by Cathy MacRae
The older man faced Michaell, his men taking up a similar stance behind him. Shouts and clanging steel heralded Duncan’s and Thomas’ struggle on the stairs. The Scott guards at the door slammed the panel shut and dropped a sturdy bar in the iron bracket. Silence settled over the room.
“I am Lord Henderson. What is yer business here?”
“I am Michaell Kerr. Turn Lady Mhàiri free this instant.”
“Lady Mhàiri, is it?” he mocked. “Familiar terms for a lass ye have nae tie to. Has my young bride had a change of heart? Preferring a lad such as yerself to a more experienced man for a husband?”
“Her heart lies elsewhere,” Gregor boomed. “Turn her loose.”
Lord Henderson dismissed Michaell, giving Gregor his attention. “Och, Gregor Scott. Has de Percy slipped his wits? Releasing a dangerous man such as yerself without his ransom paid?”
“It has been paid,” Mhàiri chimed in. She lifted one booted foot and slammed it down the inside of her guard’s leg. He yelped and yanked her backward, trapping her against him. Her eyes flared. She slammed her elbow low in his belly. The guard groaned and flung her away, one hand clenching his groin, his face turning green.
One of the other guards grabbed Mhàiri before she could escape and pinioned her by slipping the hilt of his spear over and through her bound arms. She surrendered with bad grace, wincing as he casually tweaked his hold.
Michaell growled. Gregor clapped a hand to his shoulder in warning.
Appearing unruffled, Lord Henderson peered over his shoulder. “Well-meaning of ye, lass, but of no consequence. Our betrothal has been signed which makes it legally binding.” He smirked at Michaell. “Though ye are welcome to stay for the ceremony.”
Michaell shrugged off Gregor’s hand, fury blinding him. “Release her.”
Lord Henderson arched an eyebrow. One of his guards advanced on Michaell, but Lord Henderson halted him with a raised palm. “I will deal with the unruly pup.”
The insult slipped past Michaell. He’d heard worse. Shrugging his shoulders to warm and loosen the muscles across his back, he crossed the length of the hall.
Lord Henderson calmly unfastened the clasp of his cloak and held it to one side. A soldier swiftly accepted it, backing away to give the pair room. Clad in wedding finery, Lord Henderson nonetheless wore his war sword at his belt. He drew it slowly, showing his teeth in a grin of anticipation as the blade hissed from its sheath.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The heat of a hundred candles robbed the room of air as the two men stalked each other. On the hearth, branches of evergreens bound with twine lent their scent to that of roast meat, sweated bodies, and spilled wine. The pungent aroma of dried rosemary mixed with the rushes on the floor drifted up from beneath booted feet.
Anticipation filled the room. Mhàiri flinched at the clink of a goblet against a wooden surface.
“Turn tail now, lad, and save yerself and yer da the trouble of a burial,” Henderson taunted. “The lass needs a man to control her, not a wean.”
Mhàiri clenched her fists against Michaell’s anticipated response, but he simply shrugged off the jeers as he circled the older man. Unable to free herself from the guard, she glanced frantically at her uncle. He gave her a slow nod and she was reminded Michaell was once Muckle Alan’s student, younger and more agile than Richard Henderson.
And more hot-headed. Lord Henderson’s calm mocked Michaell’s deadly intent.
Light raced along the length of Michaell’s sword as it flashed upward, deflecting Lord Henderson’s sudden attack. The failed strike clanged loud in the hall and the blades screeched in angry protest. Mhàiri wanted to clap her hands over her ears—or her eyes—but she dug her nails into the palms of her hands and gave Michaell whatever support her heart could.
She remembered the brooch within the pouch at her neck. Protect him. Peace descended and she faced the battle with a calmer heart.
Michaell’s sword circled beneath Richard’s blade, coming up in a blur of speed. Lord Henderson faltered forward at the unexpected move and Michaell stepped sideways and back, bringing his sword through in a powerful stroke, both hands on the hilt. His counter-attack barreled past Lord Henderson’s guard, beating him back as he raised his sword over and over in a desperate attempt to keep Michaell’s blade at bay.
