by Cathy MacRae
“What?” Elesbeth’s lips froze in an ‘O’ of horror.
“Brenna! What happened?” Jennet clasped Brenna’s hands tight.
“Did he kill someone?” Kari piped up. She scooted closer. “Was there blood?”
“Of course not, Kari,” Jennet scolded. “Do be quiet.”
“Well? Was there?” Kari’s spirit remained undimmed by her sister’s reproach.
Brenna thought back. “It happened so fast.” She sighed. “One instant, the man stood there, large as a bull, all mean and, and threatening—the next instant, there was a crack, and the man fell to the floor.”
“No one can move so swiftly,” Elesbeth scoffed, though her words ended on a thoughtful note.
“Uilleam can.” Brenna shrugged her shoulders, folding inward, enjoying the memory—and the thought he’d stepped into the fight for her sake.
“’Tis what ye want?” Elesbeth demanded. “A man who can fight? What of peace and kindness and chivalry and . . ..”
“Oh, do hush,” Jennet commanded. “Ye mayn’t fuss at Brenna. Not on the night before her wedding.”
“These are things we agreed on . . ..” Elesbeth drew back, eyes slanted with confusion.
“I want a man who will fight,” Kari declared, doubling her hands into fists. She swatted at the air and an imaginary foe went down to her triumphant shout. “I’ll fight, too! I’ll not rely on a man to protect my honor. What’s my honor?”
“Ye will not fight,” Jennet corrected her—choosing to ignore the question whose answer she wasn’t ready to explain to her thirteen year old sister. “Ye are a lady.”
“I will learn to fight.” Kari’s lower lip protruded in protest. “Lonan will teach me.”
Jennet shook her head and abandoned the argument. “Brenna, tell us about Uilleam. Yer eyes sparkle even with Kari’s outbursts and Elesbeth’s nonsense.” She stared intently at her sister. “What is it which draws ye to him?”
Brenna had listened to her sisters with half an ear. Elesbeth’s reminder of the lists they’d compiled on long winter nights, huddled together for warmth, wondering what husbands the future would bring them, gave her pause.
Gentle, peaceable, doting. Honest. Respectful. Understanding and patient.
By Saint Oda’s staff! Who would have thought she’d find these qualities in a barbarian?
“He . . . the way he looks at me.” She waved a hand. “Not before. I wasn’t very nice to him, and he had reason to scowl. At the market—we laughed. And again at the inn. He was . . . fun.”
“Ye laughed?” Elesbeth’s skepticism was clear. “I don’t recall laughter on our list.”
“Humor,” Jennet reminded her. “A good sense of humor.” She turned back to Brenna. “There’s more, is there not?”
Brenna nodded. “He could have been cross with me for acting so childish yester eve, but he treated me gallantly in the village. He embarrassed me about the privy, but he did not do so with intent. I think . . ..” She scrunched her face, not so sure on this point. “I think he’s being patient with me. And, when he could have caused an enormous uproar and fought all three men, he struck the most odious of them and gave the others a choice.”
She glanced at Elesbeth. “He prefers peace.”
Jennet patted her hand. “I think ye will make a good marriage. He seems likeable and honorable. ’Twas two of our points, if I recall.” She sent Elesbeth a quelling look.
Elesbeth arched her brows and drew her shoulders upward in a long-suffering gesture. “What? I will say no more. ’Tis her husband, not mine.” She slipped from the mattress and strode to the hearth where she stretched her hands near the flames.
“I like that he can fight,” Kari persisted. She tickled Poppy’s tummy and the terrier cracked an eyelid before wiggling deeper into the mattress. A tiny pop of sound escaped. Brenna and Jennet wrinkled their noses.
“Poppy!”
Undeterred by their disgust for the fetid aroma drifting upward, Poppy waved a paw in invitation to rub her belly again.
“Don’t mind Elesbeth and Kari.” Jennet cut a glance at each sister. “Elesbeth is too refined and Kari is too young and blood-thirsty to understand.”
“Understand what?” Kari wanted to know.
“The things we’ve agreed are necessary traits for our future spouses are good up to a point.”
“What point?”
Jennet and Brenna exchanged a look. Giving her sister a warm smile, Jennet replied, “Until ye fall in love.”
