by Cathy MacRae
Alan blanched and sat straight, pulling his elbows from the table to rest his hands in his lap. Brenna’s head slewed around as all gazes shot past her to the two questionable young women who sidled past the innkeeper’s wife. They halted next to the table, swaying gently as if half-inebriated, blithely waving off the older woman’s protests.
The blonde placed a hand on Uilleam’s arm. Brenna bristled.
The brunette leaned against Caz who palmed her ample rear, raising his eyebrows as he tested the over-large fit to his hand.
“Yer wee laddie is blushing.” The woman tilted her head toward Brenna.
Brenna bolted upright, mouth open to deliver a scathing retort, but Uilleam’s firm grip on her wrist demanded her silence.
He jerked his chin toward the room. “Ply yer trade elsewhere. We’ve nae need of ye here.”
The brown-haired woman giggled. “Mayhap we could help yer laddie grow his whiskers, aye?” She eyed Brenna’s cheeks, a twinkle in her eye. “I believe I see a shadow there, mayhap one atop his lip?”
“Whiskers?” Brenna shrieked in a decidedly un-ladylike manner, provoked beyond Uilleam’s caution. “You frowsy, dolt-headed, shameless imbéciles . . .!”
Uilleam jerked her back to the bench and clapped a hand over her mouth. She bit him.
“Shite!” Uilleam shook his hand, sending her a glare of reproof.
The two women startled, mouths open to form o’s of astonishment.
“He’s a right wickit lad, eh, Gara?”
Gara nudged her companion. “’E’s nae lad, Mattie. Dinnae ye hear ’im screech?”
Mattie ducked her head, glancing beneath the table.
“She’s slim as a lad.” She glanced confusedly at Brenna, blinking bleary eyes. “And wearin’ pants.”
Gara sent Brenna a simpering look. “We thought to offer . . . er, him a shot at dipping ’is quill for the first time. Charity o’ the season and all.”
She patted Uilleam’s arm then ran her palm up the length to caress his shoulder. “Happy Yule to whichever of ye gets her.” She shrugged. “Though she sounds like a right scold.”
Brenna snatched from Uilleam’s grasp and shot to her feet. “Take yer hand off him, ye brazen bawd!”
Uilleam regained his hold on Brenna’s wrist in one hand, trapping Gara’s forearm in the other. “Cease this instant!” he rumbled.
Benches squealed against the stone floor as three men two tables away rose to their feet. A brawny specimen of indeterminate breeding sauntered over, anger clouding his broad face.
“Spoilin’ fer a fight?” His chin jutted out, jaw clenched as he awaited Uilleam’s reply.
“I willnae fight women nor drunks,” Uilleam replied, letting the other man pick his insult.
A moment later, the man’s eyes narrowed. He rolled his shoulders and brought up his fists. “I’ll fight ye. Step from behind that bench.”
Brenna gasped. “Help him,” she begged Caz and Alan, flinging an arm toward Uilleam as he slid around the edge of the table. The other man was as big as an ox, nose pointing in an unnatural direction that indicated it had been broken more than once before. How many others had fared worse than he?
His two companions, no less battered, sidled behind him, eyes slitted dangerously beneath bushy brows. “Ye’ve insulted Gara,” one growled. “She’s a fine lass. Isnae choosy.”
The other nodded. “Bathes, too. When she needs it.”
Uilleam breathed deep. “Go back to yer seats.”
“We’ll nae back down from the likes of ye.” They glared at Brenna. “Keep yer laddie, but dinnae insult our lasses.”
Gara leaned across the table and slapped the cap from Brenna’s head. “She’s nae laddie, Dawy.”
Brenna gasped, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in a riotous black cloud. Anger trumped fear. By Saint Oda, if Uilleam would not teach the strumpet a lesson, she would!
“Ye half-witted harlot!” Brenna shouted.
Uilleam stepped in front of her, his shoulders rigid. He flexed his hands. The three men crouched, a look of come and meet yer death in their eyes.
Brenna’s momentary bravado evaporated. “Alan! Caz!”
Caz dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “He’ll be fine, lass. There’s nae but three of ’em.”
“Three?” Brenna’s eyes widened. Was three against one considered fair? Did his friends not care what happened to him?
