Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  When he was finished and the torture concluded, she reached for the dry strips of cloth. “I can bandage them myself.”

  When he looked up, their faces were mere inches apart.

  “If you wish,” he said, his deep voice low and his eyes…

  He wasn’t angry anymore. He was looking at her the way he had in the mason’s hut just before he kissed her.

  The silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. The very air seemed to thicken and warm, and pulse with a promise of something sweet and fulfilling. And exciting. Very exciting.

  What did it matter now, after all, if they kissed, and even more? Nicholas already thought she was a ruined woman….

  Except that she was not. And she couldn’t make this terrible situation worse by letting her lustful desire have its way.

  He spared her having to speak when he abruptly got to his feet and went to his horse, taking one of the pieces of cloth with him.

  Relieved, she started to wrap the rough bandages about her feet while the Scot removed the horse’s saddle. He set it on the ground, then pulled the fleece that had been beneath it from the horse’s back. He tossed it to her. “Sit on that.”

  She eased herself gratefully onto the warm, soft fleece, then picked up the wineskin and shook it. There was still some wine left and she was very thirsty.

  She put the opening to her lips and sipped—and gagged. It was the worst thing she’d ever tasted in her life.

  “That’s not wine!” she spluttered, wiping her chin.

  Pausing as he rubbed down his horse, Adair Mac Taran regarded her over his broad, naked shoulder. “I never said it was. It’s uisge beatha—the water of life. We Scots make it, and it’s better than wine.”

  She curled her lip at that fulsome praise for the horrific beverage.

  “I should have guessed you wouldn’t appreciate that, either,” he muttered as he went back to his task.

  “Your drink is terrible, and anyone who appreciates good wine would think so, too.”

  He didn’t answer. He simply continued to rub down his horse.

  The horse was surely valuable, as fine a specimen as his master. Whatever else she thought of the Scot, he had a perfect warrior’s body—strong, lean, powerful.

  He was very handsome, too. And that kiss…

  She must stop thinking about that! She couldn’t make the mistake of being so weak again. Whatever he said, she couldn’t trust him. He was a virile man, and half-naked already.

  You can’t trust yourself, either, the guilty voice of her conscience whispered. Even now, in spite of everything, you can’t stop yourself imagining being in his arms, as if you’re the lovers your brother thinks you are.

  Suddenly, the Scot threw down the cloth and marched toward her. She shrank back as he grabbed the wineskin and took what seemed an enormous swig of the horrible drink.

  He’d given his word she’d be safe with him, but she’d heard tales of drunken men and their debauchery, and she was sure that drink was potent.

  Adair Mac Taran lowered the wineskin. His eyes gleaming in the flickering torchlight, he gave her a wolfish grin, then smacked his lips and wiped them with the back of his hand. “It warms you.”

  Trying not to panic, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “If it doesn’t kill you first.”

  He barked a harsh laugh. “Normans!” He took another gulp. “Cold water for you, is it, my fine lady?” he asked. “Very well.”

  She watched him warily as he stoppered the wineskin and dropped it beside her, then went to the pool. From a little niche in the rock she hadn’t noticed before, he pulled out a cup fashioned from a ram’s horn. He dipped it in the water and walked back to her, holding it out before him like an offering.

  “There you are,” he said, giving it to her with a smirk.

  Not taking her eyes off him, she took the cup and sipped.

  He threw himself down on the ground on the opposite side of the fire, as far away as he could get and still be warmed by the flames. “Are you finished bandaging your feet?”

  “Yes. Why don’t you use one of the pieces to wash the cut by your eye?”

  He reached up and touched the wound, sucking in his breath slightly. He went to the pool and splashed water on his face to wash it.

  While he was occupied with that, she reached for one of the logs, now steaming, and moved it within reach. If he tried to attack her, she’d grab it and defend herself. As she’d said, she wasn’t as weak and helpless as he seemed to think.

