Beauty and the Barbarian

by Amy Jarecki

  Alexander beckoned the procession of clansmen and women up the hill. “Miss Merrin, it is I who must apologize first. Ye and Ian performed a great service for the clan. Without ye, our people could have died—the ague could have spread through the entire castle.”

  A pair of men walked past, laden with wood. “Hello, Miss Merrin, Sir Ian.”

  Alexander chuckled. “We’ve come to see your cottage has a new roof—among other things.”

  A woman, one who’d taunted her, carried a rocking chair. “Apologies, Miss Merrin. I hope this will help make amends. Ye’re the best healer in the Hebrides, I’ll attest to that in front of a magistrate if need be.”

  Merrin didn’t know how to respond.

  Ian smiled. “Thank ye.”

  Each man, woman and child came ashore, laden with everything imaginable from cloth to barrels of oats to thatch for the roof, a table and benches—her cottage would be whole again before the day was out.

  Merrin threw her arms around Alexander. “Thank you, m’laird. I cannot believe it. All this. For us?”

  Ian’s brother gave her a squeeze. “Aye, and ye deserve it all and more. Not a one of us would be fit to put up a roof if it weren’t for ye and your tincture.” He beckoned the marching line of people. “Come, everyone. Time’s wasting.”

  Sir Bran followed with a heap of fur over his arm, a big grin shone from beneath his dark beard. “This is a wedding present from Lady Enya and me.” He draped a sealskin cloak over Merrin’s shoulders. “Ian said ye lost yours.”

  She smoothed her hand over the exquisitely soft fur. “Aye, but it wasn’t as nice as this…and we’re no’ married.”

  Friar Pat hobbled up with Lady Anne on his arm. “But ye will be afore the day is out.”

  The lady gave him a polite whack. “I beg to differ. Much preparation is needed, and we’ll have the ceremony at Brochel.” She smiled at Merrin. “Besides, you’ll need to be fitted for your gown.”

  “A real wedding gown?” Merrin giggled like a giddy child. “I cannot believe this.”

  “Of course, my dear. Why do you think I have all those bolts of exotic fabrics in my solar? Any woman fit to marry my son deserves to be clad in the finest silk on her wedding day.”

  “Thank you, m’lady.”

  Lady Anne smiled and fondly touched Merrin’s cheek. “My thanks to you, dear.”

  Ian clutched his arm around Merrin’s shoulders and glanced at his brother. “Ye arrived just in the nick of time—and with your guns too. How did ye ken Ruairi would show up?”

  Alexander walked back to the cottage with them all. “I received a missive from our notorious uncle—it said he’d received word from one of his informants. It appears someone reported your piping in the great hall—he found your rise from the dead quite amusing. I only figured it was a matter of time before he set out for revenge.”

  Ian shook his head.

  Alexander smoothed his hand over the plaid draped across his shoulder. “I would have told ye about it today if me spies hadn’t reported him sailing south.”

  Rewan turned his bloodied head as they approached.

  Ian stepped forward, clasping his hand around his hilt, and elbowing his brother. “What do ye aim to do with him?”

  The chieftain frowned. “He cannot be trusted at Brochel, no’ after I witnessed this barbarous attack.”

  Bran tapped Rewan’s hip with his boot. “Mayhap we should put him on a ship for the Americas. After all, he was a friend once.”

  Alexander fisted his hips. “The Americas or death by hanging—what will it be, Rewan?”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’ve no’ much choice, have I?”

  “Then let it be done,” Ian said.

  They left Rewan tied to the post and headed toward the cottage. Bran clapped Ian’s shoulder and pulled a flask from his sporran. “Let us drink to our success.”

  “Agreed.” Ian took a healthy swig and Merrin slid her fingers into Ian’s hand. They watched as the rooftop beams were levered into place. “We are the luckiest couple in all of Scotland.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  One sennight later

  Alexander stood beside Merrin as she turned one last circle in front of the looking glass. “Ye’re lovely—quite honestly the prettiest bride I’ve ever seen.”

  Warmth spread across her cheeks. “How can ye say that? I’ll wager Ilysa was far more beautiful.”

