Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  Memories of her wedding night trickled into her thoughts. “I…that is, it’s not only for children that I…”

  His slow smile took her breath away.

  “So it isn’t only for children you want me?” he asked, sidling closer.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m very glad to hear that, Marianne,” he murmured as he took her in his arms.

  Her pulse began to throb faster. Her skin warmed and flushed. He leaned down to kiss her and his hands moved over her body, until she drew back, breathing hard, and began to unpin the silver broach at his shoulder.

  As he watched, she slipped the pin out of the plaid. He silently took the broach from her and tossed it onto the pile of fabric on the table, letting the plaid fall from his shoulder to the floor.

  Taking her time, feeling the passion unfurling in its own sweet, heated course, she moved on to the laces of his shirt, untying the knot lying against the indent of his collarbone. When it was undone, she pressed her lips against that soft, warm place.

  His hands were busy, too, undoing the laces of her loose, unfitted gown and slipping it from her shoulders.

  She pulled his shirt out of his belt and slowly, slowly, slowly started to take it off of him. He helped her, and when they were finished, he likewise tossed the shirt onto the table.

  Watching him, feeling the growing, exciting hunger, she stepped out of her gown and then, with a smile, she threw it over the chest nearby.

  Adair’s eyes darkened with blatant desire as he looked at her, and the thin linen shift covering her nakedness. Meeting that hungry gaze boldly, excited by the gleam of desire in his eyes, she reached up and, with a leisurely, languid motion, slipped her finger in the knot of the drawstring of her shift and pulled it undone. She slipped one sleeve from her shoulder, and then the other, more slowly still.

  He observed her silently, and as he did, she sensed the raw hidden passion, the pure power of his desire, restrained and temporarily leashed, yet yearning to be set free.

  With her shoulders bare and the drawstring loose, she bent down to remove her shoes, deliberately exposing her soft, round breasts to his ravenous gaze. She was shamelessly enticing him, playing a thrilling game of seduction, but one that excited her, too.

  Adair did nothing as she removed one shoe. Then the other. She straightened and gave him an alluring look before walking toward the bed.

  His boots hit the floor with two quick thuds. She heard the clink of his belt buckle on the table top, and his dirk along with it. In the next instant, her naked husband pulled her down on the bed.

  “No swift loving today, Marianne,” he said softly, holding her in his arms and trailing his finger down her neck, pausing to toy with her crucifix before continuing to her collarbone and her breasts. “Today, we’re going to take our time as we begin anew.”

  And they did.

  HIS BREATH LIKE WISPS of mist in the early-morning air, Adair hummed to himself as he strolled toward the hall. Little wavelets frothed upon the loch and whisked away the mist that had formed about the upper reaches of the craggy hills. Above, the undersides of the deep blue clouds, darker than the sky, glowed pink and orange from the rising sun. It was a bit chilly, yet soon enough the day would be warm. A bird winged its silent way toward the loch.

  Adair was famished, and he intended to get some bread and ale, or mead, maybe some brochan, and take it back to the teach to share with Marianne, who was still in their bed, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.

  How many times had they made love? Three, and that was only the lovemaking. His count didn’t include kissing and touching and caressing until they’d both dozed off sometime before dawn.

  Barra and his father had been so wise, and so right.

  Adair drew in a deep breath. A brisk breeze had sprung up in the night, bringing with it the scent of rain. If the weather changed for the worse, he would be as cozy as a nit in fleece in the teach, made so comfortable with Marianne’s changes.

  Who’d ever have thought a simple thing like lining the stone walls with cloth would make such a difference? It could be that the Normans could teach the Scots a few things about comfort, anyway, if never about fighting.

  He was nearly to the kitchen when Cormag came out of the hall and smirked as he halted, hands on his hips. “You ne’er came to the hall last night and everyone knows your wife won’t have you in her bed, so where’ve you been? Cuddling with a cow?”

  Adair ignored him and continued toward the kitchen.

