The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  And then she heard all kinds of things. Intruding. Frightening. Extolling. Shouting.

  Something was yelled about requirements being fulfilled. Sending word. Gaining Iain MacEuann. Above that, Brielle heard calls for a bedding ceremony, sending her heart to the bottom of her belly, pounding weakness through her from there. Jeering happened. Angered voices got louder. Arguing. Challenging. Blending into a cacophony of noise. And then without warning, laughter erupted. Like a bubble bursting. Someone started singing, the thump of a keg getting opened sounded. Ale got dipped out, mugs tippled.

  And then all of it got obliterated by the sight, feel and smell of her new husband pulling at her, using the bond of their hand. Brielle seemed rooted in place. Unmoving. His visage grew larger. His frame more immense. The feel of ground beneath her bare feet faded, changing to a cloud substance.

  Someone yelled about consequences. Proof. It got answered with a man’s word being his bond, and the laird had already given it. She heard more angered voices about blood proof … and then someone said to hush and watch what was happening and they’d not need witness. Nor further argue.

  Her humanity was replaced with a reality that was Gavynn. His chest felt chiselled from stone, his belly cut from rock-hard ropes of muscle, and his shoulders might be blocks of flesh-covered iron. Brielle was crushed to all of it, breathing every inhalation with him as the din about them grew and then ebbed. And then grew again.

  Brielle felt stewed, as if she’d drunk a tankard of their strongest ale; heated, as if she knelt before an open flame; adrift, as if the berth in his arms were a cradle. Alive. Tingly aware. She’d been lifted; her knees arched over his forearm, while the other supported her back; mesmerized in place by light green eyes that glowed whenever torchlight touched them.

  Laughter came in spurts about them; ribald and lewd, loud and full. More murmurs of voices. Speaking of lust being a grand thing. It excelled through the most acrimonious of unions. Covered hate. Tempted angels from their perches. It was a panacea for all ills. Hatred. Dislike. Marriage to an enemy. Toasts were spoken, heralding great things of progeny … especially given the virility of the husband. That remark got more swells of laughter.

  Music started; first as a melodic strain from a lute, leading men to sing in off-key voices. A horn joined; drums. The addition of bagpipes only added to the melee encircling them, making a whorl of noise with Gavynn at the centre of it.

  Brielle barely heard anything. Her entire sphere was Gavynn, his breathing harsh and quick against her forehead, his eyes intent. Dangerous. He ducked slightly, swivelled, and passed through a tent flap, without releasing her gaze and without blinking. She’d never felt so odd. Tense. Primed. Needful. Brielle licked at her bottom lip before pulling it into her mouth. His eyes dropped there for the briefest moment before he bent forward, releasing her to an unsteady stand on the fabric of a pallet.

  “Can you ride?”

  He was sideways to her, adjusting clothing and grabbing at weaponry slung in pegs on the walls. Tucking wicked-looking knives along his belt, slinging a bow across his back where it joined his scabbard, ignoring her.

  “R-r-ride?”

  “Can you sit a horse or na’?”

  “Now?”

  “Aye. Now.”

  His words were curt. Angered. Causing a flurry of emotion all over. Sending tears if she didn’t get them staunched quickly enough. Brielle locked every limb in the fight against them. And hid it with a nod.

  “Good. Here.”

  He flung a pouch at her. Brielle missed it and got a snorted sound from his lips as she reached for it.

  “You need to hurry, Wife. We’ve na’ much time.”

  Wife? Brielle blinked tears into existence on her cheeks, then wiped at them as quickly as she could. It was bad enough he didn’t wish intimacy with her, without feeling how it rankled. It would be immeasurably worse if he saw … and guessed. Yet despite her efforts, more stupid moisture cursed her eyes, and that got more wiping.

  “We may yet catch them!”

  “Catch … them?” She should’ve kept the question unsaid. The sound of his movements halted momentarily. She knew why. He had heard her fighting tears.

  “Reeb. My brother. Going about the war I ordered.”

  Brielle blinked more tears down her cheeks. Used the woven material of the pouch to absorb them. Nodded again. Swallowed. Barely kept from sobbing.

