The Handfasting

by Glynnis Campbell

  Wee blades? Their broadswords might not be as big as a Scots claymore, but Ysenda was sure an agile Norman with a light blade had a definite advantage over a Highlander with a heavy sword.

  They retreated to a spot along the back wall of the keep.

  Cathalin crossed her arms over her bosom. “What did ye wish to say?”

  “I need ye to think about what ye’re doin’.”

  “I know exactly what I’m doin’. I’m marryin’ a Highlander. And he and I will inherit the castle and rule the clan when Da is gone.”

  “But don’t ye see? The kings won’t allow it. They’ve betrothed ye to a Norman because they want a Norman to hold the land.”

  “It doesn’t matter if they’ll allow it. ’Twill be done. I’ll be wed ere they can have their say.” She smirked. “Besides, ye’ve already made good on the handfastin’.”

  “We can say I haven’t,” Ysenda said, clutching her sister’s sleeve in desperation. “We can say ’twas never consummated. Then ye’ll be free to…” She almost choked on the words. “To wed Sir Noёl.”

  “I don’t want to wed Sir Noёl.”

  “Ye must. ’Tis the will o’ the king.”

  “I don’t care,” Cathalin said with a pretty pout. “Besides, Da said the royals wouldn’t dare come to the Highlands to—”

  Ysenda grabbed her sister by the shoulders. “They will come. They’ll send men like those,” she said, pointing toward the Knights of de Ware. “And they’ll kill everyone in the clan if ye don’t do as the king wills.”

  Cathalin pried Ysenda’s hand from her shoulder. “Then ye’re goin’ to have to keep pretendin’ ye’re Cathalin. ’Tis the only way to keep the peace.”

  Ysenda sighed in exasperation. “He’ll find out. Even if I say nothin’, it won’t be a secret for long. As soon as Da dies, the secret will be out.”

  Cathalin straightened with pride. “By then my Highland husband will have raised an army to defend the keep.” She scoffed. “His men will slaughter every last one o’ these wee bairns with their wee blades.”

  Ysenda could only stare at her sister, mortified. How could Cathalin be so delusional, so reckless? She would bring destruction down upon their clan. And for what? So she could wed the man of her choice? A man she’d never even met?

  She wanted to wring her sister’s perfect neck.

  But maybe she could try a different approach. Ysenda had no intention of going to France in Cathalin’s stead, leaving Caimbeul and their clan behind to be killed by the king’s army.

  “Ye know, Sir Noёl would be a very good match for ye.” The words were hard to push past her throat. “He comes from a wealthy family. Ye’d live in a beautiful castle. Ye’d have everythin’ ye desire. Servants at your beck and call. All the new gowns ye want. Jewels, furs, falcons. Sir Noёl would grant your every wish, I know. And your bairns… They’d be the most beautiful children in all o’ France.”

  “That may be.” Cathalin sniffed. “But I refuse to marry such a blind and stupid man.”

  She blinked. “What do ye mean?”

  Cathalin lifted her haughty chin. “How could the fool have thought ye were the most beautiful lass in all o’ Scotland?”

  While Ysenda stood with her mouth agape, Cathalin picked up her skirts and stalked off in a vexed huff.

  Ysenda could only stare off after Cathalin. She couldn’t argue with her. That was what Sir Noёl had thought. And once Cathalin’s pride was insulted, there was no way to assuage her feelings.

  Hell. Now she didn’t know what to do.

  Noёl rapped lightly on the door. “Caimbeul?”

  There was no answer. But he heard a startled scrape on the other side.

  He slowly opened the door, preparing to defend himself if necessary.

  Caimbeul was sitting on the floor below the window, scowling up at him.

  “I need to speak with ye,” Noёl said.

  Caimbeul’s frown turned mistrustful.

  Noёl closed the door behind him. Caimbeul made no move to rise, but perhaps the young man’s twisted frame made it difficult for him to stand. He obliged the lad by hunkering down before him.

  “I think ’tis best we speak plainly,” he told him, “so I’d like the truth from ye. Do ye have…feelin’s for my bride?”

