by Cathy MacRae
Has Da lost his mind? Uilleam considered what he knew of Lord le Naper. The wealthiest, most influential man in Dumbarton, his daughters referred to as princesses for their extravagant ways. Never seen unless bedecked in rich clothing and weighted with jewels, the four sisters were gifted with the most astonishing singing voices this side of the Firth of Clyde. Kept well-oiled, no doubt, by their incessant chatter.
Saints have mercy. I dinnae want a chantie-beak for a wife. I want a tranquil life. ’Tis enough to deal in conflict and clamor whilst warring with the MacNairns and the struggles of everyday life. Why can I nae come home to a peaceful wife?
Alan and Caz dropped their horses from a canter to match Esca’s slower pace and settled one to either side.
“Tell us what’s to happen at Eun Mòr, Willie,” Caz said.
“Dinnae leave us guessing,” Alan added.
Uilleam took a deep breath. “It seems I’m to wed the eldest le Naper daughter.”
Caz clapped a fist to his breast. “Dinnae meddle with us, Willie. We arenae faint of heart, but yer jest is frightening.”
“Ye’re a rare one.” Alan chuckled. “Telling us the worst possible lie so the truth willnae hurt so much.”
Uilleam shook his head. “’Tis fact. I heard it from my da’s own mouth yester e’en. I am to take the eldest Corbie to wife.”
His companions stared at him, mouths agape.
He shrugged, flippantly adding the particulars. “He’s been in communication with Lord le Naper and they have contracted to marry me to . . ..” He frowned. “Which is the elder?”
“Brenna,” Alan supplied. “But surely ye jest.”
“Aye,” Caz agreed. “Yer da isnae into his dotage yet, and I havenae noticed his whisky flagon taking abnormal dips. Has he suffered a blow to his heid? Mayhap ye misheard.”
“Misheard?” Uilleam felt certain steam burst from his ears. “I took whatever else he could have possibly said and replaced it with ye are to marry the eldest le Naper daughter before Christmas?” He fisted a hand on his thigh. “What could possess me to wish such a dire fate on myself?”
They rode in silence for a few paces.
“We willnae leave yer side,” Alan vowed.
“No man should go through hell alone,” Caz added, sympathy coating his words.
“I thank ye,” Uilleam replied. “I fear I have nae recourse. I am a doomed man.”
Chapter Two
Eun Mòr Manor
December 22
Jennet’s elbow dug into Brenna’s side. “Which one do ye think he is?”
All four sisters crowded Brenna’s window which overlooked the bailey, though Karistina’s curly head barely topped the sill. A trio of men rode abreast through the gatehouse, with two more at their rear. The yard’s normal bustle dragged to a halt, all gazes following the strangers, and, indeed, they were strange, for their unkempt appearances marked them as travelers, their accoutrement of swords and shields and outrageous clothing bespoke their origins. These were clearly Highlanders.
Barbarians.
Brenna’s gaze fell upon the men. Which one? They all appear as beggars. Knees peeking from beneath woolen skirts of all things! Shaggy hair falling about their shoulders. Saddles and belts bristling with weapons. A shiver ran down her spine. I cannot think but my father is punishing me—but for what, I cannot imagine.
“Oh, Brenna, ye must have done something truly unforgivable for da to do this to ye.” Elesbeth unwittingly echoed her sister’s thoughts as she wrapped an arm about Brenna’s waist. “I cannot believe ye’re to be wed to such a man.”
“Mayhap ’tis only his travel garb which gives rise to his outlandish appearance,” offered Jennet, ever the optimist. “Certes he will look better once he’s accorded a bath.” She frowned. “And some clothes.”
Karistina bounced on her toes and pointed. “Look! Da goes to meet him. Do ye suppose he shall turn him away?”
“At least offer him better garb?” Jennet sighed. “I do wish to see him closer.”
“He looks like a bear,” Karistina announced. “Why would anyone marry a bear?”
“Kari, grab Poppy,” Elesbeth demanded, motioning to the pup who chose that moment to attack the rug before the fireplace, growling and barking, stubby tail in the air. “I cannot hear a thing with her carrying on so.”
Kari ran to the hearth and snatched up the terrier, holding the pup close. She returned to the window. “I can’t see!” she protested, elbowing her sisters aside. Poppy yipped and wriggled in the young girl’s arms. Kari laughed as the puppy smothered her face in kisses.
