Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  “They were stolen, all right,” Adair said, walking toward her. “The herdsman is certain of it, and I would stake my life on his opinion.”

  She raised a shapely, inquisitive brow. “You would pledge your life on a herdsman’s word?”

  “That one, aye, I would.”

  The beauty frowned and addressed the overlord. “I wonder if some of the men of the garrison took the cattle by mistake, Nicholas.”

  Adair nearly laughed at the stunned look on the man’s face.

  The Norman quickly recovered, and his cheeks turned as pink as the lady’s bliaut. “Marianne, return to your chamber.”

  So, her name was Marianne. And she was also definitely, unfortunately Norman.

  “You would rob us of this charming lady’s company?” Adair’s father asked, rising. “Here, my dear, please sit down.”

  It could be that his father was making that offer to goad the Norman, but it was more likely he was merely being kind to a woman, as was his way.

  In spite of Seamus’s invitation, Sir Nicholas fairly bounded off the dais and came to stand between Adair and the woman. “My sister has other duties to attend to.”

  Sister, not lover. A thrill of familiar excitement shot through Adair’s body, yet because she was a Norman, his excitement quickly dwindled.

  Lady Marianne flushed as she addressed his father. “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but my brother is right. I should not linger here.”

  There had been no need for Sir Nicholas to humiliate her, Adair thought, hating the Norman anew.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must ensure that we have adequate food and drink and lodging for our honored guests.”

  Adair was grimly delighted by the annoyance that flittered across Sir Nicholas’s angular face. She’d paid him back for that humiliation, because short of rudely denying them food and drink and a place to sleep, Sir Nicholas had to let them stay.

  Still, Adair expected the Norman to be discourteous, so he was taken aback when Sir Nicholas said, “Yes, of course. Off you go, then, Marianne. I’ll speak to you about the arrangements later.”

  The beauty smiled tremulously, bowed and gracefully drifted toward a door at the side of the hall, the hem of her garments swaying as she walked, while the Norman threw himself back into his chair.

  The man’s anger was no doubt caused by more than having to provide food and drink and lodging. He had to be well aware that a potential enemy could learn a lot about his fortress by staying in it.

  Perhaps later, Adair thought with inner glee, he could thank his sister for the opportunity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “SO HE TOOK the tray right out of my hands and served them himself,” Polly said breathlessly. “And handsome? Holy Mother Mary, I’ve never seen a man so fair. I thought I’d faint when our hands touched, I truly did.”

  Marianne looked away from the cook to the little group of servants clustered around the very excited Polly, who was describing something that had transpired in the hall before she’d arrived and angered Nicholas even more. She was rather curious as to which man had taken pity on the nervous Polly, but it was time they all got back to work. It was bad enough Nicholas was obviously furious with her; she didn’t need a ruined evening meal to make things worse.

  “That haunch of venison needs turning,” she said to the spit boy. “And the rest of you have other things to do, do you not?”

  The lad immediately went back to slowly turning the spit. The scullery maid returned to her pots, and the two other female servants started kneading dough again. Three men hurried out of the kitchen completely.

  “Watch out it’s not burnt on one side and raw on the other, eh?” Emile, the cook, commanded the spit boy before raising his eyes to heaven as if begging deliverance from the stupidity of servants.

  “I’m sure the meat will be fine,” Marianne assured Emile, hoping she was right. “Is there anything else—?”

  “Non, my lady, non,” Emile declared, slicing the air with his hand. “I understand. Twenty more and Scots, too.”

  He sniffed as he headed for a pot boiling over the fire. He stirred its contents, which were sending forth a delicious smell of beef and gravy. “They will be no trouble. The Scots will eat anything. Even my worst meal will be wonderful to them.”

  Relieved that Emile wasn’t going to panic or lose his temper, Marianne turned her attention to another matter. Gesturing for Polly to join her, she retreated to a corner, away from the bustling of the cook and his helpers. “I heard what happened in the hall.”

  “Oh, my lady, please, don’t be angry!” Polly cried, anxiously wringing her hands. “I couldn’t help it. He just did it. Took the tray right away from me. What was I to do?”

  “You did nothing wrong in the hall, Polly. That’s not why I wanted to speak with you.” Marianne delicately cleared her throat. “You, um, seem quite taken with the Scot who helped you.”

  Polly turned as red as a ripe apple and stared at the floor.

  “Of course, that was a kind thing for him to do,” Marianne went on gently. She knew better than to lecture. The Reverend Mother’s lectures had more often had the opposite effect than the one she intended; she’d made sin seem exciting rather than something to be avoided.

  “However, I must warn you that many men think a woman’s gratitude should be expressed in one particular fashion, and we don’t know if that Scot is such a man or not.”

  Polly looked up, her brow wrinkled, as if she didn’t understand.

  A year or two in the convent hearing the stories some of the girls had to tell, Marianne reflected, and she wouldn’t be so confused. “I mean,” she explained, “that he might think you’re so grateful, you’ll give yourself to him.”

  Polly’s eyes lit up.

  This was not the reaction Marianne had expected. “Or that you ought to, whether you’re willing or not,” she added significantly.

