Linnet let out her breath on a gentle sigh and gave the lad a tender smile. She couldn’t yet speak, could only stare in wonderment at the sheer perfection of the boy’s face. In truth, Robbie MacKenzie looked so much like her husband she broke out in gooseflesh.
How could the man doubt the lad was his own flesh and blood? ’Twas impossible not to see the resemblance.
Robbie was a miniature version of his handsome father. But where the father’s beauty was marred by grimness and distrust, the son had the face of an angel.
Trusting, good, and pure.
An incredible feeling of compassion welled up in Linnet, filling her with warmth and a fierce desire to protect the child from harm.
And from unhappiness.
Especially from unhappiness.
All of a sudden she was very glad she’d come to Eilean Creag. No matter what Duncan MacKenzie thought of her… whether he found her too homely to bed or not, his child needed her and she would do her best to assure Robbie received the love and happiness he deserved.
As she gazed down at him, very close to tears, so overwhelmed by emotion was she, the boy pushed himself up on his elbows. “Are you my new mother?” he asked. “Cook said you were coming.”
“Aye, Robbie, I suppose I am. Your father and I were wed this morn.” Linnet took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Would you like me to be your new mother?”
He regarded her solemnly for a moment before answering. “Aye, I would. You have the bonniest hair I’ve e’er seen.”
Linnet’s heart swelled, and heat stung the backs of her eyes. None save her brothers had e’er paid her compliments and even those were few and far between. She didn’t know what to say to Robbie, and even if she did, she doubted she could speak past the thick lump that had lodged in her throat.
Robbie glanced at the table and frowned. “I gathered flowers for you, but got sick before I could give them to you. I’m sorry they’re not pretty anymore.” He picked up the wilted bouquet and placed it on her lap.
“Oh, nay, Robbie lad, ’tis lovely flowers they are. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” Linnet’s voice trembled as she held up the bouquet and admired it. She knew her tears were spilling unchecked down her cheeks. It was the first bouquet she’d ever received.
“You’re crying,” he said, concern clouding his eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”
Reaching out, Linnet gently smoothed the back of her hand down his cheek. “Nay, child, you’ve done naught to displease me. ’Tis happy I am. You’re a most gallant lad, and I thank you for the flowers.”
“You willna go away, will you?” he asked, his brow still creased with worry.
Linnet’s heart twisted. “Nay, I shall not e’er leave you. ’Tis here to stay I am,” she promised. Without taking her gaze off him, she reached for the mug of watermint she’d placed on the small table beside the bed. “I’ve brought something to soothe the ache in your belly.”
Later, as Linnet followed Lachlan down the stairs, Robbie’s little hand held tightly in her own, the squire’s most recent warning about her new husband’s temper went round and round in her mind. ‘Sir Duncan willna like you bringing Robbie to his table,’ he’d cautioned her in a low voice so the boy wouldn’t hear. ‘He’s mighty fearsome when angered,’ he’d added just before they’d begun their descent back to the hall.
‘Is there aught what doesna rile him?’ Linnet had asked, hoping her voice didn’t reveal her fear of vexing her formidable husband. But her own anxiety was of little importance compared to the need of the child who’d slipped his hand into hers so trustingly. For his sake, she had no choice but to be bold.
“I hope you’ve thought this through, milady,” the squire said, stopping so abruptly at the bottom of the stairs Linnet fair collided with his back.
“I have, Lachlan, dinna worry,” she said with more conviction than she felt.
Her fingers clenched around the bundle of limp flowers she held in her free hand. Aye, she’d thought her actions through and knew what she was doing.
Unfortunately, she also knew she was about to unleash the wrath of the devil.
4
“Have you seen her hair?” Duncan leaned back in his canopied seat at the high table and aimed a pointed glare at Sir Marmaduke.
To his irritation, the Sassunach either ignored, or didn’t hear, his question. Instead, his most stalwart knight appeared completely engrossed in watching Eilean Creag’s craggy old seneschal, Fergus, order about his troupe of servitors as they filed through the crowded hall.
