Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  Adair refused to let Fionnaghal sour his mood. “It wasn’t that you’re not a bonnie woman, Fionnaghal. It’s that you’ve never been faithful to a lover since you came here. I didn’t want to be just another in your bed.”

  “Maybe if you’d come to my bed, I wouldn’t have been so quick to take another.”

  “We’ll never know that now, will we? But you’ve no one to blame but yourself if you’re jealous.”

  “Me? Jealous of a Norman?” Fionnaghal retorted, her face reddening. “You’re mad—or bewitched.”

  “Aye, maybe I am. Bewitched—or in love.”

  It was the first time he’d ever used that word in reference to his feelings for his wife, even in his own thoughts. Yet now that he said, he recognized the truth of it. He was in love with Marianne.

  Roban and Lachlann stared at him, while Fionnaghal sucked in her breath sharply.

  Then Roban let out a peal of deep, hearty laughter and nudged Adair so hard, he nearly fell over. “Losh, I should have known it would turn out like this. With her a beauty and you…well, being you.”

  Adair realized Lachlann was frowning. “Are you not pleased, Lachlann?” he asked. “Surely you didn’t want us at each other’s throats forever?”

  “Aye, aye, I’m pleased for you. I never thought your marriage would turn out so well.”

  “Fionnaghal!” one of the harvesters shouted.

  Adair patted the stunned woman on her shoulder. “Did you not hear that, Fionnaghal?” he said with mock gravity. “One of your bands has broken again. A pity it is that after all these years, you’re not more skilled. Of course, now you’ve got to kiss that braw lad.”

  Fionnaghal made a noise that gave him to understand she was insulted and disgusted before she flounced off to kiss the young farmer who was eagerly waiting. Adair shook his head. Fionnaghal surely made her bands weak on purpose.

  He turned to watch his wife again, who was smiling at something Ceit was saying. She’d managed to impress the woman who’d been running their household for years—no easy task.

  “I think you’d better go to yer wife,” Roban said, his deep voice a warning rumble. “Fionnaghal’s heading for her, and she looks ready for battle.”

  One swift look and Adair realized he was right. Fionnaghal was marching toward Marianne the way men went to war, grim-faced and determined. He started across the cut field, weaving his way around the standing sheaves.

  He was still about ten feet away when Fionnaghal stopped in front of Marianne, gave her a look of utter contempt, and muttered a particularly loathsome, insulting epithet.

  “What did ye just say tae me, Fionnaghal?” Marianne demanded, her response in nearly flawless Gaelic.

  Everyone stared in surprised silence, including Adair. How the devil did she learn…?

  Dearshul, of course.

  “Whatever it was, I don’t think ’twas flattering,” Marianne continued, her expression calm, but her eyes flashing with a fire Adair recognized, and that Fionnaghal should dread.

  “The first part was ‘useless,’ was it not?” she said when Fionnaghal didn’t answer. “You think I’m useless, Fionnaghal?”

  The serving woman recovered and answered with a sneer. “You don’t do any work. You don’t even give the orders to the household.”

  “Why should I?” Marianne asked calmly. “Is Ceit not capable? Is she not doing a good job? I think she is, so I see no need to interfere. Do you?”

  Adair glanced at Ceit. She was not impressed with Fionnaghal’s comment. Some of the other women, however, exchanged sly smiles as if they agreed. Several of the clansmen not cutting grain drifted closer.

  Adair wondered if he should say something, or come between them, until his wife glanced his way with a look that suggested he stay out of it.

  Fionnaghal tossed her hair and planted her feet. “It’s not Ceit I’m talking about.”

  “What would you have me do, Fionnaghal?” Marianne asked with quiet, unruffled dignity. “Surely you don’t think the wife of the chieftain’s son should make bands for the sheaves?”

  A look of triumph bloomed in Fionnaghal’s dark brown eyes and she straightened her shoulders. “You couldn’t do it anyway. Like I said, you’re useless.”

  Marianne’s smile would have made Adair think twice. “Really?”

  “Aye!”

  The harvesters realized something was happening and stopped, straightening with the scythes in their hands.