  He tapped a finger to his lips. “Never repeat this, but ye are far lovelier, my dear. Do no’ take me wrong, Ilysa made a pretty picture indeed, though I’d never set eyes on her before our wedding day.”

  “Och.” Merrin shuddered. “Ye must have been mortified.”

  “I was a wee bit—but I daresay she was more so. Fortunately, the match worked.”

  Merrin nearly asked him if he loved his wife, but held her tongue. That would have been an awful thing to say. She couldn’t imagine marrying someone without knowing him first. How awkward it would be—especially the wedding night. She could hardly imagine being in bed watching her husband undress while trembling with pure fright under the bedclothes. She shook off her thoughts. Fortunately, she’d never be forced to face that kind of terror.

  Alexander reached out his hand. “Are ye ready, Miss Merrin?”

  She took it. “I’ll no’ be a ‘miss’ much longer.”

  “Perhaps ’tis the last time ye’ll hear it.”

  She laughed. “I do prefer Mistress Merrin—I always thought I’d die an old maid, and then Ian washed ashore.”

  “I only regret Niall isn’t here to see ye. He’d be proud, so very proud.”

  Merrin’s heart squeezed at her father’s name. But he was watching over them and he would approve of this marriage.

  Ian had already made contact with merchants in Glasgow, and they’d be sailing south on the morrow to fetch a long list of herbal remedies and supplies. She hated to leave the cottage after the clan had done so much to make it homey again, but Ian estimated they’d only be away a fortnight. She didn’t mind, as long as they were together.

  Lady Anne had given her an assortment of high-necked kirtles designed to cover her mark, though the blue silk gown she wore today scooped low over her breasts. No one at Brochel would dare comment about her mark with Laird Alexander giving her away.

  He led Merrin down the winding stairwell to the great hall. Before they rounded the last bend, she stopped and pulled the lace veil over her face.

  He winked. “Are ye ready?”

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  When they stepped into the enormous hall, benches scraped across the floorboards. Everyone stood. Merrin couldn’t breathe for a moment. ’Twas a bit overwhelming for a simple lass to be on the arm of her chieftain with the whole clan standing and smiling at her with oohs and ahs filling the room.

  But her initial trepidation fled from her shoulders as if a waterfall had splashed over her and taken all worries away. Ian stood upon the dais, smiling, staring directly at her. An imposing warrior, he exuded power beneath his vibrant kilt of red and black. He had one foot planted forward on sturdy legs while his jeweled claymore hung at his hip. His plaid was draped over one shoulder, clasped by a large brass brooch.

  Alexander led Merrin beside her betrothed.

  Reaching for her hands, he grinned wider than he’d ever done before. She’d never seen a man more handsome—how on earth did he fall in love with her, and thank all the stars in heaven he had.

  Merrin gazed into Ian’s adorning pale blue eyes and her breasts swelled. There could be no other man on earth for her. Ian had shown her unbridled love, and though she’d been an outcast, her mark had never brought him pause. He loved her with all her flaws as she did him.

  They held hands as together they spoke their vows, declaring their love with an everlasting promise. In Ian’s arms she would live forever.

  Excerpt from Amy’s Next Release:

  Return of the Highland Laird (A Novella)

  ~
Book Four: The Highland Force Series~

  Coming August, 2014, by Amy Jarecki

  Chapter One

  The North Channel, off the coast of Scotland, March, 1587

  The gale hit with destructive force as Alexander’s small birlinn rounded the Mull of Galloway and sailed into the Irish Sea. With a crack, the rope steadying the rudder snapped and whipped through the air, smacking him across the face with the power of a bullwhip. Clapping a hand to his bloody cheek, Alexander reeled back. A gust of wind blasted in from the starboard side. His grip slipped from the sail line. He tightened his fist, but the hemp rope cut through his palm like a dagger slicing across it.

  His wounds stung, but if he wanted to live, he’d best fight the sea.

