by Trisha Telep
Alec sheathed his sword and pointed at him. “Ye, William Brindle will give yer daughter, Rachel, to me.” He pointed to Phillip and Colin. “Ye two will witness.” He swivelled back around to Father Daughtry. “And ye will sanctify our marriage with yer bloody blessing.” For another long moment it seemed everyone had been frozen, until Phillip slapped Alec on the back, a smile on his roguish face.
“And what would you have me do?” Rachel’s voice seemed small compared to Alec’s mighty roar – small but strong. She held her gaze steady as he turned to her.
His face was chiselled, jaw tight, eyes sparking. But his voice was gentle. “Ye will say ‘I do’.”
Rachel met him with her own spark. “I haven’t heard a question.” With that she walked away through the maze of statues to the doors and stepped into the summer breeze.
Indignation warred with hope. Marriage? She barely knew Alec Munro. All the reasons she should be furious and appalled tumbled through her head. But … the thought of Alec, his warmth, his strength, his easy acceptance of her powers, fluttered within Rachel’s stomach and squeezed her heart.
Rachel’s feet brought her to the stables and she entered, breathing in the pungent smell of fresh hay. The large lashed eyes of several mares turned her way as they munched, tails swishing. Rachel leaned against the wooden wall. She barely had time to think before she heard Alec’s footfalls grinding into the pebbles of the bailey. They paused outside the stable doors and she closed her eyes. The man could obviously track.
The light crunching paused before her and she smelled the clean male scent that was all Alec. “Rachel.” His voice started a shiver that catapulted through her body. She slowly opened her eyes and stared up at the massive Highland warrior. “Life flashes by too fast up here to waste time courting.”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose. “Too fast for a simple question?” She propped hands on hips. “Let me teach you a little something about women, Alec Munro,” she leaned forward to stare up into his face. “You men may dream about your first battle, mentally preparing for it from the moment you can walk. Well, women dream about …” she suddenly felt foolish. Her hands slipped from her hips.
Alec caught her chin. “What, Rachel, what have ye dreamed about since ye were a wee lass?”
She pursed her lips and ignored the sting of moisture in her eyes. “The bloody question! Delivered reverently by a gallant knight.”
Alec ran his thumb over her cheekbone and grinned. “I’ll never be a gallant knight, Rachel.”
“Agreed,” she sniffed, her eyes looking to the ceiling before meeting his again. She huffed, “Delivered, then, by a stubborn, domineering, overbearing mountain of a man.”
His grin increased. “And here I was afraid ye would say ye didn’t even know me.”
She glanced down. “I don’t.”
His voice softened. “But I know a lot about ye.” He ran fingers through her curls, encouraging that shiver to the tips of her toes. She braced her trembling legs against the wall. Alec’s dark blue eyes focused on hers. “I know ye are the bravest woman I have ever met.”
He closed the scant distance between them. Rachel tried to breathe evenly. “I know ye trust me.” She frowned at his arrogance. “In the woods ye didn’t sound an alarm.” When she didn’t refute he continued. “Ye possess magic and it’s a blessing, but it should only be used when necessary because it tires ye.” He raised her wrist and traced the wings of the brown dragonfly mark.
Alec’s nose skimmed the pulse of her neck, his lips hovering up to her jaw. Rachel’s heart pounded. “I know yer scent.” He inhaled and goose bumps rippled along her arms.
His hand moved to her chest, palm against her heart, fingers stretched up along her collarbone. “I know the sound of yer heart racing and how yer sky blue eyes turn darker when I am close.” She would have denied it but guessed it was true.
“Ye like sweetened raspberries and are exceedingly clever.” His palms cupped her cheeks and Rachel’s lips opened on their own accord but he held himself apart. She almost groaned in frustration. “And I know ye meddle and get into trouble when ye think ’tis the right thing to do. We’re certain to yell a bit at each other. For ye have spirit, lass, to match my own.”
His nose touched hers and she hardly breathed. Several heartbeats passed. His heat scorched her. His scent filled her every breath. His strength radiated outward, encompassing her, making her weak and mighty at the same time.
