“It’s too late.” Kendrew’s expression was hard again. “I’ve agreed to the match.”
“No one asked me.” Marjory dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. “I’d remember if that were so.”
Around them, the hall fell silent again. The men who were craning necks or crowding the aisles, pushing forward to hear what was going on at the high table, now froze. Each man looked on in stunned horror as if expecting a thunderbolt to slam down into the hall.
Marjory waited, too.
Her palms were slick and her knees trembled. Her stomach was a tight, painful knot and the place where her heart should be felt like a hollow, empty void. But she was pretty sure her face was all cold, hard refusal.
She hoped so, anyway.
“Next time”—she raised her ale cup, took a sip—“you might ask me first.”
“What’s this?” Kendrew’s brows rose. “You’re my sister. It’s my duty and privilege to see you wed. I want only the best for you.”
“That I know. I still wish to remain unwed.” Marjory held his gaze, letting her own pierce him until he blinked first.
A test of wills she’d always won.
“I gave my word.” He stood, turning to glance out over the hall, glaring at his men until they returned to their trestle benches. “I’ll no’ have you shame us by making a liar out of me.”
He sat back down, his face closed. “You’ll marry Ivar Ironstorm when he comes for you and you’ll make him a good and willing bride.”
“We shall see.” Marjory sat straighter in her chair. Composure was her best weapon.
“Nae, you will see.” Kendrew narrowed his eyes at her, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “If you think to refuse, I’ll lock you in your bedchamber until Ironstorm’s arrival.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Humph.” Kendrew took a big bite of cold roast, chewing with relish. It was a sign Marjory knew and answer enough.
He would indeed ban her to her quarters if she defied him.
Except…
She wasn’t about to let that happen.
Above all, she wasn’t going to marry Ivar Ironstorm.
Her mind raced. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled and wind rushed past the hall’s high, narrow windows. A few candles gutted as cold air swept the dais, bringing the smell of approaching rain. A movement near the hall’s entry caught her eye, making her heart leap. In that moment, she hoped to see Alasdair striding in to challenge Kendrew and put an end to this madness.
But it was only Grim.
The big warrior didn’t advance into the hall. He remained in the shadows where he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed and his face expressionless.
He didn’t even look her way.
Marjory’s heart sank, knowing no support would come from him. If she hoped to wriggle out of this mess, doing so would fall to her.
So she leveled her most direct gaze on her brother. “The Trondelag?” She let a bit of worry edge her voice, trying a different angle.
Beneath his misguided attempts to do right by her, he did love her.
That she knew.
So she’d appeal to his brotherly concern rather than his lairdly pride.
“So I said, aye.” Kendrew eyed her suspiciously.
“You surely know the Trondelag is the most uninhabitable region of all Norway.” She set down her eating knife and glanced around the high table, hoping for agreement.
But none of the men present would meet her eyes. Most kept their gazes on the food before them, busily eating or sipping their ale. One rubbed at a wrinkle on his sleeve. Another had drawn Hercules’s attention and was feeding the little dog bits of cold roasted mutton. A glance across the hall showed that even Grim was gone, his disappearance proving how alone she was.
Only Isobel’s face held sympathy.
“I’ve heard nothing good of the Trondelag.” Isobel took her side. “It’s known to be craggy and barren, a wasteland of ice where even the soles of your shoes freeze to the ground. The men there keep many wives because one wouldn’t be enough to warm them in the long, endless winters.”
“Hah!” Kendrew looked between his wife and Marjory. “So little do you both know of the Tronds and their vast and prosperous land. Trondelag is a favored place, much prized for its rich grazings and the fine crops of its well-doing farms. If a bit of snow falls in winter”—he tossed an annoyed look at Marjory—“since when is my sister one to complain of the cold?”
Marjory smiled. “Perhaps since I have no wish to marry a red-nosed, icy-fingered Trond.”
