His bride.
He gripped the edge of the window casing and watched her. Truly she was beautiful. Milky skin, soft delicate features, a virginal blush about her cheeks mirroring the pale pink of the roses she crushed to her breast.
She was as promised—all any man could want in a bride.
Yet he was wholly unmoved.
His gaze shifted to his silver wedding band and its smaller twin—Rika’s ring—circling his little finger. He’d not had the heart to cast them away.
“Good God, you’re alive!”
He spun toward the voice. August Sinclair stood in the open doorway of the chamber, openmouthed, his face twisted in astonishment.
“Aye,” George said, “it seems that I am.”
“But…” Sinclair eyed him warily, as if he did not believe George was real.
“We were shipwrecked.”
“S-so we heard.”
“Ye know then, about my men, and my—”
“Aye, ’twas a terrible tragedy.”
Sommerled’s gentle face flashed in George’s mind. His gut knotted in pain and remorse. “I…I washed ashore on Fa—on an island, and had a devil of a time catching a vessel home.” ’Twas best, he thought, not to reveal too much. “I…I came as soon as I could.”
Sinclair stepped closer. His expression of disbelief faded to one of concern. Nowhere was the relief, or the anger, George expected to see.
“I apologize for the inconvenience I must have caused ye and your family. The wedding was planned for more than a fortnight ago, and ye must have gone to great trouble to change—”
“Nay, dinna fash about it.” Sinclair waved a hand in dismissal, but continued to frown. He paced the floor of the chamber, stroking his short beard, as if he were considering something of great import.
“Your daughter,” George began.
“Aye, she’s in the garden—” Sinclair stopped short “—but dinna go to her just yet.”
George relaxed, grateful for this small reprieve. He was nowhere near ready to meet the lass. His head was still spinning from the events of the past weeks. In the back of his mind he wondered whether he could get out of it all together—the marriage, the alliance, everything.
God’s blood, what was he thinking?
’Twas his duty, his destiny. All the plans were made. One short month ago—it seemed like a lifetime—he couldn’t wait to meet his bride and seal the bargain.
Why, then, did every instinct tell him to quit this place and go?
He caught himself toying with Rika’s wedding band, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his breeks to stop from fidgeting. Too well, he knew where he wished to be, and ’twas not in the arms of a dark-haired maiden in a castle in Wick.
Sinclair resumed pacing, apparently lost in thought, and George used the time to consider his own situation. He stepped again to the window, drawn by Anne’s pretty laughter.
How could he not want her?
Mayhap she was not so fair as first he’d thought. He narrowed his eyes and studied her more closely. Aye, she was…too small, her skin too white, her features too fragile. He couldn’t imagine her strong enough to weather a long walk, let alone a day’s ride. Surely not a sea voyage. And she’d probably never handled a weapon in her life.
Nor did she look very bright. In fact, the king had mentioned her lack of education, as if it were a boon. Likely, she knew nothing of the weather or the sea or the stars. For certain she would have no head for chess or other strategic pursuits.
Why then, he wondered, did William the Lion speak so favorably of her? She was not at all remarkable.
Remarkable.
Hadn’t he and Lawmaker discussed that very topic? He couldn’t rightly remember their conversation, but he had the nagging feeling that the old man had been trying to tell him something.
Anne’s silly chittering pulled him out of his thoughts. He sucked in a breath of chill air and knew what he must do. Hang the consequences. He turned to the chieftain. “Sinclair, we must speak plain.”
Sinclair stopped pacing and joined him at the window. “Aye, there is something ye must know. When we thought ye dead, we made other arr—”
“Before this goes further, I would have ye know my feelings about this marriage.”
“Grant, what I have to say ye may no like, but—”
“Not that I wish to compromise our alliance in any way. It’s just that I’ve changed my—”
Sinclair raised a hand to silence him. “We thought ye dead. We made other arrangements.”
His brows arched of their own accord. “What?” Saint Columba be praised if it were true!