Elesbeth wrinkled her nose. “Go wash your face, Kari. I think Poppy ate a rat this morning.”
Kari gasped and thrust the puppy out at arms’ length. “Ewww!”
Brenna felt faint. Her heart raced and she could scarcely breathe. This—one of these—is the man my father says I must wed? The man who will take me away from my home and family? Her sisters’ chatter drifted around her like a great fog, dense and cloying. She gripped the window sill, ignoring the winter wind drifting through the open pane, fingers biting into the wooden frame.
I cannot remain here. I will surely faint—fall straight out this window. That would certainly put an end to the negotiations. But the thought of escape by plummeting to her death did not cheer her.
“Where are ye going?” Elesbeth demanded as Brenna turned away.
“I feel a headache coming on.” She held a hand to her forehead. “Or, mayhap ’tis leprosy.”
“Do not jest of such a thing,” Jennet scolded, rushing to assist Brenna to bed. She pulled back the silken coverlet and tugged Brenna’s slippers from her feet before tucking her in.
“Is she truly ill?” Kari asked, returning from the ewer of water on a nearby stand with a damp cloth in her hand. Jennet snatched it from her and applied it to Brenna’s forehead.
“Ye will be fine by supper,” she assured Brenna. “Ye must meet him . . ..” She turned to her sisters. “Do we know his name?”
Elesbeth and Kari exchanged glances. “Nae. At least, not one I recall.”
Brenna moaned. I do not even know my betrothed’s name! This cannot be happening! Why has Papa turned against me?
Jennet clasped her hands to her breast. “Oh, a mystery! How romantic!”
* * *
Uilleam guided Esca through the gate. The fortified manor, situated on a massive rock overlooking the firth, boasted a half-timbered gatehouse with tall, thick rock walls surrounding the large yard and connecting the house to the massive tower to his left. They’d passed through the winding streets of the village which nested against the north side of the castle. The River Clyde and Corbie Burn—emptying into the waters of the Clyde—protected Eun Mòr to the south and east. Scaffolding rose above a large kirk and graveyard situated to the west.
The sensation of being watched crept over him and he glanced up. The third floor of the manor was also half-timbered above the rock walls and jutted out over the yard. Glass-paned windows were closely shuttered against the cold, yet one swung open wide. Below, arrow slits doubled as windows in the stone.
“A bit pretentious, aye?” Alan muttered.
Caz gave a low whistle. “I’ve nae seen a house with so much glass in my life. Wouldnae last ten minutes in a battle.”
“Ye’d have to get inside the walls first,” Uilleam noted as he reined Esca to a stop. “The outer defenses offer little in the way of weakness.”
Giggles drifted from the open window. Uilleam’s gaze slid upward. Bits of blue, green, red, and pink flashed in the opening before the shutter closed. The door to the hall opened, forestalling speculation on the third storey inhabitants.
Uilleam swung down from his horse. “Mind yer manners. Our host approaches.”
A tall man with a head of rapidly graying black hair strode from the main building. He halted before Uilleam and his companions, casting a glance down his beaked nose from one to the other.
Uilleam stepped
forward. “I am Uilleam MacLaren. My companions, Caz and Alan.” He nodded to his guards. “Baen and Gawan.”
The man beamed. “I am George le Naper. Welcome to Eun Mòr Manor. Come inside. We have much to discuss and I wish to introduce ye to the family.”
Uilleam quailed at the thought. He’d stretched the four hour ride into six—without experiencing the least remorse—and still did not feel the urge to hasten his meeting with the chatterbox, Lady Brenna. “Mayhap a chance to clean up and rest? We could join ye at supper.”
“Of course, of course.” Le Naper clapped Uilleam’s shoulder. “We’ve rooms waiting. My wife will send someone to guide ye to the hall when ye are ready.”
To Uilleam’s alarm, le Naper rubbed his hands together as if about to accomplish something shocking.
He is that happy to rid himself of one of his daughters. Heaven help me.
Servants bustled about the crowded hall as they prepared for supper. Voices rose in merriment. Light pierced the windows in pale green patterns and lit the golden threads in tapestries hung from the walls. Evergreen garlands draped the long windows, and holly—bright red berries scattered among the glossy green leaves—graced the mantle above the enormous fireplace. The scent of beeswax mixed with the spicy aromas of sage and cloves.
