The Warrior Bride

by Lois Greiman

  She passed him, finding there was little room between him and the table, so that her skirt brushed his legs. “A surprise? How so?”

  “Well, unless I forgot, your father is not a handsome man.”

  She scowled and he laughed again.

  “No need to look so uncertain, my dear. I am but saying that you are quite striking. Not beautiful exactly, but…” He paused. “Handsome. Like the warrior queens of yore.”

  She stared and he chuckled again.

  “You needn’t look so worried. I am not about to devour you, child.”

  “Nay. Of course not,” she said.

  He sighed. “Mayhap you have heard rumors of my… reputation.”

  She said nothing.

  “I do not deny that I was not always…” He paused again, searching for words. “I was not the perfect husband,” he said. “But I cherished my wife, and she me, I think.”

  “I am certain she did, my lord.”

  He smiled warmly, as if lulled by her assurances.

  “You will find Edwina in the nursery,” he said, and stopped as he swung open a heavy timbered door.

  Inside, the room was as black as pitch, but for the light the marquis lifted high. The tiny girl snatched her finger from her mouth and lay huddled alone in bed. She looked no larger than a hare with her eyes gleaming in the candlelight and her knuckles white as she clutched her blanket to her chin. She said nothing. Indeed, if she could speak at all, Rhona had no proof of it. Then again, mayhap she was too young to have learned the Gaelic. The enormity of Rhona’s ignorance suddenly came crashing in on her, but Lord Turpin was staring, so she crossed the room and awkwardly patted the girl’s shiny head.

  “Good night, Edwina.”

  There was no response, but Lord Robert seemed unperturbed. His candlelight flickered on a pair of crossed broadswords that adorned the wall above her bed. It might be that the marquis favored weapons even more than she did.

  “And what of Catherine?” asked Rhona. “Does she not share the nursery with her sister?”

  The marquis lifted the candle as if to search the shadows, but Lady Irvette spoke up from the hallway.

  “Catherine sleeps in the chamber down the hall.” “Oh?” said Rhona. It seemed strange, for the room was large enough for several children. “May I bid her good night?”

  “I fear she is already asleep,” said Lady Irvette and smiled wanly.

  “I would not awaken her.”

  There was a moment’s delay. Was there tension in the air? ”Then of course,” said the baroness, and led the way down the hall. She said not a word as she raised the bar that held the door shut.

  “It is locked from this side?” asked Rhona.

  Lady Irvette glanced worriedly toward her brother.

  He shrugged, pleasantly. “Sometimes she wanders unknowing from her room at night.”

  “She walks whilst she sleeps?” Rhona asked.

  “If it is sleep it is an unnatural one,” murmured Lady Irvette, and made a furtive sign of the cross against her chest.

  “Unnatural?” Rhona asked. “How so?”

  “I…” She paused and lowered her eyes. “I cannot say exactly,” she said, and without another word pushed the door open. Her candle flickered in the draft.

  Inside, the chamber was dark, pierced only by the wavering shaft of light, but in that slim illumination, Rhona could make out Catherine’s face.

  She lay on her side with one hand cradling her cheek.

  Her rose- tinted lips were slightly parted, and she looked, Rhona thought, like a small sleeping angel. Whatever troubles caused her to wander the halls at night were not bothering her now.

  They stood in silence for a moment, but finally Lady Irvette spoke. “I’d have a word with you, if you’ve a moment, brother dearest,” she said.

  “Certainly, sister,” he said and, bowing masterfully, left the room. In a moment the doorway was empty.

  “So you are another of my father’s whores.”

  Rhona speared her gaze to Catherine. The girl lay as she was, but her eyes were open now and her small mouth was sneering.

  “Why do you feign sleep?”

  “You’ll not last the week,” said the girl.

  “Why?” Rhona asked, but a shadow crossed the threshold and Catherine’s eyes fell immediately closed.

  “Come along, my lady,” said the marquis.