  He returned to the fire and sat on the ground. Raising his knees, he rested his forehead on them and wrapped his arms about his legs.

  He suddenly seemed as weary as she, and there was a despondency to his attitude that was completed unexpected. But if he was fatigued or dismayed because of his unnecessary efforts, he would get little sympathy from her. Because of him, her future was thrown into turmoil and uncertainty. “What will you do with me in the morning?”

  “I told you. I’ll take you to Lochbarr. Then…it’s up to you.”

  She didn’t believe that for a moment. “Your clan may have other ideas about that. Surely your father—”

  “My father didn’t know that I was going to rescue you. I didn’t tell anybody except my brother.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Do you mean to say you came back to Beauxville and risked my brother’s wrath without your father’s knowledge?”

  “I thought there was no time to waste.”

  He must really be against the marriage alliance…or else he expected her gratitude, just as she’d warned Polly. That would explain why he came back to Beauxville by himself.

  He moved so that his legs were crossed, and she was instantly alert and wary.

  “Is there any more uisge beatha?” he asked.

  “You should put what’s left on that cut,” she said, ignoring his cry of protest as she picked up one of the remaining strips of cloth beside her and poured the last of the drink onto it.

  She was sure his next word was a curse, but she didn’t care. She’d rather have him annoyed than have to fight off a drunken man.

  She held the wet cloth out to him. “Here.”

  He reached across the fire and grabbed it, but didn’t immediately put it to his cheek.

  “Why aren’t you washing it?”

  “I’ll do that later.”

  “Surely you’re not afraid of the pain?”

  He gave her a sour look. “No.” Nevertheless, he still didn’t tend to his wound.

  “As you said to me, it’s necessary. You had no such qualms about washing my feet, and they were much worse off.”

  “It’s not the pain. I hate putting anything near my eyes, that’s all. When I was a child, I was running with a stick in my hand, pretending it was a sword, and fell. I nearly took out an eye.”

  “Oh.” That was understandable, if unexpected.

  He gave her a sardonic smile. “Perhaps you could do it.”

  She wasn’t going to get close to him again. “No!”

  “And here I thought you were brave,” he jeered as he closed his eyes and dabbed lightly at the cut, wincing.

  Her brother might not be the most arrogant, frustrating and selfish man she’d ever met, after all. “If you came to Beauxville—”

  “Dunkeathe.”

  “My brother’s castle, without your father’s knowledge or permission, how might he and the rest of your clan feel when you return and tell them what you did?”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s another reason why you shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “I wish I hadn’t.”

  “So do I.”

  The Scot lay down on the stone floor with his feet closest to the fire and moved his sword away from her, so that he was almost lying on it before wrapping his arms about himself.

  Why, oh, why had she gone out of the window after this uncouth, barely civilized Scot? If only he’d stayed away. She would have found some way to pre
vent the wedding.

  He muttered something under his breath.

  “Can’t you at least be quiet?”

  He slid her a condemning glance, but she wasn’t the one barging into his bedchamber and muttering under her breath in a foreign language. “It’s rude to say things I can’t understand.”

  “Rude? Oh, my God, can’t have that, can we?” he mocked. He shifted, obviously trying to find a better spot to rest his head. “I was saying I wished I had my feileadh. Then I’d be snug as a bird in a nest.”

  “And what, perchance, is a feileadh?”

  “The wool plaid. These Saxon clothes are damned uncomfortable.”

  “I daresay it doesn’t help that you’re lying on your sword.”

  “You might try to steal it. Or kill me with it. I wouldn’t put anything past a Norman.”

  “Then I’m not so weak and helpless after all?”

  His only answer to that was another muttered word she’d never heard before, and clearly not a flattering one.

  “If you really feel that way, perhaps you shouldn’t sleep at all.”

  He sat up, the sudden movement catching her off guard. “Are you threatening me, my lady?”

