A deep groan welled in his throat, and he disguised it as a cough. All would have been so simple if Kenneth MacKenzie, his hated half brother and his first wife’s lover, couldn’t pass for his twin.
Indeed, fate had shown no mercy in stealing all he’d ever loved. Should he and his foe stand with the child between them before the wisest of men, there wouldn’t be one among them who could say whether the seed that begot Robbie had sprung from his or Kenneth’s loins.
And the doubt was killing him.
Had killed him, for surely his life hadn’t been worth living since the day he’d learned of Cassandra’s treachery.
But mayhap an end to his suffering was close at hand. High were his hopes Linnet MacDonnell—nay, MacKenzie—would soon put an end to his days, and nights, of despair.
As he stared at the boy, a great weariness bore down on him. A heavy, crushing weight, pushing aside all else, leaving only a desperate need to lower himself into his chair.
By the Rood, he couldn’t bear to stand and watch their approach.
’Twas too much.
With great effort, he sank back down, letting out his pent-up breath in a deep sigh the moment he rested his back against the cushions of his canopied master seat.
Ever chivalrous, Marmaduke poured him a liberal dose of wine he gladly accepted, gratefully curling his fingers around the heavy silver chalice.
Clutching the drinking vessel provided a good way to hide the trembling of his hands whilst he waited. He only hoped, once his wife wove her way through the hall and took her place at his side, she’d finally grant him the answer only she could give.
And by the power of the Holy Rood, he prayed he’d like what she’d have to tell him.
Her new husband was drunk!
Or so angry sheer fury twisted his features and glazed his deep blue eyes, turning them into dark pools that stared right through her rather than at her.
Linnet scooted as far away from Duncan MacKenzie as she dared considering circumstances deemed she occupy the seat of honor, a smaller duplicate of his own canopied chair, and also share a trencher with him.
Trying hard to hide her nervousness, she peered at him from beneath lowered lashes, watching as he held tight to his chalice with one hand and gripped the edge of the table with the other. The whiteness of his knuckles and the rigid set of his jaw made her believe it was ire and not an overindulgence in spirits what ailed him.
She swallowed hard but kept her back straight. Ne’er had she thought he’d be so vexed, so distant and cold.
He’d barely acknowledged her as she’d taken her place beside him. His greeting to Robbie had been even more sparse. A few words, a curt nod, and then he’d ignored them both. He conducted himself as if he were many leagues away and not so close she could smell the distinct masculine scent of him with each breath she took.
Linnet stole another glimpse at his uncompromising profile. He stared straight ahead, purposely avoiding her eyes… and those of the child she’d drawn onto her lap.
He didn’t even bother to hide his displeasure, giving his ill will free rein to thrum through him. ’Twas visible for all and sundry to see.
Anger of her own simmered deep within her at his dismissive behavior. She slid a sidelong glance at him, seeing the grim expression on his handsome face and feeling his wrath over her daring to bring his son before him.
“Lady?” an expectant voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned, extending her hands to a young squire who held ewer, basin, and towels. “May I?” he asked, respectfully inclining his head before pouring scented water over her hands.
Grateful for the distraction, Linnet thanked the squire, then assisted Robbie in washing his hands as well. For his sake, she tried to ignore the tension emanating from her husband, but doing so was hard.
Despite herself, Linnet’s heart wrenched at the sight of the mighty Laird MacKenzie.
His son’s presence wouldn’t affect him thus did he not truly love the child.
This man needed to be taught an important lesson. If only she could open his eyes and heart, make him realize and admit he cared for the lad whether or nay his blood ran true in Robbie’s veins.
Only then would she tell him the truth.
A small tug on her sleeve caught her attention. “Should I leave, lady?” Robbie’s eyes were rounded, full of an unwanted child’s vulnerability. “I’m not supposed to come near the high table.”
“What nonsense,” Linnet disagreed. “Someday you will be laird. All chiefs, present or future, must sit at the high table.”
Linnet shot a quick glance at her husband. “Is it not so?”