  Rhona went a bit shakily. She had hardly hoped to be met with huzzahs and kisses, but neither had she expected to be threatened by a child half her size.

  The marquis closed the door behind them and escorted her down the hall to her own chamber. A candle flickered beside her bed.

  “Here you are then, lass, safe and sound.”

  She tried not to scowl, but it had been an odd day and her mind was atremble. “My thanks, your lordship.”‘‘There is no need for such formality.”

  “What would you have me call you?” she asked, and lowered her eyes, trying to emulate the delicate baroness.

  “We shall see,” he said.

  She raised her gaze to his, and he only smiled.

  “Such a sweet thing you are. I hope you will not be frightened alone in your room this night.”

  “I’ll try to be brave, my lord.”

  “No need for that, lass.” He moved the slightest bit closer. He smelled a bit like old whisky. Not an unpleasant scent, but not altogether soothing. “I am just down the hall.”

  “I will surely sleep better knowing ‘tis so.”

  He eyed her carefully. “I look forward to getting to know you, Lady Rhona. I think you are a rare woman.”

  “You flatter me, my lord.” “I try.”

  She glanced up sharply, and he laughed as he bowed. “Good night, lass,” he said and turned away.

  * * *

  Although Rhona carefully studied the layout of Claronfell on the following morning, her day did not go much better than the last and the next still no better. She found no opportunity to safely investigate the manse. Reeves acted as if Rhona had come to burgle the spice chest. The marquis did his best to seduce her. Colette shamelessly teased Lachlan-not that Rhona cared. And the lassies watched her as if she were a slavering wolf, though she rarely saw them, for when they weren’t in the small, high chapel with Lady Irvette “where nothing was between them and God,” as the baroness informed her, they were closeted away in the nursery. Rhona had wandered into it once.

  “Hurry up!” Colette had been saying. “Correct your stitches afore-”

  She’d jumped nervously when Rhona entered, then executed a bow and turned to help the girl with her embroidery.

  Perhaps Rhona would have stayed, but Edwina’s wide eyes seemed to welcome her no more than her sister’s narrow gaze, and if she were asked to join them, the truth would be out. She had fled the room in a matter of moments.

  But on the third day Lady Norval left Claronfell for the village, and since the marquis was still about, this seemed the ideal time to draw the girls out of themselves. When Rhona ventured into the nursery, however, she found the room empty.

  She considered asking about their whereabouts, but she did not altogether trust Colette. She was too bonny, too pert, too perfect. And if the girls were where they were not supposed to be, she dare not cause trouble for them.

  Eventually she found them in the stable.

  They sat in the dirt like two wayward urchins, their hands soiled and their shoes muddy. They were playing with twists of straw that vaguely resembled steeds.

  “So there you are,” Rhona said. She thought her tone was lilting and gay, but the girls reared back in unison as if flogged by the same whip. And in that instant Lachlan stepped out from behind a stall, a straw horse in his own capable hand.

  “Ye’ve frightened’ em,” he said, then leaned a brawny shoulder against the wall and glanced down at the girls as if they shared some secret to which she was not privy. “But ye needn’t fear, lassies, she’s not so fearsome as she appears.” There was humor
in his tone, but Catherine wrapped her arm about her sister’s shoulder, pulling her to her feet.

  “I’m not afraid of her,” she said, backing away and tugging her sister with her. “Even though she be Satan.” And with those words she broke and ran.

  Rhona felt her face redden, but she could do little more than stare after them. Lachlan did the same, startled from his leisurely stance to watch them fly toward the house.

  “I’ve no idea why I worried,” he said, not losing his rough accent. “For it’s a way with the children, you ‘ ave.”

  “She’s not a child,” Rhona said, feeling flushed.

  “She’s the devil incarnate.”

  “Truly?” He gazed after the girls as if deep in thought, then turned that same expression on her. ”And ‘ ere I be thinkin’ that she reminded me of another I know.”

  Rhona drew herself up to lambaste him, but the truth of his words seared her. Maybe this Catherine was not so different from herself

  “You play the guitar beautifully, dumpling.”

