by Cathy MacRae
Kari raced to Brenna’s rescue, snatching Poppy away with only a slight rend of cloth. Brenna struggled to her feet as her groom-to-be sprang from his chair. Their gazes locked. Brenna stood and wiped her hands on her surcoat, adding a smear of soup to the already ruined cloth. The hairs on the back of Brenna’s neck rose at the challenge in the Highlander’s eyes even as something unexplainable tingled in her belly.
She straightened her shoulders and tossed a stringy lock of hair over her shoulder. “Place your eyeballs back in your head, monsieur. There is already enough of a mess on the floor.”
Chapter Three
The deafening uproar confounded Uilleam.
This is what Da sold me for? He couldn’t conceal his horrified disgust. No wonder le Naper is anxious to rid himself of her.
Le Naper’s fury boiled, his face beet red, fists clenched at his waist. The entire hall fell silent, breathless. The two cats beneath the table spat at a hopeful hound, unwilling to share their ill-gotten dinner.
A servant set a mug at Uilleam’s place, giving his arm a soft nudge. His attention still fixed on the fiasco before him, Uilleam absently picked up the mug and took a sip.
Whisky.
God is nae without small mercies after all. Or, perchance, ’tis a foretelling of my life to come. Does this happen often enough the servants are already prepared? St. Ninian’s sweaty bollocks!
Le Naper’s bellows underscored the cackles and caws resumed by the female portion of the family—Lonan’s chortles as well—and the servants who met resistance from the dogs and cats which had settled in for a feast. Lady le Naper’s sorrowful wails over the demise of her tureen proved too much.
Uilleam pushed back his chair.
“Leaving?” Alan asked, bowl raised halfway to his mouth. His gaze flickered between soup and Uilleam, calculating the greater sacrifice.
“Makes me glad I’ve nae a wee wife tying me down,” Caz noted, making a grab for the bread basket which teetered precariously close to the edge of the table.
A shadow fell into the room. Lady le Naper’s wails ended on a shriek. Uilleam spun about, dirk in hand.
“Mon Dieu! What is this?” demanded a tall, stocky man, his belly covered with an immense, immaculate white apron. His gaze swept the room, freezing servants in their tracks. He stalked into the chamber, a meat cleaver gripped in one hand, and pulled up short as his gaze fell on the carnage of supper.
His French quickly exceeded Uilleam’s grasp of the language, though it was deafeningly clear he did not approve of his culinary efforts taking up residence on the floor and in the path of four-legged creatures who had not a whit of care for his efforts at producing an evening meal worthy of the soon-to-be-wed couple. Servants tripped over each other as they fled the room, leaving the family and guests to the indignant rage of what appeared to be le Naper’s French cook.
Uilleam kept an eye on the man’s wild gesticulations, but decided the greater danger was, not falling afoul of the meat cleaver, but the absence of food in the near future—or at least until the cook’s raging temper abated.
Faces averted, the family endured the irate cook’s blustering like so many ponies weathering a particularly brisk storm. Within moments, the deluge of irate French dwindled. The man, his face fading from dangerous red to a more moderate crimson, swiveled about and stalked from the room. Shouts echoed from the cavern of the kitchen then ceased, and the le Naper family breathed a sigh of relief.
Lady le Naper tilted her head, bird-like, veil waving gently on either side of her face.
“That went well, do ye not think so?”
Lord le Naper grumbled and reached a shaking hand for the platter of sliced venison.
Uilleam shook his head and bemusedly sank into his chair.
Lonan slipped inside the room—when had he gone missing?—bearing a covered basket and a satisfied grin. He halted by Uilleam’s chair and drew the linen napkin aside to expose a veritable feast of fine pastries sprinkled with colored sugars or drizzled with honey.
“He won’t miss it—and better we eat it than he consign it to the midden heap in a fit of anger, non?”
Uilleam agreed with the youth’s wisdom and randomly selected a pastry oozing cinnamon and baked apples. He placed it on his plate and licked the honey drizzle from his fingertips.
