Adair turned to his brother-in-law. “It seems, Nicholas, that I have no more need of you or your men. I thank you for your help, but now you can go back to Dunkeathe.”
“Are you certain you’ll need no assistance capturing the rest of the rebels?”
For a moment, Adair wondered if he’d walked into a different trap. Perhaps Nicholas would try to leave an occupying force in Lochbarr and claim it was for their own protection. “Aye, I’m sure,” he said, his words carrying a hint of challenge.
Fortunately, Nicholas nodded his agreement. “If you are content,” he said. “I’ll have Herman bring Marianne to you.”
The Norman mounted his horse and returned to the rest of his men waiting on the hill.
A SHORT TIME LATER, Marianne hurried into the chieftain’s hall in Lochbarr. She saw at once that Lachlann wasn’t dead, although she knew that had to be the traitor’s eventual punishment.
Instead, her brother-in-law stood facing her grim and forbidding husband, who was seated in the chieftain’s chair. Several of the other men of the clan were on benches surrounding the prisoner. Barra, who’d returned to Lochbarr with her, sidled off to one side and sat among the Scots.
Adair spotted her. Looking very much the thane and chieftain, he nodded toward the empty chair to his right, indicating she was to join him.
As she walked toward her husband, she was aware of Lachlann’s bowed head and disheveled state; of Ceit and the other serving women peering out of the kitchen; of Dearshul sobbing quietly near the main door; of the solemn, long-haired clansmen; and the heavy weight of responsibility and judgment that sat upon her husband’s broad shoulders.
Full of regret for what might have been, she passed her young brother-in-law. So much promise. So much trouble.
She didn’t speak when she reached her chair. With a heavy heart, she sat and waited for what would happen next.
“Lachlann,” Adair began, his deep voice filling the hall, “you know the punishment for what you’ve done is death.”
The young man raised his head. His face looked angular, stark, older, wiser—and sickly pale. “Aye,” he replied, his voice wavering a little.
“And I should kill you,” Adair declared. “Your greed and ambition have led to death and rape and destruction. Some would even say a quick end is too good for all that you’ve brought to our people.”
Adair slowly got to his feet. “Yet from all I’ve heard, you didn’t rob or rape or pillage, like the others. My wife has told me that you saved her from Cormag.”
Marianne looked from her husband to Lachlann, and saw doubt in the young man’s eyes. Doubt, more than hope, although her heartbeat began to quicken with an emotion she was almost afraid to feel. Yet Adair already had so much guilt, so much remorse…if he didn’t have to be responsible for his brother’s execution, too…
“So I have decided your punishment will not be death.”
As relief ran through Marianne, a low murmur of discontent filled the hall. Barra and the men around him exchanged confused looks. Dearshul, her hope like a beacon shining on her face, stopped crying.
“Not death,” Adair repeated firmly. “But you’re banished, Lachlann, from my lands and all of Scotland. Every clan chieftain and laird, every thane and merchant, every peasant and shepherd, every man, woman and child—aye, even King Alexander himself—will know of my judgment upon you. No one will give you aid or succor, food or shelter, while you are in this land. And if you ever return to Scotland, any Scot may kill you.”
Not death, perhaps, but surely for a Scot, with his pride and family feeling, this was purgatory, a living limbo of shame and loneliness and remorse.
Around her, the murmur of discontent continued, but quieter, as the full import of Adair’s judgment sank in among them.
Adair approached his brother. “You’ve lost everything, Lachlann. Home and country, friend and family. But I can’t kill you because you did what I couldn’t do for Cellach. You saved Marianne.”
A tear rolled down Lachlann’s cheek. “Be merciful, Adair, and kill me.”
Adair shook his head and the look in his eyes nearly broke Marianne’s heart. “I can’t do it, Lachlann. I can’t kill my own brother—any more than you could kill me. Now go, never to see your homeland again.”
The heavy silence broke when Dearshul hurried toward them. “I’m going with Lachlann.” “No,” Lachlann said brusquely over the murmurs and questioning asides from the clansmen. He turned away from Adair and started walking toward the door, past the censorious gaze of the other Scots.
Dearshul ran after him and grabbed his arm. “I want to go with you! Banished or not, I love you, Lachlann!”
Lachlann halted, then appealed to his brother, and Marianne. “She doesn’t understand. Please, make her stay.”
Marianne looked at Dearshul and saw the love shining in her eyes, despite everything. “You realize he has nothing, Dearshul? No home, no money, no food, no clothes?”
Dearshul nodded.
“That he is disgraced and banished?”
Dearshul nodded.
“Yet you would still go with him?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Adair, Marianne, please!” Lachlann pleaded, his voice husky with emotion. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing—and I don’t deserve to have her with me.” He looked beseechingly at Dearshul. “How can you want to be with me now?”
Her cheeks flushed, Dearshul answered with a determination Marianne recognized. “Because I love you. I’ve always loved you, and I always will love you.” Her gaze faltered a moment. “If you don’t want me because of Cormag—”
Lachlann took hold of her slender shoulders and replied with heartfelt fervor, “That doesn’t matter to me. It’s you that matters, Dearshul. Do you not understand? I have nothing. I am nothing.”