Chapter Nine
Uilleam joined other manor residents at daybreak as they hurried toward the village. The air held an expectant quality, crisp and cold as the fog rolled in off the river, teasing the early risers as it twined about their ankles and flirted with the path.
Chores would be quickly completed, for a busy day awaited. There would be a wedding at noon followed by a feast to which the entire village—one way or another—had been invited. His wedding, though he still could scarce believe it.
They would linger at Eun Mòr for the Yule celebrations, though he was certain he would return to Narnain Castle with his bride long before the festive days were over. Though it did not appeal to have his ma in his business so soon after he wed.
Tucking his cloak about him to ward off the chilly air which sought to creep down his neck, he headed toward a merchant’s stall he’d noted the day before. A number of silk scarves hung from a rail in various rich hues, but what caught his eye was a length of cloth the color of green tourmalines sparkling with gold embroidery. Brenna’s da was a cloth merchant and likely dealt in such fine goods daily. But this rivaled even the richest gowns Uilleam had seen on his voyage to the Holy Land aboard one of the MacLean merchant ships this past summer and he was certain it would suit Brenna.
The stall’s diminutive cloth merchant stood scarcely the height of Uilleam’s belt, and each time she paused with a thoughtful stare before answering a question, he had the uncomfortable impression she perused what lay beneath his sporran. Her intense gaze and a quick flick of her tongue nearly undid him.
She gave a decisive nod. “I have enough of this embroidered silk velvet for yer needs. And lucky the lady who receives such a gift.”
Again, her eyes cut to a spot just below his waist. Uilleam sucked in a breath to counter his reaction. By St. Andrew’s eyes, woman, look away!
“But, pretty goods carry a pretty price.” The tiny merchant tilted her head and grinned up at him, one eye squinted as if she shared a jest. Uilleam resisted the urge to test the weight of coin in his sporran lest he draw her gaze lower yet again.
She mentioned a princely sum. Uilleam drew his lips to one side, dissatisfied with her opening bid.
“I had my eye on another bolt in a stall a few steps down,” he said. “Mayhap he will give me a better price.”
The merchant fisted a hand, forefinger aimed in his direction, punctuating her disaffection with jabs which caused Uilleam to take a step back to protect his modesty.
“’Tis but one merchant in this market who boasts similar quality. And he will charge ye far more.”
Uilleam shrugged, and, in the end, paid what he considered to be slightly more than the cloth’s value. The color was almost exactly the shade of Brenna’s eyes, and the gold embroidery lavish enough to hopefully bring a smile to her face.
There was more than one way to tame a lass than with sweetened pastries.
He arranged for the cloth to be delivered to Eun Mòr, then made another stop at a stall one street over. Five minutes later and Uilleam was in possession of a finely wrought silver brooch set with pearls and a single chrysolite stone with the inner radiance of a peridot. The merchant merely noted the brooch was very old, its origins obscure. Whether it came from the Isle of Topazios in the Red Sea or not, Uilleam could not tell, but the rather serpentine shape of the twisted silver on which the stone rested, intrigued him. The isle had long been labeled as the isle of serpents to deter men away from its rich harvests of gems.
He tucked the brooch inside his sporran then eyed the early morning sky, pleased with his purchases. Sunlight pierced the clouds, shredding the mist into ethereal strands of pink and pearl. Ships rocked gently at the docks, their masts piercing the horizon, sails neatly furled.
The sight was too tempting. Since his voyage to the Levant several months ago, the sea had been a siren’s call he’d been unable to resist.
’Tis naught but the River Clyde. He inhaled deep, tasting a bit of brine at the back of his throat, for the sea was not that far distant.
Casting a quick glance at the sky to reaffirm the early hour—being late for his wedding was not his intent, nor would he subject Brenna, or her French chef, to such—he jogged quickly toward the quay. Sailors passed him without a second glance, eager to be away from the docks and indulge in Yuletide cheer. One cloaked figure huddled on a cask, staring at the ships at harbor.
Uilleam stepped around him, then glanced back. His foot slipped on a patch of ice as he slewed around in shock. He stretched an arm out to catch himself, missed the rope wrapped around the piling, then wind-milled his arms frantically as he teetered over the edge.
