Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  “So you’re marrying that old blackguard because you want to? I thought you were trying to run away because you didn’t. I’m disappointed to learn otherwise.”

  She didn’t answer as she entered her chamber and put her sewing box on the bed. The Scot put the frame in the nearest corner and threw back his hood, revealing a mottled bruise on his cheek.

  Subduing any curiosity about his bruise, she stepped toward the window, yet not so close that she could be seen from the courtyard. Clasping her hands together so that they were covered by the long cuffs of her gown, she mustered her dignity, and her skepticism. “I think you’ve come back to see the plans and you think they might be in my brother’s solar. In that case, you’d best leave, because he keeps that room locked.”

  “If you had the plans handy, I wouldn’t mind a look, but I’ve told you why I’ve come—and I still think I’m right to believe your brother’s forcing you to marry Hamish Mac Glogan. That’s why you’ve got that delicate new lady’s maid waiting below, the one who looks like he can crush a man’s skull with his bare hands.”

  “Herman’s supposed to protect me.”

  The Scot’s eyes narrowed. “From what?”

  “Scots, I suppose.”

  He crossed his arms. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. Even if your brother doesn’t know you’ve tried to run away once or that we met, he suspects you’re going to try to flee, doesn’t he?”

  “I told you, he thinks I need protection. And clearly, given your boldness in coming into his hall, he’s right to be cautious.”

  “Especially when the prize is a lovely and spirited and very clever woman he can use to further his own ambitions.”

  Marianne struggled not to be affected by anything this man said, whether good or bad. “You make me sound like something to be won in a contest. I’m not.”

  “I’d wager your brother treats you as if you are. He seems the ruthless, ambitious sort who’d sell his own mother to get what he wants—just like Hamish Mac Glogan.”

  “Our mother is dead.”

  “Sister, then.”

  She tried not to let the Scot upset her, or think that he was right. “Perhaps you wanted to make certain you hadn’t been seen skulking about the castle. If you had, my brother would never have let you leave. He would have thrown you into the dungeon.”

  The Scot came closer. “Or else he suspected we’d been together and thought it better to say nothing. Hamish Mac Glogan would want a virgin bride, and if your brother confronted me or threw me in his dungeon, he’d have to explain why. He wouldn’t want that.”

  She backed away. “No, he wouldn’t, any more than I want my reputation to be damaged by being associated with you—which it will be if we’re found here.” She pointed to the door. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call for Herman and tell my brother you were trying to steal the plans for Beauxville.”

  “Dunkeathe,” the Scot muttered as his intense gaze searched her face. “Would you really call the guard?”

  “Yes!”

  “Even though I’m willing to help you get away from here, my lady?”

  She mustn’t believe that. This had to be a trick, and he was using his seductive voice and eyes as he probably had a hundred times with a hundred different women, for all sorts of reasons.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said, refusing to accept that this offer of assistance could be in earnest, or chivalrously intended.

  He looked surprised, then bowed with surprising grace. “I forgot we’ve not been properly introduced. I’m Adair Mac Taran, the eldest son of Seamus Mac Taran, chieftain of our clan and a thane of Scotland. Now will you let me help you?”

  He was the chieftain’s son?

  For a moment, she was tempted—very tempted—to accept his offer. But what then? Where would she go? And, chieftain’s son or not, what might he want in return?

  Something you might be willing to give.

  As she forced away that lustful little thought, his gaze held her motionless and it was as if he was trying to pierce the defenses she was desperately erecting against the feelings he aroused in her.

  “One word from you, my lady,” he said softly. “Just one word, and I’ll do everything I can to stop your marriage to Hamish Mac Glogan and free you from your brother’s tyranny.”

  Oh, God help her, why did he have to sound so sincere, and look at her that way? She wanted so much to trust him, to put her life in his hands, to believe that he would and could help her, expecting nothing in return.