  “Do you need an assist?”

  She shook her head. He went to a knee, one of their short thin knives in his hand. The blade paused. And then a hand came into her vision, cupping her chin and raising her face. Brielle shut her eyes.

  “You … cry?”

  She shook her head again. She didn’t trust her voice not to howl with horridness. It had to be the effects of incarceration; going without food, water, or rest; being kidnapped; forced to wed a barbarian … anything but this rejection. Anything.

  He dropped her chin. She watched him slice his forearm, opening a cut that immediately welled blood. He swiped it in large swooping motions on to the pallet; ripped a strip of plaid from his hem; bound it tightly on to the wound; tied it with his free hand, all the while punctuating his movements with vicious-toned words.

  “You cry without reason. I’m na’ a bad choice to husband. There are many families wishful of my hand, should I offer. And look. I am full cursed. Again. There. We’ve consummated this. Now, come. A-fore we’re stopped.”

  Fresh tears obliterated the reddish streaks on the pallet. She blinked but more came. Filling and refilling her eyes to the point of madness.

  He sighed. Heavily. The next moment she was lifted, being jostled about as he slipped through a back opening of the tent. The jog to his horse was worse, as was the feel of him behind her, pulling her close, and clicking his tongue.

  Her tears slowed when they reached open moors, before dissolving to hiccups of effort. Brielle had never been so exhausted. Limp. Drained. She felt his legs tightening on the horse’s sides, the long strides that rocked her in place, Gavynn’s heavy breath touching her nose with precise rhythm. All combined to total security.

  And then she felt absolutely nothing.

  Five

  He heard Reeb before he saw him. It wasn’t difficult. Clansmen were about the chores of feeding a group of battle-hardened men, pushing a wheeled siege tower towards their objective, while an onager gave them trouble in the sodden fields, carving at a downed tree in rhythm that would ram the gates. He whistled the alert at his presence. The activity grew slack and then died away as Gavynn rode up, to where Reeb was atop the catapult, hammering lines into place so they could send missiles against Dillbin Castle walls.

  Gavynn spurred the horse, held his wife closer, and galloped into the centre of camp, looking across and up at his brother.

  “Reeb! Halt!”

  Gavynn’s brother was an older image of Iain; immense, sturdily built, awe-inspiring … unless one saw him standing beside his older sibling. There any resemblance ended. Reeb had a head of red-blond hair and a beard to match. He was wearing little more than paint beneath his battle-scarred, faded feile-breacan, as were the others milling about. He stopped pounding at the onager bolt and turned.

  “Good. You’re here. Right in time. Help me with this!”

  “Call off the siege.”

  Reeb’s jaw split, parting his beard. And then the shock transferred to his voice, proving he possessed the MacEuann power of speech. “What?”

  The word roared through the early morn camp, stopping anyone still working. It didn’t affect the woman in Gavynn’s arms in the slightest. He knew why: exhaustion. He’d faced it often enough.

  “You heard me. Call it off.”

  “The man will na’ release Iain!”

  “He will now. I have his daughter.” Gavynn tilted his head towards the unconscious woman in his arms.

  “What wizardry is this?” Reeb jumped down, sinking into ground that was full saturated, and then stepping towards Gavynn�
��s horse. He looked from the bundle in Gavynn’s arms back to him. “Where’s your Honour Guard?”

  “Last seen, they were splitting a keg with Dillbin’s troops.”

  “Good news! The castle will be unguarded. You hear that, lads?”

  “I ordered it called off, Reeb. I meant it.”

  His brother gave a huge sigh. “I already sent word of what he’ll face once we break through.”

  “Nae need.”

  “The man has na’ even answered! He’s the basest coward. You expect me to accept that? And back off my demands?”

  Gavynn shook his head, getting a whiff of her hair. “The man possesses cunning, Reeb. Mount your men and ride with me. He’ll open the gate willingly. You’ll see.”

  Reeb sucked in his belly, puffed out his chest, and looked angered. “’Twill na’ matter which MacEuann he faces, brother. The man is Sassanach. Overly boastful, and full-bold. He does na’ ken what it means to face us. He’ll na’ open those gates.”