  “Or is it true you’ve gone crawling back to the Norman like a dog with his tail between his legs?” Cormag demanded. “After I thought you’d come to your senses, too. I thought you had more pride than that. What’d she make you do, kiss her feet?”

  Adair realized he’d have to say something, or Cormag was going to bother him all the way to the kitchen. “Maybe I kissed her feet, and maybe I didn’t, but I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  “I’d wager she likes all sorts of things, that one. Face like an angel, body of a whore.”

  Adair came to a dead halt and slowly swiveled on his heel. “What did you say about my wife?”

  Cormag straightened his shoulders and threw out his chest. “You heard me.”

  “Aye, I did, and I’m thinking you’ll be wanting to take it back and beg my pardon for the insult.”

  “What’s afoot?”

  Seamus and Roban had come around the corner of the nearest teach.

  “I was only making a joke,” Cormag replied, as if Adair must be dim not to appreciate his humor.

  Adair wasn’t about to let Cormag get away with that. “He called my wife a whore.”

  Roban’s eyes widened, then he looked at Cormag as if the man had taken leave of his senses. “Never!”

  Seamus, meanwhile, regarded his nephew sternly. “She’s Adair’s wife, Cormag, and for that, if nothing else, she deserves your respect.”

  A group of clansmen came out of the hall and stood together watching, all of them friends of Cormag. Lachlann came trotting out of the hall and he, too, came to a halt, obviously wondering what was going on.

  Emboldened by the presence of his friends, no doubt, Cormag met Adair’s glare with one of his own. “So now we’ve to respect the Normans, is that it?”

  “You’ll respect my wife, or I swear, Cormag, I’ll do more than break your nose,” Adair warned.

  “You should do as the chieftain says, Cormag,” Lachlann advised, coming closer.

  Cormag sneered as he addressed Adair’s brother. “I would, if she weren’t a Norman.”

  He raised his voice so that it carried to his friends, while ostensibly addressing Seamus. “You’re acting like this marriage is a grand thing. Well, it’s not, and every man here knows it, even if they won’t speak openly against it, or you. Adair’s made an enemy of the most powerful Norman in these parts. If any other man had done such a thing, if anyone but your son had brought that woman here, you wouldn’t be so forgiving—nor should you be. Those Frenchmen are our enemies, out to take our land any way they can.”

  Cormag curled his lip as he looked at Adair. “That’s what you always used to say, Adair. Remember? Until that Norman whore made you her pet, and grateful for the pleasure of slipping between her legs at night.”

  Adair reached for his dirk in his belt—and didn’t have it. No matter. He’d still get Cormag to take back his words.

  Cormag’s friends surged forward. Fionnaghal, coming out of the kitchen, stopped and stared. Roban took a step toward Adair, while Lachlann looked to their father.

  His brow thunderous, the chieftain came between Adair and Cormag. “Cormag, put up your dirk,” he commanded. “I’ll not have bloodshed here. Are you forgetting you’re kin and clansmen? Whatever disagreement you have with my son—or me—that was no way to speak of my daughter-in-law.”

  A flush spread over Cormag’s weasel face, and he finally had the decency to look ashamed.

  “Apologize, or go out that gate and never
come back.”

  “I’m sorry for insulting Adair’s Norman wife,” Cormag muttered while his friends exchanged disgruntled looks.

  “And have you something to say to me about the way I rule the clan?”

  Cormag shook his head.

  “I thought not,” Seamus snapped. “Now be about your business.”

  Scowling, Cormag obeyed his chieftain and went to join his friends, who walked away, grumbling among themselves.

  “Roban, see if the patrols are ready to leave and tell them where I want them to go this morning,” Seamus ordered.

  “Aye,” Roban said, giving Adair a friendly smile before he trotted off.

  Fionnaghal went back into the kitchen, no doubt to tell everyone inside what she’d witnessed and find a way to blame Marianne.

  “God save me, Adair,” Seamus muttered, rubbing his chin, “can you not ignore the man?”

  Adair shook his head. “Not when he calls Marianne a whore.”