Her smile blossomed, and her expression was as resolute as a general’s before battle. “You’re the man I love.”
“Let her go with you,” Marianne said softly, slipping her hand in her husband’s. “Trust me in this, Lachlann. Where there is a love as strong as this, there is no hardship that can’t be overcome.”
Lachlann looked at her for a long moment, then his brother, and then he reached for Dearshul’s hand and clasped it firmly. “Come, Dearshul,” he said softly to her. “Come with me.”
Together they walked out of the hall, and out of Lochbarr.
HOURS LATER, after Adair had taken charge of the rebuilding of Lochbarr and Marianne had set about ordering the repairs to the hall and kitchens, seeing to the restocking of the storerooms and trying to undo some of the damage and neglect, she turned her efforts to their teach.
It had been looted. All the cloth had been torn from the walls and the bedding stolen. Mercifully, the bed itself—too large and too heavy to take apart easily—remained. The stools had been shattered, and she had to search for the missing braziers and table. One of the few merchants who hadn’t fled the village had some linens he’d kept hidden from the rebels that he was willing to give her on promise of future payment.
By the time Marianne was finished, it wasn’t as comfortable as it had been, but livable. Soon, she hoped, she could again make it a sanctuary of rest and comfort, a place Adair deserved after all he’d been through.
Exhausted, Marianne took off her gown and got into bed to wait for him. Her thoughts ranged over all that had happened, from the first time she’d seen the handsome, grim Scot from her brother’s window, to the last time she’d seen him today, briskly issuing orders, fully the chieftain.
Gone, perhaps for good, was the air of friendly camaraderie he’d shared with his clansmen. He might never again trust any man the way he had before.
Yet it could have been worse. So very much worse.
The door to the teach opened. Adair came inside, his shoulders rounded with exhaustion. She got out of the bed and hurried to pour some warm water from the small pot she’d set in the brazier into the basin for him to wash.
He looked around and managed a small smile. “You’ve been busy, I see.”
“Not so busy as you, I think.”
He sighed wearily and sat on the bed. “Aye. There’s much to be done, not the least of which is finding the rest of the traitors.”
“The worst is over now, Adair.”
“Almost,” he said as he heaved himself to his feet again and joined her. “I’ve still got to deal with the rebels when we catch them.”
Reaching up, she unfastened the broach at his shoulder. “How long do you think that will take?”
He shrugged as he took the broach from her and set it beside the basin. “It’s hard to say. We may never get them all.”
“Surely they’ll know not to come back to Lochbarr.”
“I hope so, Marianne. God help me, I hope so.”
Marianne saw the anguish deep in his eyes and knew there was more to his distress than the necessity of rounding up the rebels. “At least Lachlann’s not completely alone, Adair. He has Dearshul.”
“Aye,” Adair replied quietly, kissing her hand. “I’m glad of that.”
“So am I, and for her sake, too. Her heart would have died if she’d stayed.” She gazed lovingly at her husband. “As mine would have if you’d been killed.”
“Oh, Marianne, the mistakes I’ve made,” he murmured as he drew her to him and held her.
She stroked his hair, holding him tight. “We all have. But you’re a good man, Adair. And merciful. You’ll be a good chieftain, as fine as your father.”
“I’ll try, Marianne. By God, I’ll try—and with you to help me, I stand a chance.”
They stood together awhile, not speaking or moving, just embracing, feeling the strength that came from being together.
Finally, Adair drew back. “You must be tired. We should go to bed.”
Throwing the plaid off his shoulder, he tucked it into his belt, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He still had bandages around his ribs and she instinctively looked to make sure there was no fresh bleeding.
There wasn’t, so as he splashed his face with water, she picked up his shirt and folded it, setting it on the chest. “Would you like some wine? Ceit and I found some in the far reaches of one of the storehouses, behind some flour.”
“No, thank you,” he said as he dried his face with a square of linen. “But I appreciate the thought.”
“Speaking of thoughts,” Marianne said as she climbed back onto the bed. “I’ve had one that I hope you’ll approve of.”
Tossing down the linen, he turned to face her. He gave her a smile reminiscent of those seductive smiles that had made her heart beat so wildly. “Does it have anything to do with a bed?”
He was trying to be as he was before. Yet there was a shadow in his eyes that had nothing to do with the flickering light from the oil lamp, and everything to do with all that had happened.
She silently vowed she would do everything she could to make that grave shadow go away. “In a manner of speaking. It’s about our child.”
Adair started to take off his belt. “Yes?”
“I was thinking that if it’s a boy, we should name him Seamus, for your father.”
As Adair paused and looked at her, the shadow lifted a little. “I’d like that, Marianne. Very much.”
“I was very fond of your father.”
“Aye, and he was very fond of you,” he replied as he removed his belt and unwrapped his feileadh.
Warmed by his words, she got under the covers. “I was also thinking that if we have a girl, we should name her Cellach. I know how much she meant to you.”
Adair lifted the covers and climbed into the bed beside her. She nestled against him, careful of his wound.