  The solar was filled with candlelight this evening. It glowed off the women’s flaxen hair and gleamed like sunlight on the copper strings of Rhona’s tall, slim necked instrument. She set it aside and grinned at the foolish endearment. It seemed at times that there was happiness everywhere, and never more than when they’d christened each other with ridiculous pet names. “But not so well as Tart,” she said.

  The three of them laughed in unison, but a draft wafted mysteriously into the chamber. Chill it was, and somehow frightening.

  “What was that?” Rhona whispered.

  “‘Tis Grandmother. She warns us of something.”

  “Aye.” A man stepped into the doorway, His face was shadowed, but his intent was not. Evil exuded from him.

  Rhona reached for her weapon, but no sheath adorned her hip. Indeed, there was naught there but a silver girdle against the rich velvet of her gown. And in that moment her sisters screamed.

  Rhona awoke with a start. Reality came more slowly, but she breathed deeply, settling her mind.

  It was well past midnight. She’d been at Claronfell several days now, and though her disguise seemed well accepted, she had learned little, though she had spent some time in clandestine investigation. The strongroom stored Claronfell’s treasures and seemed the place most likely to house any damning documents the marquis might possess. But it had shed no light on the situation. Indeed, it had given her nothing… except the key now hidden beneath her cape. The key that had opened none of the trunks in his strongroom and none of the containers in his bedchamber.

  Although Rhona was doing her best to maintain her frail demeanor, she had not been idle since arriving here. Still, she was running out, but the house had long since gone silent, and now was the time for action.

  Crafted of impenetrable rock and mortar, Claronfell’s walls were several feet thick and would buffer all but the loudest sounds. Still, Rhona stood at her door for a long while, making certain not the slightest noise would be heard as she opened it and stepped into the hall. A corbel of candles flickered in the corridor around the corner, and she slipped toward it, making not a whisper of sound as she set her taper to a flame.

  Circumstances would be much simpler if she knew what she searched for, but she did not. There had only been rumors that the marquis held a grudge against the rogue brothers. Whispers of planned evil. Still, she would learn the truth for she had impending evil against the lady of Evermyst. Indeed she had tried to implement that evil, and for that she would make recompense.

  The house was dark. From somewhere down the hall she thought she heard a woman giggle. She froze and waited, but nothing happened. No one accosted her. Not a soul spoke. She hurried on. The library housed innumerable books and parchments. Perhaps that was where Lord Robert kept his private papers, but she would check his solar first. Situated on the south side of the second floor, it offered much light during the day. Now it was dark and silent. The latch lifted with a groan. She held her breath, waited, then easing the door open, stepped inside and closed herself in.

  Setting her candle aside, she slipped the key from beneath her cape and glanced hastily about. The desk was spindly-legged and simply made. Its surface held little more than an ink-blotched quill and a soft piece of rolled vellum. One glance at the flowing script told her it was of no importance.

  A buckler hung on the wall, and on a small console near the door, an ancient helm was displayed. A tapestry, rich in reds and browns, hung near the window. Hurrying to it, she pushed it aside, but there was naught behind it except chilly wall. She spurred her gaze about the room, and then, nestled in the shadows of the writing desk, beside the cushioned stool, she spied a narrow trunk. It was made of rowan wood, bound in leather, and secured by a solid metal lock. Holding her breath, she drew out the small trunk and set it silently upon the desk. It opened with barely a sound.

  Inside, she found a myriad of odd items-a silk sleeve, a worn rosary, a score of other feminine articles, and a dozen rolled parchments. Shifting through the bizarre personal effects, she hauled out the scrolls. The first was written in a woman’s hand. Rhona’s brows lifted in surprise as she read it, for though it was intimately personal, ‘twas obviously not from his late wife. She shoved it quickly aside and unrolled the next. It was similar to the first and signed with naught but an I. So, MacGowan had been right about the marquis’s wandering eye. Indeed, it was entirely possible that the trinkets that littered the trunk were tokens of his conquests while-

  Hell’s saints!