Rachel cleared her throat. “But there’s more to me.”
“And we have decades to learn the particulars,” he whispered so close to her lips she felt the breeze of his words. She nodded, brushing his forehead. He lowered his hands and straightened, a look of mild disappointment tightening his face.
“And what do ye know of me, besides the fact that I’m stubborn and a mountain of a man?” He flexed his thick biceps as if proving her physical description.
She smirked. “You forgot domineering and overbearing.” He tipped his head in acceptance and a small laugh broke from her grin. “Well … you are kind to let my father live.” He nodded vehemently. “You have a good sense of direction and know how to cook a rabbit.”
“And find raspberries,” he added.
“Charming” – she could add that. Charming when he wanted to be. “A leader of a great clan.” He nodded. “And I think … honourable.”
“I always keep my promises, lass.”
“You are good with a sword and you smell clean and wholesome,” she added quickly.
He flashed white teeth. “Because I am clean and wholesome.” He stepped close again. “But ye forgot a most important part of me, something that I’ve recently stumbled upon.” His face grew serious, almost pained for a moment, as he caught a curl and tucked it behind her ear with a caress. “When that bastard Macbain stabbed ye –”
“Because I was meddling.”
“Aye,” his quick grin faded just as fast as it was born. His gaze moved to the ceiling. “Let me back up.” He paused until he looked her in the eye again. “I hate the Macbains.” Pure loathing shook his voice. “They killed my father, my two brothers, and would have killed me.” He took a large breath of air. “But when Angus Riley,” he nearly spit the name, “stabbed ye, all I could think about was saving ye, holding yer warm body against mine again, kissing ye.” Rachel felt her blush but couldn’t look away. “I could have turned and killed him there, possibly killed The Macbain himself, but,” he shook his head, “they meant nothing.” His eyebrows rose as if surprised. Alec’s fingers brushed her cheek and she suddenly realized a tear had trailed down it. “All I could think about was Rachel Brindle and how much …” his lips tightened as if he were about to say something foreign. “How much … I love ye.”
Rachel’s breath caught. Alec took her hand in his and his voice deepened with his oath. “Tha gaol agam ort, Rachel. Gu bràth, forever.” He leaned in so close, his bottom lip brushed hers. He waited. “I doona break my promises.”
Rachel moved her lips against his but he held still. The memory of his oath in the cave surfaced. He’d kept his promise not to kiss her until she asked. This wild, headstrong barbarian was her gallant knight. “I love you too.” She took his face in her hands. “Kiss me, Alec Munro.”
As if her words broke through a dam, Alec’s entire being swamped her. His lips, hot and urgent, melded with her own. His arms caught her up, fitting her into the shelter of his body, pressing her tightly to his muscled form. The physical difference between them sent a giddy rapture spiralling through Rachel. She let him hold her up as sensation after sensation washed away everything but his taste, his scent, his touch. The rough board at Rachel’s back that Alec pressed her against faded from her consciousness, as did everything but their hearts racing together. Alec’s kisses trailed down Rachel’s neck and she moaned softly. Only then did she hear the polite cough.
She stiffened and Alec growled. “Be gone, Phillip.” Alec’s hot lips feathered back up to Rachel’s and she rela
xed as his hands ran caresses down her arms.
A deep chuckle. “It’s customary for the bride to say ‘I do’ before …”
“I do,” Rachel breathed against Alec’s lips. He paused and she blinked open to see his broad smile. His blue eyes shone bright and he threw back his head and laughed. She couldn’t help but join him. Alec picked her up. Rachel gasped on a giggle and clung hard to his neck as he carried her towards the altar.
“I do, too,” Alec said against her ear. The heat in his words scorched her. “Let us tell the good father quickly then. I have a desire to learn everything about ye. From the curls of yer lovely head to the tips of yer wee toes, and everything in between.” He paused to seal his oath.
Rachel’s blood surged with the promise in Alec’s kiss, a promise of adventures and passion, a promise of a lifetime of love.