Blow after blow, Michaell advanced on the older man. Concern crossed Lord Henderson’s face. He grunted in pain as Michaell’s sword laid open a long stripe along his arm. Breathing heavily, Henderson dropped the tip of his sword to the floor, opening up his guard. Offering a truce. For an instant Mhàiri feared Michaell would not accept.
Michaell halted, breathing deeply, hand clenching and unclenching on the sword hilt as he fought for control. He pointed the tip of his sword at Mhàiri. “Release her.”
Lord Henderson’s eyes blazed, but he nodded. The soldier withdrew his spear and used the tip to slice through Mhàiri’s bonds.
Michaell lowered his weapon. “She willnae be yers.”
“’Tis within my right to claim her.”
Mhàiri ran to Michaell’s side, halting a few steps away where she would not hinder him. She glared at the older man. “I willnae agree to wed ye!”
A roar of confusion swept the crowd as men surged from the edge of the room and converged on the two combatants. A ragged circle formed, William and Gregor lining up with Michaell and Mhàiri.
“We can continue until more than blood is on the floor,” Michaell said. “Or we can discuss this in private—without further bloodshed.”
Mhàiri closed her eyes against the rage in Michaell’s eyes. Let them come to peaceable terms.
Aware she could do no more, she awaited Lord Henderson’s decision.
* * *
Mhàiri sat at the head table as time for supper approached. She had no appetite and no patience for the men who closeted themselves in the lord’s private chamber to decide her future. Servants reset the tables and filled them with platters of roast duck, lamb, and a haunch of venison. Vegetables in a cream sauce followed, with baskets of bread, and bowls of cheese. People milled about, uncertain if they should be seated or await the lords’ arrival.
William snatched a loaf of bread from a basket and tore off a chunk, offering it to Mhàiri. She shook her head and went back to strangling the linen cloth she’d used to dry her hands earlier after she washed and changed into clean, dry clothes. Michaell’s other brothers availed themselves of the Yule offerings. Andrew watched her silently, shaking off their requests for him to recount the fight between Michaell and Lord Henderson.
Duncan and Thomas finally gave up and dug into their trenchers, elbowing each other good-naturedly for room at the table.
“Henderson’s men are alert but nae anxious,” Duncan, the red-haired Kerr noted cheerfully. “Pax, Mhàiri. Things will go well.”
“A week ago, I had just learned I was betrothed to Lord Henderson. I couldnae allow it to happen, but when I looked for a way to ransom my uncle so that I wouldnae be forced into the marriage, I got more than I wished for.” A smile softened the tense muscles in her face at the thought of the man who’d risked his life for her.
“That’s better,” stout Thomas approved through a spray of bread crumbs. He downed a gulp of ale from his mug. “Yer uncle will see to it Lord Scott’s influence is minimized, and Michaell knows what to say to bring Henderson around.”
Mhàiri cut him an amused look. “Truth? What could possibly soften the blow that he will likely lose a great deal of land he coveted?”
“The harder bargain would be to admit defeat where ye are concerned, lass. Dinnae sell yerself short.” William leaned back in his chair, toying absently with the bread on his trencher. “Yer presence will be demanded shortly. Agree that ye are poor as a mouse in a kirkyard, and ye’ll do fine.”
She narrowed her gaze, wondering what he was up to, but before she could ask, a Scott guard appeared at her side, asking her to accompany him above stairs.
&nb
sp; She stood, relieved to hear chairs creak as the Kerr brothers rose to follow her. They mounted the stairs and climbed to the open chamber two flights up where Michaell, Gregor, Lord Scott, Richard, and six guards awaited.
Michaell’s warm smile reassured her and she breathed deeply, suddenly buoyant with hope.
Richard’s arm lay on the table next to a parchment and quill, a thin line of blood staining the thickly wrapped bandage. His skin appeared sallow in the light of the candles perched in an ornate candelabra on the table, and his mouth was drawn to one side—in pain or anger or disappointment, Mhàiri did not know. She was pleased to note, however, he was not gloating.
