Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  Marianne coolly raised one inquisitive brow. “Marriage—with all that implies?”

  “Yes,” Lachlann answered.

  “I could leave him, or he might leave me at the end, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if there are children?”

  “They stay with the father.”

  The lady gave Adair a scornful smile, as if he’d tried to trick her. “I won’t agree to something that has every advantage for him and none for me.”

  “She won’t go for it,” Lachlann translated for the clansmen.

  “Of course not,” Adair growled. “The way you explained it, who would? You should have said—”

  “There must be a legal wedding, with a priest’s blessing,” Marianne declared.

  Trying to keep calm and not succeeding very well, Adair said, “There’s no shame in a handfasted union. Everyone in Scotland will accept it, and if it ends, there’s no shame, either.”

  “It’s not whether a Scot will accept it or not that concerns me,” she replied. “It’s what a Norman would think, and none of them would see it in such a light. I would have been a mistress, not a wife.”

  “A word, my son,” Seamus interjected. He rose from his chair and gestured for his son to follow him to a far corner of the hall, where they couldn’t be heard.

  Perhaps his father had thought of some other way to appease the lady and her brother that didn’t require marriage, Adair thought hopefully.

  His brief hope was dashed when he saw his father’s grave expression.

  “I know this isn’t what you planned when you went to Dunkeathe, my son,” Seamus said quietly as they stood in the corner, “yet now it’s time to think of the clan. Lady Marianne’s right about preventing bloodshed. And whether Sir Nicholas approves of the marriage or not, it’s better you marry her than having her wed to Hamish Mac Glogan, or some other Scot who might be tempted to move against us.”

  He slid a glance back to the stately Marianne. “It could be worse, Adair. She’s a bonnie lass.”

  “Oh, aye, bonnie to look at, but not to live with, I’m thinking. You can see what she thinks of me. How can I be happy with a wife who hates me?”

  “You went to her bedchamber, Adair,” Seamus replied, his voice firm, although there was some pity in his eyes. “I know why you did, but you’ve still got yourself in a mess, and the clan, too. Worse, you’ve left no way out of it, except what she suggests. You’re learning a hard lesson, but it’s one you must learn if you’re to be chieftain—you’ve got to think things through, Adair, with all the possible consequences. You didn’t, and now you’ve got to pay the price.”

  “For the rest of my life?”

  His father nodded. “Aye, because she’s right about the Normans and how they’ll treat her. She’ll be like a leper to them, my son, and she doesn’t deserve that.”

  “But she didn’t have to come after me.”

  “Did she not?” his father asked, his gaze searching his son’s face.

  Adair thought of the shouting, the pounding on the door, the tone of her brother’s words that he could hear even on the other side of a stone wall.

  He knew then that he had no choice, for she’d had none.

  He grasped at something else his father said, something to make him feel he hadn’t utterly ruined his future. “You’re still willing to have me lead the clan after you?”

  His father looked genuinely shocked that he’d asked. “Aye.”

  Adair let his breath out slowly. “Then I’ll marry her, and be glad my punishment’s no worse.”

  Seamus briefly patted him on the back before they returned to the others.

  “Adair’s agreed,” Seamus told them in Gaelic. “They’ll be married. Today.”

  There was some murmuring among the men, and Cormag looked far from pleased, but none of them dared openly disagree with the chieftain’s decision.

  Seamus smiled at Marianne. “The wedding will be today,” he said in French. “I can’t promise much of a feast on such short notice, but we’ll do our best.”

  Marianne’s only reaction was a lowering of her brows and a slight flush, as if she hadn’t really expected his father to concede to her demand, after all.

  If she tried to change her mind now…!

  Adair strode up to her and tugged her into his arms. She was taken aback, and that pleased him. Let her be shocked and confused and feeling as if the ground beneath her feet would no longer support her, just as he had from the time she’d made her unexpected, outrageous proposal.