The merry chatter of the inn dropped, suddenly silent as a tomb. Wood scraped against stone as benches and tables were pulled back, giving the men room for their fight.
“Ye’ll pay for . . . click . . . whate’er ye break!”
Uilleam jerked his sporran from his belt and slammed it to the table top. The innkeeper’s wife harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest.
Grins on the ruffian’s faces widened. “We only wish tae teach ’im ’is manners. Shouldnae take long.” The three thumped their chests and nodded their heads with equally hollow sounds.
Uilleam covered the distance between himself and the rowdies so fast Brenna was unaware of his move until the sound of fist on bone reached her ears and the first man crashed to the floor. Uilleam settled into a ready posture as he flexed his hand, pinning the remaining pair with a fierce look.
“Which of ye’s next?”
Eyes wide, clearly shaken by Uilleam’s speed and ferocity, the men lowered their fists, hands spreading wide in surrender.
Brenna’s heart raced. He’d answered their challenge, defended her honor—with barely more than bruised knuckles to show for it. The beat of her heart changed.
“Help him up,” Uilleam demanded, though with the muscle in his jaw twitching so, Brenna wasn’t certain how he managed the words.
“And dinnae forget yer women.”
With a haughty glance, Mattie and Gara sauntered away and were quickly swallowed up amid the crowded tables.
Uilleam beckoned. “Come.”
Brenna glanced at Alan and Caz—who glanced at each other—then to Uilleam who appeared about to either burst or fall prey to some sort of fit.
She rounded the table and placed a hand on his forearm, concern overriding her caution. “Ye appear infirm, m’lord. Do ye have a humor imbalance? Should I have a chirurgeon fetched to have ye bled?”
The tight-lipped look he sent her increased her worry.
The innkeeper’s wife nodded to Brenna. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady . . . click . . . but Gara and Mattie dinnae know ye was a woman. They wouldnae . . . click . . . have approached ye if they’d known.”
“Brazen besom,” Caz warbled in fair imitation of Brenna’s earlier jibe.
Alan’s mouthful of ale snorted through his nose. Brenna jumped, avoiding most of the spray. Uilleam’s eyes positively blazed.
“Caz,” Uilleam barked. “Take yer stew outside and attend the horses.”
With a wry, yet unrepentant grin, Caz balanced his bowl atop his mug and grabbed a pastry in his free hand before climbing free of his bench and sauntering toward the door.
The aroma of rich, hearty meat and spices wafted to Brenna and she breathed deep. Her belly gave an appreciative rumble and Uilleam turned at the sound.
“We’ll dine, then be on our way.”
The innkeeper’s wife sighed and flashed a grin of relief. The other diners dragged their benches and tables back into place and returned to their meals.
Brenna’s gaze lingered on them for a moment over the rim of the bowl as she drank her soup—for the inn apparently did not furnish such niceties as spoons—then traveled the room.
A serving girl squealed, tapping a patron’s thinning pate with a wooden mug in payment for a slap to her rear.
An old man with a wooden leg wobbled to a chair by the door—the rhythmic tap, tap on the stone floor almost lost amid the genial revelry—and settled, eyes intent on the large goose leg in his hand. He bit into the meat and glistening beads of grease made a path down his ragged beard.
A mangy
hound rose from his spot near the hearth and shuffled across the floor, long ears flopping with each step. He sniffed the beggar’s leggings, then the peg. With growing interest, the dog snuffled up and down the wooden limb before giving it a tentative lick. Still intent on the peg, he lowered himself to the floor, forelegs first, then, with a flop, his hindquarters, and began to gnaw the old man’s wooden leg.
Brenna’s eyes widened.
An inn! Papa is going to expire!
Chapter Eight
Alan strode briskly to the decanter on the small table against the wall in Uilleam’s chamber and poured himself a mug of clear, amber sedation. Taking a long sip, he faced Uilleam. “Och, that went fairly well, aye?”
Uilleam snorted. “If ye refer to the fact we walked out of the inn in one piece and were only a few minutes late for supper, then, aye. Though I prefer my food on a trencher, not brandished about by an overdone French cook enraged because the hotch potch burned on the hearth due to our lack of decency to adhere to his schedule.”
“Och, I rather doubt the soup was a good Scottish stew. Likely something Frenchy with turtles or eels.” Alan shuddered.
