Bedding the Enemy [Highland Menage 9] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Reece Butler

  He had no right to be angry. Twice she’d done her duty, having no choice other than death. He growled, not liking any part of it. He lifted his hand to rub his forehead. Meg flinched.

  He cursed, not at his Meg but the men who’d harmed her. He’d told himself, and his brothers, that he was a much better husband than her first. If he roared at her for withholding the name of the man, if he did anything but support her, he would be lying to himself.

  “Ye didna tell me. Why?” he asked quietly.

  “The herald said ’twas the king’s wish I should say naught, for fear of how you would react.” She sat in the dirt, arms wrapped around her knees like a child, rocking. “Cam was right. You are angry because I was forced to bed a Campbell afore you. You accepted me being a widow well enough until you kenned ’twas your enemy that touched your property. ’Tis all I am to you men.” She looked up, curling her lip in disgust. “You can scrub the dirt off a table and make it your own. I, however, am alive. I can scrub my skin until it is raw, but I canna remove the memories of his vile touch! Even his voice…”

  She shuddered, rocking hard, staring at her knees. He could think of nothing to say for she was right. He blamed her for the way he felt knowing his enemy had touched her. It was like blaming a sword for the blood spilled when held by another hand. If his claymore had been taken from the dead hand of an enemy, having killed a fellow clansman, would the sword be at fault? Nay. It was an object that could be taken and used to kill other foes.

  Meg was no object, but she’d been used as one. He didn’t know the details but her Campbell husband had hurt her, for his pleasure. And now he’d blamed her for something she had no control over.

  It rankled that she’d not told him she’d married an enemy. A laird should be able to trust his clan. A husband should be able to trust his wife. He had, until now. Did she have other secrets? If so, now was not the time for them. He had a few of his own…

  “I shouldna blame ye for what happened afore we met,” he admitted. Her rocking slowed. “I am sorry ye had to live through all what he did to ye. I dinna ken what all the herald brought to us, but I thank ye for bein’ the reason.”

  She nodded, meaning she’d heard, but showed no other reaction.

  He couldn’t leave her like that. She was the one who’d been harmed. If he showed her anything but support he would be harming her again. He went to one knee beside her.

  “I am angry, aye,” he admitted quietly. “But not with my wee, sweet Meggie. As ye say, ye had nay choice.” He fell silent. Torquil had moved his brothers farther away. They were arguing, paying no attention.

  “Herald Cam said ’tis my wife portion, like a dowry for you.” Meg swiped her cheek with her hand. “I kenned none of it until now.”

  Her chin trembled, as did her hands, clasped tight around her shins once more. He looked closer. Her whole body shook.

  “The herald kenned all along there was a will and said naught to me,” she whispered into her knees. “I feel like a wee stick on the sea, tossed in the waves with no way to ken where I’m going, or what will happen when I get there. Or even if I will survive.”

  His stomach turned over. Finn roared something about wanting a bed and a carpet. Torquil wanted a table. Though his brothers knew little of what came in those carts they were already dividing up the spoils. Could he deny them a bed or a table because of whose arse had once sat on it? He sat beside her, cross-legged, and held out his arms.

  “Come lass, sit in my lap. I will keep ye from bein’ tossed all about.”

  “You are the one who threw me in the sea by blaming me for this.”

  Her small voice, shaking with fear of him, stabbed his heart. “Aye, and sorry I am for it. Will ye forgive me, wee Meggie?” He held his breath. She jammed her eyes shut, released them, and then nodded. He exhaled though his tight chest didn’t relax. “We’ll get through this together,” he promised. “When ye are ready we’ll sit down and ye’ll tell me what ye wish.” She wouldn’t look at him or respond. “Meg, do ye trust me?”

  “Laird! Come see what we have for ye!”

  She scrambled to her feet as if needing to escape him. He cursed, and then turned and waved at Rab in acknowledgment. She’d moved away, arms wrapped about her waist now, her head down. Was the woman afraid of him, or of what he’d find in the hall?

  “Meg. Ye are my wife. One day, God willing, ye’ll be the mother of our bairns. Do ye think I would use my fists on ye?”

