by Lynsay Sands
"Aelfread?" Morag echoed faintly.
"Oh, she is my new friend. I met her on the beach today," Kyla explained. "From what she said, it sounds as though Lady MacDonald is quite dangerous. I mean, trying to kill one of her own men? Can you imagine? 'Tis lucky I am that I did not run into her today unawares. Why, I might have said something to set the woman off and had her trying to kill me." She paused then, her head tilting slightly as she listened to the faint sounds filtering through the door and into the room. Laughter, talking, and shouting. People had begun to fill the great hall below.
"Child--"
Kyla jumped from her seat and rushed forward. "Come, we must hurry. They are gathering for the sup." Reaching Morag, she snatched the green gown from her and began to tug it on, muttering, "My hair is still damp but there is no help for that, I shall have to just tuck it up in a bun. Or mayhap I should just leave it lie flat to dry. What do you think?"
"I think we needs must have a talk," Morag said unhappily. "I should have told you sooner, but I felt it was his place to say so, so I let it go, but now--"
"Now whatever it is shall have to wait," Kyla said impatiently, finishing with her laces and quickly tugging to be sure everything lay right. "You know what mother use to say about being late to sup. 'Tis terribly rude."
"But--"
"Come along, Morag. Let us go. I'm rather hoping Lady MacDonald will be at table tonight. I do not suppose she will be, but I am terribly curious to see her." Leaving her hair lying damp down her back, she hurried out the door leaving Morag to follow with a shake of her head.
Kyla took a sip from her mug and set it back on the tabletop, trying to ignore the rude stares of the people around her. Lady MacDonald was not at table. It was not a big surprise, but Kyla would have liked to have seen her. In her head she had a rather vague picture of a thin, waifish woman, her hair all wild. Distracted by that thought and her curiosity for the woman, Kyla had been able for a while to ignore the rudeness of the Scots staring at her. Not that the McDonald laird was one of them; if anything, he seemed rather distracted as he methodically made his way through the food in his trencher. But everyone else seemed to be watching her with a constant wariness that made her wonder what the devil was wrong with them. It was as if they expected her to leap to her feet at any moment and do something mad such as plunge her dirk into their laird's chest.
Mayhap having a madwoman as mistress here made them wary of all noble women, she thought, then glanced curiously to her side when the MacDonald finished the last of his meal and stood suddenly, raising his mug. The room went silent.
"I would make a toast to my wife."
Kyla's eyes widened briefly, then warmed with approval. What a wonderful man he was, to toast his poor, mad wife even in her absence. It was a shame his spouse was not in a state of mind to appreciate such kindnesses, she thought. Ah well...
Lifting her glass, Kyla glanced toward the others in the room, relieved to see that they, too, were supporting their lord with raised glasses and smiling faces, even if some of the smiles were doubtful.
"Ye all ken the circumstances leading up to the presence of Lady Kyla being here," he began, and there were solemn nods to that from his people, while Kyla merely blinked at him in confusion. He had said he wished to toast his wife. So much for that.
"And ye all ken of her injury and her recovery which, while it has been remarkable, has also taken time." He paused to allow another round of solemn nods. "I have been away these past days, tending to business, which has also delayed this eve. But now, all is out of the way and I wish to make a toast."
Turning suddenly, he took Kyla's arm, urging her to her feet. Once she stood beside him, he raised his mug higher. "To Lady Kyla MacDonald. My wife. May our marriage be long and prolific and may yer life here on this island be happy. Yer husband and yer people welcome ye."
Offering a smile, Kyla nodded briefly. "Thank you, my lord. I--What did you just say?!"
Galen arched one eyebrow mildly. "Welcome?"
"Nay. Ere that."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "About hoping our marriage is long and happy."
Kyla stared at him blankly, her thoughts in a whirl. The reason behind her rescue from marriage to the MacGregor had been gnawing at the back of her mind since recovering from the fevers. Morag had said it had something to do with the MacDonald wishing revenge on the other clan chief. Kyla had foolishly thought he had satisfied himself by merely preventing that marriage. Now she saw that she had not really been rescued at all. She had been plucked from one unwanted marriage only to be forced into another. Why? That was the first question to pop into her head. The MacDonald surely had no need to marry her simply to effect his revenge. Ransoming her would have achieved that. Wouldn't it?