  But in the end, she dare not. No matter who he was, or what he said, she dare not trust any man. “I’m quite sure that any offer you make to me is in service of your own cause. Now get out, or I’ll call Herman.”

  The Scot backed toward the door. “I’m willing to help you, my lady.”

  “Go!”

  At last, and with one final, questioning look, he did.

  She stood still for a moment, telling herself there was nothing else she could have done. She couldn’t trust him, or any other man. She could only trust herself.

  Yet in spite of her doubts about his motives, she ran to the window and looked out into the courtyard. Her heart racing, she watched as Adair Mac Taran, warrior and heir to a chieftain, joined a gang of laborers and safely sauntered out the gates.

  Whatever his reasons for coming there, she was glad he hadn’t been caught. And relieved, too, of course.

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’re not going back to Lochbarr?” Lachlann demanded as he faced his brother in the clearing by the river where they’d left their horses. The sun was low in the horizon, and Adair had just arrived.

  “I have to stop that marriage,” Adair said as he reached down for his dirk, taking it from his boot and shoving it into his belt.

  “By yourself? That’s a good way to get yourself killed—or start a war. Leave this to Father, Adair. He’s the chieftain.”

  “It’s only two days till the wedding and that bastard’s got a guard on her. If he realizes how desperate she is to get away—”

  “How do you know she’s desperate?”

  There was no time for long explanations. “I know, that’s all,” he said as he went to Neas. “And once Father understands I had no choice, he’ll—”

  “No choice?” Lachlann cried, following him. “By the saints, there’s a choice, a choice between what you think is best, and what’s best for the clan. I know she’s a bonnie woman, but—”

  “It’s naught to do with her beauty. She’s a woman and I can’t stand by and do nothing while a woman suffers. Your heart must be a cold one if you can.”

  “It’s not that I don’t pity her if her brother’s making her marry,” Lachlann protested. “But you can’t rescue her all by yourself. Come back with me and we’ll tell Father.”

  “Who may or may not do anything.” Adair looped Neas’s reins over the horse’s neck. “It won’t be as risky as you fear,” he said, leading Neas away from the trees, and trying to sound reasonable, as Lachlann always was, instead of revealing the tumult of emotions surging through him that had been roused by the sight of Lady Marianne’s hulking guard. “I saw a way into the castle, little guarded. I can get in and bring her out with me, then we’ll ride to Lochbarr.”

  “And if you’re caught?”

  “Then I’m caught.”

  Lachlann took a deep breath. “Adair, please, think again. I agree this marriage isn’t good for us, but you can’t just take matters into your own hands. Father is a thane, and chieftain. If he goes to the king—”

  “Aye, if he goes. And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then that’s the way it must be. We can make alliances of our own.”

  Adair knew that—in his head. But his heart, which saw only a woman in jeopardy, had already decided otherwise. “I’ll be making an alliance of sorts. Lady Marianne will be grateful for our help. And once Father realizes that she truly doesn’t want Mac Glogan, and the sort of brute her brother is—”

&nb
sp; “This isn’t some little mishap or misunderstanding, or another fight with Cormag,” Lachlann exclaimed. “This could lead to real trouble with the Normans. And even if you do help her, she’ll probably go running back to Normandy and forget all about you. She’s not Cellach, you know.”

  Adair threw himself into his saddle and glared at his little brother. “I know she’s not Cellach.”

  But for the sake of the girl he couldn’t save, he’d rescue another. “I’m going to Dunkeathe, and there’s an end to it.”

  “Very well, Adair, go back,” Lachlann said, throwing up his hands. “But if you’re caught, your life could be the price. Are you really willing to rot in that Norman’s dungeon, or even hang, for this Norman woman?”

  Resolute, Adair looked down at his younger brother. “Aye, I am.”

  “No good can come of this, Adair.”

  “I have to do what I have to do, Lachlann. And I cannot wait.”

  With that, Adair punched Neas’s sides with his heels and galloped down the path toward Dunkeathe.