“Nae, you’d rather wed a web-footed, brine-drinking MacDonald.” Kendrew grabbed his ale cup, quaffing a long swig. “Ironstorm is a warlord, not an ice fisherman. Nor has he ever waved a sword in my face or slain good Mackintosh men just because they lifted a few scrawny cattle beasts in well-deserved retribution for Clan Donald’s repeated harassment.”
“I never said I wished to marry Alasdair.” Marjory flicked a speck of lint off her sleeve.
“You dinnae have to.” Kendrew’s voice took on a hard edge. “A man only has to see you look at him to know. Ironstorm is far worthier for you.”
“I’ve said no, so it scarce matters.”
“Aye, it does. Ironstorm wants you for his wife and his lord is aged, already on his deathbed. It’s the noble’s dying wish to see his best warlord wed to you before he draws his last breath.”
“A dying overlord?” Marjory and Isobel exchanged glances.
“Aye, and that’s why Ironstorm is eager to fetch you and be away.” Kendrew leaned forward, ignoring Hercules, who’d popped up beside his chair, growling. “His lord cannae wait much longer. Ironstorm hopes to wed you before his lord’s burial.”
Marjory’s insides went cold. Her ambers caught fire, burning her so badly she lifted a hand and slipped her fingers between the heated stones and her skin.
Beneath the table, Isobel nudged her foot, showing she shared Marjory’s suspicion.
Marjory tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
Isobel spoke for her. “Who is Ironstorm’s overlord? Do you know the man’s name?”
“To be sure, I do.” Kendrew didn’t hesitate. “He is Rorik the Generous.”
“Dear saints.” Isobel’s eyes rounded. “She’ll be killed if these men take her.”
Kendrew blinked, shook his head. “What kind of tall tale is this?”
“The truth.” Marjory found her tongue. “I dreamed of this. These people mean to send me to Rorik the Generous’s funerary pyre. They want me to take the place of his wife. I saw it clearly, remember all of it. That’s why I know the names.” She glanced at Isobel. “Ask your wife. She knows.”
“I know the two of you love to scheme.” Kendrew sat back and folded his arms. “It won’t work this time. Ne’er have I heard greater foolery. I understand you’re no’ pleased, but you’ll forget the MacDonald in time and—”
“I already have forgotten him.” Marjory stood. “And you can forget any plans to wed me to Ivar Ironstorm or any other Viking warlord.”
Kendrew pushed back his chair, standing as well. “Now see here, lass—”
“I have seen. That’s why I’m refusing.” Marjory didn’t wait to hear whatever he might say. The loud rushing was back in her ears and she wouldn’t have heard him anyway.
So she simply left the hall, Hercules running after her.
She didn’t know what her rebellion would get her into, but she knew what it would save her from.
That was enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Escape.
The word sat like a carrion crow at the back of Marjory’s neck, pecking at her until she lifted a hand and rubbed her nape. But the hot throbbing between her shoulder blades didn’t go away. The pain only worsened, spreading through her until her temples pounded, her stomach knotted, and her chest tightened so fiercely she could hardly breathe.
It was gloaming and she stood in her favorite bower of Nought�
��s stone garden. Isobel was at her side. And Hercules squirmed in a small wicker basket at her feet.
This was the most beautiful hour of the day at Nought.
Her beloved peaks soared all around her, a clean cold wind blew, mist was just beginning to curl through the stony vale beneath Nought’s walls, and the deep tranquility of this special place almost broke her heart.
What she was about to do nearly crushed her spirit.
Fleeing wasn’t in her nature.
Living was.
And now that she’d known such joy in Alasdair’s arms, she was especially keen to enjoy a long and happy life. If the gods were kind, that would be at his side. In time, they’d surely find a new home they could both love. They’d enjoy their days, glory in their nights, and—a ray of hope warmed her—raise many strong, strapping sons and equally strong, vibrant daughters.
But to seize such happiness, she first had to run.
“You must go, my heart.” Isobel touched her cheek, her dark eyes glistening.
Marjory gripped her friend’s hand, squeezing tightly. “I will get word to you as soon as I can, letting you know I’ve reached Blackshore safely.”