  It took a moment but she shook her head. Yet still she said nothing. He took her hand, having to tug it loose. She was cold though the sun shone. She didn’t pull away but neither did she curl her fingers in his, as usual.

  “We are married,” he said. “That willna change. Aye, ye were married to a Campbell afore, but now ye are a MacDougal. Do ye ken what I say?”

  She shrugged, still refusing to meet his eyes. His brothers were eager to see what bounty they’d gained but knew he must go first. He encouraged her forward. She tripped over nothing. If she was so upset she couldn’t walk in the bailey then she couldn’t climb stairs. He caught her up in his arms. She curled into his chest, burying her face. He thought he heard a sob.

  He winced at that, though was pleased she snuggled rather than fought his touch. She must have carried the fear of him discovering her husband’s name since the day they met, weeks ago. Was it the release of telling him that made her so upset? He hoped so. He lifted her to kiss her forehead.

  “We will get through this together, lovey.”

  He climbed the stairs, more concerned about Meg than what he’d find inside. He expected there’d be some fine things after seeing the chess set. He glanced back. His brothers had carefully packed them in the box. Torquil had it under his arm. He nodded his thanks.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust after he stepped in the hall. The table was piled high and the hall was full of people and…things. Many, many things. He couldn’t take it all in.

  “Laird, can ye believe it? ’Tis a miracle!” said Rab. His face beamed, as did every other man and woman, even the ones whose lips wouldn’t normally turn up for a comb of honey.

  “Having such things is good, but nay a miracle,” he replied.

  “Nay laird, look!” Rab pointed to the far wall.

  Four paintings of dark-haired people, one a family, had been hung on the wall. Meg scrambled to get down. He released her and walked around the table to see better. The faces looked familiar though he didn’t recognize them. They looked like his brothers, only different. No, not all were dark. The wife in the family portrait had bright red hair. Bright like Gillis.

  He’d heard his father once speak of paintings done when the MacDougals had power and influence but they’d been lost long ago, along with so much more. Lost…to the Campbells of Duntrune.

  “Nay,” he whispered. “It canna be!” He turned to Meg. “Where did ye live?”

  Niall stood near but none touched her.

  “Duntrune Castle.” Her hoarse voice barely reached him.

  “Duntrune?” Somerled’s head whirled. It was thirty-five miles or more to the south. Edgar Campbell had squatted there for far too many years. “Ye were married to Edgar Campbell?”

  Meg nodded, head down. She had her arms tight around her again. The room was warm with all the bodies, so her chill still came from inside.

  “Laird!” crowed Rab. “Lady Meg brought all this back to us! I told ye, ’tis a miracle!”

  He forced himself to nod his appreciation for all their work in setting it up to show well. Tall white candles of beeswax that would throw excellent light were stacked in a triangular pile, a silver candlestick at each end holding them from rolling. Stools and chests and side tables had been pushed under their old scarred table. Rugs and tapestries and…it went on and on.

  “Laird MacDougal, look at this.” Niall walked over, both hands holding a wooden box, dark and stained. “Herald Cam says the MacDougal Brooch may be inside. None have looked. ’Tis yer right
to open it.”

  The room went silent. Not a soul breathed. This was the item that had brought good fortune to their clan for centuries. When it was stolen, everything changed. That happened long, long ago. As having it wouldn’t have helped him feed his brothers he hadn’t cared about it.

  Things were different now. Their clansmen were returning to the village. Two lassies had been born to MacDougal men. There was even a Lady MacDougal living at Duncladach. A lady who had lived in silent terror for years with a Campbell husband, and then in worry for weeks of him discovering her secret. Yet because of that marriage she’d brought all this back to them.

  Somerled reached for the box. He unhooked the latch and lifted the lid. There rested a tarnished silver brooch with a smoky yellow Cairngorm. Carved into it was their crest, complete with an armored right arm holding a triple cross. Buaidh no bas, “Victory or death,” was hammered into the silver.

  “’Tis real,” he whispered. He reached trembling fingers and carefully lifted it out. He held it over his head, turning in a circle so all could see.

  “Buaidh no bas!” he roared.