The Pagan Bride
Patricia Grasso
Aberdeenshire, Scotland, 1565
Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, mad as a hatter.
Standing beside the boy’s pallet, Avril Gordon recalled her late mother’s instructions and placed her palm against his burning forehead. His lips looked parched, his face crimson. She snapped her fingers in front of his unseeing eyes, and he mumbled nonsense as if caught in a nightmare.
“Gavin has eaten nightshade berries.” Avril turned to the earl’s farrier, the man’s ashen-faced wife, and his oldest son.
“I dared him to eat the berries,” ten-year-old Duncan admitted, his misery apparent. “I promised to do his chores for a week.”
Avril slid her gaze to Duncan. “You may be doing his chores forever.”
The farrier slapped the ten-year-old. “You’ve killed your brother.”
“Fergus, beating this son will not cure the other.” Avril looked at Duncan, “Fetch me a cup of water.”
Avril set her mortar and pestle on the table and removed two packets of herbs from her satchel. Placing both herbs into the mortar, she ground them into a powder and stirred the powder into the water.
“Carry Gavin outside,” she ordered the farrier. “Hold him in a kneeling position.”
Outside, Avril crouched beside the eight-year-old and pressed the cup to his lips. “Drink, Gavin. Small sips will cure what ails you.”
I hope. Murmuring soothing words of encouragement, Avril managed to get the boy to down the water.
“What now?” Fergus asked.
“We wait.”
Several minutes later, the eight-year-old vomited and vomited and vomited. Avril placed her palm against his forehead and gazed into eyes that seemed more focused. His babbling had ceased, his high colour was beginning to recede.
“Gavin will sleep,” Avril said, standing, “and all will be well.”
“Lady Avril, you are a credit to your mother’s memory.” The farrier carried his youngest inside.
“I owe you my son’s life,” the wife said. “Whatever will we do when you marry and leave us?”
“That day lives in the future.” Avril patted the woman’s shoulder and then rounded on the ten-year-old. “You will do your brother’s chores for a month, and you will never dare anyone again.”
“I promise, my lady.”
Avril walked away, her relief making her legs weak. Once out of sight, she used her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her temples and brushed a damp wisp of red hair from her face. She owed the Goddess thanks for saving the boy. Many thanks. Profuse thanks.
Slipping out through Huntly Castle’s postern gate, Avril followed the path through the woodland to her favourite clearing. She felt protected there, surrounded by trees – especially the oaks – the kings and queens of the forest.
Reaching the clearing, Avril gathered nine stones at random and began making a circle. She placed the first stone in the northwest and, moving clockwise, set the rest of the stones down to represent each earthly direction. Avril entered the circle from the west and moved to close it behind her with a stone.
“Sister,” The Earl of Huntly stood at the clearing’s edge, his arms folded across his chest. “Step out of the circle.”
With an inward groan, Avril wished her parents weren’t dead. Her brother was tougher than her father.
Avril sent the Goddess a silent prayer of thanks and then collected the stones in reverse direction. She walked towards her brother.
The Earl of Huntly tugged her fiery braid and, throwing his arm around her shoulders, ushered her down the path. “The Old Ways endanger you.”
Avril gave him a sidelong glance. “What do you want, George?”
“We leave for Edinburgh in the morning,” he answered. “Your Campbell husband requires your presence.”
That surprised Avril. “I thought he’d forgotten about me.”
“Campbell was waiting until you ripened.”
“Does he consider me fruit to ripen?” Avril countered, insulted. “Vows spoken between a five-year-old girl and a fifteen-year-old boy scarcely signify a marriage.”
“Your husband needs his wife with him at court,” her brother told her. “Darnley has bewitched Queen Mary. You can gain the queen’s confidence and hear the women’s gossip.”
“What if the queen dislikes me?” Avril said. “Besides, I wouldn’t know my own husband if I passed him on the road.”
“Trust me, sister. Once you see Campbell, you will never forget him.
