Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, she froze until he retreated.

  “You won’t because then you’d have to explain what you’re doing wandering about at this time of night and with a bundle in your hands,” he said as he toyed with the chisel. “I’m thinking you had a clandestine rendezvous planned, although sadly not with me.” He nodded at the bundle. “And you’ve thoughtfully brought a blanket to lie on and perhaps some wine to drink.”

  “What a base suggestion!”

  “I didn’t mean to be insulting,” he replied as he tossed the chisel back onto the table, close enough for her to reach. “I’m impressed you planned so well.”

  Now she really was insulted. “I am not some hussy of the sort you’re obviously used to.”

  The Scot strolled over to another table and workbench. “What else could lead a beautiful Norman lady to sneak around alone in her brother’s fortress in the middle of the night?” he mused aloud. “Perhaps it’s a sign that all is not well with the lady.” He turned to regard her steadily. “I could be mistaken, of course. I’d be glad to think I was, and that nothing is amiss with you.”

  He sounded completely sincere. Yet she’d heard enough stories in the convent to know better than to take any man’s words at face value, no matter how sincere he sounded.

  So she lied, easily and without compunction. “I couldn’t sleep and decided to take some linen to the kitchen to be washed in the morning. I heard noises and thought it was a cat. I wanted to chase it outside, lest it make a mess of the masons’ things.”

  “Really?” the Scot answered. He lazily picked up some other tools one at a time and examined them. “You didn’t think it might be somebody up to no good? You weren’t bravely coming to confront an enemy?”

  “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to confront an armed man when I have only a bundle of laundry. And I don’t think any intelligent man would attack the sister of Sir Nicholas de Beauxville in his own fortress, or confess a crime to her face.”

  The Scot put down a trowel. “This place is Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.”

  “Since my brother has possession of it, he can call it whatever he likes.”

  “Aye, so he may, and so might the Normans, but to the Scots it is, and always will be, Dunkeathe.”

  “Proudly spoken, but whatever it’s called, I want to know what you’re really doing out of the hall in the middle of the night.”

  He tilted his head and studied her a moment before answering. “All right then, my lady, the truth. It’s just as I said. I was trying to find the plans to the castle.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It has to be obvious I’m up to no good.”

  Then his full lips curved upward into a devilish smile that seemed to reach right into her breast and set her heart to beating as it never had before. “And since I’m not dim-witted, either, I’m sure that you’re doing something you don’t want your brother to know about, whether it’s meeting a lover or not.”

  She reached for her bundle. “I told you, I’m taking some linen to be laundered.”

  “When you’re ill? That’s what your brother said when you weren’t at the evening meal.”

  “I am recovered.”

  “And making bundles, which you then carry out of your quarters in the middle of the night, heading for the postern gate. If I were to make a guess, Lady Marianne, I’d say you were running away.”

  “Why would I run away?”

  “I can think of plenty of reasons you’d want to flee. For one, that brother of yours is as arrogant as they come. It must be difficult living under his thumb.”

  “He’s a wonderful brother.”

  “Well, maybe for a Norman, he is. Thank God, I wouldn’t know.” The Scot took a step closer. “Whether he is or not, you’re willing to risk fleeing his castle and traveling alone rather than stay here.”

  “Even if that were true—which it isn’t—is traveling alone in this country such a great risk? Are you saying I should be afraid of the Scots?”

  “There are men who would steal cattle roaming about. Alone on the open road, you’d be very tempting for every outlaw between here and York.”

  She fought the urge to believe that he cared about her welfare. Most men were scoundrels and liars; even her own brother would use her to further his selfish ambitions. “If I were running away, I’d have enough sense to stay off the open road.”

  “And not get lost?”

  “I need only get to the nearest church or monastery or convent by myself. They would give me sanctuary.”

  That would also be the first place her brother would look for her, which is why she wouldn’t risk doing that. It had to be the village, then York, then France.

  The Scot came closer. “If you were running away, my lady, I’d think again. Or are you quite certain you’d have nothing to fear from the cattle thieves because they’re Normans, too?”

  “I don’t believe the men who took your cattle came from here,” she replied, hoping it was true, although she wouldn’t put it past some of the soldiers her brother had hired.

  “Then so much the worse for you—or any lone woman—who meets them.”

  The Scot’s gaze searched her face. When he spoke, his voice was firm, and stern. “Does he beat you?”

  She instinctively drew back, putting a little more distance between them. “Who?”

  “Your brother.”

  “No!”

  “He doesn’t…lay hands on you?”

  She guessed what terrible thing he was implying. “Never!”

  His stern visage relaxed. “So why do you want to run away?”

  “I don’t!”

  “I think you’re lying. I think you desperately want to get away from here. I just don’t know why.”

  Her reasons simply couldn’t be important to him, no matter how concerned he sounded. “You have no idea what I want,” she replied, mustering her resolve. “I’m a Norman lady and you’re nothing but a…but a…”

  “What am I but a man who doesn’t want to see you hurt—or worse? Do you really find that so hard to believe?” he asked softly, laying his strong hands lightly on her shoulders, the slight pressure warm and surprisingly welcome.