  The square sail collapsed and flapped, resembling bed linens hung out in a storm. Angry white swells crashed over the bow and the ship listed from side to side. If he didn’t gain control soon, the birlinn would capsize for certain. The boom groaned and swung toward him with deadly speed. Alexander ducked and dove for the rudder.

  Slippery from the driving rain, he steadied the long oaken handle under his arm. It took all his strength to keep the boat on course. Peering over the bow, he could see nothing but rain and waves so high they could swallow him into the icy depths at any moment. Though late afternoon, the clouds above dominated the sky, making it dark as midnight.

  A lightning bolt flashed and streaked into three fingers, followed immediately by a deafening roll of thunder.

  His heart pummeling his chest, Alexander planted his feet against a rowing bench and pulled back with all his strength, roaring with the agony of exertion. The boat listed portside. Alex countered with the rudder. Rain and saltwater funneled into his eyes, but he could spare not a heartbeat to wipe them.

  On and on he fought the sea, damning himself to hell while lightning continued to streak and crack above. He’d been a fool to sail from Raasay alone. He’d been a fool in so many ways, he had no right to be laird of Clan MacLeod. If only he’d been the one who’d fallen from the curtain wall and not Ilysa. She’d never done anything to incite the wrath of God. But Alexander had. He deserved punishment worse than death.

  A rogue wave again crashed from the starboard side. The boat listed so far to port, Alexander clung to the rudder and closed his eyes. Have mercy on my soul.

  With his next breath, the birlinn buoyed upright. Alex squinted through the rain. A light flickered in the distance. He blinked and it was gone, hidden by the deluge and enormous swells. Had he been mistaken? He hoped to God he hadn’t and bore down on the rudder, praying his course was sound and the shore was near.

  Though a powerful man, every muscle burned while he fought the powerful current. The birlinn had twisted and turned so much, he could very well be on a course to the open sea—a folly no skilled sailor would ever make. If his father, the great Laird Calum MacLeod were to see him now, he’d shake his head and turn away. Alexander had once thought he could follow in the wake of his father’s success, but he’d failed.

  Miserably.

  Near his entire life tragedy and destruction rained down upon him akin to the tempest now threatening each breath.

  Ahead the light flickered again. Alexander’s every muscle trembled with fatigue while he strained to see it. Brighter now, he spotted the glint each time the movement of the waves dipped. The birlinn bobbed with the sea, moving erratically. Alexander strained to make out the shore. Sailing into rocks or cliffs would tear the boat into splinters. But the unrelenting rain refused to pause.

  He kept the birlinn on course, convinced the light was a beacon calling to him. And then he saw it. The grey sands of a beach lay ahead, and yonder, a large whitewashed building—an inn for certain. Praise the heavens. He held fast to the rudder and set the course straight for the sand. When the boat skidded to a stop, Alex dropped anchor and jumped over the side into thigh-deep waves. The icy water was no colder than the plaid and shirt that clung to his skin.

  The wind cut through him while he marched through the surf. Adjusting his sword belt, he ran his fingers over his dirk. He still didn’t have his bearings. If the birlinn had sailed due south, he’d be on English soil. The thought made a shudder slither up his spine.

  ***

  Jane battened the window shutter with a cross-board and turned to face Mr. Cox. “Please have a seat whilst you wait out this nasty squall.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” The elderly man slid onto the bench. “I haven’t any idea where this downpour came from. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when I set out.”

  “I suppose ’tis the way of things in spring.” She placed bowl on the floor to catch yet another dripping leak. “Soon it will be nice enough to mend the roof.”

  “I wish we could hire a laborer for the task.”

  “But we cannot.” She reached for a ewer—at least the rain slapping upon the roof drowned out the water dripping into the pails and bowls strewn throughout the cottage. “Will you have a cup of watered wine while you wait?”

  “My thanks.” He sucked in a sharp inhale while she filled his cup. “It pains me to watch you serve me with your own hand, Lady Whitehaven.”

  A familiar twinge of pain tugged on her heartstrings. “You must stop calling me that.”

  “Why?” Mr. Cox made a show of casting his gaze around the tiny cottage. “No one will overhear us hidden so deep in the wood.”