“Remove that surcoat,” Lord le Naper barked. He motioned to his eldest daughter. “Ye look like ye’ve been dragged through the privy.”
Servants began clearing the mess from the floor, and Lady le Naper orchestrated the serving of platters and bowls which had escaped the mayhem. Perhaps not the five-course dinner intended to welcome Uilleam to the family—and entice him to willingly wed their eldest daughter—but Uilleam’s appetite, already at risk after hearing of his betrothal, had met its end with Brenna’s less-than-auspicious introduction.
Alan and Caz—their futures not at stake—cleared their trenchers in short order and helped Lonan sort through the more delectable sweets from his stolen basket.
“Sir Uilleam, my daughter—your betrothed—Lady Brenna.”
Uilleam glanced up at Lord le Naper’s words. He sprang to his feet— an aversion to his bride not withstanding ingrained manners—as he spied the young woman standing next to him. Her hands clasped before her, eyes fixed on the floor, she slipped into her chair as Uilleam obligingly drew it from beneath the table. Her stained ivory surcoat had been discarded, though a buttery odor wafted from the glistening, clumped strands of her hair.
“M’lady.” Uilleam ground out with an incline of his head.
He courteously offered her a sample of the remains of the feast. She nibbled on a slice of venison and bit into a pastry Lonan slipped onto her plate.
“No appetite?” Uilleam drawled, amused to see her reaping the rewards of her outrageous behavior.
She flashed him a look of mild suspicion—or perhaps resentment, or even ire—from beneath her brows, then placed her hands in her lap. Her show of repentance fell short after her earlier scold, but she made a creditable attempt by schooling her mouth into a faint moue and rounding her eyes into an appearance of regret.
“Je suis désolée,” she murmured.
Uilleam considered her apology briefly before he gave a single nod. At least she appeared able to accept responsibility for the debacle which was, after all, caused by her rebellious actions.
“It appears,” she continued, “supper will be rather abbreviated tonight.”
Before Uilleam could form a reply to her misdirected sense of what had gone so terribly wrong with the evening, Lady le Naper clapped her hands.
“Attention, everyone,” she trilled. “For our treat this evening, mes filles will sing.”
All heads at the table turned at her words. Uilleam scanned the room in surprise. Servants ceased their work and hovered at the far end of the chamber and in doorways. The clatter of platters and utensils faded. In concert, the four lasses rose and arranged themselves before the table.
As gentle as a sigh, as clear as the jingling silver bells on a dainty palfrey’s harness, their voices rose.
Bird on a briar, bird, bird on a briar,
We come from love, and love we crave.
Blissful bird, have pity on me,
Or dig, love, dig thou for me my grave.
I am so blithe, so bright, bird on briar,
When I see that handmaid in the hall:
She is white of limb, lovely, true,
She is fair and flower of all.
Might I have her at my will,
Steadfast of love, lovely, true,
From my sorrow she may me save
Joy and bliss would me renew.
Lady le Naper dabbed at the corner of one eye with an embroidered napkin. Lord le Naper’s scowl disappeared. Uilleam stared, enraptured by the music spilling forth from the Four Song Birds as their voices wove together in a descant so pure the angels would weep. The song washed over him, leaving him light-hearted and unable to halt the smile
rising to his lips.
Lady le Naper sighed as the song reached its conclusion. “So beautiful.”
For a brief moment, Uilleam saw past the smudged cheeks, the ratted hair, and the unhappy hauteur, and beheld the glistening emerald eyes of his betrothed. Be-spelled, he rose slowly to his feet with a languid clap of his hands.
Others rose, adding their soft, rhythmic claps to the tribute. The lasses preened—three of them flashed happy smiles to the crowd. Brenna’s cheeks flushed and her eyes held Uilleam’s gaze. Something passed between them, but Uilleam was at a loss to say exactly what. Was he so shallow as to find her alluring for only her singing voice? What sort of marriage would one prove solely based on his wife’s musical ability?
“She’s a right bonnie singer.” Caz approved. He leaned near. “Might make up for the bletherin’.”
“I wouldnae bet yer horse on it,” Alan observed. “Ye need yer horse.”