Isobel nodded, blinking rapidly. “I do not like this any more than you,” she said, proving she understood how much it grieved Marjory to steal away. “Desperate measures are never good. I’ll try to make Kendrew understand. He will someday, I promise you.”
She didn’t add that she hoped such a day wouldn’t come too late, but Marjory heard the unspoken words as clearly as if Isobel had voiced them.
“He’ll be livid.” Marjory leaned down, slipping her fingers into Hercules’s basket to calm him.
“He’ll be more than that.” Isobel looked unhappy. “He’ll know exactly where you’ve gone and will set out after you. I daren’t think what will happen.”
“Blackshore is impregnable.” Marjory hoped that was truly so. “Alasdair has told me there’s a fresh-water well inside the stronghold and even if their stores were depleted, there are always fish in the loch. Kendrew would tire quickly of such a senseless siege.”
“If Ironstorm brought his Vikings, their ships, Blackshore could be attacked.” Isobel spoke what Marjory didn’t want to consider.
“Alasdair has galleys. MacDonalds have a history of fighting Norsemen.” Marjory bent to settle Hercules again when he began whining.
When she straightened, she glanced at a heavy cloth sack on a nearby stone bench. Prepared with care, the sack held more than oatcakes, cheese and cold slices of meat, and two flasks of wine. Also hidden in its depths were a rolled plaid to sleep in if necessary, swaths of black linen, jars of peat juice, and a small leather pouch filled with soot. Goods she’d use to make herself a night-walker once Isobel returned to the hall, leaving her alone in the stone garden.
“I should help you with the night-walker gear.” Isobel followed her glance. “I’ve seen Kendrew and his men don the like often enough.”
“So have I,” Marjory reminded her. “And if you did assist me, someone would surely see your blackened hands when you go back inside. Kendrew would know what you’d done and come after me much faster than if you don’t attract attention by entering the hall wearing smudges of soot and peat juice. Our father taught me how to night-walk at the same time he taught Kendrew. A wise man, he believed such a talent as slipping through the night unseen might someday benefit his daughter as well as his son. Truth is, all Mackintoshes know such secrets.” Marjory went over to the sack, began pulling out the lengths of black linen.
She hoped Isobel would understand and leave.
She couldn’t bear good-byes.
A sniff behind her proved Isobel knew their parting was nigh.
“I shall miss you so!” Her friend hugged her, holding her tightly.
“And I you.” Marjory squeezed her back. “Now go, please.” She glanced at the night sky, saw the moon was just rising over Nought’s peaks. “I should be away already.”
But when she looked back at Isobel, her friend was gone.
Marjory blinked, glancing about. Had Kendrew schooled his wife in night-walking? She wouldn’t have been surprised. Then, from across the stone garden’s stillness, she heard the low thud of the hall door closing.
Isobel was once again within the keep.
And she should be on her way.
But first she closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, filling her lungs with the familiar scent of cold, damp stone and crisp night air.
Then she said a silent prayer to all the gods of her beloved home, asking them to bless every soul within Nought’s bounds, most especially her brother.
She truly did love Kendrew.
But she loved Alasdair more. And so she removed her clothes, stashing them deep inside the cloth sack. Then she opened the first jar of peat juice and began smearing its blackness on her skin.
A short while later, as the gloaming turned to night, Nought’s clean, cold winds picked up and the curling mists thickened. And in the stone garden, a shadow moved out of an empty bower to slip through the high garden gate and then down the steep stone steps to the rocky vale below. No one blinked at the shadow’s passing and the night’s deep tranquility was broken only by the soft whimpers of a tiny dog.
But the good men of Nought loved dogs.
And cherished as they were, the beasties had free rein of the grounds.
A wee dog’s scuffling of an e’en were nothing unusual.
And so it was that Marjory and Hercules made their escape from Nought, slipping away into the darkness, their passage unnoticed.