His jaw twitched, and he took his time answering, but finally he grudgingly admitted, “Aye, ’tis the accustomed way.”
Sitting up straighter, Linnet smoothed Robbie’s hair and said, “Be assured, son, ’tis your place here as well as mine.”
“Son you say,” Duncan leaned close and whispered into her ear. “And is he, I ask you?”
Turning to face him, her breath caught in her throat, so intense was his stare. “I canna yet see, milord,” she lied, once more begging the good saints to guide her. “Mayhap if I saw more of you both together I could tell.”
She wouldn’t have deemed it possible, but the expression on his face grew darker. “Mayhap if you would hone your gift such wouldn’t be necessary?”
“And if you, milord, would but look into your heart, a gift such as mine would not be needed,” she whispered back, not caring if she raised his ire further. “But then, ’tis said you do not possess one.”
From the other side of her, Linnet heard the Sassunach offering Robbie sugared wafers. Anxious to avoid further confrontation, she turned her back on her liege husband lest he grow so riled he raise his voice, hurting the child with his cruel words.
Yet even facing away from him, she felt enveloped by his dark presence.
Linnet shivered. Mayhap ’twas more good fortune than insult that he didn’t want her for a true wife. She’d rather stay a virgin all her days than be bedded by a man so cold-hearted as Duncan MacKenzie.
Gazing at the boy on her lap, she prayed for wisdom. She’d oft heard none were given a burden heavier than they could carry, yet she mightily doubted her ability to shoulder this new one she’d taken upon herself.
Her instincts told her both father and son needed her, both husband and stepson suffered great pain.
But could she aid them without unduly hurting either?
Would she hurt herself in attempting to do so?
’Twas this truly the reason she’d been sent here… or was she merely interfering where she had no right to meddle?
Robbie shifted his position on her lap and the cuddly, warm weight of him softened her heart and strengthened her resolve. Glancing at him, she saw he sat rigidly, innocently mimicking his father, glancing neither left or right, his hands fisted tightly in his lap.
He stared fixedly at the mug of goat’s milk a servant had placed before him, his face, so like his father’s, now pale and tense. He obviously struggled as diligently to ignore his sire as he in turn struggled to ignore his son.
It was unnatural for a lad to be so nervous, yet how could he be aught but shy and frightened of a father who’d shunned him?
And it was equally unnatural for a father to shun his son.
Gently, Linnet rubbed Robbie’s shoulder, hoping to soothe him, extraordinarily pleased when he didn’t pull away, but leaned into her hand as if he welcomed her touch.
His acceptance of her filled her with a contentment she’d never known, swelling her heart with love for the child she could now call her own.
If her husband would respond as willingly to her overtures, mayhap she’d have half a chance at bringing the two of them together. The occasional covert glances he slid his son’s way gave her hope.
But one look at his unyielding profile left no doubt as to the enormity of her task. Still, even if he cast her aside as a woman, denying her a ch
ild of her flesh, she’d be forever thankful for his giving her his son to love.
With a tender hand, she smoothed Robbie’s hair from his forehead. On her honor, she pledged to bring warmth and love into his life. As long as she could remember, she’d tried to believe all things happen for a reason.
A good reason.
’Twas oft difficult to see at first, but she’d found if one practiced patience, time usually revealed the answer. Duncan MacKenzie’s son needed her, and if the saints had seen fit to send her to help him, she’d humbly accept the challenge.
A tiny voice deep within told her she needed him, too. She didn’t doubt it either.
With a single finger, she touched the exquisite belt circling the lad’s small hips. “’Tis a bonnie belt you wear, Robbie,” she said, hoping to ease him out of his shyness. “I dinna think I’ve e’er seen one so fine.”
She was rewarded by a bashful smile that faded all too quickly. “Fergus made it for me,” he told her.
“And who is Fergus?”
“He’s Papa’s sene’chal,” Robbie piped in answer. “He gave me my plaid, too.”
“Did he now?” Linnet said, not missing the way her husband chose the moment to loudly clear his throat as if to drown out the boy’s words. “And a handsome plaid it is. Do you know what the colors mean?”
