Bride of Lochbarr Page 2

  Her stomach churning, Marianne envisioned a life as the bride of Hamish Mac Glogan. Sharing his bed in a frigid hut somewhere. Eating rock-hard bread. Bearing his children in the mud like some sort of animal. Treated worse than a dog.

  A cry sounded from the gates.

  “Out of my way,” Nicholas snarled as he went to the window. He looked out and muttered a soldier’s earthy curse.

  “What is it? What’s happening?” Marianne asked, fearing some new and different trouble.

  “Nothing that need concern you,” he retorted as he gave her a scornful look. “We’ll speak of your betrothal later, when you’ve had time to calm yourself and think about where your obligations lie.”

  Then he went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Marianne sat heavily on her bed. No matter what she owed to Nicholas, she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her entire life to repay him for what he’d done for her.

  Nevertheless, she wished she’d known of his suffering sooner. She could have left the convent and…what?

  Perhaps she could have found a husband on her own somehow. A brother of one of her friends, perhaps. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and that was obviously worth something. She’d also been taught all the duties and skills of a chatelaine by the good sisters, and a Norman nobleman would appreciate that, if Nicholas did not.

  Yet the chance to find a husband for herself among her friends had passed, and now she was facing a marriage to a Scot.

  Telling herself there must be something she could do to prevent the marriage, trying not to give in to despair, she rose and went to the window.

  A mounted party of unfamiliar Scots entered the courtyard through the thick oaken gates bossed with bronze. The man leading them had hair white as freshly fallen snow, and his garment’s colors were a reddish brown like dried blood and a green reminiscent of moss. Beside him rode another Scot. He was taller and younger than the other man, with long, dark-brown hair that spread over his broad shoulders, except for two narrow braids that framed his clean-shaven and surprisingly handsome face.

  Handsome for a Scot, she mentally clarified. And although his nose was straight, his chin strong and his lips full, he wore that outlandish garment that didn’t cover his bare, muscular legs. His sleeveless shirt revealed arms just as powerful. She was relieved to see that he carried no sword or other weapons, yet she suspected he could uproot a small tree with his bare hands, or kill a man with a blow.

  Even more unnerving than the physical power of the Scot was his expression as he looked around the courtyard. He was so grimly malevolent, she could believe he wanted to torch everything he saw, and attack every soldier single-handed.

  It was no mystery now why her brother had cursed, and she was surprised he had allowed this band of Scots to enter Beauxville at all—unless he hadn’t realized the old man had brought his fiercest warrior with him.

  Marianne drew back out of sight as the savage warrior continued to scan the yard and surrounding buildings. She didn’t want to encounter his venomous gaze directly. She’d endured enough lustful looks from men during her journey here to last a lifetime, and she was quite sure this barbarian would react to her beauty like the uncivilized beast he was.

  Even so, and in spite of the dread and disgust he inspired, her heartbeat quickened and her body warmed as she continued to watch him. Against her will, she remembered that day she’d climbed the tree and looked over the convent wall. A well-formed young man, wearing only his breeches, and one of the girls from the village had stopped beside a tree near the side of the road, in a spot not easily seen unless one was looking down from a tree. There they’d kissed, in such a way that she’d felt as hot as if the sun was shining directly on her and could melt her like butter.

  She hadn’t known then what she was feeling, but she did now: lust. And she must truly be losing her mind if she could lust after a brutal, barbarian Scot. Or perhaps this heated, impassioned feeling was merely her heart’s protest against marrying an old man, because whatever else this Scots warrior was, he was certainly young and virile.

  Nicholas strode out of the hall and for the briefest of moments, checked his steps as he caught sight of the warrior beside the old man. Clearly her brother had not anticipated his presence and wasn’t pleased.

  However, his hesitation lasted only a moment before he continued forward and politely greeted the old man, who—surprisingly—replied in Norman French.

  She would never have guessed that a Scot knew their language, or could speak it so well. She wondered if that grim warrior could understand what her brother and his leader were saying, and doubted it. Likely all he knew was fighting.