  “Cormag goes too far,” Lachlann concurred.

  “He’s a fool.”

  Seamus drew a deep breath. “Aye, he goes too far, but he’s not a fool, Adair. He’s discontented and restless. I’ll put my mind to finding something for him to do, something that’ll take him out of Lochbarr for a time. Maybe he should go to visit our relatives in Inverness, to strengthen our bonds with them. Maybe he can even find himself a wife.”

  “Do you really think that’ll content him?” Lachlann asked.

  “I don’t care if it does,” Adair said. “I’ll settle for getting him away from here.”

  “Aye,” Seamus agreed. “It’ll have to do, because he’s our clansman and a good fighter.” He fixed his eye on his eldest son. “Those are things you should keep in mind when you quarrel with him.”

  “If he was the finest warrior in Scotland, that wouldn’t give him leave to insult my wife.”

  “I’m not saying it should. I’m saying you should hold your temper with a clansman.”

  “Aye, Father. I’ll try—as long as he says nothing against my wife.”

  “I can ask no more, I suppose.” Seamus gave Adair a meaningful look. “Speaking of holding your temper, I noticed you never came to the hall last night, nor Marianne neither.”

  Adair had to smile. “I was…apologizing.”

  Seamus grinned and looked relieved. “Fight and make up, fight and make up again. That’s the way it’s going to be with you two. I could see it from the first. No hard feelings for my order, then, my son?”

  “No hard feelings, Father.”

  Seamus looked at his younger son. “You’re as pinched-faced as an auld woman, Lachlann lad. There’s nothing shameful about a man loving his wife.”

  Lachlann scowled, his dark brows knitted. “I don’t need to know what Adair does with his wife.”

  Adair reached out and ruffled his brother’s hair. “And I’ve not told you. But if you need any advice—”

  “Come to me,” his father interrupted. “When you learn there’s more to life than worrying about the Normans and the king.”

  “I don’t just think about the Normans and the king,” Lachlann protested, his face reddening.

  “No? Then you’re courting some woman I don’t know about?”

  Adair looked at his brother with surprise. Was this why Dearshul had no luck with him?

  “There’s no woman I care about that way,” Lachlann muttered.

  Seamus patted his younger son on the shoulder. “No shame there, my son. You’ve plenty of time yet to find a wife. And,” he continued, winking at his other son, “I hope you find her in a better way than Adair.”

  Adair didn’t take offense, because his father had a point.

  “Will you be joining us in a hunt this fine morning, Adair?” Seamus asked.

  “I think not,” he answered, blushing like a lad. “I thought I ought to spend more time with my wife.”

  And not just making love with her. He wanted to know more about her. Her childhood. Her parents. What made her happy, or sad. The friends she’d had. To tear down the walls both she and he had made.

  “All right, my son,” his father said, laughing as he started toward the stables. “Come along, Lachlann. We’ll leave your brother to apologize some more.”

  A FEW DAYS LATER, two men sat close together in an abandoned stone hut on the far side of the loch, long after most of the inhabitants of Lochbarr were abed, including the chieftain’s son and his Norman bride. The men wrapped their plaids about themselves for warmth, and the only illumination came from a small, smoldering peat fire at their feet. Half the thatched roof over their heads was gone, giving them little shelter from the soft rain.

  This was the usual time and place for their meetings, for secrecy was necessary, and it was difficult to hide from the prying eyes and ears of the people of Lochbarr.

  “You’re as bad as Adair,” Lachlann sneered as he glared at Cormag, who held a wineskin loose in his hands. “Neither of you knows how to hold his temper.”

  Cormag took a drink of the uisge beatha and scowled. “If I can’t, it’s because your brother’s a damn smug bastard, acting as if he’s never put a foot wrong in his life. It makes my blood boil just to look at him.”

  “Even so, you shouldn’t insult his wife. You had to know my father wouldn’t approve of that.”

  “It’s no insult to call a whore a whore. You’ve seen them in the hall. They can’t keep their hands off each other. He slavers after that bitch like she’s in heat. Aye, and she’s just as bad.”