Robbie nodded solemnly, then began to recite, “’Tis green for the forest and fields, and blue for the sky and sea, drawn through with white for… for—” he stumbled over the words, looking up at her with troubled deep blue eyes so like his father’s Linnet’s heart constricted.
Biting his lower lip, the lad struggled to recall the lines of the verse.
Her husband drew a deep, audible breath, then supplied, “White for purity, red for blood and bold warriors…”
“… and all mean freedom, fairness, honor, and courage,” Robbie finished, his small chest appearing to swell with pride upon each word. Afterward, he bestowed a look of pure hero worship on his father.
But though he’d helped the boy remember the words, Linnet had sensed rather than felt Duncan MacKenzie stiffen beside her at each line of the verse his son had so valiantly recited.
“And after that fine recital, I’m thinking ’tis time for you to go abovestairs to your bed,” Marmaduke said, pushing back from the table. With a pointed look at Duncan, he lifted Robbie into his arms. “A future laird needs his sleep if he is to grow broad enough shoulders for his future position, does he not?”
Duncan nodded stiffly but said nothing. Only when the Sassunach and Robbie were a good ten paces away, did he call out to them. “’Twas good to hear you recite the meaning of our colors, lad.”
Though a clear afterthought, the words heartened Linnet. ’Twas a start. Robbie’s gaze clung to his father as Marmaduke carried him away. The sight made Linnet’s heart contract.
Before he carried Robbie abovestairs, Marmaduke turned. “Ho, Duncan, do not let Fergus fetch the marriage stone until I return.”
“Plague take the fool stone and I’ll have Fergus’s hide if he brings it,” her husband groused even as the hall erupted in good-natured clamor, all present calling for the stone.
Scowling, Duncan shot to his feet. “Cease shrieking like simpletons,” he roared above the din. “There will be no marriage stone ceremony.”
“Marriage stone ceremony?” Linnet asked when he sat back down.
Rather than answer her, he pressed his lips into a tight line, his whole demeanor stiffening.
“What ails you, Duncan? There’s ne’er been a MacKenzie wedding feast without one!” A rowdy voice suddenly bellowed from the depths of the hall. “And ’tis o’erlong we’ve waited to see you drink with yer bride!”
“Aye! A drink wi’ the bride!” A chorus of MacKenzie men chanted in boisterous rhythm, raising their voices to rival the accompanying trumpet blasts. “Long life and many bairns to the lady Linnet!”
Duncan stared at the table, clearly growing more uncomfortable with each raucous shout. As Linnet peered at him, Marmaduke slipped back into the seat beside her. Through the commotion, Linnet thought she heard Marmaduke whisper she had naught to fear, all would be well, but when she looked his way, he was calmly sipping his wine and didn’t appear to have said aught.
“Long life and many bairns to Lady Linnet!” the clansmen continued to chant, thumping their drinking cups on the tables and stamping their feet as a crusty-looking elder clansman strode through their midst, a great silver goblet raised high above his head.
Four brawny warriors followed him. Together, they carried a large blue-tinted stone. Elongated in shape and carved with ancient Celtic runes, its surface was smooth except at the bottom. The stone’s base appeared ragged as if it’d been wrested from its original location.
But what most caught Linnet’s attention was the hole in its center. Her husband’s ill-tempered grousing wasn’t needed for her to know this was the ‘marriage stone.’
And now she knew its ceremonial purpose, too.
The stone was a swearing stone. A talisman. The ancients believed if couples clasped hands through the opening in its middle, their marriage would be blessed.
A joyous union filled with love, harmony, and many healthy bairns.
Linnet’s back stiffened at the implication. Now she knew why her husband had bristled at the mention of the stone. He did not care to perform the ancient ceremony with her, did not want to risk the chance the old gods’ magic might exert an influence over their union.
A union he didn’t even care to properly consummate!