  But it shouldn’t be. She should slap his face for daring to touch her. She should raise the alarm. Call out the guards. Shout for help. She should push him away. She shouldn’t let him pull her into his arms, as he was doing at that very moment.

  Her bundle fell to the ground, the garments and shoes tumbling to the ground like so many scattered leaves.

  She shouldn’t put her arms around his waist and look up into his handsome face. She should try to get away from him and his deep, seductive voice. She shouldn’t feel this thrilling excitement coursing through her body, or allow the images bursting into her head.

  Yet in spite of all the inner warnings and orders, and all the things she’d heard about men and their evil ways, Marianne closed her eyes in anticipation and welcomed the first touch of the Scot’s lips upon hers. They were as light as the caress of a feathertip before they settled and moved with slow, sinuous deliberation.

  This was how that girl under the tree must have felt, except this was no stripling youth kissing her. This was a warrior in his prime, handsome and confident.

  Nothing could prepare her for the astonishing reality of his passionate kiss. Not the girl and the boy beneath the tree. Not the whispered descriptions from the other girls in the dark at the convent. Not a troubadour’s ballad.

  Nothing.

  As the Scot’s arms tightened around her, a longing as powerful as the need for liberty rooted her to the spot and urged her to surrender to the passion surging through her body, enflamed by his kiss.

  He tasted of wine and warmth, his lips soft yet firm, too, as they slid over hers with excruciating, provoking leisure. Leaning against him, soft and yielding, a whimper of yearning escaped her throat, a little note of longing for something more that his kiss promised.

  He shifted
, and his embrace tightened. His mouth pressed harder, and his tongue touched her lips, preparing to part them.

  A sound interrupted the silence: somebody drawing water from the well. Two women’s voices talking about the fine weather.

  The kitchen servants, always the first to rise, were already setting about their tasks. Soon, the guards would be changing, and the masons would be coming.

  With a horrified gasp, Marianne twisted out of the Scot’s grasp. She mustn’t be found here—with him.

  “Let me go or I’ll call the guards!” she cried, meaning it, as she frantically picked up her things.

  She never should have weakened and given in to her lustful impulses. What would the Reverend Mother and Father Damien say if they could see her now? What would her friends think of her? God help her, what would Nicholas do?

  “You won’t call the guards,” the Scot said firmly, backing away, his body blocking the single exit.

  “If you don’t get away from the door, I certainly will,” she countered, whirling around to face him, holding her clothes against her chest.

  His expression hard and as cold as Nicholas’s could be, the Scot shook his head. “Oh no, you won’t, my fine Norman lady.” He nodded at her clothes. “That’s no bundle of laundry and you weren’t on your way to do washing. You were running away, until we met here. Why, I’m not sure, but I am sure you’ll never tell your brother that we met, because then you’d have to explain yourself.”

  “And you thought to take advantage of that, and me, didn’t you?” she charged.

  His whole body tensing, the Scot spread his hands wide. “I’d never take advantage of a woman, and I’m not keeping you here against your will. I haven’t done anything against your will.”

  “Yes, you have!”

  “No, I have not, my lady, and you know it.”

  “You were trying to seduce me.”

  “If I’d been trying, my lady, you’d have been seduced.”

  “Of all the insolent, despicable, arrogant—! Let me pass!”

  He stepped away from the door. “With pleasure, my lady. But we both know that you enjoyed that kiss as much as I.”

  Marianne knew nothing of the kind. She only knew that staying with him had been a terrible mistake, and not just because of that kiss. She’d lost her chance to escape, and who could say when she would get another before the week was up?

  “Fool!” she muttered, silently cursing both herself and the Scot as she pushed past him and hurried out the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ADAIR BOLDLY STRODE toward the hall, silently daring any of the Norman’s soldiers in the courtyard to question or challenge him. He’d like nothing better than to send a few of them sprawling in the mud.

  Yet as he headed toward the massive hall, no one—not the workmen, Sassunach for the most part, or the soldiers—said a word to stop him. Their master should thank God he wasn’t an assassin sent to kill him, if this was how they guarded his fortress.

  But what could you expect from men paid to serve you? Scots’ loyalty and power came from blood and family, not payment in coin, or the promise of reward.

  As for Lady Marianne, she was a lying, scheming Norman like all the rest. Of course she’d been sneaking somewhere, and either she was running away, or taking a change of clothes for some other purpose. She probably had been going to meet a lover, and was sorry she’d been caught.

  At least at first, because say what she would, she had wanted to kiss him. She’d relaxed against him and passionately pressed her lips to his as if she’d like nothing more than to be his lover.

  God save him, he’d wanted that, too, forgetting that she was a Norman. There was no excuse for his lustful weakness and he ought to be ashamed.

  He was ashamed.

  Adair shoved open the door to the hall and marched inside the chamber big enough to hold a herd of cattle.

  He spotted his father sitting on a bench, his shoulders slumped, not speaking or moving. Adair couldn’t remember ever seeing his father quite so still first thing in the morning, and there were circles of weariness under his eyes. Clearly, a night on a stone floor, even one cushioned with rushes, had proved intolerably uncomfortable.