Each one shouldered a great platter of some kind of elaborately dressed game bird or a sizable haunch of roasted meat, all prepared with special care for the wedding feast.
Perturbed, Duncan reached across the conspicuously empty seat to his left and gave his friend a sharp jab in the ribs. Raising his voice above the ruckus, he tried again, “I said, have you seen her hair?”
“Hare?” Marmaduke fixed him with the most innocent look possible considering his disfigurement. “’Tis certain Fergus will have ordered a goodly number. If we’re lucky, mayhap he’s prepared them with his special onion-and-saffron gravy.”
“’Tis her hair I speak of, you conniving fox,” Duncan fair roared, not caring if all at the high table and beyond heard him. “I’ll have an explanation, Strongbow. Now before her ladyship sees fit to join us.”
“Explanation?” The eyebrow above Marmaduke’s good eye rose a notch.
“Dinna repeat my words like a blithering fool or I’ll have you replace the jester Fergus hired to entertain us this afternoon.”
Marmaduke lowered his brow immediately. “What troubles you, my friend?”
“‘’Tis plain she be, as unappealing as a sow’s behind,’” Duncan quoted, his wrath at being misled sorely testing his temper. “Would you deny those words?”
“Nay,” Marmaduke stated with great calm, offering his chalice to a young squire who promptly refilled it with spiced wine. “And ’twas true enough of her appearance the day I called at Dundonnell. She’d been in the bailey, teaching a small lad how to brandish his wooden sword when I arrived. Rain had turned the ground to a sea of mud. Both she and the lad were covered with it, but she did not seem to mind. I had the impression the boy’s squeals of laughter mattered more to her than a bit of mud on her gown.”
Duncan swallowed the angry words he wanted to fling at his friend. The even-tempered Englishman was the only man alive who managed to make him feel guilty, even when he was in the right.
Like now.
’Twas he who’d been culled, made the fool.
He whose world had tilted at the sight of her unbound hair this morn.
A wife with such glorious tresses spelled trouble, despite Marmaduke’s chivalrous attempts to paint her as a half saint, fawning over children and ignorant of the effect her hair would have on any mortal man beneath the age of eighty and mayhap a few beyond.
But rather than embarrass himself further by commenting on Marmaduke’s pretty speech, undoubtedly designed to emphasize his new bride’s goodness of character, he clamped his lips together in a grimace. He’d content himself with giving the Sassunach knight another cold, hard glare.
“If I recall, you questioned me about how she’d appeared that day, and I told you true,” Marmaduke continued, obviously taking great delight in Duncan’s displeasure. “Had you inquired if I thought she’d wash up well, my answer would’ve been much different.”
That did it. Duncan curled his fingers tightly around the armrests of his chair. If anyone else had dared taunt him so, he’d have grasped the sharp blade resting on the table before him and cut out the offender’s tongue.
Better yet, he’d use a dull blade.
“Whose side are you on, English?” he finally asked, his hands still gripping the chair as if he sought to snap the sturdy oaken armrests in twain.
“Why, yours, milord,” Marmaduke gallantly replied, lifting his chalice in a silent toast. “As ever, your well-being is my most steadfas
t desire.”
Duncan snatched his own drinking vessel, an intricate silver chalice fashioned like a sea dragon and encrusted with precious gemstones, and took a long draught of hippocras, a heady mixture of red wine and spices Cook had concocted especially for the wedding feast.
After a goodly amount flowed past his lips, he slammed down the goblet. The specially prepared treat tasted as sour as his mood, its delicate combination of flavors lost on him.
Fouled by his own malcontent.
“Is aught amiss?” Marmaduke asked, his good brow arching upward.
“Nay,” Duncan snapped, unwilling to voice that all was amiss, yet unable to put his finger on exactly what bothered him the most.
Everything bothered him.
“You look… pained,” Marmaduke observed. “Here, have some more hippocras.”