Glances cut his direction, though few people did little more than smile—whether in greeting or commiseration, however, he wasn’t certain.
Nae doubt the entire village is eager to view the unfortunate bridegroom. Uilleam scowled.
“Ye’ll frighten the lass,” Alan chided. “Glowering doesnae improve yer looks.”
“Dinnae scold the lad,” Caz said. “He’s nae but practicing the look he’ll wear for the rest of his life.”
Uilleam set his goblet on a nearby table with a bit more force than he’d planned. Heads swiveled in his direction.
“Where are my daughters?” le Naper demanded as he strode across the room toward his guests. “We cannot wait supper on them. Send a servant to their rooms. Be quick!”
Lady le Naper, her rounded figure shimmering in gold brocade, her head topped with silken veils, whispered to a lass at her side, sending her scurrying from the hall. Jeweled bracelets chimed softly at her wrists as she turned and offered Uilleam her hand.
He bowed over the plump white fingers, eliciting a pleasant smile from the lady.
“A pleasure meeting ye, m’lady.”
“Mes filles linger above stairs only because they wish to make an impression, I’m certain, Lord Uilleam. They’ll be here anon. Such good girls.”
Le Naper took a deep swig from his goblet. Lady le Naper sent him a reproving glance and drew her hand from Uilleam’s polite grip.
A tall youth with the gangly loping walk of a lad of some ten or twelve summers crossed the floor and planted a quick kiss to Lady le Naper’s cheek.
“My son, Lonan le Naper,” Lord le Naper said, waving a hand to the black-haired lad.
Lonan gave a friendly nod of introduction. “Ye’re the one who’s to marry Brenna?”
Uilleam stifled the urge to flee and instead returned a weak smile. “Aye.”
Lonan flashed a cheeky grin. “I hope ye can stand the chatter.”
A young lass, clad in green wool embroidered with gold thread, her black curls twined with matching green ribbon, skipped across the floor and leaned against le Naper’s arm.
“Brenna does not feel well, Papa.” She peeked around him and caught Uilleam’s eye, her angelic face wreathed in a smile. She giggled.
“What do ye mean, not well?” le Naper growled. “She was fine an hour ago.”
A second lass, this one a bit older, clad even more finely in dark red wool that lent roses to her pale cheeks, joined the first. She, too, peered around le Naper to ogle Uilleam. A beauty, her brows winged upward over bright green eyes.
“I believe she has a megrim, Papa.”
“Curses!” le Naper bellowed. “I’ll see to the vexatious child myself.”
Lady le Naper gripped his wrist. “I shall speak to her, George. Mayhap ye could get to know Sir Uilleam. He’ll be our son, soon.”
Lord le Naper scowled but waved her away. “We will await ye in the family dining room. Do not delay supper.” They exchanged a look of horror, leaving Uilleam wondering about nature of mealtimes at Eun Mòr.
Lady le Naper gathered the two young girls and bustled them from the room.
“Brenna’s not so bad,” Lonan offered, an apologetic tilt to his head as Lord le Naper led them across the hall. “She isn’t the prettiest of the lot, but she didn’t shriek when I took her fishing.” He feigned baiting a worm on a hook then gave a high-pitched squeal and wriggled his shoulders. “Girls.” He shook his head in disgust.
Uilleam grabbed another goblet in passing and took a sip of a wine so dry it fair puckered his mouth.
He craved whisky.
A commotion sounded at far end of the hall.
“Sounds like cats fighting,” Caz murmured.
“Nae. ’Tis the hissing before the fight,” Alan said. “Unless they’ve allowed a gaggle of angry geese in the hall.”
Uilleam slowed his pace, staring over his shoulder as the voices grew. The two lasses and their ma appeared to be embroiled in a stramash with a second pair. His stomach clenched. One must be his betrothed. What had she done to enrage her ma so?
“There they are!” le Naper boomed, poised at the doorway to the private dining chamber. “Come in, come in!”
They filed into the room. Spears and battle axes, shields and swords vied for place on the wall amid billowing swaths of pale green and gold cloth draped at intervals from floor to ceiling. An immense iron chandelier hung over the long table, glittering with candles. Narrow windows along one wall rose two storeys, set with diamond-shaped panes of glass the size of Uilleam’s palm, sparkling in myriad colors.
