He couldn’t be faulted because she’d sped from the solar before he’d had the chance.
Many were the women who would gladly throw themselves at his feet. At least in the old days before Cassandra’s perfidy had ruined his life. And in the years he’d fought alongside the Bruce, there’d not been a single night during their forays across the land he’d had to sleep alone… unless he chose to do so.
His prowess in bed had been almost as legendary as that of his king’s.
’Twas grateful the MacDonnell wench should be to become his bride.
Not that he intended to consummate their marriage.
As the priest droned on, Duncan’s gaze fell upon Linnet’s breasts. They rose and fell with her breathing, and only a blind man would not notice the alluring curves they made beneath the heavy silk of her gown.
A loud clearing of someone’s throat, and the sharp jab of an elbow in his side snapped his attention back to the ceremony. By St. Ninian’s breath, ’twas almost over! He’d scarce been aware of speaking his vows, barely recalled the blessing and exchanging of rings.
Yet there the priest stood, holding a rolled parchment and waiting expectantly for Duncan to take the proffered quill and sign his soul away.
As if an unseen force guided his hand, Duncan scrawled his name on the document and handed the quill to his bride. She did the same, then b
efore Duncan realized what was happening, they’d been ushered into the chapel for mass and holy communion.
’Twas over.
A few words, a signature, mumbled blessings he’d scarce registered, and he was once more married. Bound, at least in name, to a new wife who looked at him with huge brown eyes as if he was about to carry her into the very depths of hell.
And, he admitted bitterly, mayhap he was.
But for some reason he could not fathom, he felt an undeniable urge to prove he was not the demon she apparently thought him to be. For a very brief moment, Duncan desired to see her gold-flecked eyes shining with joy rather than staring at him in dread.
’Twas a good thing he’d chosen a chamber for her that was as far as possible from his own. Everyone in his household knew he wanted naught of her. Pride alone would keep him from crossing the great hall to reach the stairs leading to her quarters.
If his men thought he’d changed his convictions and would chase after her like a rutting stag, they would be sorely disappointed. Let them make fools of themselves, he decided, as they crowded around her the minute they stepped from the chapel. They were the ones who claimed ’twas time he sought the love of a virtuous woman, not he.
Aye, let them make blithering idiots of themselves if it so pleased them.
Only Sir Marmaduke had the good grace to remain by his side. Unfortunately, Duncan suspected the man stayed near only to prevent him from riding off somewhere, rather than out of any sense of loyalty. Considering the way the Englishman preened himself in her presence, acting more chivalrous than the most adept French courtier, Duncan had no doubt but that Marmaduke had appointed himself Lady Linnet’s champion.
Not that she needed one.
Even though she’d appeared subdued and unhappy during the wedding ceremony, his new wife had a mind of her own. She’d proven the strength of her nerve yestereve in his solar.
Turning, he fixed his friend with an unflinching glare. “What did you say to get her down here?”
Sir Marmaduke folded his arms and had the bad taste to look mightily pleased with himself.
“Well?”
“Naught but what I thought the lady wanted to hear.”
Duncan resisted the urge to throttle the Englishman. “Pray enlighten me what that might have been.”
“Simply that you meant not all you said to her in your solar yestereve, that you spoke out of consideration for her maidenly state, not wanting to unduly frighten her.”
The sudden pealing of the kirk’s bells and the equally loud cheering of his clansmen drowned out Duncan’s black oath. He frowned as he watched his men practically tripping over their own clumsy feet as they vied for his bride’s attention.
St. Columba preserve him, had they forgotten the treachery and intrigues that had poisoned Eilean Creag the last time a Lady MacKenzie had resided within his castle?
Deliberately hanging back, Duncan watched the boisterous crowd of merrymakers surge toward the hall, his new wife ensconced in their midst. Let them act the fools and drink themselves senseless at the wedding feast. He, for one, had no desire to celebrate.
He’d offered for the MacDonnell wench because she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and therefore gifted with the sight. All he wanted was the use of it.
Naught else, as he’d made clear to her.
He didn’t care how many tall tales Marmaduke had told her. She need only supply him with the answer he needed, warn him of impending danger to his clan, see to Robbie, and he would leave her in peace.
’Twould be simple enough to avoid her in a castle the size of Eilean Creag.
So why did he have such a nagging feeling in his gut? Scowling, lest anyone dare think he was anything other than displeased, Duncan glared across the bailey, watching the rowdy celebrants file into his keep.
“Are you ready to join the festivities?” Sir Marmaduke clamped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, urging him down the chapel steps. “’Tis no such thing as a wedding feast without the bridegroom.”
“Aye,” Duncan darkly agreed. “I daresay I canna make myself scarce, can I?”
As they crossed the bailey, the cause of his foul temper became more clear with every step he took. He feared Linnet MacDonnell would prove more than he’d bargained for.
Much more.
And that was a notion he did not care for at all.