Duncan held out his chalice while Marmaduke, ever the gallant, refilled it with a liberal dose of the spiced wine. But Duncan cared naught for drinking and even less for celebrating.
Truth be told, he desired only to escape the confines of the festively decorated hall and retire to a quiet corner of the castle.
Alone.
Without his new bride.
Without his cares.
And without his pack of dunderheaded clansmen and their silly chatter.
A quick glance around the high table told him no one else shared his displeasure. Everyone present, from his most trusted friends and kinsmen to the lowliest of his servitors, all grinned like witless villeins.
Buffoons every last one of them.
Senseless fools jesting amongst themselves about the bride’s lengthening absence. The bolder ones, those already deep in their cups, loudly proclaimed she’d no doubt heard tales of the MacKenzie’s legendary prowess in bed and had bolted herself in her chamber, cowering in fear, yet secretly waiting to be ravished.
As if he desired the wench! He wanted naught to do with her.
Tresses of silken flame or nay.
And not that he cared, but where was she anyway?
By the blessed martyrs, ’twas time she took her place beside him. But, nay, she dallied again, leaving him to look the fool even as she had this morn whilst he’d stood waiting upon the chapel steps.
His displeasure mounting, Duncan scanned the smoke-hazed hall. Straining his eyes, he sought to catch a glimpse of her coppery hair, hoping to see her hurrying toward the high table, looking suitably contrite for her tardiness.
But she was nowhere to be seen.
And where was his first squire?
Off making moon eyes at the new lady of the castle, no doubt. Duncan frowned. If it weren’t for his pride, he’d be tempted to go fetch them hisself.
He wouldn’t demean himself by doing so, though. A laird had a certain dignity to uphold.
Nay, he’d deal with his bride in good time, and in private. As for Lachlan, the youth was too softhearted for his own good. If he’d allowed himself to be cajoled into helping his wife escape to Dundonnell, he’d have the lad scour the cesspit till it shined like a bairn’s arse!
And mayhap he’d have his new wife help him!
For the first time all day, Duncan smiled.
If he really wanted to improve his mood, he’d order Marmaduke to assist them. ’Twould serve the lout right for playing him the fool.
Aye, he’d have words with them all—later. For now, he had little choice but to suffer through the day’s festivities so he could retire to the sanctuary of his chamber.
And woe be to any hapless dolt who might try to stop him.
“You wear an expression darker than the black mail you favor. ’Tis no wonder the lady has chosen to linger far from your side.” Marmaduke gave him a hefty thwack on his shoulder. “Come, let us drink to a happy future for you and your bride.”
“A happy future?” Duncan narrowed his eyes at his friend. The severe head blows Marmaduke had once received must’ve addled his senses. “You ken better than most why I took her to wed, so cease your dunderheaded banter. I care naught about a shared future with her, content or otherwise.”
Duncan paused to draw a breath, and the moment he opened his mouth to further rebuke his friend for such ridiculous sentiments, all present let out a collective gasp.
Then the hall went still.
Except for one foolhardy simpleton who cried out, “Great Caesar’s Ghost!”
’Twas her.
It had to be her.
Even though the smoke from the fires made it difficult to see much farther than just beyond the high table, he knew.
And judging from the gaping of his clansmen he could see, she’d done something most displeasing.
Or bold.
But what?
Had she rolled among the pigs, soiling the fine gown he’d provided for her? Or had she hacked off her glorious tresses, thinking to spite and embarrass him by coming to the wedding feast bald as an old hairless man?
If so, she’d be surprised, for he’d be pleased… she would have saved him the trouble of shaving her head himself. The saints knew he was sorely tempted to do so.
“’Tis him! She’s brought the lad with her.”
Clear, sharp, and going straight to his heart like a well-aimed arrow, the quickly whispered words cut through the fog of his frustrations.
Duncan froze.
It mattered naught who’d uttered the words. He’d ne’er know and didn’t care.
’Twas the meaning behind them what stopped him cold.
He didn’t realize he’d loosened his grip on his chalice until it hit the top of the table with a dull thud, its contents staining the tablecloth the deep red of spilled blood.