“Besides, she’s in love with someone else.”
Both of them turned at the sound of the feminine voice. Mistress Sinclair, whom George had met on his arrival, whooshed into the room and joined them at the window.
“That has naught to do with it,” Sinclair said. “’Twas a business arrangement and—”
“For pity’s sake, August, that has everything to do with it.” Mistress Sinclair nodded to her daughter in the garden. “Just look at her. She’s smitten.”
The three of them gazed down at Anne, who now sat alone in the garden on a stone bench, caressing the dried petals of her bouquet.
George blinked, speechless. Never would he have expected this to go so easy. Still, once William the Lion got word that he lived, he might find himself right back in the thick of this arrangement.
“Now May, I told ye no to meddle in the affairs o’ the cl—”
“Who is the man?” George said. Mayhap he could somehow turn the situation to his advantage.
“That’s the strangest part of all,” Sinclair said. “It happened so quickly, after all of us thought ye dead. In truth, methinks ’tis a better match all around and serves our political purpose as well.”
He shook his head, now totally befuddled.
“Why, there he is now,” Mistress Sinclair said.
George’s gaze slid again to the garden, and his heart stopped.
A fair-haired youth dashed breathless across the snow-dusted flagstones into the open arms of Anne Sinclair. The bouquet of pink roses spilled from her lap.
“Sommerled,” George breathed.
Rika stood on the crumbling battlement of the ruined keep and shivered against the waxing wind. The setting sun lent a pinkish cast to the snow-covered moors and the scarred earth of the quarry.
She turned toward her jailer. “I should have finished you when I had the chance.”
Ingolf grinned at her. “You may yet have another. When Brodir’s done with you he’s promised me a go.” Rika gritted her teeth as Ingolf traced a dirty finger across her throat. “Take you my meaning, whore?” She slapped his hand away, and he laughed.
“Enough!” Brodir stepped onto the battlement from the stair leading down, and nodded at his henchman.
“Find the quarry master and see that he’s done what I’ve asked.”
Ingolf scurried past him like a rat. When his footsteps faded on the stair, Brodir turned his attention to her.
“Think you to keep me prisoner here?” she said, determined not to let him intimidate her.
Brodir lumbered toward her. She’d forgotten how big he was. She was tall, yet he towered over her by a head and outweighed her by seven or eight stone.
“For a while.” He smiled—that terrible smile. “Until I tire of the scenery—or of you.”
“You have my silver, what more could you want from me?” She regretted the question the moment it slid from her lips. He loomed over her, and by sheer will alone she held her ground.
“Have you forgotten so soon?” One beefy hand closed over her braceleted wrist and squeezed.
She gritted her teeth and looked him in the eye.
“I’m hurt,” he said in a mocking tone. “After all, we were…betrothed.”
“No longer. I am already wed.”
The smile slid from his face, and he released her. “So Ingolf h
as told me. He’s a Scot, ja?”
Her pride got the better of her fear. She tipped her chin at him. “He is. A chieftain.”
“A chieftain? Well.” He circled her slowly. “So, where is he, this husband of yours?”
Heat burned her face despite the frigid wind whipping at her hair and garments. “He’s…away. On business.”
“What, he leaves his wife alone to exchange her fortune for some worthless chattel. Think you, woman, I’m a complete fool?”
“My brother’s life is far from worthless.”
Brodir laughed. “His life is over—at sunset tomorrow.”
Her blood froze in her veins.
“And the lives of those sniveling whelps you dragged with you from Frideray.”
Rika stepped in front of him, and a look of surprise washed over his dark features. “Touch them and I’ll kill you,” she said.
“Ha! What’s this?” His gaze raked over her. “Men’s garments do not a warrior make. Think you to slay me? With what, your bare hands?”
She reached instinctively for weapons that were not there. Brodir shrugged, grinning, and for the first time she noticed the sword hilt protruding from his shoulder baldric.