  “You think I’ve never worked in the fields, even when I was a child?” Marianne calmly inquired.

  Adair didn’t think she had, but she certainly spoke as if that were true. Fionnaghal was clearly wondering if such a thing was possible, too, for her eyes narrowed, and a flicker of doubt crossed her face.

  “Perhaps I did and perhaps I did not,” Marianne said, “but you’ve challenged me, so I can’t back down now without a loss to my pride, and Norman pride is just as fierce as Scots’. Let’s see who can make the most bands, and the strongest, shall we?”

  She was proposing a contest? Maybe she had worked in the fields. Or maybe this was part of the plan she’d mentioned that morning, the one she’d concocted with Dearshul.

  “Are you willing to let your wife do this, Adair?” Fionnaghal demanded. “You won’t mind her getting kissed by some other man when her bands break?”

  “I’d prefer that she save her kisses for me,” he answered truthfully, “but I’d think twice about accepting the challenge, if I were you. I’m afraid your pride is in for a tumble.”

  Fionnaghal’s answer to that was a disdainful sniff.

  Seamus, a winded Barra trotting along beside him, strode up to the growing crowd. “What’s afoot?”

  “Fionnaghal’s challenged my wife to a contest,” Adair said. He nodded at the field. “Making bands, the most and the strongest.”

  Seamus’s gray eyes widened. “A contest, is it?” His face lighted with a grin. “Whoever wins, I’ll reward with a necklace. A gold necklace.”

  “Done!” Fionnaghal eagerly cried. She ran a scornful gaze over Marianne. “Do you want to change first, my lady, out of your fine Norman gown?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Marianne said, briskly rolling back the long cuffs to her elbows and stepping toward a pile of straw that was ready to be plaited. She picked up an armload and sat on a large stone nearby that marked the corner of the field. She put the straw at her feet, brushed off her skirt, and smiled angelically at her opponent. “I’m ready.”

  Glowering, Fionnaghal grabbed some straw and sat on another stone.

  By now, everyone knew what was about to happen. Those not cutting the grain crowded around the two women. The men and youths preparing to scythe bent low, their bodies tense, their eyes alight, ready to start once they got the word.

  Seamus raised his hand and as he lowered it, shouted, “Go!”

  Marianne and Fionnaghal’s fingers leapt into swift, purposeful action.

  As Adair watched, it was immediately obvious that Marianne knew exactly what she was doing.

  A scowling Fionnaghal realized it, too. Her brow wrinkled with concentration, she bent to her task, while Marianne looked cool as ice, with a quiet resolve that didn’t bode well for Fionnaghal’s chances.

  Teassie, Donnan and other children hurried to take the completed bands to the men cutting the sheaves, and it soon became apparent that Fionnaghal had been deliberately sabotaging her bands before, because the ones she made now held up very well.

  Marianne’s were all holding firm, too. Thank God. He really didn’t want anybody else kissing Marianne, even if it was a tradition.

  A shout went up from the field. “Fionnaghal!”

  One of her bands had broken, and a sheaf had fallen apart.

  With a curse, Fionnaghal pushed the straw from her lap and ran out into the field to kiss the man whose sheaf had to be remade. This was no lingering kiss of the sort Fionnaghal usually bestowed, though, but a fast buss on the cheek. She ran back j
ust as swiftly, grabbed more straw, and began to plait another band.

  Marianne was still cool and calm, barely taking any note of what had happened.

  Then another shout came from the field—all the grain was cut. The men harvesting sat down to rest, while everyone else gathered around Marianne and Fionnaghal and looked at the piles of bands left unused, trying to estimate who’d made the most.

  Seamus went first to Fionnaghal. Adair held his breath as his father bent down and counted her bands. “Eight.”

  He then went to Marianne’s pile. “A dozen. My son’s wife’s the winner!”

  Adair whooped with delight. His father didn’t hide his pleasure, either. Lachlann smiled, while Roban laughed, and Dearshul, standing close to him, beamed. The other men and women regarded Marianne with an awed respect.

  As for his wife, her blue eyes fairly glowed with happiness and triumph.

