by Cathy MacRae
Brenna felt unequal to the task of gainsaying him. Her numerous—and emphatic—objections had been duly noted and summarily discarded. She could lie in the middle of the floor and drum her heels on the stone, but she was certain she’d only receive sore feet for her efforts—and no approbation for her efforts to avoid the matrimonial noose slipping slowly over her head.
The price of being an heiress is the fate of being sold—and not even to the highest bidder, for this Highlander could not begin to have pockets deep enough to be of interest to Papa’s coffers. Brenna frowned as a surprisingly bleak thought crossed her mind. Mayhap he is the only bidder.
Somewhat chastened, she crossed the room and placed a kiss on Papa’s cheek. Uilleam rose.
“Sit next to Sir Uilleam,” Papa said, pointing to the empty seat on the Highlander’s other side.
Chin up, as brave as if going to her execution, Brenna marched to the indicated chair. She slanted Sir Uilleam a glance from the corner of her eyes and met his scowl.
Lord le Naper leaned forward. “Mayhap ye could take a ride once ye’ve finished breaking your fast, eh?”
Brenna fingered the carved hilt of the knife next to her bowl.
Uilleam’s scowl slid into a mocking grin. One eyebrow quirked upward. “Unless ye’re not up to an hour or so outside, m’lady? We’ve a bit of snow this morning.”
The combination of a chance to ride her dainty mare, Blisse—and thwarting what appeared to be a challenge from her betrothed—proved enough to counter the unappealing thought of spending the morning with Sir Uilleam, surrounded by her parents and sisters. Even now, their presence smacked of vultures waiting for their next meal to breathe its last.
“I would be happy to accompany ye, Sir Uilleam,” she replied loftily. “Never say a bit of snow deterred me from an outing.”
She gifted him her brightest smile then quickly attended to François’ marvelous morning meal.
A faint blush tinted Brenna’s cheeks, stirring Uilleam to look beyond his annoyance with the lass he was to wed on the morrow. She’d skulked in the doorway for an age before her da insisted she come to the table, then had to be instructed to sit near him. ’Twas a relief to see her bathed and dressed in a clean gown, though he hadn’t thought she’d try that particular cantrip again.
She’s a right bonnie lass. The admission stung, for he hadn’t cared a whit beyond the gossip of her chattering ways and the high-handed manner in which his da had presented the betrothal. Brenna le Naper was certainly pretty enough, but had spent her youth locked away in the gilded cage of Eun Mòr like the spoiled songbird she was.
Hair the ebon hue of a raven’s wing, sides caught up at her crown with a bit of gold filigree glittering with tiny stones, fell in gentle waves past her waist. Eyes of brilliant emerald flashed beneath upswept brows, framed by sooty lashes. Her gown was trimmed with silver thread, her sleeves draping to the floor. A lady. Her demeanor and clothing marked her as indulged, pampered, spoiled, unused to hardships of any kind. What on earth was he going to do with her?
A pulse beat noticeably at her throat. Could the lass be nervous? Angry? Upset? Flustered? Was she not as indifferent to his presence as she pretended?
She finished her meal quickly, wiping her fingers daintily on a linen napkin before placing it on the table. Uilleam, startled from his perusal, grabbed for her chair, but she rose without his assistance.
“I . . ..” Brenna frowned and gripped the arm of her chair. She took a deep breath as if choosing her words carefully. “If ye would be so kind as to bide a moment longer, I shall change into something appropriate for riding.” She cast a quick look at her sire, her cheeks pinking again.
Could this be a sign she plots something? Amusement—sardonic though it was—rose.
“Certainly, m’lady. I await yer pleasure.”
Time dragged once Brenna left the room, but it couldn’t have been above a quarter of an hour before she returned—as evidenced by her arrival coinciding with the conclusion of Lord le Naper’s meal—though Uilleam was surprised to find a smile on his lips as he caught sight of her once again lingering in the doorway. He erased the inappropriate response from his face.
He hadn’t been listening to Lord le Naper’s ramblings and felt no compunction against leaving the table with his host mid-stream of some tale of merchant derring-do. He rose to his feet and strode to the door where Lady Brenna waited.
He nodded. “M’lady?”
She raked him with a glance from booted feet to cowl. “M’lord.”