“Out of our way, make way for the lady,” Lachlan shouted, forcing a path through the knot of merrymakers blocking the entrance to the castle. Once inside, he tried to propel Linnet forward, but she stopped him by digging her heels into the rushes spread upon the floor.
“Is aught amiss, milady?”
“That is what I would know.” Linnet raised her voice to be heard above the din in the great hall. “I dinna see Robbie in the crowd nor in the chapel.”
“Nay, you wouldn’t have,” the squire said, raising his voice as well.
“Why not? Surely he should have been—”
Lachlan suddenly grabbed her arms and lifted her out of the way as two wrestling Highlanders lurched past them. “Here is not the best place to stand, milady. Please allow me to escort you away from the door, then I’ll explain about Robbie.”
Without further explanation, the squire ushered her toward the raised dais at the far end of the hall. While crowded upon her arrival the night before, the great vaulted chamber was now fair bursting with revelers. Ne’er had she seen aught to compare with such an elaborate celebration.
Someone had even strewn the floor rushes with fragrant meadowsweet, rose petals, and thyme. ’Twas a grand spectacle that made her father’s feasts at Dundonnell seem paltry.
A score of trumpeters, high above in the musicians’ gallery, competed with the gay shouts and laughter that filled the vast room and a trio of minstrels paraded among the celebrants, loudly singing bawdy songs.
Trenchers of bread and numerous silver jugs of ale and wine already stood upon the trestle tables while an endless stream of servants carried in platters of every imaginable delicacy from the kitchens.
But Linnet wouldn’t let the finery or tempting array of festive dishes sway her purpose. When they reached the high table, and Lachlan pulled back an elaborately carved high-backed chair, she remained standing.
“Where is Robbie?”
“In his bed, milady,” the squire told her. “’Tis sick he is.”
“What ails him?” she asked. “Do you know?”
“Aye, it’s his stomach. Cook allowed him to eat too many custard pasties.”
“Then I shall go to him,” Linnet stated, stepping back from the table.
Her intention appeared to make Lachlan nervous, for he shot a quick glance across the hall toward the entrance they’d just left. “Sir Duncan willna be pleased if you’re not at your place when he enters the hall.”
“And I could not partake of a single morsel of food if I dinna look in on the lad. Do you know if your liege laird has sent anyone to see to him?”
“Cook sent one o’ the laundresses up to his chamber earlier, but Sir Duncan willna ken the lad’s abed.” Once again, Lachlan glanced at the far door. “He angers easily, so we try not to bother him overmuch about Robbie.”
“Bother him?” Linnet eyed the squire sternly, the self-pity that had overcome her in the chapel now replaced by anger. “I’d say ’tis the wee lad who’s bothered if his belly is hurting him.”
Lachlan nodded but said nothing.
“I would ask a favor if I may?”
“You have only to state your request.” He bowed low. “’Tis pleased I am to serve you.”
“Do you remember where my chamber is?”
“Of course, milady.”
“Then please fetch my leather satchel. When you return, I should like to be escorted to the kitchens.” At the look of bewilderment on the squire’s face, she explained, “It contains my medicinal herbs. I want to brew a tisane of watermint for Robbie. The concoction will ease his stomach pains.”
> Lachlan nodded, but a look of discomfort crossed his features. He made no move to leave.
“Is my request too difficult?”
“Nay.” A pink tinge stained his cheeks. “’Tis only that my lord will expect your presence at the high table.”
“Then make haste on your errand, and I shall have no need to tarry.” Linnet arched a brow at the squire, amazed at her own nerve. “The sooner Robbie can drink the tisane, the sooner he and I can take our places at your master’s table.”
Lachlan’s jaw dropped, and his eyes grew round, but he bowed again and hurried away.
A short time later, after he’d returned with her herbal pouch and escorted her to the kitchens, Linnet made her way to Robbie’s dismal tower chamber with a steaming beaker of watermint. Lachlan followed silently behind her, lighting the way with a rush torch.
Preferring to be alone with the boy, Linnet entered the room and closed the door, leaving the squire to wait in the corridor. Robbie slumbered peacefully, so she took a moment to glance around the chamber. She found it sorely lacking in warmth and almost as bleak as her new husband’s solar. Mayhap more so because no tapestries graced the walls.
Only the embroidered bedcurtains gave the stark room a semblance of color. A child-sized ladderback chair stood near the hearth, and a small table of dark oak had been placed next to the bed. A clump of wilted wildflowers lay upon the tabletop, and the ancient-looking mongrel slept curled at the foot of the child’s bed.
As before, the dog opened one eye, looked at her, and went back to sleep. Satisfied the enormous beast posed no threat, she crossed the room and gazed down at the sleeping child.
Her new stepson.
A child apparently as shunned by his father as she had been by hers… albeit for very different reasons. Her heart ached at the small boy’s plight. Unable to help herself, she reached out and stroked his hair.
Immediately, he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, staring up at her with dark blue eyes so like his father’s her breath caught in her throat. Except her husband’s eyes held such a perpetually dark expression she’d initially mistaken their color for black.
Devil in a Kilt Page 5