Lord Scott slouched in his chair, and Mhàiri felt a pang of sadness to see the state in which his brain fever had left him. Seated to the right of his son, his left eye peered at her while the right side of his face drooped downward. His right hand lay in his lap, the left picking at the edge of the table. It was clear clan leadership would soon pass to Gregor.
“Mhàiri,” Gregor Scott, seated at the head of the table, began, his tone serious, his eyes merry. “Acting on behalf of my father, Lord Scott, who entered into a contract with Lord Henderson one month ago this day, ’tis my duty to inform ye that the betrothal between Lord Henderson and one Mhàiri Burns, legal daughter of Alan and Fenella Burns, nee Scott, has been dissolved. Upon discussion, it has been revealed yer dowry has fallen into other’s hands through battle and fair claim. Ye are destitute and at the mercy of yer closest male kin. Reparation to Lord Henderson will be made in the amount of fifty sheep, ten cows, one tun of wine, and a hogshead of Dunfaileas whisky which has been discovered in the storeroom below. Do ye understand?”
Mhàiri’s eyes widened. I am destitute? It dawned on her that heiresses were married to men who could control their property, though lasses with naught could marry where they wished. She glanced about the table, eyes lighting on Michaell’s face. Betraying little emotion, only the slight tilt to one side of his lips asked his silent question.
He had done this for her. Would she have him?
Squelching the desire to shout for joy, dance, or otherwise spoil the seriousness of the meeting, she folded her hands before her and nodded solemnly.
“I understand the terms,” she murmured. She risked another glance at Michaell. His grin widened.
Lord Henderson grasped the quill awkwardly in his left hand and signed the parchment, a splatter of ink spoiling his elegant signature. He handed the quill to Mhàiri and she read the words printed before dashing her name beside his. She set the feather in the inkwell, drew her hand back, and slapped him full across the cheek.
“That is for the rough handling by yer men.”
A bright hand print blazed on his pale face. The entire room fell into shocked silence. Michaell half-rose from his chair and the Kerr brothers leaned forward as Lord Henderson’s guards laid hands on empty scabbards, all weapons left at the door. Mhàiri lifted her chin and fisted her hands on her hips.
Without a word Lord Henderson rose and, giving Mhàiri a short bow, quit the room, his guards on his heels.
William nudged Gregor’s chair with his boot as the last Henderson soldier exited through the door. A man lifted Lord Scott’s frail form and carried him from the room. Mhàiri’s uncle stood.
“We will see ye in the hall for supper.” He gave Mhàiri a wink. Duncan, Andrew and Thomas clustered about, giving Mhàiri deferential space and grins of respect. They congratulated Michaell with hearty clouts to the shoulder, complaining about missing his fight with Lord Henderson—accusing silent Andrew of sharing no details.
Duncan draped an arm over Mhàiri’s shoulders. “Ye are a braw lass. Michaell has done himself proud this night. Ye’ll spend next Yule with the Kerrs.”
Gregor cleared his throat loudly, rounding up the three elder Kerr brothers, rousting them and the rest of the guards from the room. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Mhàiri faced Michaell across the table. Words flew through her mind, but nothing seemed to match what she wanted to say.
I dinnae suppose he was pleased.
Was it difficult getting him to agree . . .?
How will we find the livestock to pay . . .?
Practicality choked her, rendering her speechless, so she simply stared at Michaell. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. His cloak, still damp with melted snow, hung over the back of his chair. A smudge of ink darkened the edge of his hand.
His eyes beckoned her. She walked around the table, intent on his stare, shedding doubts as she closed the gap between them. Reaching his side, she knelt and took his hand. His fingers wrapped gently about hers, his palm warm and supple as she placed it against her cheek.
“I am in awe of ye,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from quivering. “Ever do ye have my interests foremost in yer heart. Never have ye held back to defend me. I cannae imagine Lord Henderson was pleasant to deal with, even after he yielded the fight, yet ye freed me from a burden I dinnae want.”
She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Michaell Kerr, I promise to love ye and do my best to live up to the standard ye have set. Will ye marry me?”
Michaell rose, drawing Mhàiri to her feet with him. “Is that truly what ye want?” He kissed her fingers, lingering over each one. Mhàiri’s heart thudded so strongly, she could scarcely breathe.