  Nicholas stopped talking and gestured toward his hall. The leader of the Scots dismounted, and so did the rest of his men, who followed her brother to the hall.

  Whoever these men were, they weren’t enemies, at least not openly, or Nicholas would never have extended them that courtesy. If these weren’t enemies, but allies or potential allies, Nicholas would also be inviting them to stay the night. Here was a chance to show Nicholas that she deserved to be the wife of a Norman nobleman and chatelaine of a Norman’s castle, not the property of a primitive barbarian on the far edges of the world.

  She would have to go to the hall and be in the vicinity of the malevolent Scot, though. That was a daunting prospect, but if the ultimate result was the end of her betrothal to Hamish Mac Glogan, she’d set aside her dread and do what she must.

  ADAIR MAC TARAN wanted to torch the place. He yearned to set fire to every piece of scaffolding and tear down the walls being built on the sacred soil of Alba stone by stone. He didn’t care what reason the king of Scotland had for giving land to the Normans; they were foreigners who didn’t belong here, and he hated them all.

  “Hark at him,” he muttered in Gaelic to his younger brother, Lachlann, as they followed their father and Sir Nicholas toward the Norman’s hall, the biggest building Adair had seen outside of York. “Bloody arrogant bastard acts like he owns the whole country.”

  Adair’s friend and clansman, Roban, nodded as he walked beside them. “Or as if he’s got a sword up his arse.”

  “Or as if he’s been in more battles than all o’ us combined,” Lachlann replied, shooting them both a censorious look.

  Adair and Roban exchanged knowing smirks. “Aye,” Adair said, making no effort to speak softly. “A Scot would have to be all of twelve years old to beat him.”

  “For God’s sake, hold yer tongue, Adair,” Lachlann warned. “Did ye not hear what Father said?”

  “Aye, I did, and I’ll make no trouble, but that doesnae mean I care if that bastard knows wha’ I think of him or not,” Adair answered. “And it’s not as if the man can understand a word we say anyway.”

  “Aye, it’s no secret what Adair thinks of Normans,” Roban repeated. “Unless Sir Nicholas is deaf or a complete gomeral, he’ll already know.”

  “You make that sound like a good thing,” Lachlann snapped. “But it’s never good to let your enemy know your thoughts. You’ve got to learn to guard your tongue, Adair. And whatever happens, don’t lose your temper.”

  Adair regarded his slender, dark-haired brother with mock indignation, as if such a thing had never happened before. “Who, me, lose my temper with a lying, thieving Norman knight who comes to Scotland and steals our land by stealth?”

  “This land was given to him by Alexander and you ought to remember that before you go charging the man with theft.”

  “I’m not going to charge him with theft. That’ll be for Father to do.”

  Another man spoke from within the group of Scots. “The Norman’s not the only one thinking he deserves to rule the world.”

  Adair didn’t have to guess who it was, and he answered without looking over his shoulder. “Not the world, Cormag. Just our clan, as the heir chosen by my father and our clansmen.”

  Cormag didn’t reply, and how could he? That was the truth, and the whole clan knew it. Nobody had
ever considered Cormag Mac Taran suitable for taking Seamus Mac Taran’s place as chieftain of the clan and thane of Lochbarr, except Cormag himself.

  “I’ll try not to curse the man outright,” Adair said to his brother as they trotted up the steps of the massive stone hall. “Will that content you?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to,” Lachlann grudgingly conceded as they followed the Norman and their chieftain toward a dais at the end of the hall, past the central hearth. The chamber was full of people, including several foot soldiers, armed and armored.

  There were also large, scarred trestle tables leaning against the walls, with benches in front of them, and rushes sprinkled with rosemary and fleabane covering the stone floor, muffling their footsteps and lightly scenting the air. Hounds skulked about, studying the newcomers warily, just as the soldiers at the gate had.

  King Alexander must have paid the Norman with more than land for his services, or else the mercenary Sir Nicholas had come from a more wealthy family than they knew.