Her toe tapped impatiently as he returned her stare, noting the fur-lined cape which swung heavily about her ankles, an inappropriate bit of clothing crafted of fine velvet which would prove impossible to clean should she encounter the least bit of mud.
What was he going to do with her?
His heart thudded, a slow, suggestive beat which settled low in his groin.
He shot her a cynical grin as color stained her cheeks, a useful ploy to guarantee she’d avert her gaze while he wondered what, by St. Ninian’s beard, was wrong with him.
He wasn’t attracted to her. Surely not. ’Twas more interest—and who wouldn’t be curious to know what sort of woman he was pledged to wed? He stepped closer as they strode down the swept pathway, noting with a bit of pleasure that his bride certainly smelled nice this morning—if he was to venture that far. Yes, it was good to know he’d not be sleeping with the unpleasant-smelling woman he’d met the night before.
Sleeping with her? The thought of this inevitability caused him to stumble and mutter something unpleasant about uneven cobblestones. He gritted his teeth against the surge of expectation which stirred his cock, hoping Brenna wouldn’t take that moment—or any other in the near future—to glance at the sporran jostling awkwardly against the front of his plaide. With luck, the cold air would quickly settle his wayward cock. Or he’d lean against the ice and snow-dusted rail of the paddock with a grin pasted onto his face and put an end to the inopportune timing of his, er, curiosity.
Brenna slowed, aware her escort had said nothing during the long walk to the stable—unless she were to consider the varying shades of the scowl which seemed to be the permanent expression on his face. Was he that much of a boor, or was he truly as unwilling for the marriage as she?
It didn’t bear thinking on. Why shouldn’t she wish to be wooed? To be plied with gifts and words of praise? Would a poem written in her honor ask too much—if indeed this coarse Highlander could even read or sign his name. It was clear these things would never happen, despite her dreams. Sir Uilleam’s visit to Eun Mòr was likely the farthest he’d ever been from his precious mountains and knew nothing of the outside world.
Then again, she knew naught of the world beyond Eun Mòr, and the thought of leaving the safety of her home frightened her.
She hid a gasp, distracted by the sight of his bare knees. He once again wore his plaide . . . kilt, she reminded herself. She couldn’t remember seeing a man’s knees—before yesterday, that is, for certainly Lonan’s knobby appendages didn’t count—and the sight of Uilleam’s sturdy, muscled joints was oddly compelling. Wondering what he would say when he caught sight of her leggings currently hidden beneath her fur-lined cape, she pushed aside the memory of her father’s wrath on the subject and faced him at the stable door.
Sir Uilleam smiled briefly, though if she were asked, she’d say ’twas more of a grimace—or mayhap the face one wore whilst experiencing gastric discomfort. With a gracious incline of his head, he accepted the reins of both his horse and hers from an alert stable boy. His own mount—an amazing bit of horseflesh with a dark red hide that glimmered in the light, and flowing flaxen mane and tail—followed him like a puppy, snuffling loudly at the backs of Uilleam’s knees, causing the hem of his kilt to flutter. Brenna’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of muscular thighs stretching up into the shadows beneath the heavy woolen cloth. Did he wear naught underneath?
Barbarian!
Her belly quiv
ered in a most inexplicable manner and her boot missed the stirrup. She pitched forward, catching herself against Blisse’s side before she could repeat the prior night’s performance. The mare champed her bit and shifted on her dainty hooves at Brenna’s poor show of horsemanship. Brenna’s cheeks heated at the silent question—and amusement—on Sir Uilleam’s face. Quickly shoving her cloak aside, she firmly placed her foot into the stirrup and swung aloft, landing a leg on either side.
Sir Uilleam’s eyes widened. “So, that ’tis why ye dinnae wish to come back inside the dining hall. Yer da wouldnae approve of yer leggings, aye?”
Brenna sniffed, wondering why he had to be so quick to note every tiny nuance of what she did—or didn’t do.
“I prefer to ride astride. It makes things so much . . . easier.”
“Och, aye. I daresay it does.”
Miffed at not being able to discern whether he agreed with her or her papa—who had voiced his displeasure more than once—she flipped the edge of her cloak back, exposing her wool-clad leg. “And do ye approve?”