Uilleam tossed back the last of his whisky then set his mug on the table with a muted thump. “We’ll never know . . . unless the swine who slurped it from their trough gain the power of speech and tell us.” He shrugged. “But the roast venison was quite good.”
Caz closed the door with a snick and sank into a cushioned chair. He nodded to Alan. “Pour me a wee dram, would ye?” He flashed Uilleam a cheeky grin. “I think he means ’tis well Lord le Naper dinnae fall down dead on the spot when we walked through the front door and Lady Brenna announced ye took her to an inn.”
“He was too busy catching Lady le Naper when she swooned,” Uilleam replied. A grin surfaced at the memory, though the ensuing moments of panic had been worthy of heralding a Viking raid—or the insertion of a wee puddie amid the ladies’ skirts. Not that he’d have any real reason to know . . .. If memory served, the long-ago incident had been Caz’s idea.
“Ye have a point,” Caz admitted. With a silent thanks to Alan, he accepted the small goblet and sipped appreciatively. “Excellent whisky. Sparing no expense for his soon-to-be son-by-marriage.” Caz took another sip and sighed. “Good man.”
Alan claimed the other seat and stretched his legs before the fire. “Are ye ready for the wedding on the morrow, Uilleam? The priest arrived just as the Frenchie snatched the redressed swan from the table.”
Caz saluted with his goblet. “The priest was late, too.”
Uilleam caught himself as he paced before the hearth. Swiveling on a heel, he retreated to the tall bed and sank onto the goose-feather mattress with a slight squawk of the frame as it took his weight. He drew a determined breath.
“I am.”
Alan’s brows shot upward. “Ye are?”
Uilleam nodded. “I must admit I had always imagined—when the time came—I’d chose my own lass to marry. I wouldnae willingly have sought Brenna out.”
“Och, the gossip has been unkind. She and her sisters seem good enough sorts,” Alan said. “Elesbeth is a bit of a tough nut to crack, but the younger two are rather sweet.”
“Tough?” Caz grinned. “Elesbeth knows her mind. Ye’d never convince her to wed where her heart doesnae lie.” He glanced at Uilleam. “What of Brenna?”
“She began the day in a somewhat aloof fashion,” he replied with a thoughtful nod. “But, I think she’s beginning to like me.”
“Ye stood up for her at the inn,” Alan noted. “Brave and chivalrous. Women like that from their men.”
“After ye announced ye were taking her to the privy.” Caz chortled. He held out his empty goblet and Alan poured another measure. “I thought she would scratch yer eyes out for that indelicacy, my friend.”
“She kept shifting about on the bench. Why else would she scoot about? What’s indelicate about giving her a chance to take a piss rather than be uncomfortable?”
“Ye’re a right amadan.” Caz shook his head. “I cannae believe ye’re the laird’s son. I’m almost certain the twa of us were switched at birth. There are times I have more sense than ye.”
“Fine. Ye may claim the lairdship. Ye marry the Corbie.” Uilleam froze, the words dying on his tongue. A night ago, he would have meant them. Now?
Alan glanced between Caz and Uilleam. “Ye dinnae mean that, do ye?” His voice held a trace of wonder. “Ye really do like her.”
“I must. For I dinnae believe I’d give her up—and certainly not to Caz.” Uilleam fingered the hilt of his dagger. “I assumed Da had his eyes solely on the money he stands to gain from the alliance and was willing to toss me to the ravens in the process. It appears things arenae always how they seem, and I am chagrined I paid more attention to the gossip than the young woman before me. Not that she dinnae give me pause that first night.”
He shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Nae, as much as I will likely spend my days perplexed by the lass, I dinnae believe I will give her up.”
“Do ye need advice?” Caz queried.
Uilleam narrowed his eyes. “Advice on what?”
“Och, she’s nae been with a man before—I’d doubt she’s received so much as a peck on her cheek from any other than her sisters or da. Do ye know of ways to make the bedding of more interest to her?”
“I believe a nice bit of jewelry would do the trick,” Alan quipped.
“Good one, Alan!” Caz approved, raising his goblet once again.
Uilleam sent Alan a frown. “’Tis my bride ye speak of. I will tend to the bedding. I dinnae need advice from the likes of ye.”