It mattered little, she decided suddenly. She would not be married to him.
"Never," she announced coldly. "It shall never happen, do you hear me?"
The MacDonald's eyebrows slid even nearer his hairline, then he glanced around uncertainly, cleared his throat, and said, "Aye...Well...Ye see, 'tis no' that I was saying we would marry. I was drinking a toast to the fact that we already are married," he explained carefully, apparently bewildered by her reaction.
Kyla's mouth tightened, then she shook her head. "Impossible."
The MacDonald seemed baffled by her words, and he looked thankful as the clan priest hurried from his position further down the table.
"'Tis true," the cleric assured Kyla anxiously. "I presided over the ceremony meself. 'Twas all nice and legal. A lovely ceremony, too," he added, as if he thought she might care. "We held it soon as ye arrived, on the steps for all to witness."
He glanced toward the room at large and Kyla followed his gaze, taking in with a sinking heart the shared nod of the entire room. "But I was ill on my arrival and for weeks afterward. I could not have possibly attended a wedding--"
"'Tis true ye were sick even then, but we felt 'Twas better to hold the wedding right away so the MacGregor wouldn't plot to steal ye back and marry ye."
"Was I conscious?"
The MacDonald winced at her sarcasm, but left it to the priest to answer.
"Aye, my lady. Ye even managed to stand for a bit. And ye signed the contract," he added, turning toward his laird who gestured toward Gavin. His First leapt to his feet and hurried from the great hall, returning a moment later to hand a scroll to the priest. Taking the document, the man quickly unrolled it, then turned it for Kyla to see.
There it was. Her signature. Sloppy, even shaky, but recognizable as hers nonetheless. "Bloody hell," she breathed, dropping onto the bench with dismay.
"Well, where the Devil were you?!"
"On the boat," Morag explained calmly, seating herself on the edge of the bed and sighing as she watched Kyla pace the length of the room again. She had known the lass was not taking the news well when she had remained so quiet through the rest of the meal. After seeing the contract, she had sat there on that bench with a glazed look in her eyes that had said more to Morag than any amount of ranting and raving could have. The room had quieted then, all eyes remaining trained on the head table as the MacDonald had reclaimed his seat and sat peering about uncomfortably, looking as though he had not known quite what to do next. After several minutes, Morag had finally made her way to the head table and led Kyla above stairs.
The young woman had followed docilely, not snapping out of her nearly catatonic state until the bedchamber door had closed behind them. Then she had turned on Morag in fury.
"'Twas done ere I arrived at the island," the old woman explained. "The MacDonald had traveled ahead with ye, to bathe ye in the sea and bring down yer fever. When we arrived at the coast, he had already sailed across to the keep with ye. By the time I arrived on the island, 'Twas done. There was naught I could do about it."
Kyla paused in her pacing to snap, "And you did not think I might like to have this information?"
"'Twas not my place to--What are ye doing?" she asked in d
ismay as Kyla suddenly bent to a chest and began to push it toward the door.
"What does it look as if I am doing? I am barricading the door. If he thinks he will simply saunter up here and--" Straightening abruptly, she glared at her servant. "Come help me."
Shaking her head, Morag rose to join her. "I daresay he won't be pleased by this," she pointed out dryly, putting her back to the chest and helping to shove it across the floor to brace it against the door.
"I do not care if he likes it or not," Kyla informed her grimly, leading her to another chest. "And you should not, either. I am your mistress. If I were you, I would be more worried about how angry I am. You should have told me."
Grimacing, Morag bent to assist her with the second chest, wincing at the loud scraping sound it made as it moved across the floor. Straightening once it rested against the door, she sighed and said, "Ye were too ill to tell aught to at first. Then, while ye were recovering, I didn't wish to upset ye."
"That is--"
"And," the old woman interrupted, "marriage to the MacDonald seemed a safe refuge for ye."
Kyla stilled at that, amazement on her face as she straightened from the chest they had just moved. "Safe? From what?"