  Caimbeul’s face twisted. “Feelin’s? What do ye mean?”

  “Romantic feelin’s.”

  Caimbeul’s eyes narrowed with rage. Before Noёl could dodge aside, the young man shot out a furious fist. Fortunately, it missed Noёl’s nose, but only because a heavy iron chain around his wrist brought it up short. Still, Noёl instinctively recoiled, falling backward onto his hindquarters.

  “How dare ye!” Caimbeul yelled. “She’s my sister, ye horse’s arse!”

  Noёl didn’t know what shocked him more—the fact that Caimbeul packed an impressive punch for a crippled man, that he was chained like an animal, or that he was his bride’s brother. He held up a hand in peace.

  “Wait. Ye’re her brother? The laird’s son?”

  “Aye,” he ground out.

  Noёl sat forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He remembered the laird’s attitude toward Caimbeul at the table. He’d never introduced him as his son. And he’d treated him with a distinct lack of respect.

  “Is your father the one who put ye in chains?”

  Caimbeul didn’t answer. His frown of shame was answer enough.

  Why would the laird do such a thing? Was he afraid his son would interfere with the wedding? Maybe Caimbeul thought he was protecting his sister.

  “Tell me, man to man,” Noёl said. “Do ye disapprove o’ me? Do ye think I’m not good enough for your sister?”

  Caimbeul’s eyes burned with silent anger. “Which sister?”

  It was a strange question. “The one I’m married to, o’ course.”

  Caimbeul stared at him in silence for a long while, as if deciding whether to say anything further. Finally he did. “Ye’re not married to the right one.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  Instead of answering, Caimbeul focused on the ground and said tightly, “Ye’ve slept with her, haven’t ye?”

  Noёl let the lad’s words sink in. What did he mean, “the right one”? Was it possible he’d married the wrong sister?

  “She’s Cathalin. Aye?” he asked, fearful of the answer.

  “She’s not.”

  Noёl felt the breath freeze in his chest. How could that be? How could he have wed—and coupled with—the wrong sister?

  Then he glanced again at the young man. Perhaps Caimbeul was mad. Perhaps he was confused. Perhaps that was why his father had chained him up.

  “Are ye certain?” he asked.

  “O’ course I’m certain. I know my own sisters. Ye’ve wed…and bedded,” he added with a sneer, “Ysenda, not Cathalin.”

  Noёl couldn’t comprehend it all. He rose slowly to his feet. “But why would…”

  “My father wanted a Highlander, not a Norman, to inherit his land.”

  “But ’tisn’t up to your father. Two kings have decreed this marriage.”

  “Aye, and ye’ve seen it through. As far as ye know, ye’re wedded to Cathalin.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. If she’s not the real Cathalin, then when the laird dies—”

  “Ye’ll inherit nothin’. The land will go to the real Cathalin and her Highlander husband.”

  Noёl was astounded. “That can’t be true. Every member o’ the clan would have to be privy to the deception in order for—”

  “No one said a word when you mistook Ysenda for Cathalin. They were too afraid to gainsay the laird. My father was overjoyed. Ye played perfectly into his hands.”

  All the air went out of Noёl’s lungs. How could this have happened? Had his honest mistake become an act of rebellion? He shook his head, which was spinning as he recalled the events of the past day.

  “Your father was afraid ye’d speak out,” he realized. “That’s why h
e had a knife at your throat.”

  Caimbeul nodded.

  “And why he’s put ye in chains now.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then he mustn’t know I came to speak with ye.” Noёl straightened and placed a hand of reassurance on Caimbeul’s forearm. “I don’t know how, but I promise ye…brother…I’ll make everythin’ right.”

  With that, he left the chamber. But his mind was far from settled. And as he descended the stairs, he began thinking—not like a suitor, but like a warrior.

  By offering him the wrong bride, Laird Gille had intentionally broken an oath to two kings. By rights, Noёl should drag him before the royal court.

  But the clan would turn on him if he made a prisoner of their laird. That was the last thing he wanted to do, considering that some day these people would be his responsibility. He’d always ruled his knights, not by force, but by earning their respect. And that was how he wished to rule the clan.