Caz slid deeper into his chair.
Alan crossed his ankles. “If the wedding is going forward, we must make certain all is in order. Do ye have a clean plaide and leine?”
“I do. And I’ll bathe,” Uilleam mocked.
“Good. The lass’ll like that.” Alan appeared deep in thought and unfazed by Uilleam’s sarcasm.
“What of a gift?” Caz chimed in, pointing his goblet toward Uilleam. “Ye must have a wedding gift for yer bonnie bride. She’ll think ye a dolt if ye dinnae.”
“Aye,” Alan agreed. “And a cheap one at that.”
Uilleam’s breath left him in a whoosh. What an idiot! It was both Yuletide and his wedding. And he had no gift for his bride. “Nae. I’ve naught.”
His gaze drifted to his cloak lying across the foot of the bed and the priceless brooch in the hidden pocket he knew was there.
“Do ye . . ..Do ye . . .. Nae.” He shook his head.
“Do we what, Uilleam? Speak up, man.” Caz had clearly downed more than his share of the whisky and was beyond gentle speech.
“The brooch.”
Caz’s eyes widened, Uilleam’s words dousing the wind from his sails. “Yer sister’s reliquary?” he breathed reverently.
Uilleam nodded. “The sliver of the cross hidden inside is a powerful relic. I tried to give it back to her—after Da was on the mend. She’d meant for me to use it to help him recover. ’Tis her heirloom, but she bade me keep it. I’ve had it a pair of years now.”
His voice faded. Would Maggie wish him to give it to Brenna as a bride gift? It was beyond anything even the daughter of a wealthy merchant such as le Naper could ever aspire to own. Yet . . ..
“I think it should be yer sister’s gift, should she wish it.” Alan . . . the calm voice of reason.
Uilleam drew a deep breath, eased by the rightness of Alan’s words. “Aye. ’Tis nae mine to give.” He scratched the back of his neck. “At first light, I shall go to the market and find something suitable.”
Caz plied his fist to his chest as a rumbling burp rose. “Dinnae be late for breakfast.”
* * *
Brenna sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by her sisters. Poppy snored gently, feet in the air, belly bared to anyone who would be so kind as to rub it. It would have been a sweet, familiar moment except for the fact her a
ttention was not on the chatter buzzing round her, but on the man she was to wed on the morrow.
He does not know me, and I’m certain he does not particularly like me. Yet, he had concern for me and stood up for me. Never mind the embarrassment of asking if I needed the privy in front of the guards. And never mind his defense included a brawl!
Mayhap not exactly a brawl. A hum of memory thrummed in her chest at the lightning-swift moves that sent Uilleam’s adversaries dropping at his feet. Well, one dropped. The other two were given a choice. Brenna discovered she liked that. Fierce and fair—her barbarian summed up nicely.
Her barbarian?
“What has ye grinning like the cat who found the cream?” Elesbeth asked. “Ye’ve not attended a word we’ve said.”
Kari giggled. “She looks like Poppy when she thinks ye are going to throw a ball for her. All panting and wiggly.”
Brenna gasped. “I am not panting!”
“But ye are wiggling—and grinning,” Jennet pointed out. “Tell us more about what happened at . . ..” She paused, drawing a breath, hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling. “At the inn.”
Elesbeth tossed her head. “I would never frequent an inn. What a terrible, barbaric thing for him to subject ye to. Ye have my sympathies, Brenna.”
“’Twas not like that,” Brenna protested. “I confess I was shocked at first, and I do not know if I was more mortified or angry when he asked if I needed to visit the privy . . ..”
“What?” The sisters heaved the incredulous word, mouths open, agog, and aghast.
Heat raced up Brenna’s neck. She hadn’t meant to divulge that part. “I was wiggling on the bench . . ..”
“I told ye she wiggled,” Kari crowed.
Elesbeth hushed her with a scowl and a finger to her lips.
“’Twas a perfectly honest question, and, in truth, I’m grateful for his . . . thoughtfulness.” With a raised chin and pursed lips, she silenced the barely restrained comments begging to be loosed from her sisters’ mouths.
Unable to hold back longer, she folded her hands in her lap, a grin underscoring the twinkle in her eyes. “He defended my honor.”