His gaze traveled the length of her costume and he placed a palm just above her knee. Her heart did a few more flips, and her belly offered up a number of butterflies in response to his touch.
“Och, aye. I approve of it verra much.”
Chapter Five
Uilleam relaxed to the gentle sway of Esca’s slow pace through the village lanes, an eye on Brenna and her pretty white palfrey, leaving the constant watch for miscreants to the guards who clung to their heels like hens clucking over a single chick. Grudging admiration for her horsemanship tugged at him, though the words didn’t quite make it to his lips. He wasn’t ready to admit Brenna sat her mare well, handling the spirited prancing with a light, practiced hand.
He wanted to say the palfrey wouldn’t survive the trek to Loch Lomond, that her dainty hooves would stumble on the rocks and slide on the steep inclines. But, if his eyes didn’t deceive him, the mare was a sturdy sort, possibly a pony from the rugged shores of Ireland, reputed to be hardy and sure-footed. If the mare was perfect for life in the Highlands, her rider was not.
Slender white hands showed no signs of dirt or callus. No freckles marred the white curve of her nose or cheek. Her velvet cloak draped the palfrey’s rump with royal elegance. Her only concession to propriety was the over-sized floppy hat, her hair tucked inside the crown, its drooping plume bobbing against her neck.
Why must I tend an over-spoiled child? What use will she be as a wife? Two old men with naught but shipping and markets on their minds have made a huge mistake.
He drew Esca to a halt just outside the market. Brilliant banners fluttered in the air. Swaths of holly and ivy draped booths selling everything from spiced wine to chickens, aromatic bread, and a particular seasonal favorite of his—roasted apples topped with a dusting of sugar and nutmeg called lamb’s wool.
Uilleam, Alan, and Caz dismounted while two of Lord le Naper’s guards remained mounted and alert, sharp gazes scanning the crowd for mischief-makers.
Uilleam raised a hand to assist Brenna from her white palfrey with the unusual dappled black stockings. “Leave yer mare with Alan.”
Brenna sent Alan a speculative look. “She favors carrots, but loses all sense of decorum if ye present her with a bit of sugar.”
Alan looked doubtful. “I’ll nae give her my lamb’s wool, if that’s what she’s after.” He returned Brenna’s stare with suspicion. “Does the auld jaud nip?”
Brenna nodded. “Oui. For all she’s been gifted with a second chance to be a lady’s palfrey, her dubious origins do surface now and again.” Her gaze slipped between the men, clear she understood her audience awaited her next utterance, and used to having the world at her feet.
She smiled and tossed her head, sending the plume fluttering. Uilleam glowered at Alex and Caz as their eyes followed the affecting gesture.
“Papa’s stable master found Blisse pulling a cart. Though he recognized her quality, she was quite the mess, her white mane and tail matted, and her beautiful coat covered in mud. Her manners have greatly improved—mostly with a generous use of sweets. Blisse is a joy—when she chooses to be.” She sent Alan a pointed look. “But she does bite.”
Uilleam found perverse humor in Alan’s obvious discomfort—and at the remarkable resemblance of Brenna to her description of the mare. Had he not seen Lady Brenna just the night before with hair matted and surcoat covered in stains? Her moods were certainly as fickle as those of her horse. Would her temper improve with a gracious use of sweets?
With an air of gallantry he was hard-pressed to muster, he offered Brenna his arm as they strolled into the midst of the Christmas market. Jongleurs roamed the streets, their colorful clothing—often with tiny bells sewn onto their hems adding their bright tinkle to the merry din—and silly hats making them quite noticeable in the crowd. Brenna clapped in glee as a young lad enticed a speckled dog of uncertain parentage—attired in a pointed hat topped with a large pom-pom—to walk on its hind legs. Musicians merrily played their pipes and lutes as they traipsed past.
“Oh là là!” Brenna gripped Uilleam’s sleeve and pointed into the crowd. A man with two heads . . . nae, a man walking on his hands, curved belled slippers on his feet waving in the air, strolled casually through the gawking onlookers, swaying gently from side to side.
Then, just as quickly as the merriment rose, disaster struck.