“Aye. I made a wish . . . .”
“Shh. Dinnae tell me yer wish. Let me guess.”
His eyes twinkled as he slowly perused her face. With a slight shake of his head, he continued his study, spreading her hands wide as his gaze slid the length of her gown and back. Mhàiri grinned at his antics.
“Och! ’Tis much better use of yer lips than an anxious frown.” He stepped closer, tucking her hands against his chest. “Though I can think of an even better use more in line with granting yer Yuletide wish.”
He placed a palm on either side of her face, warm and inviting. She leaned forward, rising slightly on her toes, lips parting in anticipation.
His kiss was everything she remembered—and more. Freedom to touch him, to hold him, raced intoxicatingly through her veins. Placing her palms against his chest, she slid them over the firm expanse. She explored his shoulders, his neck, ran her fingers through his hair. His lips slanted across hers, seeking her response. She gave it, holding nothing back as she pledged her love.
With a satisfied sigh, she broke the kiss, leaning her cheek against his chest. His heart thudded beneath her ear, its elevated pace an indication of his reaction. She smiled.
“My Yule wish isnae complete,” she murmured.
“It isnae?”
Mhàiri shook her head. “Ye havenae answered my question.”
Michaell chuckled, the gentle rumble sending languid shivers all the way to Mhàiri’s toes. “I was going to ask yer grandfather permission to marry ye.”
“That question should fall to Gregor now,” she replied. “Who, I believe, likes ye.”
“He loves his niece, and will hopefully approve of me.” He nuzzled the side of her head.
Mhàiri drew back to give him a grin. “Shall we go find out?”
Michaell appeared pained. “Are my brothers still here?”
Mhàiri laughed. “Of course they are. Though I fear they may outlast the Yule feast.”
“They can clean out a storeroom of food faster than Henry can wiggle down a hole after a rat.”
Mhàiri drew a line with her fingertip from his chin to mid-chest. “They love ye.”
“They protect me as if I was a wean and incapable of helping myself.” His mock growl lacked its earlier force.
She tapped his chest. “They love ye,” she repeated. “And they dinnae interfere with yer fight with Lord Henderson. Nor with yer negotiations.”
Michaell’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Nae. They dinnae. A month ago, they would have taken over everything.”
“They see yer worth. And how well ye handle yerself.”
Michaell hugged Mhàiri close. “Ye see things I dinnae. Thank ye. I am relieved to find my brothers’ attitudes greatly changed, but I believe I understand them a wee bit better now.”
Mhàiri prodded his ribs. “’Tis all well and good, but will ye marry me?”
Michaell bent his head and this time left her no doubt as to his answer to her Yuletide wish.
EPILOGUE
Claver Hill
2 weeks later
A knock rattled the door. Startled, Mhàiri sat upright. Had she overslept? Her pulse raced madly. Today was not a day for sleeping late. The room was still plunged in darkness, only a red glimmer glowed from the hearth. Pale gray light outlined the shutters on the windows, almost too faint to see. The air was cold and Mhàiri burrowed deeper beneath the covers. Henry grumbled and rose, circled twice, then plopped back onto the rumpled blanket.
’Tis scarcely dawn. Had she truly heard a knock at the door—or had she dreamed it?
A tap sounded again. Louder. More insistent. Mhàiri threw back the covers and scrambled from the bed. She dragged a heavy velvet robe from the chair by the fire, shivering into its warm folds gratefully. Excitement raced through her, announcing—as if she hadn’t remembered—it was her wedding day, and Agnes was here to help her dress.
Her skin prickled and a smile blossomed as she grabbed the latch and pulled the door open.
Michaell’s dour face greeted her, eyebrows knitted together, the corners of his mouth tight. Mhàiri’s stomach lurched.
“What’s wrong?”
Michaell rubbed the back of his neck, clearly upset. “May I come in?”
Mhàiri blinked. It was hardly proper to invite him into her room, but this did not appear to be the time to worry over appearances. She stepped to one side. “Aye.”
He strode through the door then paced the length of the room. Pivoting about, he faced Mhàiri. “My da is coming to the wedding.”