  Then he kissed her, his lips moving over hers with sure and certain purpose. If it was marriage she wanted, and children, he’d show her that he fully intended to live up to his husbandly duties. He’d certainly—nay, eagerly—do what he must to get her with child, for that, and the children themselves, might be the only pleasure he’d get from his wife.

  Children with Marianne. Blond bonnie lasses with fire in their eyes, and spirit and strength. Dark-haired bold boys worthy to lead their clan someday. Aye, and get into mischief plenty of times before that.

  His kiss gentled. Marianne in his bed, loving him. And he loving her.

  She relaxed in his arms, surrendering, even welcoming his kiss, as she had done that first time. He forgot where he was, and that they weren’t alone.

  He was kissing Marianne, who’d clung so tightly to him when he caught her after she’d let go of the rope. Who’d leaned against him as if for comfort and protection.

  His father cleared his throat.

  Adair immediately drew back, watching his bride’s lovely face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes closed, as sleepy and satisfied as if they’d just made love.

  She opened her bright blue eyes slowly. She had remarkable eyes, as direct and forthright as Cellach’s had been.

  “And him always claiming he hated Normans,” Cormag grumbled. “Only took a pretty one to make him sing a different tune and cause us all this trouble.”

  “Shut it, Cormag, or I’ll break your nose again,” Adair said without looking at this cousin, for his gaze was still on his bride. “I’ll go fetch Father Padraig.”

  Then he lowered his voice so that only she could hear. “I’m looking forward to my wedding night.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A SHORT TIME BEFORE HER WEDDING was to take place, Marianne sat on a low stool in one of the several small stone buildings within the wooden fortress walls of Lochbarr. The red-haired young woman, Dearshul, nervously combed her hair, clearly no more certain than she what else they should do as they waited for the summons to the church.

  This room was as sparsely furnished as her chamber in Beauxville. There was a bed that was little more than a cot, the stool, two large chests and a table bearing a basin that Dearshul had filled with warm water for Marianne to wash. There was no hearth for a fire, or even a brazier for coals to heat the room.

  These people must not feel the cold at all, Marianne thought glumly as she shivered, in spite of the thick, ugly gown she wore and the heavy leather shoes and rough woolen stockings on her bandaged feet.

  An old woman with wild gray hair had come to her, examined her feet, frowned, exclaimed something to Dearshul, slathered a disgusting concoction on them, then bandaged them again. Whatever the salve was, though, it seemed to be working, for the soles of her feet were not nearly so sore.

  The door to the building opened. Marianne half turned, expecting and dreading to see the glowering groom. Instead, her future father-in-law came into the room. The chieftain carried a parchment scroll, a small clay vessel covered by a waxed linen cloth and a quill.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, my lady,” he said with his usual genial courtesy.

  She shook her head.

  He then said something to Dearshul in their language. The young woman nodded and hurried away, leaving them alone.

  Marianne waited silently, not sure what to do or say, if anything.

  “My lady,” the
vigorous old man began, “I hope you know that I’m sorry my son’s actions have caused you hardship.”

  She nodded.

  “I appreciate the sacrifice you’re making,” he continued as he set the scroll, vessel and quill on the table beside her. “I’m sure you hold your honor dear and lying to your brother about the reason for this marriage won’t come easy to you.”

  “I meant what I said about not wanting to cause any bloodshed,” Marianne said, grateful for the chieftain’s acknowledgment of what this letter would cost her, even if her honor was already lost in the eyes of the world. “My brother can be very…aggressive.”

  “I’m sure he can, by the look of him,” Seamus agreed. He nodded at the things he’d brought. “Would you mind writing that letter now? The sooner we can take it to your brother, the better.”

  She couldn’t disagree. And of course he would want her to do it before the ceremony, so she would be sure to go through with it.

  But she had no intention of changing her mind. She wanted children the way some women coveted jewelry or fine clothes. She’d enjoyed helping the younger girls at the convent with their tasks and lessons, and offering them comfort when they were sad or lonely. She yearned to do the same for children of her own.

