by Mary Wine
“He’s a powerful man, Bridget. Take heed of that. He can lock ye away and no one will challenge him on it.”
Alice mumbled beneath her breath while she made a curtsy and pulled on her to follow.
“Clearly you have never met Curan.”
He would challenge the very devil if the fallen angel had something he desired. But she had fled from him, and it was very possible that he would simply wash his hands of her for the insult. She would have to deal with this Scot and do it well, or suffer the fate he dictated.
Bridget lifted her chin and remained standing while all the women with her lowered themselves before the laird. Eyes widened at her behavior, but the only change in Laird Barras was a slight tightening of his fingers around the cup in his grasp.
“They do nae teach manners in England anymore, Mistress Newbury?”
She stepped forward, maintaining eye contact with the man. He was an arrogant one, but she didn’t think it was unearned. His forearms were cut with muscle, declaring him to be a man of action.
“I do not lower myself in front of those that drug me into compliance.”
One of his fair eyebrows rose as he crossed his arms over his wide chest.
“I take it ye prefer to be chained then?”
Amusement coated his words, and a few snickers escaped from the men surrounding her. Bridget allowed her lips to rise into a small smile that was mild and unworried.
“What I prefer is honesty. Slipping potions into drinks is the age-old skill of traitors, is it not?”
All traces of amusement left his face. His hands landed back on the tabletop with a firm sound that betrayed how little liking he had for her veiled accusations. The hall was silent, so much so, she heard the hounds’ tails thumping against the floor. One of the dogs whimpered, clearly feeling the discontent in the room.
“I did nae order such an action.” His voice was hard as steel and bounced off the wall behind her. “Will ye offer me courtesy now, mistress?”
Bridget made him wait for a response. His eyes clouded with displeasure before she turned in a wide circle, her skirts flaring out as she went. Turning back to face him she sunk into a low curtsy and remained there with her hand spread wide. Several gasps came from the women watching, but most of the men took to stroking their beards while they waited to see what their laird would make of her mockery.
Standing back up, she lifted her own eyebrow at him. “Be assured that my mother had me schooled in the art of soothing arrogant egos, even of those that intend me ill.”
Laird Barras stood up. He was a large man, and he flattened his hands on the tabletop. “Be very sure that I do nae hand out abuse where it is not warranted, lassie. I protect those wearing me colors when needed, and I would nae accept those words from any man.”
“You face those men with honor, not with poison slipped into their cups while you smile in false welcome as has been done here. My cutting remarks have been earned, and I am not given to speaking lies for the sake of being polite.”
“Bridget, mind yer words,” Alice whispered, but it was so silent in the hall that Bridget was sure half the people watching her face down their overlord heard.
“I believe I am finished with minding you, dear cousin Alice.”
Bridget cut a quick glance at her kin to see her cheeks turning scarlet. But a chuckle from the high table drew her attention back to the Scottish laird watching her.
Laird Barras suddenly grinned at her, and the expression transformed his face into a handsome one. “I do believe I understand why Ryppon would be wanting to get ye back. Ye’re a fine bit of spirited lass, to be certain.”
“I have not promised you that there is reason to think Lord Ryppon would wish me back. If it is gain you seek, take me to the ship my father has sent so you may receive a reward from my father’s gratitude.”
Laird Barras left the raised platform the head table stood upon to stride down toward her. The plaid was pinned in place by a large gold broach that kept the fabric flattened against his shoulder. A wide belt went around his waist, holding the back of that plaid in wide pleats against his waist, too. As he came closer, she noticed why he wore the belt over the fabric. Strapped to his back was a large sword. The pommel rested behind his right shoulder, and the tip of the scabbard was tied to the belt near his left hip.
“I am Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras, and since ye’ve made a point of saying ye prefer honesty, I’ll tell ye straight that I intend to take ye home with me, Mistress Newbury.”
“I am quite sorry to disappoint you, Laird Barras, but I have been summoned by my father and cannot linger in your country. To do anything else would be to disrespect my parents, which is something the scriptures forbid.”
There were several outright laughs in response to her words. Laird Barras tilted his head slightly and grinned at her. The man had a devil’s grin, for it made him too handsome when he allowed his lips to curve.
“Ye’ll be doing a wee bit more than lingering, and that’s a fact. Yer a woman grown, and it’s time for ye to be giving obedience to a husband.”
He reached right out and grasped her forearm. With a quick tug, she stumbled toward him, and the man bent over so that she collided with his muscle-packed shoulder. He rose and lifted her right off her feet, her body falling over his shoulder with the help of a solid whack that landed on her unprotected backside.
Bridget snarled, but the man laughed and strode from the hall with her over his wide shoulder like a sack of grain. Humiliation rose thick and choking up her throat while the blood rushed to her head. The snickers of those waiting in the yard only intensified her shame.
There was no sign of a storm today. Bright sunlight streamed down to illuminate her undignified position. He tossed her up onto a horse without any more effort than he might have used to toss a child. Bridget sat up in a huff, her face red from hanging over his back.
“You are a brute.”