  SHE COULDN’T BREATHE.

  Startled awake, frantic, too terrified to scream, Marianne struggled against the strong hand pressing against her mouth. Desperately attempting to hit the man holding her even though she couldn’t see him in the dark, she tried to get up.

  “Wheesht!” the man whispered harshly in her ear. “I’ve come to help you.”

  A Scot. The Scot—Adair Mac Taran.

  His hold loosened and the moment it did, she scooted backward on the bed, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.

  He was dressed in those same peasant’s clothes, and he held a sword in his hand. Surely he hadn’t fought his way into her room. She would have heard that. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a whisper, mindful of her brother in his chamber close by, and Herman at the foot of the stairs.

  “I told you. I’ve come to help you. Come, get up and get dressed. We haven’t much time.”

  He rose and held out his hand, obviously expecting her to take it. “The guards I knocked out might wake soon, or somebody might realize they’re not at their posts.”

  She stared at him, aghast.

  “Don’t be afraid. We can be well away from here before anybody realizes you’re gone. Now get dressed. You won’t be able to take anything. We can’t carry it down the wall.”

  The wall? He wanted to her to climb out the window and down the wall, like some kind of monkey? She could see the end of a rope tied to something metal braced against the inside window frame. He must have thrown it from outside, like a grapple.

  She wasn’t about to risk falling to her death and she wasn’t going anywhere with this stranger, this Scot, for any reason.

  She scrambled out of the bed on the side away from him. Her shift was only linen, and when he looked at her, she was immediately reminded that was all she had on. “You must be mad to think I’ll go out the window with you.”

  “It won’t be easy, I grant you, but we can be well away before your absence is discovered. My horse is waiting below, and Neas is fast as the wind.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then…you’ll be free of your brother.”

  She eyed him with all the suspicion she felt. “And the marriage, which you so clearly don’t want, will not take place.”

  “I’ll not deny I don’t want you to marry Mac Glogan, but—”

  “But you think I’m some foolish, dim-witted woman who’ll believe anything you say, including that you’re selflessly, nobly helping me out of the goodness of your heart. No doubt that’s why you kissed me, to ensure I’ll fall under your seductive spell.”

  His expression shifted, and his eyes gleamed with the start of rage. “I didn’t kiss you for any reason other than pleasure, and I came back to help you because I was sure you were being forced to marry against your will. Or am I wrong, and you’re as greedy as your brother, and all you care about is that Hamish Mac Glogan is rich?”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I thought I made myself quite clear before that I don’t want your help. Worse, you’ve put me in jeopardy by coming uninvited to my bedchamber in the middle of the night.”

  More anger flared in his gray eyes, but she told herself she didn’t care. His only motive had to be self-interest, like most men.

  “You don’t believe me?” he demanded.

  “I believe you want to stop the marriage,” she replied, “but I don’t believe you want to do that for the sake of a woman you barely know, unless it serves your own purpose. I also wouldn’t be surprised to discover you expect some kind of reward—in your bed.”

  The Scot’s lip curled with disdain. “You don’t know me, my lady, for if you did, you’d know I’d never do anything for a woman because I expect her to repay me, especially in the way you suggest. That may be why a Norman would help you, but thank God, I’m not a Norman.”

  She slowly surveyed the savage before her. “No, you’re not.”

  “Aye, and more fool me for thinking you’d welcome the opportunity to get away,” he said as he headed for the window. “Forgive me for thinking you might welcome the chance for liberty. I was confusing you with a Scotswoman, I suppose. So now I’ll give you good night and be on my—”

  She heard something. “Quiet!” she cried softly as she ran to the door and pressed her ear to the wood.

  Noises came from the hall below. Voices raised in alarm. Then footsteps on the stairs.

  Oh, God, they were going to be found! That Scot was going to be discovered in her bedchamber—and all she had on was her shift.

  She ran to him and started shoving him toward the window. “Go! Get out! Get out now!”

