Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  As he coughed and lost his balance, Marianne shoved him backward, making him stumble. He grabbed the back of her skirt as she ran past him. Hearing the fabric tear, not caring if he ripped the gown right off her, she kept trying to get away.

  Then, with a shriek, coming as if from nowhere, Fionnaghal launched herself at Cormag, knocking him to the ground and falling on top of him.

  Her dress free, Marianne fell. Although on her knees, she turned, ready to join the fight.

  Cormag had kept hold of his knife. Marianne screamed a warning to Fionnaghal just as he thrust it upward, into the woman’s chest.

  Fionnaghal gasped, then went limp.

  “You bastard!” Marianne cried as he struggled to throw off Fionnaghal’s body. “You bloody bastard!”

  “What’s going on in here?” a man asked sternly.

  For one brief, wonderful moment, she thought Adair had come.

  Then she saw Lachlann, his shirt bloody, his red-stained knife still in his hand, standing in the doorway.

  “Traitor!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet. “Where’s my husband?”

  Lachlann didn’t answer her. Instead, he looked at Cormag. “What have you done?”

  Cormag heaved Fionnaghal’s body off. “She attacked me. They both attacked me.”

  Lachlann’s brow lowered. “And I can guess why. You’ll not touch my brother’s widow again, do you understand?”

  His brother’s widow.

  He sounded so sure, so certain, as if it were an incontrovertible fact.

  She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

  His brother’s widow. Adair was dead. Her bold, brave, honorable husband was dead.

  As she stared at his murderer, sick and weak, a great blackness blotted out the light coming in through the door, like a huge gaping hole in the fabric of the world.

  She tumbled into it and was lost.

  “LADY? MY LADY?”

  Marianne groggily recognized Dearshul’s soft voice and slowly realized someone was gently cradling her head and holding a cool cup to her lips.

  She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to wake, because Adair was dead.

  “My lady? Oh, God save us, my lady, please wake up.”

  Dearshul sounded so desperate.

  And there was the child, growing in her womb. Adair’s child. His legacy. The child who deserved a father, cruelly, basely taken.

  By a traitor.

  She couldn’t let a traitor triumph.

  Marianne opened her eyes. Although she knew Dearshul was there, she more than half expected to see Lachlann looming above her like an evil spirit.

  He wasn’t.

  “Oh, thank God!” Dearshul cried, tears welling in her eyes. “Are you hurt, my lady? Did Cormag hurt you?”

  Hurt? Of course she was hurt. She’d suffered a mortal blow to her heart, her soul. She’d never really known how much she loved Adair until she heard he was dead.

  Her gaze swept the room around her. Her chamber. The one she’d shared so briefly with Adair.

  This bed, their bed. She lay upon the covers, fully clothed, her gown soiled with dirt and stained with blood.

  Whose blood? She wished it was Lachlann’s. Or Cormag’s, and that she’d killed them both.

  She would kill them both yet, or see them dead, for what they’d done.

  “Oh, my lady,” Dearshul whispered, and she began to shake as the tears started to fall down her cheeks.

  Marianne regarded the distraught young woman. Could she trust her?

  She didn’t dare, she thought as she struggled to sit up. “How did I get here?”

  “You swooned, Lachlann said,” Dearshul replied, crying. “He carried you here and sent me to look after you.”

  Then this was her husband’s blood on her gown, shed by his own traitorous brother, the man Dearshul still obviously adored, for her voice softened when she spoke of him even now and despite what he’d done.

  “Did he tell you why I swooned?”

  Dearshul sniffled and wiped her face with the hem of her sleeve. “Because you think Adair is dead.”

  Think Adair is dead? Marianne’s heart leapt and her mind grasped at the hope Dearshul’s words offered. “He’s still alive?”

  Dearshul flushed and bit her lip. “Lachlann says he can’t be. His wound was too serious.”

  In spite of Dearshul’s answer, energy hummed through Marianne’s veins, as if she’d been half dead herself and was now fully alive once more, because wounded was not dead. “Tell me what happened in the hall after I was taken from it.”