On silent paws, a cat streaked between the man’s arms in hot pursuit of a rat startled from beneath a booth. Furry tail high in the air, it side-swiped the hand-walker’s face. He cursed and teetered, thrown off balance. People dodged left, then right, like uncertain sheep scattering before a wolf, bleats of caution and alarm rising. He hopped three steps on the palms of his hands before striking a large woven basket. Round loaves of bread flipped through the air like a goose girl tossing grains to her flock. A woman shrieked as the man toppled feet-first into the baker’s stall amid the clatter of broken wood and tumbled trays.
Wee lads sprang from the crowd as if summoned by magic, scrabbling over each other as they chased pastries spilling from the cart. The aroma of apples and berries and cinnamon filled the air. The baker’s wife, a stout woman with a large wart on the side of her hooked nose, brandished a rolling pin, voice raised in shrill rebuke as her morning’s profits disappeared down the lads’ greedy gullets.
Brenna smothered her giggles behind her hands, brilliant green eyes dancing, previous petulant attitude vanished. The melee rose in crescendo, then faded.
Hoping to keep Brenna’s mood cheerful, Uilleam stepped cautiously to the outraged woman’s side.
“Have ye any pies left?”
The woman spun about, a scowl on her lips, fire in her eyes. Uilleam gulped, startled as one of the goodwife’s eyes slid inward toward her nose then righted itself, only to slip a bit to the left.
“Wee skellums ha’ made off wi’ me morning’s work!” Her fists propped against her hips. “Gavin willnae be pleased, nae will he.”
“Er . . ..” Uilleam struggled to decide which eye to address. “I’ll pay extra if ye’ve a pie or two to sell.”
The scowl lessened as her gaze—er, gazes—swept Uilleam’s length. “Harrumph. I’ve a pair of pies fer ye and yer lassie.” She elbowed him in the side, a frisky leer on her lips. “And an extra for a braw laddie such as yerself.”
Uilleam managed not to wince as her bony joint made contact with his ribs, and forced a pained smile in appreciation of her jest. Inclining his head in acceptance—and to avoid staring at the woman’s roving eye—Uilleam pulled a coin from his sporran. He waved off her token attempt at protest of the over-payment and gathered his pies, then nodded to the two le Naper guards who lingered on the edge of the melee.
“Help her fix the booth.” He sent the woman a brief smile. “A bit of wood and rope, and ye will be selling pies again before noon.”
He led a giggling Brenna to a bench beneath a rowan tree, presenting her pie with a f
lourish, as though he’d baked the treat himself—and picked the berries, as well.
“Oh là là! Such a sight! Did ye see her . . ..” Brenna cast a hasty look over her shoulder. The baker’s wife paid them no mind, intent on repairing the damage to her booth—and ogling the men assisting. Chances were, she was able to view both at the same time, though they stood on either side of her.
“She’s a right interesting frowe,” Uilleam noted. “I wonder what her husband sees in her?” He waggled his eyebrows and Brenna dissolved into a fit of giggles.
Uilleam puzzled over the warm sensation inside—at odds with the crisp winter air chilling the tips of his ears. Brenna could sing, and she at least had some sense of humor. Would that be enough?
Mayhap a bit of sweets is all this fractious filly needs to improve her temperament. Though he wisely kept his observation to himself.
Brenna blew on her fingers as she tossed the steaming pie from hand to hand to cool it. Another giggle escaped. Imbued with good cheer, and hoping they’d called at least a temporary truce, Uilleam sat next to her on the bench and made short work of his pies, perusing his betrothed from the corner of his eyes.
Her cheeks were rosy with the cold, her black hair a stark contrast to the snow lying upon tree boughs and tucked against buildings and stones. Sunlight sparkled like diamonds on the glittering surfaces.
Amid the Yuletide cheer of the holiday market, Uilleam found himself caught up in the festive air. His betrothed was a pleasure to the eyes, could sing like an angel, and—with her mouth filled with sweet pastry—she’d at last lost her distant air.
Brenna lifted the last morsel to her mouth, face tilted upward and the tip of her tongue out to catch an errant drop of berry juice. Uilleam’s two pies had disappeared long moments ago—shepherding a woman was hungry work—and he had a moment to watch the aromatic bit of pastry approach a surprisingly lush pair of lips. He absently licked his own, not entirely certain if he wished the last bite for himself—or was under the spell of her bow-shaped mouth.
