by Lily Baldwin
She was both bride and enemy.
There would be no one who even thought well of her at the ceremony, not to mention, someone who might love her.
She fisted her hands together and straightened her spine. “For my people,” she whispered.
Taking a deep breath, she drew strength from her fury. Soon, she would boldly stand before Jamie MacLeod with anger in her heart, and she would bind herself to his dark soul.
Then she would pray for death to take her from her misery.
~ * ~
Jamie sat at the high dais with Matthew at his side. Otherwise, the great hall was empty. Everyone awaited his arrival in the kirk.
“Ye might have changed yer plaid,” Matthew said, shaking his head in disapproval. “Ye stink.”
“Do not make me regret asking ye to walk her down the aisle,” Jamie snapped.
Matthew waved a hand in front of his nose. “I already regret it.”
Jamie cast the older man a look that would have made other men cower.
Matthew chuckled. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. ‘Tis yer wedding day, after all.”
Jamie’s scowl only deepened. “Of that I am painfully aware.”
Matthew reached out and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “She could always change. Mayhap if she spends time away from her indulgent father, she will learn compassion and honor.”
Jamie shook his head. “The only hope I have is that she gives me an heir quickly, so I can send her back to her father.”
“She may not wish to be returned to her father,” a voice said behind him.
Jamie turned around and saw Julia. She dipped in a low curtsy.
“Forgive me, my laird. I did not mean to overhear yer conversation.”
“Worry not,” Jamie assured the lass. “But please tell me what ye meant just now. Why would the lady not wish to return to her father’s home?”
Julia twisted the cord around her waist nervously. “I noticed she had some bruising. I know it was not my place to say anything, but I spoke without thinking and asked her who was responsible. She answered, her laird.”
“Ye look surprised,” Matthew said quickly, drawing Jamie’s gaze.
“I am,” Jamie admitted. “I’ve met Laird MacDonnell. I thought him soft and indulgent toward his daughter. I find it hard to believe that he would raise a hand against her.”
Matthew shrugged. “Mayhap, he’s not had a choice. Her behavior is unsuitable for a lady. No doubt he’s needed to put her in her place.”
“Mayhap,” Jamie said absently, struggling to believe Gordon MacLeod would willingly hurt his daughter.
Matthew stood up. “Ye will be able to question her after the wedding. Ye’ve delayed long enough. The people await ye.”
Jamie took a deep breath. His captain was right. He pressed his hands flat on the table and stood. “Julia, does the lady wait in the solar?
She nodded in reply.
“Then go ahead to the kirk,” Jamie instructed. He withdrew a strip of MacDonnell plaid from his sporran and handed it to Matthew. “Ye know what to do.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jamie stood at the altar in front of Father Peter. Soft sunlight filtered through narrow stained-glass windows. The colorful beams were the only joyous sight in the whole kirk. His kin filled the chapel, standing shoulder to shoulder. Each person seemed more despondent than the last. The courtyard and the battlements of the inner wall were also filled with members of his clan—none of whom rejoiced on this so-called day of celebration.
The chapel doors opened. He flexed his neck from side to side when Lady MacDonnell stepped into the chapel on Matthew’s arm. She kept her gaze downcast. Her unbound black hair was swept over both shoulders, skimming her thighs. In her hand, she gripped a strip of her clan’s plaid.
His people strained to see his bride. Some wore expressions of curiosity while most glared at her with open hostility. For a moment, he worried that one of his kin might do something cruel or stupid that would demand he take action. He despised the woman slowly walking toward him, but he would not stand for her to be abused by his kin. To his relief, she made it to the front of the chapel without incident. Matthew bowed his head solemnly as he placed Fiona’s hand in Jamie’s.
Her fingers trembled. He looked down at her. Her whole body quaked. For a moment, he wanted to reassure her, but then she raised her gaze. Her blue eyes shone with malice. Straightaway, his heart turned back to stone. The priest spoke words Jamie barely heard. Fury built within him with every passing moment. When it came time to make their vows, Lady MacDonnell nigh spat her “I dos” at him. His own vows he gave in kind.
He kept his face passive as Father Peter wrapped their hands together, binding them with strips of MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids. But when the priest spoke the final blessing and bid Jamie kiss his bride, he had to fight against his desire to recoil. Leaning down, he brushed his lips to her rigid mouth, the barest caress. Then he turned with her to face his people.
The silence was palpable. No one cheered. He walked down the aisle with his new bride, passing only grim faces—faces that mirrored his own heart. He felt as if he were walking to meet the henchman’s ax.
In the great hall, supper was being served, but without time to prepare a proper wedding feast, the meal was unembellished. At his side, the new Lady MacLeod did not even keep up the pretense of trying to eat, so he was glad he had not wasted the cook’s time or his clan’s food by giving special orders. He glanced sidelong at his wife who sat unspeaking with her hands in her lap. Even when the musicians struck up a melody, she made no acknowledgement of their song, nor did she glance at the dancers when they spun in a reel in front of the high table.
Frowning, he reached for his ale, but it was empty. Straightaway, the serving maid, Brianna, was at hand.