  Dearshul looked scared, perhaps fearing she’d already said too much. “You should rest, my lady. Lachlann says—”

  “I want to know what happened.” Marianne reached out and grabbed Dearshul’s hand. “I need to know what happened to Adair.”

  Dearshul licked her lips, uncertain and wary, but she answered. “As Lachlann and Adair fought, Cormag struck at him from behind, and when Adair turned to defend himself, Lachlann stabbed him in the side. Then Roban came and knocked Lachlann down. Young Dougal went for Cormag. Roban carried Adair from the hall, and the others have fled with him to the hills.”

  Adair, Roban and the others had gotten away. They had more loyal men who’d been sent out of Lochbarr, which meant Lachlann’s usurping of the chieftain’s position was not yet a certain thing.

  “What of the patrols?” she asked Dearshul. “Have they returned?”

  “I don’t know,” Dearshul mournfully replied. “I’ve been here, tending to you.”

  “How long have you been with me?”

  “Half the day. ’Tis past the noon.”

  It was possible the patrols hadn’t returned yet, and if so, Adair’s loyal friends wouldn’t know what had happened. “What do you think they’ll do when they find out Lachlann betrayed his brother, the rightful chieftain?”

  “I don’t know.” Dearshul sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I think Lachlann will convince them he acted for the best.”

  Just as Fionnaghal had predicted. “What do you think will become of me?”

  Dearshul’s eyes widened and her tears ceased. “Oh, you’ll be safe, I’m sure! Lachlann wouldn’t hurt a woman. He’s not like Cormag.”

  He is, more than you know, Marianne thought. “Then you know Cormag killed Fionnaghal.”

  Dearshul paled. “Fionnaghal is dead?” she whispered.

  “Cormag slew her when she tried to protect me.” Marianne pitied Dearshul for giving her love to a man who didn’t deserve it, but she wouldn’t lessen the enormity of what had happened. “That’s what happens in rebellion, Dearshul—death of the innocent as well as warriors. That’s what Lachlann brought here, death and dishonor.”

  The door to the chamber opened and Lachlann, now in a clean shirt and unstained feileadh, entered the teach. Dearshul jumped to her feet and once more wiped her eyes.

  Lachlann ignored her. “I hope you’re feeling better?” he asked Marianne politely, as if he hadn’t tried to kill her husband that morning.

  “I’m much better now, thank you, since I’m sure Adair isn’t dead,” she answered with that same politeness as she got off the bed and faced him, fighting the wave of dizziness that threatened to make her swoon again. “Poor Lachlann, all your plans don’t look so clever now, I daresay.”

  The young man scowled as he glared at Dearshul. “What have you been saying to her?”

  “I told her what you told me, Lachlann—that Adair must be dead.”

  “I’ll believe it when you show me his body and not before,” Marianne declared.

  “Leave us, Dearshul,” Lachlann ordered.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Leave us!”

  Dearshul scurried from the teach, closing the door softly behind her.

  Meanwhile, Marianne went to sit on one of the stools, gracefully moving her skirt to one side, as she’d seen the Reverend Mother do a thousand time
s. It was a simple, womanly gesture, yet done with dignity, it conveyed a sense of power and control, as if he could rail and scream, but she would move at her own exalted, womanly leisure.

  “There was no need to be so harsh with Dearshul,” she said evenly, regarding him steadily, her eyes telling him exactly what she thought of him in spite of her tone. “Obviously, some of her judgment is suspect, or she wouldn’t still be besotted with you. Otherwise, she’s a harmless young woman who means well. You should treat her better.”

  Lachlann frowned, and did not sit. “The way you Normans treat everybody?”

  “The way a gentleman should treat a woman.”

  “As my brother treated you?”

  She smiled serenely. “I have absolutely nothing to complain about when it comes to that.”

  “I would stop acting like a queen if I were you, Marianne,” Lachlann said. “You have no power here, now that my brother is dead.”