A feminine gasp shrilled from the cloaked figure as she darted from her seat and grasped one of Uilleam’s arms. The force of his swing catapulted her over the water and slung him against the piling. He grabbed the post in a fierce hug to keep from following her, the rough rope digging into the palms of his hands.
He stared in disbelief as his betrothed bobbed in the water, hair staining the water black as it fanned about her.
Her shriek ended in a mouthful of water.
Uilleam shuddered to consider the muddy taste of the slow-moving river as disturbed silt rose from the bottom and fouled the water.
“Stand up, Brenna. The water’s shallow there.”
She stared at him, shocked, perhaps, to find herself in the water, and unlikely to have ever encountered water cooler than lingering over-long in a bathing tub. Though, the river wasn’t in danger of freezing, and the sun shone bright above the trees.
A seagull flapped lazily past, slowing to take a look at this unusual addition to the quay. It circled above her head once, then banked, wings wide and webbed feet braced for landing.
Revived from her shock, Brenna shrieked and waved her arms, startling the bird into a hasty retreat. A single white feather, sacrificed in the gull’s frantic maneuver, swirled lazily in the air before settling atop Brenna’s nose.
Uilleam bit his lip. Then he clenched his hands. A chuckle escaped.
Brenna rose, standing little more than waist-deep in the river. Water streamed from her hair. Her cloak lay plastered against her shoulders and upper body—accentuating her curves, Uilleam noted with interest—and swayed gently atop the water in rhythm with the slap of the river against the shore.
“Come on, lass. Wade ashore.” He stretched out his arm. “I’ll help ye.”
She propped her fists against her hips and blew the feather from her nose with a puff of air from pale lips.
“Ye l-l-l-l-laughed at me.” Despite the chatter of her teeth, her words—and accusation—rang clear.
He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Ye had a bird feather stuck to yer nose. ’Twas winsome.” By Saint Andrew’s toenails—had he actually said winsome? When had he ever called anything winsome? What was this lass doing to him?
He tried a grin, tempering it as her eyes narrowed. “Mayhap even delightful.”
It shouldn’t be possible, not in this weather, but he imagined steam rising from her ears.
“Do not p-p-p-patronize me, m’lord. I c-c-c-c-could have d-d-drowned.”
“The water isnae deep enough here. Och, dinnae stand there. Come ashore.” How long would she stand in the icy water and argue with him? “Shall I come in after ye? Shall I sacrifice my rather excellent boots and wade into the river, or will ye come ashore?”
Heaven help him, she was actually considering it!
Her petulance became concern. “I . . . I cannot lift my . . . f-f-f-f-f-feet.”
“Yer boots are full of water. Just a few steps, Brenna, love. Ye’ll be fine.”
“I’m c-c-c-c-cold,” she complained, though as protests went, it fell rather flat.
“Hurry. Ye may have my cloak once ye’re out of the water. ’Tis nice and warm. Think of it, Brenna. Warm and dry.”
A man appeared next to him. He handed Uilleam a bit of rope with a large knot tied at one end. “Toss this to her and tow her in.”
With a grateful nod—for he didn’t really relish jumping into the Clyde to save Brenna from what amounted to less than a few feet of water on a crisp December day, though he wouldn’t have hesitated a second had she landed farther out—he accepted the rope.
“Here. Catch this.”
The knot landed heavily next to Brenna. She gasped and slapped the water with her hands.
“’Tis only a rope, Brenna. Grab it and I’ll help ye to shore.”
She glanced frantically about, splashing at the water. “Something touched my leg!”
The man next to Uilleam shrugged. “Mayhap an eel?”
Brenna’s head snapped around at the man’s comment, her eyes bulging. “Eels?”
She bounded forward and was at the river’s edge in moments, breathing heavily from her exertions. “They have t-t-teeth. I’ve s-s-seen them. C-c-c-cook made a p-p-platter of an entire eel once.” She shuddered.
Uilleam whipped the cloak from his shoulders and draped it over her, allowing her a bit of privacy while he fumbled with the fastening to her own cloak. Unable to see beneath the heavy cloth, he pricked his finger twice before he unfastened the pin and slid the sodden mass of wool from her shoulders.
“Bring her this way,” the sailor said, beckoning them down the quay to a nearby ship.