  Besides, he’d only brought a small contingent of his men. True, they were Knights of de Ware. But they were no match for a hundred angry clansmen.

  There had to be another way. And he was determined to find it.

  Still, that wasn’t the most troubling aspect of the deception for Noёl. The worst part was knowing his bride had lied to him. She’d held his hand, kissed him, spoken the handfasting vows.

  His brow creased as he remembered she’d asked him not to consummate the marriage. Perhaps she’d had one moment of regret then.

  But they had consummated the marriage. She’d let him… Nae, he corrected, he’d imposed himself upon her. It had been an accident, but it had been his fault. Maybe she hadn’t wanted for it to happen.

  Still, she’d never told him the truth—that she was not his real betrothed—even though there had been ample opportunity for her confession.

  She’d laughed with him.

  She’d slept with him.

  She’d made him fall in love with her.

  Was it all a lie? Did she have no feelings for him?

  He frowned, swallowing down the lump lodged in his throat.

  It didn’t matter, he told himself. They were not intended to be husband and wife anyway. He would find some way to annul the marriage. No one had seen them in the bedchamber. He could claim he’d never consummated the handfasting. That way she could continue her life, unburdened by their sin.

  But his heart felt like it was breaking in two. He couldn’t get her laughing gray eyes out of his mind. Nor could he think about the other sister, the one he was supposed to marry, without a shudder of distaste.

  He would do his duty, for king and country, no matter how painful it was. But he would never be happy about it.

  Chapter 7

  Ysenda watched with the rest of the clan as the Yuletide bonfire was lit in the courtyard. Sir Noёl stood beside her. The flames illuminated his face. But his expression was still inscrutable, as it had been since he’d returned from the keep. She didn’t know what was wrong. Somehow he seemed…distant.

  It was probably just as well. After failing to convince Cathalin to do the right thing and marry Noёl, Ysenda figured her only hope was to make Noёl fall in love with Cathalin. Once he saw her sister in her best light, surely he couldn’t help but be charmed by her. All men loved Cathalin. And of course, Cathalin would fall madly in love with him, for what woman would not? Maybe then Ysenda could repair the damage that had been done.

  Of course, the whole idea made her sick at heart. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Noёl, especially to her spoiled sister. But for the sake of her brother, whom she’d vowed to protect, and for her clan, to whom she owed allegiance, she’d make the sacrifice.

  “Ysenda!” she called softly to her sister, nudging her when she didn’t respond to the unfamiliar name.

  Cathalin scowled.

  Undaunted, Ysenda touched Noёl’s forearm and smiled back at her sister. “I was goin’ to tell Sir Noёl about the time we tried to save the pups in the pond.”

  Cathalin stared silently back. Finally she shrugged and said, “Go on then.”

  Ysenda gave her sister a pointed look. “But ye tell it so much better.”

  Cathalin sighed. “What’s to tell? We saw the pups in the pond, and we jumped in to pull them out.”

  Ysenda’s face fell. “Aye.” She turned to Noёl to explain. “But ’twas silly, because the mother hound was only tryin’ to teach them to swim.” She grinned. “We didn’t know they could swim, so we dove in to save them. And when Ca-, my sister found out, she was furious, because she got her new gown soakin’ wet.”

  Cathalin managed a small smile then. “After ’twas ruined, I gave ye that gown.”

  “So ye did,” Ysenda said with a chuckle.

  She glanced at Noёl. His expression was one of polite interest, no more.

  Ysenda tried again. “Your hair looks lovely tonight, dear sister.”

  That worked. Cathalin touched her locks. “Do ye like it? It took Tilda half the morn to braid.”

  “’Tis beautiful. Don’t ye agree, Sir Noёl?”

  He nodded.

  Cathalin, clearly annoyed by his lack of praise, pursed her lips.

  Ysenda wrung her hands. What more could she do? What would impress Noёl?

  “Ye know, Sir Noёl, my sister is quite skilled with a needle.”

  Noёl lifted a brow. “Sewin’ cloth or jabbin’ people?”