  The hall shook with the answered roars, then cheers. He placed the brooch back in the box and held it out to Meg. She’d shrunk against the wall. Had the roars of the men, and the hearty backslapping, frightened her?

  “Thank ye, Lady Meg MacDougal, for bringing this home,” he said formally. “See what ye have brought us, my lady wife.”

  Though she shook like an aspen in the wind she took the three necessary steps forward to look at it. She nodded with approval.

  “This is where it should be,” she said. She raised her head and looked around the room, meeting every eye. “And Duncladach is where it will stay forever more. Aye?”

  The room fair shook with the roars of approval. Men stepped toward Meg, arms out in welcome. Torquil appeared behind her. He set his hands gently on her shoulders, keeping his elbows out. No one would crowd her now. Somerled silently asked if she was okay. Though wild-eyed she nodded and made a motion with her hand for him to be with his men.

  He thanked Torquil with his eyes. The clansmen wouldn’t wish to harm Meg but she was such a wee thing, and they were excited. She didn’t need hearty squeezes of welcome from those in the room. The men would boast at home of what they’d unpacked. Early tomorrow the bailey would be full of chattering wives and daughters eager to see all for themselves. Aggie would help Meg decide where to put things. The women and his young brothers could do the carrying.

  “Are ye right with Meg now, laird?” asked Niall quietly.

  “Aye,” he replied. It was mostly true. He’d get used to it, in time. “Is she right with us?”

  “Ye are the one what roars and thunders at her.” He looked around the room, shaking his head in wonder at what filled it. “I dinna ken where all this will go.”

  Somerled didn’t care what they’d carried in. He looked only at Meg. Torquil motioned with his head, asking if he could take her away. Somerled nodded. She sagged in relief for a moment before smiling at the next man eager to say his piece to her. They’d work their way to the door in the corner. Meg would slip through to their chamber and Torquil would guard it.

  “Our lady will find places for it all,” said Somerled. “Duncladach is her home.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Meg opened her eyes when Niall entered their chamber. She lifted her head from Somerled’s chest. Knowing Torquil would guard her door until the clansmen left she’d fallen asleep, waking when Somerled came to bed. He’d told her all would be well, pulled her to him, and fallen asleep. She’d dozed, tired but unsure of what would happen in the morning, and the days to come. He hadn’t seemed too upset, but she’d smelled whiskey on him.

  “Is everyone in bed?” she whispered as Niall slipped into their bed. He pulled her off Somerled to spoon with her.

  “Ewan’s with Herald Cam, sharing a dram.”

  She sniffed, noticing the scent. “You had some yourself. You smell good.”

  “So do you.” He kissed her neck.

  Somerled stretched, taking up most of the bed while doing so. “Are ye well, Meg?”

  “Aye.” What else could she say? She was married to him, and he was her laird.

  “’Twas the surprise, mostly,” he said.

  She waited. Neither man spoke. “Is that an explanation, or an apology?”

  Somerled grumbled something. He rolled onto his elbow, facing them. His nose and lips twitched as if he were chewing over the words he needed to say, not liking the taste.

  “It doesna fash me much that Campbell touched ye, as he was yer husband,” he said, avoiding answering her question. “’Tis that he hurt ye.” His huge chest swelled, then shrank as he exhaled heavily. “I ken yer da beat ye, but most do. ’Tis havin’ a Campbell harm ye what makes me twitch.” He finally met her eyes. “But that has naught to do with ye. ’Tis all mine.”

  She turned to Niall for a translation.

  “What my brother is trying to say, is that he doesna blame ye for what was done, but he’ll be extra grumpy until he accepts it. And then he’ll go back to being his usual grumpy self.”

  “I’m nay grumpy,” said Somerled, frowning at them.

  “See? Grumpy.” Niall kissed her neck. “Me, I’m happy to have ye at Duncladach, in my arms and in my bed. What happened afore ye rode onto our land doesna matter, wee Meg.” He squeezed her gently. “Yer future is here with us, and ’tis all that matters.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her throat too tight to speak louder.