“Och, I wouldnae go so far as that,” Caz objected. “But if her chatter becomes too much, ye can always demand she sing. Might work.” He paused and stared at his empty trencher then released a belch with a grin. “That Frenchie makes fine pastries. We need a cook like him at home.”
Alan nodded wisely. “Aye. Take it up with Laird MacLaren—if he hasnae run short of his senses as Uilleam says.”
“The twa of ye blether more than a pair of corbies,” Uilleam grumbled. He stared at the young woman who was to be his bride. Sending him a glance over her shoulder as she and her sisters trooped from the room, she was quickly lost from view.
Brenna carried the sight of Uilleam with her as she departed the dining hall. Bright blue eyes beneath dark red brows which dipped with disapproval all too often. Narrow sleeves of dark green linen extended from beneath the blue tunic, giving added warmth against the winter drafts that pierced the walls of the manor—though the chill did not seem to affect him, for he wore no cloak, no fur trim, or even a cap to warm his head such as the wealthy merchants did in Corbie’s Burn.
Even if the bright colors and fine quality of the cloth told her he was no crofter—and mayhap could afford to provide her with a few modest gowns and other comforts—the broad shoulders filling out the tunic reminded her he was a warrior.
“Your betrothed is quite handsome, “Jennet whispered as they climbed the stairs. “Oh, là là, he presented himself well this e’en.”
Brenna sniffed, ignoring the ripple of pleasure from Jennet’s words. “He’s a barbarian, and all the pretty clothes in the world willnae change that.”
She brushed past her sister and down the passage to her room, shoving the door open with enough force to bounce the heavy panel against the wall. Flinging herself onto her bed, she was instantly surrounded by her sisters.
“He’s not so bad,” Jennet objected. “He is strong and well-formed.” She glanced at the others for support. “His shoulders are nice and broad.”
Elesbeth rolled her eyes and sighed. “He has nice hair,” she ventured, though it was clear she did not favor the Highlander.
“And teeth,” Kari chimed in. “And he wore pants.”
“Argh! Next ye will say he’s housebroken,” Brenna groused, rolling to a seated position. “He is no more interested in marrying me than I am him.”
For some reason, this made her unhappy.
“At least ye have something in common,” Elesbeth mocked, an impish, unsisterly gleam in her eyes..
“Hardly something to build a marriage on,” Jennet scolded with a pointed glare at Elesbeth.
“And ye’ll have to live with him,” Kari pointed out. “And kiss him.”
“I’d as lief kiss a . . . a snake,” Brenna shouted. She crossed her arms over her chest, perilously close to tears.
“Or a slug,” Kari added helpfully.
“Mayhap a fish?” Jennet added, readily joining Kari’s game.
Kari giggled behind her hand. “Maybe she’d rather kiss a puddie.”
Elesbeth lifted a shoulder. “I doubt ’twould turn this frog into a prince.”
Jennet and Kari dissolved into giggles, sprawling across the bed as if they’d lost their wits.
Why did I dress so at dinner? I did not think beyond my pique at being foisted off on a man I do not know and did not choose. He has naught to offer. No pretty words or a bauble to please me. What man meets his bride without a gift?
“He’s a barbarian,” Brenna announced. “I am Lord le Naper’s daughter. I will perish locked away in some drafty castle in the cold mountains.”
Kari nodded sagely. “They probably eat slugs.”
Brenna shot Kari a sharp look.
The girl shrugged, hands spread wide. “What?”
Jennet schooled her merriment into sympathy and patted Brenna’s hand. “Do not mind her. She’s but a child and speaks without thinking.”
“I don’t know,” Elesbeth drawled as Kari slipped from the bed and sat on the floor, drawing Poppy into her lap. “They probably do eat slugs.”
Chapter Four
December 23
Brenna peered around the doorframe into the great hall. Papa could be seen in the private dining chamber through the door opposite, with Lord Uilleam at Papa’s left, Lonan at his right. The hour wasn’t particularly late—though she’d slept little the night before between Kari’s tossing and turning and Poppy’s gentle snores, while her own unending questions about her betrothed spun through her head much like the relentless swirl of a whirlpool caught against the banks of the River Clyde.