Hours later, but on the opposite end of the Glen of Many Legends, at Blackshore Castle, someone else’s appearance was anything but quiet. Horns blared from the castle walls, dogs barked, and a small party of mussed and mud-stained Lowlanders rode hell-bent across the stronghold’s low stone causeway, racing for the castle gates.
Alasdair stood there, watching their approach with disbelief.
He recognized one of them as a man who’d not been to Blackshore since the trial by combat over two years before. He was a courtier who hadn’t been welcome then and wasn’t seen gladly now either.
Sir Walter Lindsay, the King’s man.
Only as he reined in before Blackshore’s steps and swung down from his costly leather-tooled saddle, he didn’t look half as lofty or arrogant as he had so long ago when he’d come to declare the King’s will.
He looked shaken to the core.
And—Alasdair now saw in the torchlight of his gatehouse—Sir Walter wasn’t just mussed and muddied. He was also bloodstained.
“Sir Walter—I greet you!” Alasdair strode over to him. “What brings you to Blackshore?” He eyed the red smears on the noble’s cloak, the tears in his thickly embroidered tunic. “I see you’ve had a rough journey.”
“A terrible one!” The man glanced at his companions and then back at Alasdair. “We came upon a group of wandering pilgrims who’d been set upon by brigands. Slaughtered to a man for a priceless relic they carried, or so one of them claimed before he died.”
Alasdair frowned, ushering Sir Walter and his men inside the hall, leading them to the hearth fire so they could warm themselves. “It appears you were also in an affray? Is that why you’ve come here, to refresh yourselves before returning to court?”
“The court sent me here.” Sir Walter’s answer surprised Alasdair.
“Indeed?” He arched a brow, a suspicion rising. “Can it be that Kendrew Mackintosh summoned you?”
Ewan and Malcolm appeared at Alasdair’s side, both men unsmiling. Others quickly joined them, none greeting the strangers kindly. Lowlanders weren’t generally welcome at Blackshore. And those from the crown were regarded even more warily.
“I came here on the King’s business, MacDonald.” Sir Walter kept his gaze on Alasdair, ignoring the other men. He stood straighter, brushed at his sleeve, a bit of his old loftiness beginning to glimmer through. “Word came to us that you have been stirrin
g trouble again. The accusation was made by someone much higher than Nought. A man whose concerns were taken seriously by the King and so I was to inform you—”
“Was?” Alasdair gripped Sir Walter’s arm. “Are you no longer?”
“I think not.” Sir Walter held his gaze, clearly displeased by his admission.
“Explain.” Alasdair released him, stepping back and crossing his arms. “You have no’ made much sense since pounding up to my door. Indeed”—he glanced around at his men standing in a tight circle around them—“I’m of a mind to show you that door if I dinnae care for your answer.”
Sir Walter’s mien changed at once, his arrogance fading. “I want no trouble here,” he said, glancing at Alasdair’s men, surely noting that they stood with hands on their sword hilts. “Truth is, we only require baths if we may have them. A bit of bandaging for our cuts, and beds for the night, and we’ll be on our way at first light.
“And”—he swallowed, sounding pained—“I would apologize in the name of my King for inconveniences caused you in recent times.”
Alasdair frowned. “Now you are speaking in riddles. You’d best explain yourself.”
Sir Walter glanced at his companions. To a man, they slunk away, retreating on the pretense of holding their hands to the fire.
Alasdair lifted a brow. “Well?”
“My men and I pursued the brigands who’d massacred the pilgrims. When we caught them, there was a fight.” He paused, clearly uncomfortable. “My men and I are expert sworders. To our surprise the ruffians fought with equal skill and finesse. After we finally prevailed, cutting them down, we discovered why they swung their swords so well.
“They were court men, disguised as common thieves. We knew their leader well. He serves one of the King’s bastard sons, a young man whose aspirations exceed his station and who—”
“What are you saying?” Alasdair stepped closer to him, looming over the smaller man. “Dinnae tell me one of the King’s own brood would set men upon pilgrims?”
Seduction Of A Highland Warrior Page 30