  “He will. I’m his new son-by-law.”

  This time Reeb’s jaw completely dropped. Gavynn couldn’t help his smile.

  “Up, my Lady! Up. You can’t sleep much longer … although heaven knows, you have need.” The cheerful words accompanied movement about the room, pulling drapes and opening shutters. “Now Elspeth. Mary. Direct the freemen about the bath. Before the fireplace. And be quick on it!”

  Brielle opened her eyes to a coverlet, embroidered all over with stitches she’d designed and executed, using thread of a pristine white against the ecru-shaded linen. She lifted her head, groaned at the ache that happened, and dropped back to her pillow. It smelled fresh. Clean. And she’d slept on her belly. Face-down. That was totally foreign and made her neck hurt, too.

  “You needn’t rush it, my Lady. There’s plenty of time a-fore the banquet.”

  “Banquet?” Brielle addressed the word to her pillow, moving numbed arms in position for a roll to her side. Or something. Her mind was in denial of what her senses told her. She was in her own chamber, her own maid in attendance. All of it impossible.

  “Aye. A grand affair. I vow, there’s not been such goings-on since your dear mother passed on, God rest her soul. Why … the preparations alone are mind-spinning. They’ve got more game meats roasting than we had spits for. They had to construct more out on the list, where the smell rouses more than one appetite. And for certain the cook staff is flustered, what with orders to prepare all sorts of tempting breads and puddings. The aleswoman is beside herself. She’s had to break into the stock for enough brew. Even her mead. And you know that woman brews a stout mead.” There was the sound of smacking lips. “’Twill be quite the affair. His Lordship even hired real musicians this time. Not like that horrid Arran fellow from the other night. That man can’t play a pipe to save his arse!”

  The maid chuckled at her own jibe, and then sent a scraping sound through the chamber. Brielle rotated her head and watched her privacy screen get set up. Just like normal. As if she hadn’t left this room four days ago with a cowl about her for warmth and an escort of guards on her way to the dungeon. Brielle groaned.

  “Here, Lady Brielle. I’ve brought you a bit of that mead. Warmed. Just as you like it. It’ll be just the thing. You’ll see. We’ll have you up and dressed in your finery for presentation in no time.” Brielle was on her side, and then she was working at sitting up, all of it accompanied by massive ache that had no centre. She scooted back into layers of pillows fronting her headboard, accepted the mug of steamed liquid and sipped. And then she looked over at her maid.

  “Presentation?” The word was low-toned and harsh. It was a good thing she’d swallowed the mead, otherwise she’d possess no voice at all. Brielle frowned. Sipped.

  “Your new husband ordered it so.”

  Her throat revolted and Brielle choked, coughed and then had to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. Through it all, she could feel ache spreading. She knew where it originated now and hated everything about it. She didn’t dare feel anything for him. She couldn’t. And nothing that could be labelled as love. It wasn’t warranted. It wasn’t feasible. It wasn’t possible.

  And she knew she lied.

  “The MacEuann is a prime catch. Your father is announcing it to all. Has sent word to the king! He’s proud of you, My Lady. You’ve gone and captured the MacEuann laird!”’

  “’Tis a shame he doesn’t want me. Is Father announcing that?”

  “What nonsense is this? You’re an heiress! MacEuann’s been assessing your dowry all afternoon. What man wouldn’t want that?”

  “I said he doesn’t want me. Not the riches that come with my hand.”

  The maid stopped her fussing, put her hands on her hips and regarded Brielle. “He looked full pleased to me.”

  “When?” Brielle lifted the mug and took a sip.

  “I was here when he carried you in, held real close. He placed you with extra care. Stood looking at you, and I’m telling you. He sure had the look of wanting his bride. Now come. Drink up. We’ve got to bathe and dress, and that water is na’ getting any warmer while you tarry.”

  Brielle sipped at her mead and regarded her maid. And hoped.