  With a huff of irritation, Cathalin picked up her skirts and whirled away to stand beside someone else.

  Ysenda turned to Noёl in accusation. “Why did ye do that?”

  “She’s like a spoiled hound. Someone needs to bring her to heel.”

  Ysenda thought about his words as the flames flickered high into the night sky.

  “Someone like ye,” she decided. “Someone who could take her in hand, teach her patiently, bring out the best in her.” She gulped. “Do ye think ye could be happy with…someone like my sister?”

  His mouth tightened as he stared into the fire. “Not nearly as happy as I am with ye.”

  Ysenda’s eyes filled. She tried to blame the smoke. But her heart was breaking.

  “I… I’ve grown tired. I’m goin’ to go up to bed.”

  She didn’t wait for his reply. She needed to get away before she burst into tears. Maybe Noёl would speak again with Cathalin. Maybe not. But she would at least give them the opportunity.

  After she left, Noёl tried valiantly to fall in love with Cathalin. He stared at her from afar in the bonfire’s glow, admiring her perfect profile, her creamy skin, her pouting lips. He watched her laugh when someone whispered in her ear. He saw her toss pine cones onto the fire with delicate grace.

  But she wasn’t her sister. She didn’t have Ysenda’s honest face, her sweetness, her endearing awkwardness and innocent charm. Cathalin was haughty, coddled, and hopelessly vain. Life with her would be unpleasant.

  Noёl watched his chance at happiness float away, like one of the bright sparks from the bonfire, rising and becoming swallowed by the black sky. All he could think about was the irresistible lass who waited in her bedchamber even now, less than a hundred steps away.

  She’d pledged him her troth. She’d spoken the words to bind them as man and wife. At least, that was what she wanted the world to believe. And if she wished to keep up that appearance, why should he deny it?

  If tonight was to be their last night together…if tomorrow he would confront the laird and demand his true bride…then perhaps he should seize what joy he could before he resigned himself to a lifetime of misery.

  He gave the woman he was supposed to wed one last glance. She was beautiful. There was no doubt. But she was no match for the lass he’d married.

  Against his better judgment, he took those hundred steps to the bedchamber.

  When he softly entered the room, his wife was crouched by the fire, stirring the coals. She shot to her feet in surprise. The flames crackled to life behind her, illuminating the sheer linen of he
r leine, leaving nothing to his imagination.

  “I thought ye were stayin’ below a while.” Her voice was cautious.

  His eyes never left her as he closed the door behind him. “And I thought ye were goin’ to bed.”

  “I was. I am.”

  This woman had lied to him. She’d deceived him, earning his trust now so she could exploit it later. Worst of all, she’d made him fall in love with her. By all rights, he should feel hurt and betrayed.

  But seeing her in the hearth’s soft glow—her face alit, her eyes shining, her lips so tempting—made him feel only longing.

  Had her affection for him been a ruse? Did she feel nothing for him?

  He had to find out.

  “Then let’s go to bed together,” he said.

  She gulped. “Don’t ye want to watch the Yule fire?”

  “Nae. I’ve seen enough.” He took a step toward her.

  She fidgeted with her gown. “They make a circle round the outside…”

  He took another step.

  She licked her lips. “And they walk…”

  He took a third step.

  “In the direction o’ the sun, so…”

  His fourth step brought him close enough to detect the smoky desire in her eyes. And when he lowered his gaze, he could see the sweet curve between her breasts where the linen gapped away.

  “Tell me somethin’,” he whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

  “Aye?” Her voice cracked.

  “Do ye love me at all?”

  As she stared up at him, her eyes filled with tears, and her chin began to tremble.

  He felt his heart crack. She might not want to say the words. But the answer was there in her silence.

  He clenched his jaw against bitter disappointment.

  But just as he would have turned and left her alone—perhaps to drown his sorrows in a barrel of Bordeaux—she collided against his chest with a great sob.

  “Oh, aye, god help me, but I do, Noёl. I love ye so much.”

  She rained kisses and tears on him in equal measure. The warmth of her admission was a soothing balm to his heart. He held her close, too lost in relief and joy to think beyond the moment.