  “The rest of us will have to stand like servants,” Adair noted under his breath when they reached the dais, where two large and ornately carved chairs stood.

  “I feel like one wi’out my claimh mor,” Roban said, rolling his brawny shoulders as if seeking the huge sword’s comfortable weight on his back, where he usually carried it.

  “If it comes to a fight, you won’t need it. You could probably take half this lot with your bare hands,” Adair replied, eyeing his friend who was six foot tall, and weighed fifteen stone after a day’s fasting.

  “With a dirk, you could likely take them all without breaking a sweat,” Roban replied with a chortle.

  “’Twas right to leave our claimh mors at the gate, since we come in peace,” Lachlann said under his breath. “Now be quiet, the pair of you. I want to hear what Father and the Norman say to each other without you muttering in my ear.”

  “Welcome to my hall, Seamus Mac Taran,” Sir Nicholas said in French as the chieftain took his seat.

  Then the Norman overlord barked out an order for wine. A female servant, young and pretty, with light-brown hair and green eyes and a mole on her right breast, nodded and scurried away like a frightened mouse, clearly terrified of her master.

  Sir Nicholas was obviously fast with a blow or a kick if a servant didn’t move quickly enough to suit him, Adair thought, his disgust mounting. And perhaps he used his female servants to serve other needs as well.

  The loathsome lout. Any man who forced a woman was no man at all, but a foul beast, and deserved to be treated like one.

  “What brings you to call at Beauxville today?”

  Adair’s lip curled. His father had been a warrior and clan chieftain for thirty years, yet this Norman addressed him as if he were a child. And this place was Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.

  “A dozen cattle are missing from the south meadow of our land,” Seamus said.

  And you and your men have stolen them, Adair silently added.

  “How unfortunate,” the Norman calmly replied. “Outlaws are everywhere these days.”

  Including right in front of me.

  “Indeed they are,” Seamus agreed just as calmly. “But no Scot would steal from the Mac Tarans. They know if they are hungry, they have but to come to my hall and they’ll be fed. We Scots understand hospitality.”

  That honest answer and sly rebuke brought a smile to Adair’s lips. But the Norman, dolt that he was, didn’t comprehend. Or if he did, he felt no proper shame.

  “What did yer father say?” Roban asked in a whisper. Adair and Lachlann knew French, their father having insisted they learn it, but the rest of their clansmen did not.

  “He told the bastard about Scots’ hospitality,” Adair explained.

  “So you don’t suspect your fellow countrymen of this alleged crime?” Sir Nicholas inquired of the chieftain.

  Adair’s temper rose even more at the man’s tone, as if Scots should, of course, be the first to be suspected, although it was the Normans who were coming to Scotland and taking everything they could.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” Seamus said with a shrug. Then he smiled in a way that had chilled many an enemy’s bones in days gone by. “But the Scots also know that the Mac Tarans will punish those who steal from them.”

  “I’ve heard you people take the law into your own hands,” the Norman replied.

  At last Adair saw a spark of anger in his father’s eyes.

  “As a thane with a charter from the king, and chieftain of the clan, I have the right to uphold the law.”

  “You have a charter?” The Norman sounded surprised. “I thought you Scots didn’t hold with such legal documents, that the clan held the land in community.”

  “I hold the charter for the clan, because if I did not, there would be nothing to prevent a foreigner from getting our lands.”

  “Your own king gives charters. Is that not his right?”

  “Of course it is,” Seamus said, his voice placid once again. “He gave me our charter, as he gave you your reward. I merely point out that I have it, and because I do, I have the right to punish offenders who steal from me and my clan. So I will, when they are caught.”

  The servant with the mole on her breast reappeared, carrying a tray bearing two goblets. She offered one first to Sir Nicholas, who frowned and gestured at Seamus.

  Her hands, already shaking, could barely hold the tray steady as she turned toward the Scots chieftain. She probably feared a beating for this mistake.