  Her brother’s door opened, banging against the stone wall. Then came more agitated voices, Nicholas’s among them.

  Pushing past her, the Scot raised his sword and started toward her door.

  If he encountered Nicholas, he’d surely kill him. She didn’t want her brother—or anybody—to die because of her.

  She grabbed the Scot’s arm and tugged him toward the window. “Go! I don’t want your help!”

  “Marianne!” Nicholas shouted from behind her door. Fists started pounding on it. “Let me in, Marianne!”

  An arrow whizzed through the window into the room. She jumped as it clattered on the floor at her feet.

  The Scot ducked to avoid another.

  “Don’t you understand?” she cried desperately. “I’ll never go anywhere with you!”

  Finally, scowling, he went to the window. He scrambled onto the sill, then turned to back out. “Farewell, my lady. I wish you all the joy in your marriage you deserve.”

  With one last, wrathful look, he slipped out of sight.

  As shoulders pushed against her bedchamber door, Marianne dashed to the window and looked out. Archers were stationed on the half-finished walls nearby, their arrows nocked as they sought a clear shot at the Scot climbing down the wall. He had to keep twisting to avoid being hit when one of them let fly. Other soldiers in the courtyard watched and waited, their swords drawn.

  Below the Scot was a pile of stones that made a sort of bridge between the bedchambers and the inner curtain wall, where another rope was tied around a merlon. Laying sprawled across the stones were two of the guards.

  That was obviously how he’d gotten into the castle. To get away, he’d have to cross the pile of stones and climb down the second rope without being shot or captured.

  Her door splintered. She spun around as her brother’s fiercely angry face appeared in the opening. “Whore!”

  She staggered backward, as if the word had been a blow. That he could think such a thing of her!

  “Who was it? That chieftain’s son? I should have known!” Nicholas snarled as he tried to push through the opening. “I saw the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you. You harlot, you’ll rue the day you let some Scot steal your maidenhead! And if I have to starve you, you’ll marry who I say!”

  There
was only one thing to do unless she wanted to be a slave to either her brother or that ancient Scot for the rest of her life. She ran to the window and clambered up onto the sill.

  “Marianne, stop!” Nicholas cried, pushing his way further into the room as she turned around in the narrow space. “You’ll fall!”

  “I’d rather be dead than marry that old man!”

  Gritting her teeth and gripping the rope, Marianne slipped backward out the window. The soles of her bare feet rubbed on the rough stones as she started down the outside wall. Her hands ached with the effort to hold on. Below, she could hear the sounds of fighting and, with a quick, sickening glance downward, saw the Scot attacking two soldiers. He jabbed at one with his sword, then struck the other with a mighty, backhanded blow that sent the soldier tumbling down the pile of stones.

  She had no choice, she told herself as she looked up again. She had to flee. She’d get away. The Scot would fend off anyone who tried to stop them.

  Nicholas wouldn’t cut the rope. He wouldn’t let her fall. She’d be worthless to him dead. The archers wouldn’t dare to shoot her, either.

  If she could just get to the pile of stones…

  Her shoulders screamed with pain. Her fingers had no feeling left.

  Some of Nicholas’s soldiers appeared at her window. They started to pull the rope back up. She planted her feet against the rough stones. She couldn’t go back to Nicholas, to be his pawn.

  Desperate, she looked down again. There were no soldiers near the Scot, although more were scrambling up a ladder that had been set against the stones. He raised his eyes and when he saw her, his face filled with horror and concern.

  He had said he would help her. Now, he must.

  “Catch me!” she cried.

  Then she let go, trusting her fate to God and the Scot.

  For one terrrifying instant, the air rushed past her, then, two strong arms caught her.

  She wasn’t dead.

  He’d caught her and she wasn’t dead.

  She threw her arms about the Scot’s neck, clinging to him, breathing hard, joyfully relieved—until she found herself staring into Adair Mac Taran’s furiously angry, recriminating eyes.