Uilleam swept Brenna into his arms and followed the man to a cabin warmed by a small brazier. He set her on her feet as the man rifled through a chest. He drew forth a heavy tunic and a pair of leggings which he tossed to Uilleam.
“Get her out of her wet clothes and into these. I’ll send a man to the tavern for hot soup. We’ve ale aplenty, and I’ll have it warmed, too.”
He left Brenna to Uilleam’s care, closing the door behind him.
Water pooled on the boards beneath her feet as Brenna tapped her toe—her stockinged toe, for it appeared she’d left her boots behind in her haste to be free of the murky river—with either impatience or a show of ire.
“Ye l-l-l-laughed at me.”
Uilleam eyed her. “Stuck on that theme, are ye? Aye. I laughed. But never at ye. I laughed at the absurdity of the feather atop yer nose and because my heart had nearly stopped when ye flew over the edge and into the water.”
“Ye w-w-w-worried?”
“I dinnae know how deep the water was, and the river’s cold as sin this time of year.”
Seeming somewhat mollified, she nodded. “Aye. ’Tis v-very c-c-cold.”
“Shall I help ye with yer clothes, then? I’m nae a ladies’ maid, but, then, ye arenae much dressed like a lady at the moment.”
He earned a glare for his comment but was entertained as she struggled to strip her soggy clothes away without removing his cloak first from her shoulders. She hopped about as she peeled her leggings away, flashing him a glimpse of slender white limbs as the cloak billowed about her. Her fingers fouled with the tie at the neck of her tunic and Uilleam’s offer to help only rekindled her ire.
At last, defeated by the snarled cord, she spread the neck of the cloak to give him access. His toes curled.
All thumbs as he imagined her smooth skin beneath his hands, he finally nipped the knotted binding with the tip of his dagger. Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly. Was she afraid he’d nick her with the blade? Or did she conjure up the same thoughts as he?
As if fortitude had abruptly left her, she trembled, her teeth clattering like stones in a wooden box, and she quickly shrugged out of the sodden tunic. Uilleam pu
lled a chair from beneath the table against the far wall and helped her sit. Casting a grateful look at him, she rolled her stockings down her calves and peeled them from her feet.
Pale, slim feet, puckered like apples left too long in the sun.
A polite rap sounded on the door. At Uilleam’s call, the man appeared with a steaming mug in his hands. He beamed at them.
“A hot poker does wonders for a mug o’ ale. Drink it all, m’lady, and ye’ll be right as rain in no time.” He handed the mug to Brenna who took it with trembling hands.
“Th-th-thank ye.”
Uilleam added his grip and guided the mug to her lips. She downed half the contents before pausing.
“’Tis wonderful. Thank ye.”
Uilleam noted the color returning to her cheeks, and her hands steadied beneath his. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to her rescuer.
“My heartfelt thanks, sir. Ask yer boon and ’tis yers.”
The man grinned. “Och, ’tis my pleasure. I seek nae reward.”
Uilleam extended a hand. “I am Uilleam MacLaren. If ye are ever in need, I will repay yer kindness.”
The man laughed and clasped his forearm. “Then we are well-met. Providence has brought ye to me, though I doubt ’twas meant to include giving yer lass a dunking. I am Graham of clan MacLean, captaining the Mar this day. Yer sister sent me to bring ye and yer bonnie bride to her after yer wedding. A bit of time for ye and yer lass before ye return to yer family, she said.”
Uilleam’s eyes widened. “’Tis a princely boon, for Baron MacLean doesnae loan his ships lightly. My sister is kind to have thought of it.”
“Och, the Mar’s a good ship, but a bit small for trade outside Scotland’s shores, and with winter coming on, she doesnae have many calls on her. Ye are family, lad, and yer sister is pleased to not only gift ye with a wee trip, but also to meet yer wife.”
Uilleam glanced at the woman thawing at his side. “What say ye, Brenna? Would this please ye?”
Her eyes glittered. “Oh là là! ’Tis fantastique!”
The captain nodded. “Good. Then ’tis settled. The Mar and her crew await yer pleasure. Bide here until ye are recovered. ’Tis my cabin and its amenities are yers as long as ye need them.” He winked at Brenna. “I was about to clear my belongings and turn the space over to ye, anyway.”