  Her fingers trembled against the vellum just opened.

  She skimmed to the bottom, but the missive was unsigned. She read from the top, skipping over the mundane solicitudes and reading.

  Per your request, I have begun some inquiries, and have learned a bit of information that you might find of interest. I have it on good authority that the MacGowan rogues will hold a gathering at the stronghold of Evermyst. ‘Tis said it will celebrate St. Crispin’s Day and the birth of Lord Ramsay’s young heir. By all accounts, ‘twill be a large assemblage. In fact, ‘tis rumored that James himself may make an appearance.

  Mayhap this would be just the opportunity you had in mind.

  There were a few more sentences, but none that held her interest. She rolled it up, slipped its ribbon back into place and rummaged rapidly through the others. None were in the same hand until she had nearly completed her search. This note was no more than two simple sentences.

  Although Rhona searched the trunk frantically, there was nothing else.

  From somewhere far away, she thought she heard a scratch of noise. She jerked her head up, but no other sounds alerted her to danger. One more quick search assured her there was nothing else to be found. Rapidly replacing the scrolls, she locked the trunk and shoved it carefully back in place.

  Once again she pinned the key out of sight, blew out her candle, and stepped silently into the hall.

  There was a whisper of sound behind her. Fear stroked her neck. She turned, but a hand streaked out, covering her mouth and pulling her roughly backward. She tried to spin around. An arm encircled her waist. Raw instincts made her strike with her elbow, driving it hard into his ribs. There was a grunt of pain, then:

  “Damnation, Rhona, it’s me.”

  She stilled, rolled her eyes sideways and felt the hand slip off her mouth.

  Lachlan stood before her, slightly bent over his injured ribs.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” she hissed.

  “Me?”

  Candlelight flickered across his face. His eyes were dark and angry. He wore naught but black hose, and he rubbed his chest where she had struck him. His feet were bare, as were hers, and without the hindrance of her shoes she had been absolutely silent.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Perhaps I heard you,” he said.

  She shook her head, then stopped, remembering the sound of a woman’s laughter. “Where were you?”

>   Even in the darkness she could see his eyes narrow. “‘Tis a strange time to be inquiring about my whereabouts, laddie, when you are creeping around like a thief in the good marquis’s private chambers.”

  They were standing but inches apart. “So you were with Colette.”

  There was a moment’s pause. “Are you thinking I’ve dallied with the maidservant?” he asked.

  She pursed her mouth. “I would not care if you dallied with the marquis himself.”

  He stepped closer. The anger in his eyes had been replaced by another emotion. Something less sinister, but no less dangerous.

  “You think I’ve slept with another,” he said and, reaching out, brushed a wisp of hair from her face.

  She pushed his arm away. “I care not what you do.” “You lie,” he said, and reached out again. She swatted his hand aside and longed for her dirk.

  “Are you jealous?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she said, and backed away. Absolute silence filled the hall. Time stretched into the blackness. Her nerves stretched with it. “Were you with her?”

  “With who, lass?” he said and, with careful casualness, leaned his shoulder against the plastered wall.

  If not for her need for secrecy she would have surely struck him. “Colette,” she hissed.

  He said nothing for a long while. She cursed him in silence.

  “You’d best be careful, lass,” he said finally. “For if one watches your window closely enough, one can tell when you leave your chamber.”

  She drew a careful draught of air. “You were watching me window?”

  “I can see you quite clearly, except when the fat marquis blocks the light from the hall.”

  Jealousy? A despicable titter of glee soared through her. “In truth, champion, he is really quite charming.”

  “Charming!” A muscle worked in his jaw, but he relaxed it with a seeming effort. “Did you know he ordered a leech to open his wife’s dead body?”

  “What?” she hissed.

  ‘They took out the babe.” “Mayhap he hoped to save it.”

  “‘Twas three months early,” he said. “But it was a lad.”

  “How do you know this?”