“I can fill ye up, my laird” she said, her voice sensual. She leaned over, her full, milky white cleavage on display. At that moment, he noticed his new bride look at him for the first time since the dinner had begun. Her scowl deepened, and she flashed eyes like daggers at Brianna. This only fueled his desire to enflame her anger more. He smiled at Brianna as though they were intimate companions when, in truth, he had hardly spoken to her beyond typical orders regarding the workings of the keep. Reaching out, he lightly clasped a lock of hair that had escaped her braid. “You’ve always been able to satisfy me.”
He received a snort from his wife, but she wasn’t the only one to react. A throat cleared on his other side.
Jamie sighed impatiently. “What is it, Matthew?”
His second in command gave Jamie a stern look. “Ye’ve had enough ale,” he said under his breath. “Ye don’t want to do anything ye might regret.
“I already have,” Jamie snapped. With a brisk gesture, he shooed Brianna away. Then he pushed back his seat and motioned to Julia who stood off on one side of the high dais awaiting her new lady.
Julia hurried over to do his bidding. “Take the Lady MacLeod to my chambers,” he said, his voice harsh.
His bride jerked her head around, her eyes wide. “But I’ve not yet finished.”
He glanced at the trencher of food that sat on the table between their chairs. Neither of them had touched the contents. “Ye’ve had ample time.”
At that moment, he realized a hush had fallen over the great hall. All eyes were fixed on the high table. He leaned close to Fiona and said in a low voice, “Ye only disgrace yerself by disobeying me. Rise and do as I’ve bidden, or ye will force my hand.”
The words had barely left his lips, when she pushed her chair back and stood. Without any further protest, she nigh raced behind the screen to the stairs that led deeper into the keep.
He expelled a long breath.
Despite how little he thought of her, he had no wish to throw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain in front of his kin. He sat back in his chair relieved that his new wife was not entirely lacking in sense.
~ * ~
F
iona followed Julia, wishing the maid would move faster or get out of her way so that Fiona could run. Had her husband just said that she would force his hand if she disobeyed him? Was this how she was to spend her remaining days, tiptoeing around him, afraid to spark his fury…or else?
Fiona had never been hit before. “And I’m not going to start now.”
Julia stopped and looked back at her. “Pardon me, my lady.”
Fiona shook her head. “’Tis nothing. Carry on.”
Fiona tried to steady her breathing. They had crossed through the solar to the familiar stairwell, but when they crested the top, Julia led her down a new hallway. The corridor seemed increasingly narrow as if the stone walls were closing in around her. Her breaths were coming shorter and quicker. Her heart pounded even harder. She strained to swallow, her throat thick and tight.
She froze again.
She was panicking. She couldn’t protect herself if she panicked. She took a deep breath and straightened her back.
She was Lady Fiona MacDonnell.
She had stood on the battlements of her people’s castle and aided warriors.
Now, a new battle was being waged—one against her body—but her courage would not fail her. Jamie MacLeod needed to know that she would not submit to his cruelty. She would fight him to her last breath if need be.
Ahead of her, Julia swung a door wide. Fiona stepped inside and almost lost every ounce of courage she possessed.
Everything about Laird MacLeod’s chambers screamed at her like a battle cry. Tapestries depicting bloody battles lined the walls. Her eyes scanned over the decapitated heads and bodies skewered on tall pikes. A massive four poster bed was carved from dark oak. Blood-red velvet curtains hung from the cross posters and fluttered in the breeze from the open casement, the fabric fluttering like licking flames.
She turned away from the bed toward the massive hearth and gasped, stumbling back. Fanged demons were carved into the mantle and up both sides of the hearth. More tortured, demonic faces stared up at her from the hearth bed, their mouths straining wide as if they were being burned alive. She scurried away, tripping over the black pelt of a massive wolf. Her gaze scanned the floors. Animal pelts were scattered across the stones. In her mind, their eye’s opened, locking with Fiona’s gaze. “Run,” they seemed to scream at her. “Run!”
She had to get out of there!
She turned and reached for the door. With a desperate cry, she flung it open only to stumble back an instant later.
Jamie MacLeod’s massive frame filled the doorway.
“Going somewhere?” he sneered.
Chapter Eighteen
Again, his reluctant bride was ready to bolt the first chance she could.
Honor was something Jamie valued more than anything else. Without it, nothing else rang true. Without honor, kindness could never be sincere, courage failed, and strength was nothing more than a lie.
And here was his wife already breaking vows of obedience and fidelity spoken only hours before. He stepped into the room, and she scurried back.
“Ye can leave us,” he said to Julia.
Fiona’s gaze darted around the room still searching for escape.
“Ye’re my wife,” he growled, wanting to get the truth through to her. “I am yer laird. God’s Blood, woman, ye’re lady to my people. Act like it!”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed on him. “By that ye mean ye want me to be silent and submit.”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Nay, I want ye to be forthright and true.”
“True to what ye alone value or else,” she cried, her voice rising with her every word.
“Or else, what?” he demanded
“Or else I will force yer hand,” she said, shaking a fist at him.
What was she talking about?
“Are ye referring to what I said just now in the great hall?”