  “Since your brother is not dead, we’ll see how much power I wield when he returns to take his rightful place as thane of Lochbarr and chieftain of your clan. I daresay I’ll wield a lot more power than you ever will, provided you even survive, of course.”

  Lachlann regarded her scornfully. “What is it about you Normans? You think you own the entire world! Or at least you act as if you do.”

  “While you’re acting like a petulant child, except that your envy has lead to death and bloodshed. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  Lachlann suddenly lunged, grabbing her by her shoulders and hauling her to her feet. “Listen to me, woman! I’m the chieftain of Lochbarr now, and my word is as good as law. You’re at my mercy and you better start acting like it or—”

  “Or what?” she charged, glaring into his red face. “You’ll kill me, too? How will you explain that to my husband? Your clan? My brother? Your king?”

  “I’ll tell them…I’ll tell them—”

  He pulled her forward and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  She twisted out of his grasp and slapped his face with all her might. “How dare you! How dare you touch me, you murderer! You traitor!”

  His expression fierce, he put his hand to the reddening mark on his cheek. “Is that what you said to my brother the first time he kissed you? Or did you let him kiss you more? Do you enjoy teasing men, Marianne? Does it make you feel pretty and powerful?”

  “I don’t tease men,” she retorted. “If you thought I teased you, or that I was attracted to you in any way, it was all in your own conceited mind.”

  “I’m conceited? I’m not the one walking around Lochbarr with my nose in the air, acting like I’m too good to put my dainty toes on the soil of Scotland.”

  Marianne struggled to regain her self-control. She must rein in her temper, no matter what he said or did, because this man was a viper, and she was at his mercy. “Do you intend to kill me?”

  “God, no!” he retorted. “I don’t want you dead.”

  “Do you then intend to force yourself upon me?”

  She watched Lachlann’s face as he struggled to regain his self-possession. “That kiss was…a mistake.”

  “A mistake? I would call it unwelcome and repulsive. But whatever you would call it, I warn you—I will never give myself to you willingly, and if you rape me, I’ll bring down the entire weight of Norman and Scots law on your head and I won’t rest until you’re executed.”

  “I’m going to take you back to your brother,” he snarled, still not back in control. “You’re to be a peace offering, to prove that I have no quarrel with him or his family. You should be thankful, and act like it.”

  Marianne’s mind worked quickly. She didn’t want to go back to Nicholas, not while Adair lived, but she had to get out of this fortress and find her husband. So she had to make Lachlann believe she accepted this plan. Once out of Lochbarr, she’d find a way to escape his custody.

  She let her shoulders relax a little, but she kept her tone as haughty as before. “You’d do that? You’d take me safely back to my brother? How can I believe you?”

  “I’ll give you my word, as chieftain of Clan Mac Taran.”

  She sniffed derisively. “The word of a traitor doesn’t mean much.”

  He stiffened. “It’s the only guarantee you’ll get.”

  “And what of my child?”

  Lachlann shrugged.

  “You don’t care?”

  “No, and no one in the clan will, either. The child’s mother is Norman, you see.”

  “I should have realized you wouldn’t care about family bonds when it came to your brother’s child, either. Very well, then. Take me back to my brother.”

  “You’ll tell him I made sure you weren’t harmed?”

  She nodded, and a flicker of relief crossed Lachlann’s face. “And to show my gratitude, I will not tell him that you kissed me.”

  Lachlann took a step toward her. She instinctively stepped back.

  His eyes softened with what looked like sincere regret. “I didn’t want Adair to die, Marianne. I thought he’d accept the opportunity to leave for your sake, if not his own, yet he wouldn’t take the chance I offered to let you both go unharmed.”

  Marianne tilted her head to study the man in front of her, as she might a strange and bizarre creature. “Because he’s an honorable man who wouldn’t let a traitor win without a fight.”

  “I’m not the traitor,” Lachlann retorted, his expression hardening. “I’m not the one who went to Beauxville knowing it was bound to lead to trouble, and maybe war. But would Adair listen? No! He’ll do what he wants, when he wants. What kind of chieftain is that?”