  He marched toward his father. “The bastard should have offered you a bed.”

  Seamus rose, his movements slow and stiff. “It’s nae wise to call a man names in his own house, my son,” he said as he gave Adair a wry smile. “And he may not have an extra bed.”

  “The devil he does. He’s rich. This place is proof of that.”

  “This place, my son, is proof that he’s spending a lot of coin to fortify Dunkeathe,” his father replied, his gaze roving over the high-beamed ceiling and stone walls before returning to Adair. “It doesnae mean he has muckle in the way of beds.”

  “So you think he needs more money,” Adair inquired significantly, thinking of the missing cattle.

  “Maybe. But we don’t know the man’s business, so it’s better to make no guesses.”

  Lachlann nodded. “Especially when we’re in his castle.”

  “Aye, and where the devil have you been?” Cormag demanded.

  Adair saw no need to explain himself to Cormag. He also saw no reason to tell his father, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Norman’s sister. That unforeseen meeting represented no danger to his clan, because he was sure it would remain a secret. In spite of her bravado, the lady wouldn’t dare to tell her brother that they’d been alone together. Otherwise she’d have to explain how she came to be in the courtyard in the middle of the night.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a wee walk about the place,” he replied, which was true, as far as it went.

  He’d left the hall after he’d lain awake for a long time, thinking of this fortress and the danger it represented to his clan and his country. He hadn’t planned on meeting the lady, and he should have left her the moment he saw her. Yet she had been frightened and tense, even after she’d pushed him into that hut. His curiosity had been roused enough to try to find out what she was up to, and then if she was in any danger.

  He should have known better than to have any sympathy for a Norman, even if the Norman was a woman.

  “The bonnie lass with the mole on her breast, was it?” Cormag asked with a sly, disgusting smirk as he adjusted his feileadh, pushing and pulling the fabric so that it bunched less around his middle. “Was she grateful that you acted like a servant to Sir Nicholas?”

  Adair’s lip curled. “I didn’t go out to meet a woman,” he replied. “And only a desperate lout—or a Norman—would expect a woman to show her gratitude the way that you’re implying.”

  “That’s enough, you two,” his father said. “I’ve plenty to think on without you fighting like mongrel dogs.”

  “Aye,” Lachlann seconded. “And we shouldn’t quarrel among ourselves while we’re here. How will that look to the Normans?”

  Lachlann had a point, and Adair resolved to try to ignore Cormag, at least until they were out of Dunkeathe.

  His father stretched and glanced at the servants setting up the tables. “That Norman’s idea of an evening meal was not mine, and they’ll have no notion at all of what a man needs in the morning, so I think it’s time we were on our way. Roban, see to the horses.”

  “Without another word about the cattle?” Adair asked as his friend dutifully headed out of the hall.

  His father nodded. “Aye, my son, there’ll be not another word about the cattle—for now. We’ve no proof, and arguing with Sir Nicholas like a hotheaded lad isn’t going to provide it. We’ve warned him and he knows we’re suspicious, so that will have to do.”

  “Aye, Adair. If you can’t hold your temper, you’ll have us at war with our neighbors,” Cormag added.

  Adair shot him a look. “I don’t mind a fight.”

  Cormag’s hand went for his missing sword. “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “I’m saying I don’t mind a fight, if it comes to it,�
� Adair replied, trying to control his frustration with Cormag, Sir Nicholas and the Normans in general. “Better a battle than surrender.”

  “I’ll fight when the chieftain tells me to, and not because you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head,” Cormag retorted.

  “It’s not your place to chastise my son, nephew,” Seamus said, standing between them. “Now let’s be gone.”

  “We’re not taking leave of the lady?” Lachlann asked. “It’d be only right to say farewell and give her our thanks for her kindness.”

  “We’ll take our leave of her if she comes to bid us farewell,” Seamus answered. “She was too ill to eat with us last night, remember?”

  “Aye, poor thing,” Adair replied. “Probably sickened from whatever that was they served us. Might have been anything under all that sauce.”

  The men started to laugh, until Seamus held up his hand to silence them. “Wheesht. Here comes the man himself.”

  Sir Nicholas strode toward them from the bottom of the curved staircase, carrying himself with the ease of a soldier welcomely divested of heavy chain mail and armor. He was the same height as Adair, and looked as if he could lift ten stone. Some Normans went to fat when they quit going to war or tournaments. Adair doubted this man would.

  “Good day to you, Sir Nicholas,” his father said in French, his tone jovial, although Adair didn’t doubt his father had noted that the man was wearing his sword belt, the bronze hilt of his weapon gleaming in the morning sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows.

  “And to you, Seamus,” the Norman replied, coming to a halt. “I regret I have no priest in residence to say mass today.”

  Despite his words, he didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

  “Oh, well then, I think it’s best, my lord, if we take our leave at once. We mustn’t be in a state of sin when we break the fast.”

  His father wasn’t being any more sincere. He wasn’t a religious man, and the priest of their kirk was notorious for his disagreement with several of the rules of Rome, particularly the one regarding chastity. As for eating before mass, Father Padraig always said God would understand that it was difficult for a man to contemplate anything but his own hunger on an empty belly.