  Polly gulped and went back to staring at the floor.

  “So I think tonight, you should stay away from the Scots. All of them.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Polly murmured, her voice so low, Marianne could scarcely hear her.

  Nevertheless hoping the young woman appreciated that she was trying to help, Marianne said, “Now you may go and tell the alewife we’ll probably need three more casks for tonight.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the maidservant murmured before she hurried away.

  “Marianne!”

  At the sound of her brother’s enraged voice, Marianne cringed, then turned toward the door leading to the hall.

  Nicholas stood just inside the entrance, his hands on his hips, his dark brows lowered, his expression wrathful. He imperiously pointed to the door leading to the yard. “Outside, Marianne, now!”

  God help her, this was going to be worse than she’d feared. Yet somehow, she’d have to try to make him understand that she’d only been trying to help.

  Once outside, a breeze caught Marianne’s garments. It wasn’t a chill draft such as she always felt in the castle, but a warm gust of air with the hint of the tang of the sea, some miles east. The clouds parted, giving glimpses of bright blue sky.

  Nicholas stamped his way across the courtyard ahead of her. Skirting the puddles, she followed him to a secluded area between the mason’s hut and a wattle-and-daub storehouse, away from where the laborers were building the inner curtain wall.

  “What the devil was the meaning of that little performance?” Nicholas demanded when they were alone, crossing his arms, his sword still swinging at his side from his brisk pace.

  “I didn’t mean to offend or upset you, Nicholas,” she hastened to assure him. “I was only doing what I’d been taught, to show you that—”

  “You shouldn’t have come to the hall and you damn well shouldn’t have invited those men to stay.”

  “I didn’t invite them. I was sure, as overlord of Beauxville, that you had. That’s what the holy sisters taught me an overlord should do.”

  “Don
’t quote the holy sisters’ ideas of etiquette to me,” he retorted.

  Clearly, it was wrong to assume even a Norman nobleman behaved like a Norman nobleman in this godforsaken place.

  In spite of her mistake, she tried to salvage her plan. “I was only trying to be a good chatelaine to you, and take care of your guests.”

  “Those men are not my guests and this isn’t Normandy.”

  As if she needed reminding. “No, I realize that.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  She hurried on, desperately trying to make him understand why she’d done what she had. “I wanted to show you what I’ve been taught, at your great expense, to prove to you that the money hadn’t been wasted and that I deserve a Norman husband, at the very least.”

  “You could have spared yourself the effort,” Nicholas snapped. “You could act like the queen and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. In a se’en night, you’re marrying Hamish Mac Glogan if I have to lock you in your chamber and put a guard outside the door to make sure of it.”

  He stepped closer, glaring at her. “Do I have to put a guard on you, Marianne?”

  “No, Nicholas, you don’t. I understand,” she replied, because to her sorrow and despair, she did. Her brother’s mind was made up, and there was nothing she could say or do that would make him change it.

  “Good. And stay out of the hall tonight. Those are the most arrogant, insolent Scots I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet, and I won’t have them staring at my sister.”

  “I have no wish to be the object of any man’s impertinent attention, either,” she answered haughtily, her pride roused.

  Nicholas didn’t look quite so angry. “Good. Now go to your room and stay there.”

  “Gladly,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away from her brother.

  And his plans for her future.

  THE MOON ROSE nearly full. Marianne had counted back the days from the time she’d last seen it and realized it was waning. If she wanted to flee with the moon to light her way, she dare not delay.

  Sadly, she had no choice except to flee, no matter how dangerous it was. It was either stay and marry Hamish Mac Glogan, or escape Beauxville and take her chances.

  Clutching a bundle of clothing and shoes against her chest, she left her bedchamber and slowly crept down the curved wall-stairs leading to the hall. She had to get past all the men and hounds sleeping there, and across the courtyard. She’d slip out the postern gate to the river, steal a boat and make her way to a fishing village by the sea. From there, she could purchase passage to York and home to Normandy.

  She fingered her mother’s crucifix around her neck and hoped it, and her ribbons and perhaps a gown or two, would fetch enough for her journey.

  If the postern gate was locked and guarded, she’d have no choice but to climb over an unfinished wall, although that would take more time and run more risk that she’d be seen by the guards at the gatehouse towers.

  She reached the hall. Fortunately, her brother was extremely lax in religious matters, so instead of Matins being said, everyone in the castle except the guards on duty were asleep. Unfortunately, in addition to the men who usually slept in the hall—the garrison soldiers, male servants, masons and laborers—she had those Scotsmen to worry about. At least the female servants slept in their own quarters above the kitchen.

  She peered into the dark hall. Although the central fire had been banked, she could see the huddled outlines of the slumbering men and dogs. The Scots were easy to distinguish—they’d simply wrapped themselves in the long lengths of cloth they wore as their main garment and lain down seemingly where they’d stood. She quickly and instinctively made a count of their number.

  One of them was missing and as she scanned the huddled bodies, she realized who it was—the handsome, muscular one.

  Had he been the one Polly was talking about? Probably.

  Perhaps her words had been no more effective than the Reverend Mother’s, and Polly was expressing her “gratitude” this very moment.