Dropping his wine seemed to break the spell of unnatural silence, too, for the moment he looked up from the ruined tablecloth, the entire hall erupted into pandemonium.
A cacophony of voices.
Sheer chaos.
And through it all Duncan heard but one word: Robbie.
The lass had done what not a single of his clansmen would have dared.
She’d brought the lad before him, into his hall, and chosen a time when he could do naught about it. Not with the priest sitting to his right and his men watching his every move.
’Twas no secret what they thought of his behavior toward the child, scarce little they cared his heart had been wrenched from his chest and trod upon, ground into the dirt.
Duncan’s blood ran hot and cold as he searched the shadows, trying hard to catch a glimpse of his bride and the lad he’d once thought his son.
Dread filled him as he anticipated the moment his gaze would fall upon them. Yet deep inside, anticipation made his heart pump ever faster whilst anger at his own weakness pulled his brows together in a fierce grimace.
His new wife best be thankful for her sex. Were she a man, he’d flay her within an inch of her life for such flagrant disregard of his orders. Not a soul under his roof would’ve attempted such an affront.
He felt Marmaduke grip his arm and heard him speaking to him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. His head pounded, and the blood rushing through his veins turned all sound into an unintelligible buzz.
All except the one word that caused him so much pain and cut straight through his defenses as if they were naught but butter.
Robbie, Robbie, Robbie… the name echoed around the cavernous hall, bouncing off the stone walls, reverberating in his ears until he feared his head would burst asunder.
If only he could see better, but the haze from the hearth fires and wall torches filled the vaulted chamber, blurring his vision, making it hard for him to spot them.
Not that he wanted to.
Still, may God have mercy on him, his traitorous gaze searched the darkness. It’d been nigh onto two years since he’d closely looked upon the boy, truly seen him.
Breaking away from Marmaduke’s iron grasp, Duncan pushed back from the table and stood. He leaned forward, planting his hands firmly on the table to keep from sinking back into h
is chair… a humbling possibility considering the way his knees threatened to buckle on him.
With the last reserves of his willpower, he forced his legs to cease trembling while he scanned the crowded hall.
Then, of a sudden, the murky air seemed to clear, and he located his wife almost immediately. Her unbound hair, shining brighter than the most brilliant flame, gave her away. His first squire stood next to her, and he, too, resembled a flame, but ’twas his face what glowed, not his hair.
Aye, Lachlan knew well his master would be mightily displeased.
And his contrition was well justified. But Lachlan’s punishment would be dealt later. At the moment, he cared naught about his squire and less about his new lady wife.
His entire attention focused on the small boy she held by the hand.
Taller and sturdier than the chubby bairn Duncan used to bounce on his knee, Robbie’d grown into a handsome lad. Someone had draped a child-sized plaid in the green-and-blue MacKenzie colors over his left shoulder, tucking it in place under a finely tooled and obviously new leather belt.
A belt he should have fashioned.
Duncan blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes as he stared at the beautifully crafted belt. The last thing he’d made for Robbie was a toy sword he’d carved from wood for the lad’s fourth birthday.
He could still recall the look of wonder on Robbie’s face when he’d given it to him.
It seemed like a hundred years had passed since then.
Without warning, a red-hot throbbing started in the back of Duncan’s neck then spread lower to grip his chest in a stranglehold that fair squeezed the breath out of his lungs.
The longer he stared at the boy, the more painful the tightness became, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
At six, Robbie looked every bit a miniature version of a fine MacKenzie warrior. ’Twas no denying the clansblood ran thick and proud through his veins. Even from across the hall, it was plain to see the lad bore a sharp likeness to Duncan.
Nay, he looked exactly like Duncan.
And how proud he’d once been of the undeniable resemblance.
The pain in Duncan’s gut intensified, hurting as fiercely as if someone had thrust a knife into his belly and now twisted the blade, cruelly upping the torture, taking advantage of a besieged man already on his knees.
Devil in a Kilt Page 6