  She’d also heard the sly taunts and teasing of those girls so unfortunate as to be born illegitimate. Their lives were not easy, their futures uncertain. She wouldn’t subject her children to that. She would rather marry…almost anyone.

  She resolutely lifted the waxed cloth from the vessel of ink, reached for the quill, unrolled the parchment, and prepared to write.

  “You clearly find it hard to believe my son acted without a selfish motive,” the chieftain remarked as she was trying to think of an appropriate salutation.

  She slid the man a glance, but didn’t reply.

  As she started the letter, the chieftain drew up one of the chests and sat beside her. “My eldest son is no smooth-talking courtier, my lady. He always means what he says, and you can know his mood by one look at his face. He couldn’t be sly if he tried. So when he says he wanted to help you because he thought you were in trouble, you can believe him.”

  “Yet you can’t deny that his actions served another purpose,” she said as she wrote. “Your son didn’t approve of my marriage to Hamish Mac Glogan, and now I couldn’t marry my brother’s choice even if I wanted to.”

  “Aye, your marriage could have been disastrous for us, but that wasn’t the most important reason to Adair. He cannot abide the thought of a woman suffering.”

  She still found it hard to accept that any man except a priest would help her without a selfish motive. “But why would he put you all at such risk for a Norman? He clearly hates us.”

  “Because although you’re a Norman, you’re a woman first, and a woman in trouble. That’s what matters to my son.”

  “Then he is a very rare man,” she conceded, although still unwilling and unable to believe that any man would act with so little regard for more serious consequences. In spite of what his father said, it was more likely Adair was guided by selfishness and, in this instance, lust. She was considered beautiful and he’d kissed her passionately. Whatever other reasons he gave, he’d surely hoped she’d express her gratitude in his bed. He just hadn’t expected her to insist upon marriage before she did.

  “I can see I’m going to have to give you more of an explanation.”

  She slid the chieftain another glance. This time, his gray-eyed gaze held hers. “I’m going to tell you about Cellach.”

  What was Cellach? A person, a custom, some sort of ritual?

  “When Adair was growing up, he had a friend, a girl whose name was Cellach.”

  A person, then.

  “They were very close, like brother and sister. One day, when they were both ten years old, Cellach wanted to go berrying. Adair didn’t. He’d just gotten his first claimh mor and he wanted to practice. So she went by herself.”

  Anguish came to the chieftain’s eyes as he continued. “When she hadn’t returned to Lochbarr by dusk, we thought she’d had an accident. Fallen, perhaps, and injured herself.”

  The old man shook his head. “It was all I could do to keep Adair from going to look for her in the dark by himself. But there was no moon, and the hills can be treacherous. We went out as soon as it was light. I wanted Adair to stay with me, but he ran ahead. And found Cellach.”

  For a long moment, no sound broke the silence between them. With a sinking feeling in her breast, Marianne guessed what came next, if not the true, terrible extent.

  “She’d been raped and strangled.”

  The quill slipped unheeded from Marianne’s fingers. Adair had been but a boy, and to find that girl, a girl he cherished like a sister…“It must have been terrible for him.”

  Seamus sighed heavily. “There’s not a day goes by I don’t wish we’d started looking for her sooner, or that I’d been the one to find her and not Adair.

  “We had no idea who’d done it. We soon realized it couldn’t have been anyone from Lochbarr, thank God. We could account for everyone, even the shepherds, who’d been too far up in the hills. We thought an outlaw, maybe, but nobody’d been robbed or attacked for miles around, not in years. Then we heard that a band of Norman soldiers had traveled past the place where Cellach was found. Adair was sure they were the ones who’d attacked her.”

  The chieftain’s steady gaze never left her face. “So was I. I took some men and went after them. When we found them, I had them hanged from the nearest tree.”

  Marianne swallowed hard. No wonder Adair hated Normans, and it would be no wonder if everyone in Lochbarr, including the chieftain, hated them, too.

  “When the king heard about it, he was furious—at me. He sent a messenger to tell me that those men, who he’d hired, couldn’t have done it. He claimed they were miles away when Cellach was killed, fighting for him.”