“That’s Gunnar’s weapon. Give it to me!” She lunged and he caught her arm in a death grip.
“So it is. A present from Ingolf. By rights your husband should have it. I repeat my question…where is he?”
He released her, and she fell back against the crenellated wall of the battlement.
“I told you, he…”
“He left you, didn’t he?”
She scrambled to her feet, burning at the comment.
“Ingolf told me. He was betrothed to another. A Scot. One of his own. And as soon as he might, he left you—for her.”
Heat flushed her face. Rage and shame twisted inside her like a vortex.
“Smart man.”
She went for the dagger belted at his waist, but he was ready for her. In a matter of seconds he had her immobilized, lifting her off her feet and turning her in his arms so that she faced out overlooking the quarry. Fruitlessly she struggled against him.
“Look!” he commanded. “Look your last on your brother.” With his free hand he wrenched her jaw toward the barracks below them.
Slave laborers marched two abreast from the slag heaps toward their ramshackle barracks. In the dying light her eyes searched for familiar faces. There! Ottar and Erik and Leif. And with them—ja!
“Gunnar!” she cried, just as Brodir clamped a hand over her mouth. A disturbance broke out among the laborers. She fought to see, kicking and scratching, biting at Brodir’s filthy hand. The stench of him was near overpowering.
“Enough!” he raged, and dropped her on her feet. “There! See him! Take your last look.”
She leaned out over the battlement, trembling, scanning the ranks of laborers, calling her brother’s name. A host of guards broke up the skirmish near the barracks entrance, and as the slaves were herded inside, one paused and raised a hand to her in recognition.
“Gunnar,” she breathed. Her hand shot up. Joy and despair wrenched her heart. Gunnar was pushed inside the barracks, along with the others.
“You see?” Brodir said. “There is naught to be done. I made the same mistake with your brother as you did with Ingolf. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
She turned on him, seething. “You mean when first you kidnapped him.”
“Exactly. But I thought a good long stint in this hellhole might do him some good. He always was a weakling.”
“He was your jarl.”
Brodir snorted. “He was soft. Not a fit leader for our folk. I did what had to be done and have no regrets. Except one. Would that I had seen Lawmaker die.”
She stood there looking at him, incredulous, wondering when her fear of him had changed to hate and, finally, pity. The power he once held over her had vanished, yet he was no different. The same selfish, ignorant man.
She was the one who had changed. Loving Grant had changed her. That she could no longer deny.
Brodir sensed her transformation, and the edgy fusion of wariness and disbelief she read in his dark eyes fueled her courage.
“You cannot harm me now, no matter what you do to me.”
The last of the pale light faded to gray, and in that eerie twilight he smiled the smile reserved solely for her.
“Oh no?” he whispered, and closed the distance between them.
Her last thoughts before he herded her below stairs and toward his makeshift bedchamber were of Grant.
George.
Thank God he was safe in Wick.
A dozen regrets raced through her mind, but sending him away was not one of them. Were he here with her now, he’d be dead—or worse.
She mustered her strength and followed Brodir to the bed.
George pushed the food around on the trencher he shared with his brother. He was not in the least hungry. Rare beeswax tapers burned low in the great hall, and his hosts, the Sinclairs, seemed anxious to find their beds.
“More ale?” Sinclair said to him halfheartedly from his place at the head of the table.
“Nay,” he said absently. “I prefer mead.”
“Mead?” Sommerled stared at him, wide-eyed, his dirk loaded with meat and poised before his mouth.
“Ye’ve always hated mead.”
“I…I know.” He shrugged, not wishing to discuss it.
Anne sat rigid and silent between Sommerled and her parents. ’Twas obvious to George that his miraculous return from the dead gave her no cause to rejoice. August Sinclair had swiftly agreed with him that afternoon, given the circumstances, to postpone all discussion of their impending marriage until the morrow.
Needing some diversion from the whole affair, he turned to Sommerled and bade him tell the tale of his rescue one more time.