  She poured for herself and sat. “True. Especially now the Priory’s closed.”

  “Disgraceful Reformation.”

  Jane smoothed her fingers over the cross pendant she wore. “At least things have settled now the queen has sanctioned the Church of England.”

  Mr. Cox sipped. “Yes. If only the bloodshed would stop, along with the constant hunt for heretics.”

  “We must conform. ’Tis the only way.” She forced herself to smile. “What news of Buttermere Castle?”

  “I’m surprised you care, my lady.”

  She cast her gaze to the Whitehaven crest above the mantle—the one thing in the cottage that reminded her she once lived a life of privilege. “But I do care very much. I reigned as countess within its walls for eight years.”

  Mr. Cox’s jowls jostled when he shook his head. “Miserable years they were, I’ll say.”

  “Not entirely bad. Occasionally Roderick would travel to London, and I would have peace.”

  He raised his wooden cup in toast. “I cannot believe how you choose to remember the good.”

  “Alas, the bad times are far too painful to speak of.” She reached for a plate of scones, pushing memories of beatings back to the locked recesses of her mind. “Tell me, how is the new Earl of Whitehaven settling in?”

  “John Drake is not much better than your Roderick. I’m afraid the entire line of Whitehaven earls is spun of the same tainted cloth.”

  Jane clasped her hands to her stomach. The mere thought of the callous family she’d married into made her stomach clench like a stone. She jumped at the rainwater splashing from the eaves. Thunder rumbled overhead, putting her further on edge. “If that is the case, I shall pray he remains unmarried.”

  Mr. Cox frowned and studied his boots. “God forbid another woman would suffer at the hands of the Earl of Whitehaven as did you, my lady.”

  Jane stood and crossed to the hearth, staring at the blasted family crest. “I cannot bring myself to think of it.” She used an iron ladle to stir the pottage. True, for the past few months life had grown lonely—a tad tedious, even, but she would choose this reclusive existence over her past. She pushed the articulating arm to situate the cast-iron pot closer to the flame. “How are the servants?”

  “Same as always.”

  She stirred with more vigor. “In good health?”

  “Yes, aside from Thomas. Sometimes the farrier doesn’t know when to keep his opinions to himself. Lord Howard had him whipped but two days ago.”

  Jane stopped stirring though she kept her face turned away. More beatings? Did my sacrifice
do nothing to bring them peace? “I am sorry.” Her voice trembled. “Is it bad?”

  “He’ll recover in a sennight or two.” Mr. Cox’s voice didn’t sound as convincing as his words.

  Her heart twisted. “If there were only something more I could do.”

  “But you cannot, must not.”

  She hadn’t brought it up in some time, but with the news of renewed brutality, she had to ask. “Are the townsfolk still blaming me?” She regarded Mr. Cox over her shoulder.

  The kindhearted servant had withered in the years she’d known him. His careworn face paled. “Now more than ever, I’m afraid. Lord Whitehaven has increased the bounty for your capture—says you’re a murderess.”

  Jane shuddered. “I am.”

  Mr. Cox stood and crossed the floor. “With all due respect, my lady. I must disagree.” He placed his palm on her shoulder. “You acted in self-defense.”

  “If only the Whitehaven Sheriff could see it that way.” She faced him. “I might gain a pardon.”

  Mr. Cox removed his cloak from the peg by the door. “That would be ideal, but until then you must remain here.” He fastened the clasp at his neck and picked up the large parcel from the floor. “This wool is first quality. It will bring top dollar and soon your larder will again be full.”

  From the sound of the splashing outside, the rain hadn’t eased. “Are you sure you will not stay a bit longer? I’ve plenty of pottage for us both, besides ’tis still spitting rain.”

  “I’d best be heading back—wouldn’t want anyone to become suspicious of my absence.”

  Jane’s chest tightened as she moved to the door. Max rose from his mat beside the hearth and joined her, wagging his tail as if anxious at the prospect of venturing outside. “Stay, Max.” Jane placed her hand on the latch and regarded Mr. Cox. “When will I see you again?”

  “I shall return with your supplies in a fortnight or so.”