He swung up onto the back of a stallion standing near the horse he’d placed her on. Someone held the reins of the animal and tossed them to him. Bridget looked at the ground, tempted almost beyond endurance to dismount simply because he had placed her on the horse, but that would only see her standing in her cousin’s yard, which she detested more. She muttered something beneath her breath that would have shocked her mother before tightening her grip on the saddle.
Laird Barras chuckled, drawing her attention back to him.
“I am a Scot, mistress, and ye should have expected to run into a few of us when ye crossed so boldly into me country.” His eyes darkened. “We have a reputation of keeping what we find on our land.”
“I am a person, not some possession.” Bridget realized that her skirt was flipped up, exposing her legs. With a growl she sent the fabric down into place. Gordon was grinning at her when she looked back at him.
“What ye are, lassie, is a fine bit of fortune, and I’m nay going to quibble about the details. Ye’ll be riding with me, if I have to tie ye over that saddle. So think a wee bit afore ye slip off that animal. I’ll no give ye the chance to sit upright again.” He tossed the reins at her, and she caught them with a firm hand, determined to show him that she was not beaten by his crude handling.
“Barbarian. Your threats do not intimidate me. Even an Englishwoman knows that a Scottish laird would not keep a woman who brings him nothing. Not unless you are a fool.”
He smiled, flashing even teeth at her. “Careful now, ye’ll be turning me head with such flattery.” His words may have been teasing, but there was a hard glitter in his eyes that warned her he was not pleased.
“We’ll have to be talking about it once we reach me home. I’ve a yearning to tuck ye behind the very sturdy walls of Barras castle.”
The stallion he rode tossed its head, eager to be on its way. Gordon clamped hard thighs about the animal and remained solidly in place atop it. He was the picture of strength, but she didn’t feel any heat licking across her skin.
Not as she did wh
en she watched Curan …
Men mounted all around them, and the gate was raised. Bridget cast one look back to see Alice watching her, but her husband stood one step in front of her, his hands propped on his hips and his face in a set expression that told her not to expect any leniency from him.
From the side of the stable, her father’s men appeared, every one of them stripped of their chain mail and swords. Their horses were strung together with thick rope to keep them from having command over the animals.
“I’ll be getting a bit of silver from your father, too. Just no in trade for you.”
“You sound like a Viking raider.”
Gordon reached up and tugged on a curling lock of his blond hair. “Of course I do, lass. Don’t ye ken that we Scots are Norse blooded?”
He sent his fist into the air, and the mass of horses and men made for the open gate. Her horse followed without any guidance from her. They raced out of the yard and into the rocky hills that made up the border land. Gordon had a good sixty men riding with him, over half of them remaining outside the keep. They joined their laird now, their plaids bouncing with the motion of riding. The sun was warm on her face and the wind just brisk enough to keep her from becoming too warm. There was a certain spark of life in the moment, a sense of freedom that made her want to smile. The men kept her surrounded while they headed overland. Within an hour a fortress came into sight. This one put Alice’s home to shame. It rose up into the sunlight as proud as Amber Hill. But she felt a touch of sadness for the fact that Curan was not there waiting for her.
Thinking of the man killed her enjoyment of the ride. She took a sidelong glance at Laird Barras, and in spite of his well-muscled body she did not feel any passion for him, only a slight annoyance for the arrogance he seemed to radiate.
Well, that was what she could expect from tender feelings. Dissatisfaction forever because she had been foolish enough to allow her passion to rise for Curan. She looked down toward England with a longing that sent a shaft of pain through her heart.
“Ye’ve no given me any time to press my suit, Mistress Newbury. Do me the favor of no looking so forlorn.”
She snapped her head about to discover Gordon watching her. He wasn’t mocking her now, but there was a deep consideration flickering in his eyes that warned her to be careful how much of her true feelings she allowed him to see. He was a man who would make the most of an opportunity.
“Ye’ll find me home quite comfortable, I assure ye.”
“Please do not think it is my nature to argue over every point, but I disagree with you.”
“Because Ryppon isnae inside? Dinna worry too much on that account, lass. I expect the man soon enough.”
Confusion crowded her thoughts. “What do you mean? I have no such confidence, nor have I given you any reason to believe he would chase me. I ran away from him and the vow I made to wed him. It is an insult that he does not have to suffer. He can easily find a more obedient bride.”
Gordon shrugged. “Well now, if the man doesna show his face soon, I’ll just have to marry ye myself.”
He offered her one of his grins again before kneeing his stallion and moving ahead to the front of his men. They cheered as he took his place among them, and the pace increased. They embodied the legend that she had so often heard about Scots. There was a wildness about them that was balanced by their homage to their laird and the plaids they wore that gave them enough order to not become lawless bandits.
That did not mean she wanted to marry their leader. In fact, the idea of wedding anyone save Curan sent a twist of nausea through her. She tried to remember her duty, but the attempt failed. Her passion was rapidly taking her past the discipline instilled by her mother. The longing to return to Curan was gaining ground inside her, becoming hotter and more uncontrollable.