“Of course,” she snapped.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “’Tis true. If ye had disobeyed me and refused to follow Julia to my chambers, I would have tossed ye over my shoulder and carried ye out, even if it meant shaming ye in front of my people.”
Her nostrils flared. “Aye, and then, when we were alone, ye’d have beaten me to within an inch of life.”
“Aye, then I…” Jamie froze.
What had she just said?
His hands dropped to his sides. He took in her defensive stance, realizing that she was more afraid than angry or defiant. And then he remembered what Julia had said before the ceremony.
Of course she was afraid. Her father’s abuse had taught her to fear men.
“I know about yer da,” he said gently.
She looked confused. “What are ye talking about?”
“Julia told me about the bruises she saw when she helped ye dress. Ye told her yer da beat ye, but—”
Her eyes flashed wide. “My father has never laid a hand on me!” The words blasted from her lips. Jamie took a step back.
“Was Julia referring to these bruises?” she spat as she lifted her arms. The bell sleeves of her surcotte fell away, revealing her forearms covered by the fitted sleeves of her tunic. A screech tore from her lips as she started to yank at her laces from behind. Ripping and tugging, she finally heaved her surcotte over her head. Then she began tugging at her tunic. Her struggles reddened her face.
“Yer mad,” he whispered.
She turned on him with hellfire in her eyes. “I’m mad? After what ye did to me, I’m the one who’s mad?”
Now, what was the little chit going to accuse him of? “What have I done to ye other than save yer life and the lives of yer kin with this God forsaken alliance,” he snapped.
She glared at him before renewing her struggles to undress.
He had never been more confused. Mayhap, he should call for the healer. She was clearly unwell.
But then her tunic came over her head. She stood in her kirtle, her arms bare. Straightaway, he saw the bruises of which Julia had spoken. His fists clenched as anger pulsed through him. He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. In fact, he downright despised her, but no woman should be forced to bear the brunt of a man’s anger.
“When yer father arrives, I will make it clear that he is never to touch ye again!”
She froze and looked at him as if he were the one who was mad. Then she held out her wrists, lined with bruises.
“Ye did this.” A rush of tears flooded her eyes. She bared her teeth at him. “This is yer doing, none but yers.”
Her words tore through his flesh to his very soul and he saw her truth.
The events of the evening before pummeled his brain. His fury and grief had taken hold of him, leaving spite and prejudice to guide his actions. Certainly, she had erred as well, coming at him with a poker. But only a fraction of his strength was needed to subdue her.
“I didn’t realize…I…” Nay, he would make no excuses. He had meant to disarm her, to keep her from causing greater mischief, but he could have done so without hurting her. “When ye tried to run away—”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I did not try to run away. I was trying to escape after hearing the screams of that poor woman when we entered the keep, not to mention yer indifference to her suffering.”
His eyes flashed wide. “I did nothing to bring on her condition.”
“Nay, but ye didn’t stop her pain or interfere.”
“Birthing a baby is always painful, but ye’ll have to take that grievance up with God.”
“Aye, well…” her words trailed off. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “She was having a baby?” she said quietly.
“For the love of all things decent, what exactly did ye think was happening?”
She met his gaze. “I thought her husband was beating her.”
He threw his hands up. “Why the hell would ye assume that?”
She lifted her chin, defiantly. “Because he’s a MacLeod, and that’s what MacLeods do. They beat t
heir wives!”
He stared at her, dumbstruck for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I don’t understand…I would never.”
“Ye’d never what? Hurt a woman, then lock her away in the dark.”
He stepped toward her. Her eyes flashed wide. She scurried back. “Stay away from me.”
He slowly followed. “I’m not going to hurt ye,” he said, his voice gentle.
“Lies,” she shouted, blocking her ears. Her back hit the wall. She lashed out like a cornered animal. He had to get through to her. He gently seized her hands, careful not to grab her wrists.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried.
A pang of guilt cut through him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She struggled against him.
“Forgive me, Fiona,” he said softly in her ear. “Forgive me.”
She beat her fists against his chest, again and again. Slowly, her cries of protest softened. Then she softened, laying her head against his chest as quiet sobs racked her shoulders.
Chapter Nineteen
“Och, lass,” he breathed, running a soothing hand down her back. “I’m sorry, lass.”
She pulled away slightly and looked up at him, her puffy eyes still unsure. Slowly, he reached for one of her hands that gripped his plaid. She flinched. But he didn’t release her. He brought her wrist to his lips and gently pressed a kiss to her bruised skin. He turned her other hand over. He pressed his lips in a grim line when he saw his angry thumb print. “Damnation,” he cursed out loud.
She recoiled.
“Nay, lass,” he said quickly. “My fury is with myself.” He cradled her hand and lightly grazed his thumb against her mottled skin. “I will never forgive myself.” He leaned down and once more pressed a kiss to her hurt. Straightening, he sought her gaze. Still, he saw her fear, and now confusion, but mostly he glimpsed her fatigue. Without hesitation, he scooped her into his arms and cradled her. Then he sat down in one of the highbacked chairs near the fiery hearth. But her eyes flashed wide again with fear when she looked at the flames and hid her face in her hands. “Why demons?”