“I told ye,” the youth said matter-of-factly between bites of bread and roasted mutton, “I was plucked from the sea by a passing frigate bound south from Shetland to Wick. ’Twas sheer bloody luck.”
George shook his head. Still, he could not believe it. He rumpled Sommerled’s blond hair, unleashing a tiny fraction of the joy he felt.
“No more,” his brother said, laughing.
“’Tis a wonder the lad didna freeze to death,” Sinclair said.
“I nearly did.” Sommerled grinned. “I was stiff as an icicle when they hauled me aboard.”
Emotion clouded George’s thinking, and a film of tears glassed his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand. “I need some air.” When he rose from the bench, Sommerled rose with him.
“Aye, me as well. Besides,” the youth said, stuffing his dirk into its scabbard and leaning close to whisper, “there are things I would speak this night for your ears alone.”
“Until tomorrow, then.” Sinclair nodded at them both, and his wife smiled tightly.
As George turned to leave, he caught the look of despair Anne flashed his brother. Sommerled’s face clouded, and the lass quickly lowered her eyes. The exchange was not lost on her parents.
“Come.” George placed a hand on Sommerled’s shoulder. “There are things I, too, wish ye to hear.”
A few minutes later they found themselves in the winter garden where first George spied his bride and her groom of choice, his younger brother.
Before he could speak, Sommerled grabbed his arm. “Truly, George, had I known…At first, I didna consciously woo her. I was out of my head, delirious, after the wreck.”
“Aye, lad, I know ye were.” He pushed the distraught youth down onto the stone bench.
“The Sinclairs took me in. Anne herself hovered over my bed each day until I was fit. When they told me none had survived, I—”
“Easy. Easy lad. It’s over now. We are alive and well, the both of us.”
“Aye, but—”
Sommerled’s voice broke and George could stand it no longer. He knelt in the snow and gathered his brothe
r into his arms. They wept like children.
“Forgive me,” Sommerled said, his breath hot on George’s ear.
“Nay, stop it.” He broke their embrace and settled next to him on the cold bench. “’Tis ye who must forgive me.”
Sommerled frowned in the moonlight. “For what?”
“For…for no saving ye myself.” There, he’d said it. The sin had been gnawing at him for weeks. Over and over he relived it. Mayhap now he could atone and lay it to rest.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
“I saw ye caught in the rigging. There was naught to be done. Besides—” Sommerled grinned “—I didna think ye could swim.”
His eyes widened. “At the time I didna think so either.” Never would he forget pulling Rika from the sea. “But, aye, I can and I do.”
Sommerled started to laugh, and the sound of it caused George’s heart to swell with joy. He could not help but laugh with him.
“A fine pair o’ sailors we are, eh?”
“So ye forgive me then, brother?” George held his breath, but knew already he was absolved.
“Of course I do, ye silly twit. We’re here, aren’t we?”
“Aye, we are, but the next time we go a-traveling ’twill be by steed.”
“As for the clan,” Sommerled said, “I told ye, I sent word home of the wreck weeks ago. As for this marriage idea, the elders proposed that I should take your place—and Sinclair agreed, o’ course—but the king’s no been approached, and now that ye’re back, well, ’tis only fitting that—what I mean to say is that of course I’ll step down.”
“Whoa, laddie. Catch your breath.” He wrapped an arm around Sommerled’s shoulder. “So the elders thought it a fine idea for ye to marry Anne?”
“Aye, they did.”
“And Sinclair agreed?”
Sommerled nodded.
He held his brother’s nervous, wide-eyed gaze until he could feel the lad fidget under his scrutiny. Then he smiled. “And from what I’ve seen today in this very garden, methinks the lady was well pleased with the idea.”
He watched as Sommerled fought the smile curling at the edges of his mouth. Were there more light, George knew he’d see his brother’s cheeks flushed ripe as cherries.
“Well, aye…if ye must know…she took to the idea after a week or so.”
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