  Determined not to let him think he could frighten her, she gave him a smug smile. “How could a weak and helpless woman threaten a big, strong Scot like you?”

  “And you told me you didn’t tease men,” he scoffed. “Stop. It’ll avail you nothing.”

  What did he think she was trying to do? “You’re not just arrogant, you’re conceited!”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “At least I know how to be grateful.”

  “Grateful? Why should I be grateful?” she asked, glaring at him across the fire. “I didn’t seek your help which, I point out, has made things infinitely worse. In fact, I refused it.”

  “I’m sorry for not believing you’d rather marry a greedy, grasping old lecher, even if he’s rich.”

  He made her sound greedy and grasping, too. “Rich the man may be, but if I married him, I’d have to stay in this godforsaken, sodden place. I’d rather die—or run away by myself.”

  “We don’t want you Normans here, either,” he retorted. “Believe me, my lady, I’d like nothing better than to see you all sent back to Normandy.”

  “And I’d like nothing better than to go.”

  “I’m sure my father can help you there.”

  “It’s the least he can do after all the trouble his insolent, arrogant son has caused me.”

  Glowering, the Scot got to his feet. “Oh, aye, all the trouble I’ve caused you.” He snatched up his sword and turned toward the entrance of the cavern.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you.”

  Sure that he meant it, she struggled to stand. “You can’t leave me here alone,” she said, following him.

  He whirled around. “Why not? You can wait here for your precious Normans.”

  “Because…” She wouldn’t admit she was frightened of her brother, who ought to trust her, but didn’t, and what he might do to her when he found her. “Because I’m afraid of bats!”

  The Scot stared at her. “What?”

  “I’m frightened of bats,” she said, trying to be dignified, “just the way you’re afraid of things coming too close to your eyes.”

  There was a tense moment that seemed to last far too long.

  “All right, I’ll stay,” he finally said. “But remember that you asked this of me, my lady. I want no accusations come the morning.”

  She tried not to sound relieved. “If you keep your distance, there’ll be none.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EVERY SENSE ALERT for Normans lurking in ambush, and cursing himself with every name for a fool he could think of, Adair tried to ignore the sensation of Lady Marianne’s arms around his waist as they neared Lochbarr. He hadn’t taken the main road toward home, nor had he seen any signs of Normans pursuing them. Nevertheless, he was ready to send Neas galloping over the hills at the first sign of foreign soldiers.

  As for the lady with him…what a mistake he’d made. He should have left her in her brother’s hands, as Lachlann had said.

  He didn’t want to think about what was going to happen when he got back to Lochbarr. He was quite sure Lachlann had already returned and told their father what his eldest son intended to do. They’d all be ignorant of the actual outcome, though, and Adair hoped his father would be so relieved he was still alive, he wouldn’t banish him from the clan outright.

  To think he’d risked that for this ungrateful woman. This beautiful, defiant, ungrateful woman who hated his country. This defiant, tempting woman who inspired his passion as no woman ever had.

  God help him, he was a fool. An impetuous, stubborn pigheaded fool who deserved whatever punishment his father meted out.

  Adair’s gaze scanned the pine woods around them. In the early-morning sunlight, blessedly welcome after weeks of rain, the forest seemed peaceful and calm. Birds sang uninterrupted in the trees as if they were rejoicing. Squirrels scampered, and Adair spotted a rabbit, as startled as he, sitting up under a holly bush.

  Perhaps the Normans were faster than he’d thought, and they were waiting for him closer to Lochbarr. Or maybe Sir Nicholas had already reached Lochbarr to complain to his father and threaten to go to the king.

  They reached the ridge that overlooked the loch, where the forest cleared and the road led down into the village, with the fortress on a rise beyond.

  To his great relief, the village looked as peaceful as the woods. A few of the boats used for fishing were out on the loch near the small island several hundred yards offshore. The deep blue water of the lake was still and smooth as glass.