What recommends him? Why would dear Papa use marriage with a chieftain’s son to seal a shipping alliance? Must I give up my life, my sisters, and my home for his ambitions? Why must I be the eldest and the first to make such a bargain?
Why could I not have been born a boy and spend my days as I please? She frowned, conveniently ignoring the fact Lord MacLaren’s son was in similar straits. She kicked a toe at the door frame and sent an ungracious scowl toward her brother, envious of his apparent good humor this morning.
Her gaze slid back to her betrothed. What recommends Lord Uilleam MacLaren as a suitable husband?
She’d received no revelations during the night, and spying on him through the doorway whilst he ate of a very nice buffet only increased her questions. At least it appeared the cook had forgiven last night’s blunder and awoken in a grand humor as evidenced by fresh pastries in addition to dried fruits to top the porridge steaming in a rather ugly pot which had the misfortune to replace Maman’s prized porcelain tureen.
There seem to be two sides to Lord Uilleam. The barbarian in outlandish clothing who appeared in the yard yesterday, and the man in a plain but well-made tunic and cowl seated next to Papa.
Her eyes squinted in concentration. He does have nice shoulders, as Jennet mentioned. Should I agree to marry him solely on his looks? What sort of marriage is based solely on strong shoulders?
A serving girl approached Uilleam, lifting her pitcher—and her shoulder—in question. His fingers raised in a brief gesture of refusal—and his lips curved upward in a smile. Color rose in the girl’s cheeks.
Brenna’s poor humor took another hit. Why does he not lend his efforts in dalliance with me? I will not play the coquette, bent on attracting him! He should attend me. Barbarian.
She stooped slightly and tilted her head but was unable to see beneath the table in order to determine if he wore pants or not.
Brenna sighed. Elesbeth is certain no good will come of marrying a Highlander, and Jennet is equally certain I will come to love him. They are both woolly-headed ninnies, and I do not know why I listen to either of them. Kari, for all her thirteen youthful years, is more accepting and prosaic.
“Do not stand in the doorway, Brenna.” Kari’s cross voice broke Brenna from her reverie. “Ye are in the way and my tummy growls louder than a dog at the butcher’s bench.”
“Ye will need to sleep in your own bed this night,” Brenna informed her sister as she stepped aside to let the grumpy petite-fille march pa
st. “Ye kept me awake far too late.”
“Ye tossed and turned like a fish in the sun on the docks at the harbor,” Kari flung over her shoulder.
“Ye snored!” Brenna hissed.
Kari whirled about. “Did not!”
“Did, too!”
Poppy bounced on her short legs, yipping excitedly.
Lady le Naper bore down on her two daughters like a Bewick swan, arms wide, veil wafting about her head, eyes sparking anger. “Ça suffit!” she hissed in perfect parody of an angry bird. “Have ye forgotten your manners? What will Sir Uilleam think?” She prodded both girls through the doorway.
Brenna balked.
Kari elbowed her sister as she passed. “I do not wish to sleep with ye again—and neither will Lord Uilleam!”
With that pithy pronouncement, Kari flounced into the family’s private dining area, Poppy prancing along at her heels, yipping merrily, apparently having missed no sleep on either of the girls’ account.
Brenna pushed down a surge of panic at Kari’s reminder she’d soon share her bed with, not a bed-hogging little sister, but a man. She wasn’t certain what that meant—Maman would never speak to her of such things, and she only had her sisters’ imaginations and a bit of teasing from Alish to go by—but she imagined snoring was the least of her worries. She swallowed twice and smoothed her skirt with a nervous gesture before peering around the doorframe again.
Papa and Lord Uilleam glanced up as Kari and Poppy trooped into the room.
“Come join us,” Papa said, catching sight of Brenna. “I have been getting to know Sir Uilleam, and am confident the two of ye will make quite the match.” His grin stretched wide beneath eyes that darted between Brenna and Uilleam as if hoping to pass this statement off without challenge.