  Lachlann refused the drink Cormag silently offered. “Still, you’d best learn to curb your tongue and put a rein on your lust, Cormag.”

  “The way you do?” Cormag’s eyes gleamed greedily in the flickering light. “You might be able to fool your father and your brother, but you can’t fool me. You want her as much as any man here. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you’re planning on having her when you’re the chieftain.”

  Lachlann leaned forward, so that his slender face glowed bronze in the firelight. “I don’t want Marianne. I’m not like my brother, ready to put the clan at risk for lust. When my father dies, she’ll go back to her brother as a peace offering to lull Sir Nicholas into thinking I’m no more of a threat to him than my father.”

  “I thought her brother said she was dead to him.”

  “Aye, but she’ll go back just the same. Even if her brother doesn’t want her, other Normans will be impressed.”

  “Adair won’t let his wife go easily.”

  “By then he’ll be banished, so he’ll have no voice to protest.” Lachlann’s eyes narrowed as he regarded his companion. “I’ve still got the blessings of your men, do I not? They’ll support me as chieftain?”

  “Aye,” Cormag affirmed. “And there’ll be others to side with you, too—those who realize that Adair hasn’t got the wisdom to lead the clan, and they were wrong to think his good looks and braw way with a sword meant he’d be as good a chieftain as your father. The dolt proved them wrong when he brought that woman here.”

  “Aye, he made a mistake—and we must not. Which is why you’ve got to hold back, Cormag. We can’t strike until we’re sure about the other clans as well as our own men. So don’t protest too strongly when my father sends you north. Go without a fuss, and try to find out if anyone’ll interfere if our clan decides to pick a new chieftain.”

  Cormag took a gulp from the wineskin. “North,” he muttered angrily as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “It’s your own fault he’s sending you. You made too much trouble with Adair. But no matter. This can be to our advantage. Just don’t stay long, and don’t say too much. If our plans are discovered too soon, my father’ll banish us, or worse.”

  Cormag took another drink, then fixed his gaze on Lachlann. “And how long are we to be patient? How long do we let Adair strut about like a game cock while we do what we’re told, even as the Normans take our land? You said that if we stole the cattle, it’d spur
your father into complaining to the king. Then you said Adair’s interference with the Norman and his sister would make your father turn against him, but now we’re allied by marriage to that Norman bastard. You thought Adair’s quarrel with his wife would work to our advantage, and they’re cozy as can be.”

  “Granted things haven’t turn out as we hoped, but plenty of people are angry at Adair because of what he’s done. They’ll welcome another chieftain.”

  “But how long are you willing to wait?” Cormag demanded. “How much time do you want to spend watching your brother get away with what he does, while Seamus ignores you? Your father’s still a healthy man. He could be chieftain for years yet.”

  “He’s not as healthy as he seems. I doubt he’ll live out the winter.”

  Hope and disbelief warred in Cormag’s narrow eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Remember when he fell from his horse in the spring? I kept asking what happened, and finally he told me it wasn’t the horse’s fault. He’d been dizzy. Although he tried to make light of it, he swore me to secrecy. I said he should go to Beitiris for a potion or medicine, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Cormag sniffed. “He never does, never has. But he’s not fallen from his horse again.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s well. Look at him when he’s tired—his face is drawn and gray and blue about the lips. He’s as stubborn as Adair when it comes to sickness.”

  Cormag shifted, and slowly smiled. “Before the winter’s out, you say?”

  Lachlann nodded. “Aye. He’s old and he’s weakening, and it could be the ague will be enough to kill him.”

  “But if not? We can’t wait forever.”

  Lachlann rose and looked down at his cousin. “We’ll not hasten my father’s death, Cormag. We’ll bide our time and move when we stand the best chance of making certain I’ll be chosen as the new chieftain.” He gave his comrade a thin smile. “And when I’m chieftain, Cormag, I’ll reward you for your support and your loyalty—but not with Marianne.”