  While Somerled would rage, if Niall ever found out she was a Campbell born he would be hurt that she hadn’t trusted him. She was sure he would, in time, understand the king had ordered her to be silent in that as well. Her fear for Hamish would keep her silent. She wasn’t sure if Somerled would ever trust her. He had Niall, Ewan, and Torquil for company, as well as the younger four.

  She had no one but Fearchar and Shadow, and they preferred Ewan. But she now had Aggie and one day she’d have bairns to love. It would have to be enough.

  “Ye must have been listenin’ to that herald to get them pretty words,” said Somerled to Niall. It sounded like an accusation.

  “Doesna make it less true,” replied Niall. His hand caressed her breast. “It doesna matter who Meg was. She is ours now. Just as we took in the brothers whose mams dropped them off at our gate. They didna ask to be born to a father who cared naught for them. Meg didna ask to be married to Edgar Campbell of Duntrune. But because of that our clan is far richer. And now she is ours, a prize beyond measure.” He kissed her temple.

  Tears gathered. It was as close to a statement of love that she’d ever heard. She was finally wanted by someone, just for being herself.

  “Aye, lass,” said Somerled grudgingly. “Niall has the pretty words, but I feel the same. As yer laird ye must tell me all. ’Twas a shock to hear who ye’d been married to, and I didna think. But I’ve had some time now, and am pleased to have ye at Duncladach, and in my bed.”

  “Ye can do better than that, brother. Dinna forget I feel what ye are tryin’ to hide,” said Niall.

  Somerled flopped onto his back. He crossed his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Was he angry? He frowned enough for it to seem so. After a while he sighed heavily.

  “I canna say words to make ye smile, Meg,” he said seriously, speaking to the ceiling. “But I can do sommat to show ye.” He sat up. “I wish to jump the broom with ye.”

  “Jump the broom?” She sat up as well, pulling the sheet to cover her when his eyes immediately shot to her breasts. “Somerled, we’re already married.”

  “We were married,” he said, emphasizing the words to mean something different. “We didna choose it. ’Twas done to us.” He tenderly brushed a lock of stray hair behind her ear. “Aye, and ye didna have a day with yer kin to laugh and be a bride. I wish ye to have that, Meg. And I wish to show ye that ’tis my choice to have ye as my wife. Aye, ’twas forced on
us but I do care for ye, as my wee Meggie. Ye are my wife and my Lady of Duncladach, but ’tis Meg I wish to marry.” His brows almost touched, but not in anger. “Do ye ken, lass?”

  The chamber was dim, his back to the wan light. Though she couldn’t see his expression she did hear caring in his voice. She’d not expected it, or to have him realize that she’d enjoy sharing a celebration with those she was learning to love as kin.

  “What you are saying is that you want me, Meg. Not the silent and still Lady Margaret that Edgar insisted on, or even the Lady MacDougal who must produce an heir and a few spares. You wish to show all that you want me, and that I want you in return, by having us jump a broom in front of our clan.”

  “Aye! Ye are a smart lass. Mayhaps Aggie can help ye plan a wee feast. ’Twould be good for all to see what ye have brought back.”

  “Now that we have the brooch, ’tis time we held a Gathering,” said Niall. “We could do it on Lammas, afore the harvest work takes all our days. None have bent their knee to a Laird MacDougal since our grandsire was young.”

  A Clan Gathering was a major event. Every adult male would pledge fealty, unto death, to the laird. She’d never been to one, but had heard of them.

  “Because of your father?” she asked.

  “Aye. He cared naught for them so none would give an oath to him,” replied Somerled. “Fingal, our father’s oldest brother, didna live long enough to hold a Gathering.”

  “I would be the first to kneel to you as my laird, “ said Niall solemnly. “The rest of the brothers, and our clansmen, would be eager to do so as well.”

  “We’ll jump a broom in front of all the clan as soon as we can, and have the Gathering at Lammas. Ye’ll fix it, Meg?”

  “You wish me to plan the Gathering?”

  “Well, ye are our Lady MacDougal,” said Niall, “and Cam said ye managed Duntrune for years after the old man was bedridden. There hasna been a celebration at Duncladach in too long. The old villagers may ken the last time, but none else.”