  Fionnaghal jumped to her feet. “You taught her, you little striopach!” she shouted at Dearshul. “Trying to impress a Norman and embarrass one of your own. Learning their language—think that’ll make you a fine lady, do you? Think that’ll make Lachlann look at you with wanting?”

  Lachlann frowned and Dearshul’s face crumpled as if she was about to burst into tears. Adair and his father stepped forward simultaneously, but before either man could speak, Marianne rose, paying no heed to the straw tumbling from her skirt.

  She glared at Fionnaghal, her intense, angry stare as fierce as any Adair had ever seen on a man’s face. “You’re a foulmouthed, jealous, bitter witch, Fionnaghal. You couldn’t beat me, so you’ll take out your rage on Dearshul. She’s done nothing wrong. Apologize for what you called her.”

  Fionnaghal crossed her arms. “I will not.”

  Marianne took a step backward and ran a measuring gaze over the woman. “I have to make you?”

  People started to whisper and talk among themselves. Adair wasn’t sure what his wife meant, either.

  Fionnaghal sniffed derisively. “How would you do that?”

  “I’ll fight you.”

  Adair stared at Marianne incredulously. She must have used the wrong word. His well-bred wife surely couldn’t mean a physical fight.

  “Do you think I lived all those years among women without being involved in a few fights?” Marianne asked. “There were girls at the convent who make you look like a lamb.”

  Fionnaghal blinked. “You’re lying. You won’t really fight me.”

  “You don’t think so? Then you likely won’t believe that before my brothers left home to seek their fortunes, they used to wrestle each other all the time, and when they tired of fighting each other or wanted to try something new, they’d come after me.” She crossed her arms. “If you’re not worried about a few bruises or a black eye, neither am I.”

  Adair still couldn’t believe she was serious. Why, she was with child. She might get injured, or lose the baby.

  Plan or not, he was about to step forward and stop them when Fionnaghal let out a screech and ran at Marianne. Adair cried out a warning—but Marianne didn’t need it. She crouched and when Fionnaghal drew near, she caught the running woman with a blow to the stomach that knocked her flat.

  “Are you all right?” Adair cried, hurrying to his wife as Fionnaghal gasped for breath. “She didn’t hurt you or the baby?”

  Marianne shook her head.

  “She’s carrying a bairn?” his father cried, his gray eyes alight with joy.

  Adair cringed inwardly. He hoped Marianne would forgive him for revealing their secret sooner than she wanted, but it was done now. “Aye.”

  “I’m going to have a grandson!” Seamus shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Adair lost sight of Marianne and Fionnaghal as his friends crowded around him. Roban slapped him on the back and offered good wishes for a healthy son. Lachlann congratulated him, too, if not so boisterously, and so did many others. When he finally broke free, he saw the women gathered around Marianne, while Dearshul, her eyes shining, clasped her hands and looked as if she were too happy to speak at all.

  Leaving the women, Marianne went to Fionnaghal, who was sitting on the ground, staring disconsolately at the field.

  When Fionnaghal realized Marianne was coming toward her, she scrambled to her feet. “My lady, I didn’t know you were with child. If I’d had—”

  “It’s all right. I’m not hurt. But let this be a lesson to you never to underestimate another woman, or judge her by her looks. And never insult Dearshul again, or you’ll have to answer to me.”

  “Aye, my lady, aye,” Fionnaghal hastily agreed, backing away.

  “Good, and now that we understand each other, come with me and have some wine.”

  Although Fionnaghal looked as if she would have preferred an invitation from Satan to join him in hell, she nodded her acceptance.

  “I need a wee word with my husband first, so if you’ll excuse me,” she said to Fionnaghal before heading toward Adair.

  He could guess why she wanted to speak to him. “Marianne, I’m sorry I—”

  She put her fingertips lightly on his lips. “Never mind. I’m surprised you managed to keep it a secret for as long as you did.” Then she raised herself on her toes and kissed him.

  It was too bad they weren’t alone, so he could make a more thorough apology, he thought as he drew back. “You’re forgiving Fionnaghal?”