  “The kind who won’t let a woman suffer. The kind who sees injustice and tries to end it. The kind who can make men follow him with no more than a word because they know he won’t betray them, that he’ll die first, and gladly, fighting for his clan. He’s the kind of chieftain you could never be, Lachlann.”

  “You don’t understand anything.”

  “More than you know, Lachlann. I have two brothers who competed in everything. But it was always open warfare, not sly, deceitful tricks.”

  Lachlann backed away. “I’ll take you to Beauxville tomorrow.”

  “Dunkeathe,” she murmured as her enemy went outside and closed the door behind him. “The name of the place is Dunkeathe.”

  “TWO DAYS LATER, the sky was gray with clouds and the air chill and damp with drizzle. Seated on a horse, her cloak wrapped around her, Marianne waited for Lachlann to take her back to her brother, as he’d said he would.

  She’d begun to fear he no longer intended to do so. Imprisoned in her teach, anxious and tense, she’d barely slept the past two nights, listening and planning and hoping for the chance to get away. She’d gotten no answer to her questions from Dearshul, who only wept when she brought food, and didn’t linger. Then at dawn this morning, Lachlann had knocked on her door and told her the time had come for her to go back to Dunkeathe.

  Marianne glanced at the ten men who were to be her guard, likewise mounted and waiting, save one who held Lachlann’s horse. She didn’t recognize any of them. They passed a wineskin, and she tried to ignore their hoarse laughter and crude jests. She couldn’t understand all of what they said, but she understood enough to know she didn’t want to.

  Finally Lachlann came out of the hall, his steps none too steady. He looked as exhausted as she felt, but she had no pity for him. She boldly met his gaze when he glanced at her. She’d done nothing wrong; let him look away with shame. And he did, but not before she saw that his eyes were bloodshot.

  As he joined them, the other men exchanged smirks, regarding Lachlann not with respect, but sly amusement, and she knew he was no more the leader here than she.

  Lachlann’s face reddened, yet he said nothing as he mounted his horse, either to her or the men. Instead, he called out for the gate to be opened and raised his hand to lead the small cortege out of the fortress. Riding through the village, the men kept drinking and laughing and j
oking, while Lachlann stared stoically ahead.

  Once outside Lochbarr, Marianne constantly scanned the road ahead, seeking an opportunity for escape. Thankfully Lachlann hadn’t taken hold of the reins of her horse, as she’d worried he might, and as they moved away from the fortress and village, his head began to dip and his shoulders slump, as if he were falling asleep. A backward glance revealed that the men behind were too busy drinking and joking among themselves to pay much heed to her.

  Yet she could find no good place to try to get away. She wished she’d ridden out with Adair, to see more of the land, or that she’d paid more attention the first time he brought her to Lochbarr.

  Then, at last, she saw her chance, where the road was bordered by a meadow and a wood. The trees were thick, but not too close together to prevent a horse from getting through them.

  Lachlann’s chin was practically on his chest. Another swift glance showed that the men behind weren’t paying any more attention to her.

  So she gave one quick punch to the horse’s sides and turned it into the wood as it broke into a gallop. There was a cry, then shouting and she could hear other horses charging through the wood behind her. Holding on for dear life, she turned the horse, again and again once more, until she spotted a fallen log. She pulled her mount to a stop beside it with such force, it sat back on its haunches. Steadying it, she quickly climbed down onto the log, so she would leave no footprints in the dirt. Then she smacked the horse hard on its rump, sending it galloping off through the trees. She jumped onto the ground and lay flat in a little hollow made by the roots of another tree behind the log. She stayed there, prone and panting, while the men following her rode by, chasing her horse.

  Still she waited—and was glad she had when she heard the sound of the hooves of one last horse, walking. She pressed herself against the roots, down in the dirt as far as she could go. Holding her breath, she peered through the narrow gap between the log and the ground.

  It was Lachlann’s horse. For a long, terrible moment, she feared he’d seen some sign, or guessed where she was, especially when his horse halted. Time seemed to stretch, a short while becoming an eternity, until the horse began to move again.