"From Catriona and her plottings. If Johnny should die--"
"He will not die!" Kyla yelled, then took a breath and said more calmly, "Shropshire is with him. He will not allow Catriona to--"
"I hope yer right. I hope that she and all of her people are kept far and away from him, but he may still die. He suffered a terrible wound."
Kyla paled at those words. Morag knew more about healing than the king's healer. To hear her doubt Johnny's chances of survival was a horrible blow. It sent fear coursing through her in waves. "No worse than mine, surely?"
"Mayhap not, but 'tis a miracle ye survived. I have little reason to count on two such miracles. 'Sides, yer surviving was due in part to your own stubbornness. Ye saw that Catriona hired those villains and were determined to live to tell that. Johnny has no such knowledge to prop him up."
Sighing, Kyla sank onto the chest they had just moved, her heart suddenly leaden as she accepted the old woman's words. Her brother could die despite Shropshire's presence. He might already be dead.
"The MacDonald is strong, young, wealthy, and honorable."
Kyla snorted at that. To her mind it was hardly honorable to marry an unconscious woman. And she didn't care what they claimed, she could not have been conscious when she married him; she simply would not have done so. She supposed she should be grateful that he had not consummated the deed while he was at it. At least she still had a chance to have the marriage annulled.
That thought made her sit up a little straighter on the chest. He hadn't consummated it, had he? Surely she would know if he had? She would feel different somehow or something. Wouldn't she? Scowling over these thoughts, she turned on Morag sharply. "How long was it between when he reached the island and you caught up to him?" she asked suspiciously.
"The marriage is unconsummated, if that is what ye are asking," she said after a moment. Kyla relaxed, then leapt to her feet.
"And it shall remain so," she announced firmly, moving to another chest. "I will have this marriage annulled."
"Why?"
Pausing, Kyla frowned at her. "Why?"
"Aye. Why? He is a good choice in husband. Strong. Not too young but not old. A good leader...I have been asking questions these last weeks while you healed. His people are healthy, happy, and loyal. They think much of him. And the MacDonald is prosperous. He will be a good husband."
"Oh aye, if I wish to be locked in the castle and known as the mad Sassenach, I should be perfectly happy." Hearing those words slip out of her own mouth, she closed her eyes and groaned as she recognized their source. Aelfread, she realized. The woman from the beach had described her laird's new wife as "the Sassenach wench." She had also said that she had tried to kill her husband.
She, herself, was the Sassenach wench, Kyla realized with a moan, then wondered when she had tried to kill poor Aelfread's husband. Had she attacked someone else besides that big man, Robbie? Surely he wasn't Aelfread's husband? Nay, he was far too large to be a match for the petite girl. She must have attacked someone else, too. Good Lord! Those fevers had made her terribly aggressive, had they not? And--
Pausing abruptly, she sank down to sit on the chest again with bewilderment. But why did they all think she was mad?
"Aye, well..."
Morag's mutter made Kyla realize that once again she had spoken her thoughts aloud unintentionally. But it was the guilty grimace on the woman's face that made her eyes narrow on her suspiciously. "Aye, well, what?"
Morag sighed heavily. "That would be because I told them you were."
"What?" Kyla was off the chest at once, her eyes wide with horror.
"Why?"
"I was trying to protect ye," Morag said quickly. "I thought surely he wouldn't wish to marry a madwoman."
"You thought wrong," Kyla snapped, and Morag made a face.
"Aye, it would seem so...Unless he didn't believe me."
Kyla turned sharply toward the old woman at that, her mind grasping desperately at that idea. Mayhap he hadn't believed her. Surely no man would wish to marry a madwoman? Nay, she thought, lowering herself to the chest again. He must not have believed her, else he surely wouldn't have married her. But what if she could convince him it were true? Surely he would want the marriage annulled. Wouldn't he?
Despite the weight in front of it, the bedroom door suddenly began to push open, startling Kyla to her feet as the chest she was on slid across the floor several inches. Whirling, she was just in time to see the MacDonald laird frown at the chests before he slid into the room. When he raised his eyes to hers, she was surprised to see uncertainty flicker across his face. It was quickly covered by a stern mask. "We could hear the racket you were making all the way down in the great hall. What is about?"