  No afternoon had seemed longer or more tedious; filled with looking over the castle, examining the treasury, listening to everything that came with Brielle’s hand. As if they hadn’t already wed, satisfying both families’ honour. Gavynn was bored before reaching the armoury, long before a tour of the battlements, looking at the land claimed as a demesne, and nothing kept him from swaying from foot to foot when they examined the stables. It was Brielle’s hand that mattered, not what came with it.

  Gavynn followed the steward’s words, hiding the sense of anticipation just beneath the surface. It had been there when he’d awakened, and it just kept growing. Preparing. Readying. Going to a dizzying increase of pulse-beat whenever he thought of seeing her again. He had no choice but to temper it. And then hide it.

  And now, here he was, at the time when the meats would be removed from the Great Hall, and his new wife had yet to even show herself. Gavynn put another tasteless bite in his mouth, chewed it and glanced at Iain, looking pale and thin in a position beside Reeb. Gavynn knew the lad expected and dreaded punishment for being the catalyst behind this marriage. Iain didn’t know there wouldn’t be any. And Gavynn wasn’t saying. Yet.

  He smiled slightly at his brother’s discomfiture. Such a thing was punishment enough for being caught reaving without taking a clansman for assist.

  The slightest change alerted Gavynn of Brielle’s entrance. A ripple went along the crowded tables below him, lifting man after man to his feet. Silently. In homage. Gavynn half-stood as well, despite being on an elevated dais. Then he settled back into an indolent position, as if she meant little. He couldn’t do anything about the increase of heart-beat as Lady Brielle neared, wearing a silver-cast satin that shimmered in the torch-light, while the same shade of veil trailed from the point of her headdress. It framed and highlighted her beauty. Needlessly.

  Despite the hold he exerted, Gavynn couldn’t prevent a lurch towards her … as if beckoned. As if she actually wanted him. It also evidenced how little he’d managed to temper his own desire. The anticipation was humming through him, sending frustration with it. Gavynn shook in place. This was much worse than his first wedding. He’d been eighteen then, and forced as well. His bride had turned her nose up at him, too, but it hadn’t felt like this. He’d had to force his feet to her bedchamber. This time, he’d be doing the opposite: running away.

  Gavynn rubbed his palms along his thighs, moving wool plaid with the motion. He missed her approach due to it, but he knew it was happening. Silence seemed to fill the area about her, a reverent kind of sound. And then she was there. At his side. Being seated with a swish of satin, the slightest scent hovering about, sending his senses into alarm and fright, and kicking his heart into sporadic, heavy thumps that had nothing rhythmic to them. He turned his head to watch as she put a m
orsel to her mouth. Chewed it. Swallowed. His throat made an answering gulp. And then she spoke.

  “My Laird?”

  Her whisper carried even more sweetness! Gavynn tightened his fingers about each knee before turning fully to her and forced his gaze to hers. The moment their eyes touched, she jerked hers away, putting dark lashes against her cheeks.

  He reached for his tankard. “Aye?”

  “I need to ask you … something.”

  Her voice was hesitant and light. It was going to haunt his every waking moment! It already was, he decided.

  “Ask it,” he replied curtly.

  “I need you to keep silent … a bit … longer. Please?”

  Gavynn wasn’t pretending the confusion over her words. His entire body suffered it. He grunted what went for an answer.

  “He m-may not … release your b-brother … if he … knows.”

  Her stammered words tied him in a thousand knots and then pulled at each of them. Gavynn lifted the drinking vessel to his lips to disguise the shake. “Kens what?”

  “That I … displease you.”

  Displease him? Gavynn choked, felt the sear, and forced the cough away by sheer will. It made his eyes water and his throat burn, but it was done.

  “What?”

  The croak of voice carried his surprise. He put the tankard back down with a slam, blinked moisture out of his eyes, and watched her look out over the assemblage, the slightest pout to her lips.

  “You were forced to – to … wed me.”

  “What of it?” And God curse the effect she has on me! Gavynn held his sporran in place with both hands before it alerted any who looked of his inability to control his own desire for his new wife. He waited two full heartbeats. Then she moved, tipping her chin to meet his gaze full on, stopping every other sound in the room.