But that was assuming a great deal. The man would be unlikely to welcome back any bride who had fled from him. His pride was most likely wounded too greatly for her to resume her role. There was also Lord Oswald to think about. Bridget suddenly felt tired. More weary than ever as Gordon’s men sent up a cheer and their leader took them through the open gate of his fortress. The castle was built of solid stone, and that fit her mood.
Cold and dead … exactly as she felt.
She wasn’t placed in a cell, or even in a chamber with a door that might be barred to keep her prisoner. Instead, Bridget discovered herself following two burly Scots through a maze of hallways and staircases. They kept her going in circles until she blew out a frustrated snarl and stopped, refusing to take another step.
“Enough of this game. I am confused. The only way I can think of to make it back into the yard is by slipping out a window. Are you satisfied?” They watched her from brooding expressions that didn’t give her a hint as to their thinking. Bridget shrugged.
“Well then, I have thought that the gossip I have heard concerning just how lazy Scottish men are was false. However, if you have naught better to do than lead me through hallways, I must rethink my opinion on that matter.”
“This way.”
The words were spoken with a great deal of irritation, but at least they led her to a destination instead of another set of hallways. This was an older portion of the castle, and the room she was in did not have doors. Of course, that was most likely the reason she was placed there. Candles burned in the center of the large round room, but the light did not allow her to see what was beyond the arched doorways. It was a solar, simply one floor built across the expanse of the keep. She was in one of the four that she had seen rising up to form Barras Castle. Arches surrounded her, helping to hold up the floor above her. In spite of the bed and furnishings that were present, she doubted that the solar was used very often. If it were, walls would have been built to create hallways, but such was more of a newer construction technique. This keep was just as it had been fifty years ago when it was expected that the surrounding villagers might need to take shelter inside it during a siege.
Having the dark arches ringing her was worse than any door. She felt placed on display. The candles illuminated her while the Scots withdrew behind the arches. She heard them walking sometimes and, as the day wore on, listened to them being relieved and replaced by others. There was no way to tell how many guards she had or where they were.
Nevertheless, that was not what weighed heavily on her mind. She walked over to one of the windows and leaned out. Greeting her were a hint of green on the hills and a little nip of chill blowing down from the north. She was too high to consider leaving the keep by the window, which left her with nothing to do but look down toward England, where Curan was most likely drawing up an offer for another bride.
Her heart ached, and there was no comfort to be found in knowing that she had done as instructed by her parents. A maid brought her food, but Bridget had little appetite. So she left it where the girl placed it. The day grew long with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company. Always there had been work to occupy her hands. She suddenly did not understand how anyone might endure being lazy; it was quite irritating to have nothing to do. Bridget discovered herself pacing simply to have something to occupy herself with. Yet the true torment was the fact that her idle mind had naught to do save think about Curan.
“I thought ye had more spirit, lass. Me men tell me ye’ve been pacing and no eating. Are ye truly broken in so short a time?”
Bridget turned her head to discover Gordon watching her from one of the arched doorways that led into the solar she was occupying. She bit into her lower lip when she realized how happy she was to see him. She didn’t like knowing that one day of solitude had made her so hungry for companionship.
“If you prefer to hear me railing, then you shall have to learn to live with disappointment. The body does not require much nourishment when it is doing little.” She folded her hands neatly and offered him a mild expression. “I have no intention of becoming some type of amusement for your entertainment.”
“Och now, lass,
would ye like to get down to that bit of the business right now then? I’ll be quite happy to show you what manner of entertainment I think ye can provide me with.”
Gordon was just as large as Curan, but for some reason he didn’t have the same impact on her. He moved too close, and she did not have any urge to back away from him. Her belly did not tighten, and no excitement rushed along her skin. Instead she simply watched him close the distance, but her boredom ended when he reached out to touch her. She lifted a hand quickly to slap the hand he tried to touch her with. The blow made a loud popping sound that drew a chuckle from her captor.
“You are quite out of line, sir.”
“I’m a Scot, I was never a well-behaved lad. Goes against the entire idea of being Scottish. You wouldn’t want me to be disloyal to me own country, now would ye?”
Moving away from him, Bridget turned to shoot a hard glare at him. “Somehow, I doubt that you are quite the marauder that you are attempting to act. I have never understood that being Scottish means you were raised with a lack of honor.”
He frowned and crossed his arms across his chest. She was beginning to realize that he did that when he was afraid that too much of his true feelings were on display.
“I will wed ye if it comes to that.” Instead of a threat, his words were more of a soothing promise. One that she found distasteful.
“To preserve my honor? Is that it? No, thank you.”
He shrugged and allowed his arms to relax. “I’ll admit that there’s a wee bit of me that would enjoy needling your English chancellor by taking a lass he thinks is his, but aye, I’d wed ye before seeing ye returned to a life of shame since I’m the one who brought ye here.”
“You may dispense with that concern. I shall weather the storm well enough.”
“Nay, lass. I know the world, and it’s a harsh, unforgiving place when it comes to an English lass who has been behind these walls.” He moved closer, and she had to resist the urge to retreat from him. Approval shimmered in his eyes when she stood still.