"I was rearranging the room," Kyla lied glibly.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, merely turned his scowl onto Morag. The nurse muttered something unintelligible under her breath and fled the room, leaving Kyla alone to face her husband.
Chapter Nine
Kyla watched warily as the man who was apparently her husband moved across the room to the bed, her mind racing as she sought a way to convince him that she was mad and therefore a bad prospect as wife. She was still searching wildly for ideas when he paused beside the bed and turned to eye her diffidently.
"Did you plan to stand by the door all night, or will you come to bed?"
"What?" Kyla choked out, then turned wildly to the side and blurted, "Oh, do be quiet! I can hardly hear him with you nattering at me."
The idea had struck her suddenly. Kyla didn't know many mad people. There had been only one person at Forsythe who had shown the least sign of mental illness and that was Crazy Mary. The woman wore mismatched and tattered clothes, wandered the Forsythe woods at night, and served ale to the warriors at the Forsythe table during the day. Kyla's mother had first given Mary the job. Out of pity, Kyla had always thought, and her mother had turned a blind eye to the fact that Crazy Mary was as free with her body as she was with the ale she served. On her good days, Mary just seemed a bit loud and loose. On her bad days, the woman spoke to people who simply weren't there, holding forth whole conversations and even yelling furiously at non-existent persons. It had always made everyone just a tad nervous.
"Er...wife?"
Kyla stiffened at that word, but turned a pleasant, slightly questioning face to the man who had married her. "Aye?"
"Who is it ye'd be talkin' to?"
"Why, my friend, of course. Surely you can see that," she said lightly, then turned quickly to the side again and nodded. "Aye, you are right, it is a bit chill. I shall just put another log on the fire, shall I?"
Bustling over to the room's small fireplace, she snatched a log out of the basket beside it and tossed it onto the flame
s. Grabbing up the iron rod that leaned against the wall nearby, she began poking energetically at the fire in an effort to avoid going anywhere near the bed. She kept up a steady stream of chatter the whole while, babbling away nonsensically to her non-existent friend about the fine weather that day, the nice visit she'd had to the beach, even what was served at supper--all as she beat the fire vigorously. Then the MacDonald laird was suddenly there beside her, snatching the poker from her fingers with a pained smile.
"I think the fire is quite strong enough," he said dryly, quickly flicking a couple of burning branches that had flown out of the fireplace from her wild stoking back onto the pile, before setting the rod aside and turning to eye her.
"Mayhap, ye could...er...introduce me to your friends?" he suggested carefully after a moment and Kyla's eyes widened with dismay. "Wife?" he murmured with concern, but she continued to stare at him blankly.
Snapping out of her frozen state, she stammered, "Oh, a-aye, of-course. How rude of me. Well, this is...er...er...Nestene. Ernestene," she got out at last, pulling the name out of the air.
Nodding solemnly, the MacDonald laird gave a slight bow. "A pleasure to meet ye, Ernestene. Howbeit, ye'll have to be leavin' now as my wife has been very ill and need's her rest to recover."
"She does not wish to leave," Kyla said grimly, gritting her teeth in frustration. What the Devil was the matter with the man? Here she was giving him the perfect excuse to annul the marriage and he wasn't taking it. She would have to take it a step further, she realized, eyes narrowing on him. "In fact, Ernestene wants me to sing."
The MacDonald blinked at that. "Sing?"
"Aye. Sing. And play her a lovely soothing tune on my harp to send her off to sleep."
"Oh." He actually looked relieved, the ninny. It seemed he wasn't as eager to carry out his husbandly duty as she had believed. Well, mayhap there was hope for her plan yet, she thought on a sigh. "Well," he said. "A tune would be nice."
"Aye." Smiling at him sweetly now, she rushed forward, caught his arm, and urged him over to the chairs by the fire. Settling him there, she whirled away to survey the chests in the room. She hadn't asked as yet if her harp had been sent with them from Forsythe. She certainly hoped so. If it had, it wouldn't fit in any of the smaller chests. But--Ah! That one, she thought, hurrying to a great one in the corner. It could only fit in that one.