  “I’ve learned it’s best to forgive and forget, but if you wish to apologize more later…”

  “I certainly do.”

  With a smile that roused his desire even more, she went back to join Fionnaghal.

  It was all he could do not to grab her and carry her to the teach as he watched her go to the hall with Fionnaghal at her side. Behind them came Dearshul, with Roban on her heels like an eager puppy. The other men and women surged after them, likewise heading to the hall for the harvest feast, Lachlann among them.

  His father appeared beside Adair, still beaming with joy. “A grandson! Adair, I’m the proudest, happiest man in Scotland today.”

  “No, you’re not,” his son said with a smile. “I am.”

  “We’ll argue about it in the hall,” Seamus replied, clapping him on the back. “And I hope your son—”

  “Or daughter.”

  His father grinned. “Your bairn leads you the same merry dance of mischief you led me and your sainted mother. Now come, and we’ll have a drink on it. Aye, and maybe two or three.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ADAIR COULDN’T REMEMBER a better feast. This was a far cry from the grim celebrations of his wedding. For one thing, there was plenty of laughter in the hall. Marianne joined in, too, although it was obvious she had some way to go to appreciate the food. His father, overjoyed with the news of the baby, was offering toasts and salutes as often as he raised his cup.

  “You might have told me you were learning Gaelic,” Adair said in French, placing his hand on his wife’s knee as he leaned closer to be heard above the din.

  She blushed, looking like an innocent maid, and the fact that he knew she was not proved surprisingly arousing. “I didn’t want to sound foolish,” she confided.

  “You nearly gave me a fit when you challenged Fionnaghal. What were you trying to do, send me to an early grave?”

  She shook her head. “I wanted to show her I wouldn’t take her insolence any more, and I honestly didn’t think she’d fight me.” Marianne looked down, more bashful than he’d ever seen her before. “You don’t think I behaved in an unseemly, undignified manner?”

  Adair laughed. “With Fionnaghal, that was obviously exactly the right way to behave. I think she’ll respect you now.”

  Marianne smiled a warm, entrancing smile that heated him to the soles of his boots. “I’ve spent the last twelve years of my life with girls and women. I’ve met her sort plenty of times before.”

  “Is it true, what you said about the fighting among them?”

  “Yes. Put fifty girls in close quarters for a l
ong period of time, and you’ll see.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. And was it true about your brothers, too?”

  Marianne nodded, squirming a little as his hand shifted slightly upward, although she didn’t ask him to stop. “Oh, yes. If I had to, I could probably take you down.”

  He gave her a sly, seductive grin. “What say we try it later, when we’re alone?”

  “Have you forgotten I’m with child—and after you announced it so loudly?”

  Adair flushed and removed his hand. “I know I said I wouldn’t, but I was afraid for you.”

  She patted his cheek. “I understand, and I’m not angry. But I really wasn’t planning on fighting Fionnaghal. I was sure she’d back down before it came to that. I must confess, she surprised me.”

  “It was a good thing you knew what to do.”

  “Yes. All those years of practice stood me in good stead.”

  Banging his goblet on the table, his father called out for more wine.

  “Our news has made my father happy,” Adair observed.

  “Yes.” She chewed her lip and her smile disappeared. “I don’t think everyone here shares that joy.”

  “Of course they do—or they should.”

  “I can imagine Cormag saying it’s part of the Normans’ clever scheme to take over Scotland. You might have said the same thing about another Scot with a Norman wife, before we married.”

  “Aye,” he answered, for he couldn’t deny it.

  “I think our child will turn out to be more Scot than Norman, though. After all, it will be raised here, among Scots.”

  Adair heard a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “Does that trouble you?”

  She smiled, and the shadows fled from her bright blue eyes. “Not as much as it would have if I’d married Hamish Mac Glogan,” she said in a way that made him want to kiss her.

  So he did.

  “Adair! People can see!” she protested.

  “I don’t care,” he said, kissing her again. “And you kissed me in the field today.”

  “Losh, Adair!” Roban cried from his place at one of the near tables. “Can ye not wait until you’re alone?”