  “Then you hanged innocent men,” Marianne said, appalled at the Scot’s mistake, thankful that her countrymen had not committed that heinous crime, and wondering why Adair still hated Normans if the mercenaries had been innocent.

  The chieftain rose. “If I thought the king had no reason to defend them, I would have believed him. But these were men he’d hired and men he needed if he was to hold on to his throne. If they’d been guilty, all the clans would have demanded every Norman mercenary leave Scotland. Alexander couldn’t risk that.”

  “So you believe those men were guilty?”

  “Aye, I do, and so does Adair.”

  “Then you must hate Normans, too,” she said quietly. “I’m surprised you’re willing to let one marry your son.”

  “I’ve no love for your countrymen, but I can see that the Normans are here to stay, whether I like it or not. We’ve got to find a way to live with them in peace.”

  Now she knew exactly why he wanted her to marry his son. She shouldn’t be surprised, or disappointed. “You’re making your son marry me because you want an alliance with the Normans, just as my brother wants an alliance with a Scot.”

  “Aye, I think we need an alliance with a few Normans, but as for making Adair marry you?” The chieftain laughed softly. “My lady, if Adair was completely opposed to the idea, he would have stood in the hall and argued with me until I gave in from sheer exhaustion. But that’s not the only reason I’m pleased you made your proposal. I’m glad for Adair’s sake.

  “My stubborn son thinks with his heart, my lady, not his head, as should be clear by now. He needs a clever wife, one who can see things with a courtier’s eyes, like his brother Lachlann. You’ll help to make him a better, wiser chieftain. Indeed, my lady, I truly think you’re a gift from God.”

  So she was to be an advisor as well as a wife. “Perhaps he won’t welcome advice from his wife, especially if his brother has the same qualities you think I possess.”

  The chieftain walked toward the shuttered window, then turned to look at her. “Lachlann’s too ambitious for Lo
chbarr. I doubt he’ll stay.” He smiled proudly. “Though I expect all of Scotland will hear of Lachlann Mac Taran some day.”

  Marianne went back to her letter.

  A small leather purse of coins clinked down by her elbow. “That’s for a wedding present.”

  She looked at it with distaste. To be sure, this marriage was a bargain, albeit one of her design, but she didn’t appreciate the obvious reminder.

  “I mean no offense,” Seamus said. “You’ll be needing new clothes and other things.”

  To make life here more bearable, she finished in her thoughts, such as a brazier, if she could find one in that little village. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll have Dearshul put it in Adair’s teach.”

  “Teach?”

  Seamus waved his hand, indicating the building. “This is a teach.”

  “Oh.” She stifled a sigh. She was going to have to learn many new things if she was to live here.

  Her letter finished, she signed her name, then reread what she’d written. It was blunt and to the point, adequate but not eloquent. Yet it would serve its purpose, and she would forever be bound to Adair Mac Taran.

  She held the scroll out to Seamus.

  He didn’t take it right away. Instead, his gaze softened. “Are you sure of this, my lady? Are you truly willing to marry my son?”

  “I have no choice if I’m to have legitimate children.”

  “There’s always a choice, my lady,” the old man said gently. “You can wait, if nothing else.”

  As she sat in the cold stone building that seemed more like a byre than a bedchamber, she considered the chieftain’s words.

  Yes, she could wait—but for what? Her brother to come to Lochbarr with an army?

  She rose and faced the chieftain squarely. “I’ve made my choice, Seamus Mac Taran, and I’ll abide by it.”

  His warm smile made her words seem less like a self-imposed punishment. And then she wondered if his son ever smiled like that.

  The chieftain accepted the scroll and read it quickly. He began to roll it up. “Thank you, my lady. You have my gratitude forever, and you’ll surely have my son’s, too, when he stops being stubborn and realizes what you’ve done for his sake, and the clan’s.” He smiled again. “As for children, I don’t think Adair will disappoint you there.”