Edinburgh
Nervous anticipation and simmering anger coiled inside her. How she began would signal how she continued. Avril stood in her bedchamber at Campbell Mansion. For the first time in her life, she suffered the urge to throttle someone.
Her husband hadn’t been home to welcome her when she and her brother arrived. George had instructed the majordomo to send for him at court.
Magnus Campbell did not seem like quality husband material. Avril would know for certain whether to stay or to go once she’d met him. Like her mother before her, Avril had been blessed with special, unworldly gifts. Her sixth sense allowed her to see beneath the masks people wore.
Humiliated by her husband’s disrespect, Avril had retreated to her bedchamber to freshen herself. Now Magnus Campbell and her brother waited in the great hall.
Her husband needed a lesson in the proper treatment of a wife. She was no biddable child and would not be ruled in this marriage, nor would she rule him. Waiting was a humbling experience, and humility would be good for his soul.
Avril inspected herself in the pier glass. She wanted to look perfect without seeming to exert any effort.
Her gown was the current fashion. Thankfully, the paleness of the yellow did not declare war on her hair as most colours did.
Her hair was too red, her height too short – Avril turned sideways – her breasts too small. She yearned for dark hair, several inches in height, and bigger breasts. Much bigger breasts.
Avril could not postpone the inevitable. Lifting her skirt, she strapped the leather garter to her leg. She never ventured outside without her last resort dagger and felt the need for protection more in Edinburgh than in the Highlands.
Downstairs, Avril stepped into the great hall. Her legs weakened at the first sight of her husband. She felt as if she’d been struck with the blunt end of a claymore.
Magnus Campbell stepped out of every maiden’s dream. He cut an imposing figure, his well-honed physique shown to best advantage in perfectly tailored, conservative midnight blue. His features were pleasing, his smile irresistible, his silvery-grey eyes the colour of mist.
She loved mist, which shrouded the tangible, allowing one to see beyond the horizon to the spirit realm – or so her mother had taught her.
“Magnus, I present your wife Avril,” George Gordon introduced them. Her brother looked at her fascinated expression, adding, “Sister, I told you so.” He left them without another word.
Magnus Campbell, the Marquis of Argyll, stared at her.
Avril Gordon, his wife of fifteen years, returned his stare.
“You have grown into a beautiful woman,” Magnus said, breaking the awkward silence. “I have never forgotten your unusual eyes.”
“Many people have blue eyes and green eyes,” Avril said. “There’s nothing unusual about it.”
“Most people are born with one colour or the other, not one of each,” Magnus said, bowing over her hand. “Are you ready to begin your life as my mate?”
Avril felt disoriented. She could not sense anything from his touch. She’d never met anyone she couldn’t judge by touch.
“I must speak with you first.” Ignoring his guarded look, Avril gave him an ambiguous smile.
Magnus motioned her to sit and, when she did, dropped into the chair beside hers. He managed to keep his expression bland, but his piercing gaze made her blush.
Damn. She’d inadvertently drawn his attention to her major flaw. Redheads were notorious blushers. On the other hand, only a blind man would miss her brazen red hair.
“What do you want to discuss?”
“We must clarify a couple of issues before we begin married life,” Avril told her hands, folded in her lap.
Her husband chuckled. “Issues?”
She snapped her gaze to his. “Don’t you have concerns?”
“Do you usually answer questions with questions?”
“Do you?” When he laughed at her impertinence, Avril answered his smile with her own. She liked his sense of humour and even temper.
“Tell me what troubles you,” Magnus said, “and we will settle these concerns.”
“I–I …” Avril felt her face heating with another blush.
“My lord?” Donald, the majordomo, served the marquis a glass of whisky and offered her a glass of lemon barley water.
“I prefer whisky,” Avril told him. She peeked at her husband who was watching her, the hint of a smile flirting with his lips.
When the majordomo returned, Avril tasted the whisky and handed him the glass saying, “I prefer Highland whisky, not this Lowland drink.”
“My wife is a Highlander,” Magnus told his man. “She can taste the difference between full-bodied Highland and floral Lowland.”