The single table was weighty with trenchers and platters. A tureen with a gilded rim held place of honor before le Naper. The aroma of lamb, onions, ginger, and wine rose on faint tendrils of steam. Goblets studded with jewels, dainty eating knives with carved ivory hilts, and embroidered napkins graced each place setting—all atop a snowy white linen tablecloth decorated with silver candle sticks, beeswax candles, and festive greenery.
Uilleam had not seen such extravagance this side of St. George’s Channel.
Caz coughed lightly and sent him a look from the corner of his eye. “A bit much, dinnae ye think?” he whispered.
Uilleam jabbed him with an elbow. “Seek yer manners,” he growled.
Caz grinned, silent laughter lighting his eyes.
Waving his hand, Lord le Naper bid his guests be seated. With a sense of dread, Uilleam sat. Servants bustled about, filling goblets, adding baskets of bread and other victuals to the already over-laden table. Alan and Caz found seats at the far end of the table and carefully draped snowy linens across their laps. A servant ladled aromatic soup into bowls.
The ladies peered from the shadow of the doorway, their silence loud in the room as all attention turned their way.
Beaming with triumph and good cheer, le Naper beckoned them near. “Come, let us introduce Brenna to her bridegroom.”
Lady le Naper stalked to the table, head high, color in her cheeks. The other four—the Songbirds—approached in a single file. A small terrier trooped at their heels.
The youngest, clad in green, stepped aside. Her sister, the one in red, gave a small curtsy then moved in the opposite direction. The final two inched closer, hand in hand. The taller one lifted her nose regally, her rose-colored gown topped with a surcoat of leaf green gracefully draping a body to challenge any lad’s dreams. Artfully arranged black curls wreathed her face. Uilleam couldn’t take his eyes off her, though her haughty demeanor churned his belly.
Was this his intended bride?
“What have ye done?” le Naper hissed. He rose, sending his chair screeching along the floor. “Brenna, step forth.”
Movement from
the corner of Uilleam’s eye caught his attention. The tallest daughter remained rooted to her spot. The lass at her far side took a hesitant step forward. Uilleam stared, jaw agape.
Her face, robbed of the healthy glow of her sisters, appeared the color of aged parchment. Her hair, the same ebony hue as that of her father and siblings, hung in greasy strands to her waist. An ivory surcoat, liberally streaked with stains, rested atop her royal blue gown. She lifted startling green eyes to stare at Uilleam.
Shock swept over her.
This is the man I saw in the yard from my window? His shaggy hair had been neatly combed and pulled back, tied at the nape of his neck. Bright blue eyes bored into hers from beneath thick, dark red brows. Muscular and lean, his shoulders stretched the limits of his fine blue tunic, embroidered at the neck with a darker thread.
Assuredly not the garb of a barbarian. She resisted the urge to peer beneath the table to see if he’d donned breeches.
She might have—reluctantly—admitted his face was handsome, though his lips pulled apart in a particularly insulting manner, albeit to reveal rather nice, white teeth.
She had dressed to make an impression and she’d achieved her desired effect, though now she rather wished she’d been a bit more circumspect.
Who knew he’d present himself so well? And dressed in such finery?
His fist—easily twice the size of her dear papa’s slender hands—clenched a jewel-encrusted goblet, knuckles white.
She dropped into a curtsy, torn between continuing her charade and a faint desire to make amends. Her slippered foot slid in a greasy spot on the floor. She grabbed at the table as she wobbled. Poppy yipped as Brenna’s skirt jerked across the floor, clearly thinking this was some new game. She pounced on the hem and gave it a shake her ancestors—enthusiastic ratters all—would have been proud of.
Brenna shrieked as Poppy’s antics stole her balance. Her fingers snarled in the tablecloth, jerking it to the floor as she brought her hand around to break her fall. Trenchers, platters, and goblets crashed to the floor. The soup tureen—a blue and white porcelain affair her mother was quite proud of—splintered on the stone, spreading the scent of ginger and onions. An entire roasted hen shot across the table then slid across the floor, set upon by two slavering hounds. A pair of cats crouched beneath the table, lapping the spoils.