“Aye, m’eudail, I loved her—but not as I love you.” He stroked her cheek. “There’s only been one woman I’ve given both my heart and body to, and I’m holding her now.”
Marianne kissed him tenderly. She was so blessed, so fortunate. She couldn’t have found a better, more loving husband if she searched a hundred years, in Normandy or anywhere else.
Adair smiled and she saw the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Or maybe, because I’m sure she’ll be a spirited beauty like her mother, it should be something like My-father-is-the-meanest-most-dangerous-Scot-in-Scotland. Or Touch-me-and-you’ll-be-sorry.”
“Very long and very unusual. Unfortunately, I doubt she’ll ever get a husband with such a name,” Marianne replied, happy to hear that teasing tone in his voice again.
“We could always put her in a tower, forbid anybody to wed her, and see what braw, handsome Scot will come to rescue her from such ogres.”
Marianne tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Maybe there won’t be any handsome, braw Scots. Maybe I got the last of them.”
“You still don’t know the Scots very well, my wife,” Adair replied, lightly stroking her arm. “Some Scot would come for her, if only for the challenge.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t think we should tempt fate.”
He chuckled, and she rejoiced to hear his laughter. “You’re indeed a wise woman, Marianne. Spirited, passionate and wise.”
“Passionate, am I?” she murmured, sliding her hand down his chest, lower and lower still.
He closed his eyes. “Aye, very.”
She thought of the way he looked when he’d arrived. “If you’re tired, or your wound troubles you…?”
“I’ll just have to make the best of it,” he said, opening his eyes as his hand meandered down her hip. “What was it you said in the hall? Where there is love, there is no hardship.”
“Because I love you, too, I’m willing to make the best of things,” she agreed as she put her leg over his thigh and shifted closer. “I must confess, my efforts have been well rewarded thus far.”
He lay back so that she was more on top of him. “Thus far? I’ll have to do my best to see that you always think so.”
“Then I have nothing more to ask.”
“Nothing?”
“Do I have to ask?”
“It might make things interesting to hear exactly what you’d like.”
She leaned close and whispered in his ear.
His eyes widened with mock astonishment. “Losh, my lady, such…explicit…descriptions.”
She looked at him with wide-eyed, and bogus, naivete. “Would you rather go to sleep?”
His answering smile was seduction incarnate. “Perish the thought, m’eudail. Perish the thought.”
He reached up and, cradling her head in his strong hand, pulled her to him for a long, slow kiss.
As her smoldering desire flamed, she moved to straddle him, her shift bunching about her hips. She splayed her hands beside his head on the pillow. “I think you should keep still,” she whispered. “I don’t want to have to summon Beitiris tonight.”
His eyes gleamed with passion. “I may be the chieftain of my clan, but I’m beginning to think you’re going to be the chieftain in here.”
She trailed light kisses down his neck to his chest. “Does that trouble you?”
“I’d have to say…no,” he answered, his voice a little strained.
“Would you like to tell me how to pleasure you?”
He arched back slightly as her lips continued their downward course. “I think you’re doing a fine job on your own.”
She raised her head, and her hips. “You seem quite anxious.”
“You seem willing to torture me.”
“I just want you to be ready.”
“I’ve been ready since I got into bed.”
“Reeeally?” she said, drawing the word out as she reached for him.
Then she guided him inside and lowered her body with a slow sigh. When he groaned not with pain, but pleasure, she wiggled, settling herself more.
“I think you like this,” she said.
“Aye, I do—and so do you, you sly wench, because you know you’ve got me at your mercy.”
She raised hers
elf a little. “Would you like me to stop?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She moved slowly lower. “Good, because I don’t want to, either.”
“We might take all night at this pace,” Adair murmured, his hands sliding up her shift toward her breasts.
“And we’ve got much to do tomorrow.”
“So what do you suggest?”
She smiled and began to go faster, pushing down with more intensity. More need. More anxious hunger.
Panting, straining, Adair grabbed hold of her shoulders and raised himself to meet her. She slowed for a moment, to catch her breath, then began again when she couldn’t resist the building yearning to feel him hard and powerful inside her, especially at the moment of climax.
She threw back her head and, with wild abandon, gave herself over to desire, until together, they reached the pinnacle of ecstasy. A moan burst from her throat as they came together. Throbbing, her whole body responding, she kept moving, wanting to have the joy of him for as long as she could.
The pulsing inside subsided. His breathing, equally ragged, grew more calm.
Sated, blissfully tired, she moved to lie beside him, then raised herself on her elbow to look down at her husband. “Savage Scot or not,” she murmured as she brushed her fingertips across his hard nipples, “it’s no wonder I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you.”
His eyes shining, Adair caught her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm, then her wrist, creating new ripples of delight. “And it’s no wonder I love you, Marianne Mac Taran. To think I once believed all Normans were coldhearted. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“We were both wrong, Adair, about many things. But out of all our mistakes and our troubles, some good has come.”
“Aye, m’eudail,” he whispered. “Wrong in many things, but right to marry, after all.”
“Aye,” she murmured as she leaned forward to kiss him tenderly. “M’eudail.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4585-7
BRIDE OF LOCHBARR
Copyright © 2004 by Margaret Wilkins
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
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