  He couldn’t see the fortress well, but he could make out no signs of heightened activity, as if they’d fought off an attack, or feared one.

  “Is this Lochbarr?” Lady Marianne asked, her breath warm on his naked back.

  The whole way home he’d felt her breath, her breasts and her nipples, through the thin fabric covering them. He’d struggled to ignore the sensations, just as he’d struggled to ignore the arousal he felt whenever he looked at her in the cave last night. Even disheveled and dirty, she appealed to him. Even when she was angry at him and infuriating him, a part of him couldn’t stop thinking about making love with her. Imagining those bright eyes shining with desire for him. Having her body beneath him. Being able to touch and caress her, until she cried out for him to take her.

  He inwardly gave his head a shake.

  “Aye, that’s Lochbarr,” he answered as he nudged Neas into a walk again. The poor creature had suffered, being forced into the cave.

  Unfortunately, there’d been no help for it. If Lady Marianne had come with him as he’d planned, they could have ridden straight on for Lochbarr and not been forced to seek refuge in the cave.

  Where he’d discovered her wounded feet, and realized that even her feet were shapely. Where she’d endured his ministrations with a stoic calm that few women—or men, either—possessed.

  Where he’d found the uisge beatha.

  Despite his sizeable gulps, it hadn’t helped relax him. But what could he expect, after having his aid cast back at him like a spear to the belly?

  As they neared Lochbarr, a group of women at the village well stopped gossiping and stared. By the kirk, a dog sniffed the air, as if he knew a foreigner was among them. A group of children chasing each other halted and gaped and pointed. Two farmers leaned on a stone fence, watching, silent as the rocks under them.

  Adair pressed his lips together and tried to ignore their curious scrutiny, although Adair Mac Taran, shirtless and in Saxon breeches, riding through the village with a beautiful, disheveled woman clad only in her shift, must make quite a sight.

  If this was humiliating for him, how much worse must it be for her? No doubt she’d tell him so later, in no uncertain terms.

  With a sinking heart, he spotted his father waiting at the
gates of the fortress, surrounded by warriors and other leading men of the clan who gave him council: Lachlann, to his right, as grim-faced as his father; Barra, the seanachie, keeper of the family lineage, most trusted of his father’s friends; Roban, looking both relieved and wary; Cormag, triumphant, no doubt anticipating Seamus’s anger at his son’s act; and others, all looking worried or concerned, including some who shared Cormag’s dislike for the chosen heir to their chieftain.

  Perhaps they’d get their wish, and his father would suggest another follow him as leader of the clan upon his death.

  Marianne held him tighter, evincing the first fear he’d seen since she’d climbed down the wall last night. In the cave, she’d been angry, upset, distrustful, but not, he thought, afraid.

  “Who are all those men?” she asked quietly, her voice steady, belying the dread revealed by the tightening of her embrace.

  “My father you know,” he replied, attempting to pay no heed to the sensation of her arms about his waist, reminding himself of things she’d said last night that ought to make him hate her. “The young, thin fellow to his right is my brother, Lachlann. The others are warriors, or men whose advice my father values.”

  “They don’t look pleased.”

  He twisted slightly to look at her and tried not to betray any emotion at all when he spoke. “It doesn’t look as if your brother’s come to fetch you home again, either.”

  “I didn’t think he would,” she replied evenly, with no hint of dismay or disappointment. “I told you, he believes I encouraged you.”

  Adair sniffed derisively. She certainly had encouraged him. Looking at him the way she had. Returning his kiss. Yet she was still trying to wrap herself in the mantle of outraged righteousness.

  What an infuriating woman! He’d be glad to see the last of her. And he would hope that some good might come of this yet, if Hamish Mac Glogan refused to marry her. Not for the haughty Marianne’s sake, but for his clan’s. An alliance between Mac Glogan and Sir Nicholas would be bad.

  A few yards from the gates, Adair drew Neas to a halt.