  As troubling as that thought was, she couldn’t let any concern for Polly’s welfare impede her plans. She had to get away, and she had to get away tonight. Keeping to the walls, she sidled toward the side door leading to the kitchen.

  The kitchen was just as dark as the hall, and stifling. The lingering odors of smoke, grease, leeks and spices filled her nostrils, and she could feel the sweat dripping down her back as she studied the room illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the high, square windows. She made out the central worktable, and the barrels by the door. The stack of wood closer to the hearth. The spoons and bowls piled on the board at the side. The piscina, a basin built into the outer wall of the building.

  The spit boy lay on the floor by the entrance to the buttery, as if he were guarding the ale and wine, which perhaps he was. He rolled onto his back and muttered something.

  Fearful he was waking, she swiftly made her way around the worktable to the door, lifted the latch as quickly as she dared and slipped out into the chill air of the evening, which seemed blessedly cool.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Indeed, the moon was almost too brilliant, making it harder for her to hide. Nevertheless, she welcomed the illumination. She didn’t know the land, and she didn’t want to wander about a dark, unfamiliar countryside.

  Most of the walls weren’t finished, so there was no wall walk for patrolling soldiers. The gatehouse was nearly complete, though, and Nicholas had set watchmen on the towers there. They would be the ones most likely to spot somebody running through the courtyard.

  She watched the towers for what seemed like an age before she could be sure the guards were looking not into the courtyard, but out across the river valley. Then, summoning her resolve, she dashed to the alley between the mason’s hut and the storeroom where Nicholas had upbraided her that day.

  No one called out. No alarm sounded. She’d managed the first part of her escape undetected.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the small wattle-and-daub storehouse and said a silent prayer of thanks.

  Suddenly a man—a broad-shouldered man in the outlandish skirted garment of a Scot and a sleeveless shirt—appeared at the other end of the alley.

  Before she could recover from the shock and run or hide, he quietly addressed her in French. “Bit of an odd time for a stroll, isn’t it, my lady?”

  She recognized that voice. Thank God it wasn’t Nicholas, or one of his men—but what was that Scot doing here? And where was Polly?

  She froze as a guard called out a challenge.

  Had they been seen? Had that lascivious Scot cost her the chance of escape?

  Mercifully, another man’s voice answered, calm and steady. The guards hadn’t seen her, or the Scot.

  Yet.

  She spotted the open door to the mason’s hut to the right of the Scot. Hurrying forward, she shoved him inside, coming in after him.

  He never made a sound as the wooden door hinged with leather strips swung shut behind them. The only light filtered through cracks in the wall and the shutters over the window.

  The Scot seemed taller in the darkness. Silhouetted against the wall of the hut, his body appeared huge, with his long, bare, muscular legs and strong, equally bare arms.

  Perhaps this was a mistake. But before she could leave, he spoke.

  “Why, my lady, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, his deep voice low and slightly husky.

  “Be quiet,” she commanded in a whisper. “Or do you want the guards to catch you here, where you have no right to be?”

  “No, I don’t want the guards to find me here,” he answered quietly. “But unless they can see through walls and hear like dogs, I doubt they will. They’re too far away, and too busy looking for enemies beyond the walls.”

  “Where’s Polly?”

  “Who?”

  “Polly. The maidservant who served the wine.”

  The Scot strolled toward her. “Ah. The one wi
th the mole on her breast?”

  As if he could fool her with his bogus innocence. She knew full well the deceit men were capable of. “Yes. Where is she?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Giving him a cold stare, she backed away from him until her body collided with a workbench covered with masons’ tools—chisels and trowels, levels and measuring sticks. She set her bundle down, so that her hands were free. She could defend herself now, if she had to. “I don’t believe you. I’m sure you were with her.”

  “I’m sure I wasn’t. I think I’d remember if I were.”

  Splaying her hands behind her and leaning back, her fingers encountered a chisel. Thrilled that she had some kind of weapon, her hand closed around it. “Then what are you doing skulking about my brother’s castle?”

  “Searching for the plans to this fortress.”

  No spy would confess so quickly and so easily, to anyone. “You must think I’m a simpleton.”

  He strolled closer. “Whatever I think of you, my lady, I don’t think you’re dim-witted.”

  She swallowed hard.

  Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed hers, tightening until she dropped the chisel.

  “Were you really planning to attack me with that?” he asked as he let go of her.

  She rubbed her sore hand and didn’t answer.

  “You’re quite safe with me, my lady. My taste doesn’t run to Normans, even ones as beautiful as you.”

  She’d never before felt simultaneously insulted and flattered.

  Perhaps this was his way of trying to confuse her. “What are you doing outside the hall?” she demanded, although that in itself was no crime. “Answer me honestly, or I’ll call the guard.”

  “You won’t do that.”

  She’d heard some Scots had what they called the Sight, the ability to see things by supernatural means, things they couldn’t possibly know otherwise. Yet surely he didn’t have such a power. “Oh yes, I will.”

  “No, you won’t,” he answered, reaching around her for the chisel, coming so close, she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.