  Adair hurried forward and grabbed the tray out of the startled woman’s hands. “It’s a Scots tradition that a guest serve the first drink in his host’s hall,” he lied, trusting to the Norman’s ignorance of local customs as he handed a goblet to Sir Nicholas.

  Who was, judging by his unexpectedly shrewd expression after his initial surprise had passed, perhaps not so ignorant of Scots ways as Adair had assumed. Nevertheless, the Norman accepted the goblet without comment. So did Seamus, who regarded his son with a warning eye.

  Paying heed to Lachlann’s old woman’s worrying was one thing; a look like that from their father’s gray eyes was another. But he didn’t regret his impetuous act when he saw the grateful look from the serving wench, and remembered the surprise in the Norman’s.

  Adair handed the tray back to the young woman and returned to his place with the rest of his clansmen.

  “You can go,” Nicholas snapped at the maidservant.

  “This bold fellow is my eldest son, Adair Mac Seamus Mac Taran,” Seamus explained to the Norman as the young woman fled. “My clan has chosen him to be thane and chieftain when I die.”

  As Sir Nicholas ran a measuring gaze over him, Adair wondered if the Norman had heard that Adair Mac Taran had never been beaten in a fight, whether with arms or bare-handed, since he was ten years old—after he had seen what Norman soldiers could do.

  Sir Nicholas looked back at Seamus and raised a brow. “Chosen?”

  “Aye, although he’s my son, we still hold to the old ways. I pick who will succeed me, and my clansmen must agree. I have, and they did.”

  “And all are happy with that choice?”

  “They accept it, and thus it shall be,” his father answered with a smile. “Loyalty to the clan comes first above all things.”

  “Not loyalty to your king?”

  “If a chieftain’s loyalty is pledged to the king, so is the clan’s, without fail. Since I swore my oath to Alexander when he gave me the charter, every man in my clan would die for him.”

  “Whether there was a reward for such service promised or not,” Adair added, earning him another sharp look from his father, and a suspicious one from the Norman.

  “My son is a bit hot-tempered, my lord,” Seamus said. “Something that stands him in good stead in a fight, but leads to misunderstanding at other times.”

  “I see. And I sympathize. My brother is the same.”

  There were two of them?

  Seamus smiled as if
he and this Norman interloper were good friends. “A trial at times, yet worth the trouble in a fight, eh?”

  The Norman actually laughed, a harsh sound like a crow, but a laugh. “If you were to come to Henry and accuse him or his men of theft, he would have his knife at your throat before you’d finished speaking.”

  And soon after that, he would be dead, Adair silently vowed.

  “I haven’t come here to accuse you or your men of theft,” Seamus replied evenly. “I came to warn you that there may be outlaws afoot. I also came to tell you that we intend to mount more patrols on our land.”

  His father’s intent suddenly became more clear, and acceptable. Not as good as telling the Norman they knew his men had taken the cattle—the hoof-prints of the beasts had showed they’d been herded toward Dunkeathe—but his father was a wise and patient man, so perhaps this was the better course, even if it was frustrating.

  The Norman’s expression hardened. “Are you warning me about outlaws, or that you’ll attack any Norman who comes onto your land?”

  “Has anyone proof that the cattle were actually stolen?” a woman asked, her dulcet French voice coming from somewhere behind the group of Scots. “Perhaps they merely wandered off.”

  Adair, and all the others, turned to see who’d spoken. Then they stared at the vision of beauty walking regally toward them.

  She was easily the most beautiful woman Adair had ever seen. She looked like an angel, with the merest hint of a smile on her lovely face, clear blue eyes the color of a summer’s sky, smooth cheeks and full, rosy lips. Framing her perfect face, her soft blond hair hung in long braids over her shoulders.

  She was slender and shapely, too—and wearing the most motley collection of garments he’d ever seen on anybody except a beggar.

  So she couldn’t be a supernatural being. She was a woman of flesh and blood and bone. A woman a mortal man could woo and hope to win.

  Sir Nicholas had no wife. If this was Sir Nicholas’s lover, he was a very lucky man, and Adair might finally have found one thing to envy a Norman.