A fresh new burst of stamping feet and shouts dispelled Linnet’s thoughts. The seneschal and the four men bearing the stone had arrived at the high table. Stopping before Duncan and Linnet, the old seneschal turned in a slow circle, holding up the ceremonial chalice for all to see. The men with the marriage stone held back, waiting until the couple partook of a shared drink before carrying the stone forward.
A jubilant cheer sounded when Fergus plunked down the huge drinking vessel, filling it to the brim from the jug of hippocras.
“Hold, Fergus,” Marmaduke spoke up, staying the seneschal’s arm, “the hippocras may be too potent for the lady. What say you we dilute it with water before she partakes of it?”
Fergus’s bushy brows snapped together in a fierce scowl, and he yanked his arm from Marmaduke’s grip. “Mayhap ’tis too strong for a Sassunach lass, but not for one born of our own Highlands,” he scolded, pouring the blood-red brew into the wedding cup. “I mixed it mesself for the occasion,” he added, as if daring Marmaduke to contradict him.
All but the English knight roared with approval as her new husband dutifully lifted the unwieldy chalice to his lips and drank from it.
“Leave some for your bride!” someone boomed from the back of the hall. “’Twill prime her for the bedding!”
Bedding? Linnet’s gasp was swallowed by the earsplitting laughter and jeering that filled the hall. Heat flooded her as the image of her naked husband straddling her flashed across her mind. Again, she saw him looming above her, his arousal boldly proclaiming he’d felt the same stirrings she had.
Yet he’d told her forthrightly he did not want her as a true consort… as a woman.
With a bluntness that cut to her core, he’d taken the bruised feminine pride she hadn’t known she possessed and dashed it to the ground.
And now his men would call for him to mount her, make her a woman before their lusting eyes in a bedding ceremony?
A new kind of chill stole over her. One of fear, a maiden’s natural apprehension at being mounted the first time.
And one of shame should he be forced upon her by his men.
For she couldn’t bear it if he cringed in revulsion at being made to perform the act of love with her.
“Ye’ve dallied long enough, Duncan!” Someone suddenly yelled. “Pass yer bride the wine, let her drink, and then, by thunder, make her a MacKenzie!”
“Aye, make her a MacKenzie!”
others joined in.
Ribald laughter rose to the vaulted ceiling, and the floor shook from a furious chorus of foot stomping. And, try as he might to ignore the bad memories, the gay ruckus reminded Duncan of another wedding feast long past and best forgotten.
A time when he’d been young and thought himself in love.
Nay, besotted.
And the worthless marriage stone ceremony had failed to spare him grief!
Saints, he’d been so thoroughly beguiled by his first wife’s beauty and grace, he’d ne’er have believed her perfidious nature had Saint Peter himself warned him.
Pushing all thoughts of Cassandra from his mind, he dutifully offered his new wife the heavy wedding chalice. “Drink so we can have done with this foolishness,” he said, his tone more harsh than he’d intended.
“I care not much for spirits, sir,” she said, taking the great chalice with both hands but making no move to drink.
A dark oath almost passed Duncan’s lips before he remembered she was the daughter of a drunkard. “You must not partake of much, only a sip,” he told her, surprised at the protectiveness he felt toward her upon recalling her lout of a father. “I shall drink the rest.”
He watched closely as she raised the chalice and drank. He doubted she’d taken more than a wee sip, but the potent wine left her lips looking soft and red.
Sweet.
Not enticing as another woman’s lips had looked on another wedding day, but sweet… innocent.
And more tempting than those of any practiced siren he’d e’er had the misfortune to come across.
Faith, but she tempted him beyond all reason.
Even though, by all rights, he should be angry, and was, over her parading the lad under his very nose. Tearing his gaze from her, Duncan gave in to the urge and swore.
Mayhap he should have sought a wife at court, an accomplished and cultivated beauty whose polished charms would have reminded him so thoroughly of his first wife, he wouldn’t have had difficulty ignoring her.
Instead, he’d burdened himself with a toothsome Highland lass whose lush comeliness and blatant innocence intrigued him.
Devil in a Kilt Page 7
