Читать книгу The Highland Wife - Lyn Stone - Страница 10

The next morning Mairi approached the situation more pragmatically than she had the evening before. If she did not marry this baron, nothing would change for her. She would spend the rest of her life counting the linens and shining Craigmuir’s meager collection of silver, upbraiding unruly servants and ordering goods for the keep. Yet, should she accept the man as husband, she at least had some chance of establishing a family of her own, of having children who would love her.

And, at last, she would see what lay beyond the sparsely inhabited hills and glens of the Highlands. More than anything, she longed to see a city, any city. She wanted to travel, to meet new people and hopefully have an adventure along the way. Just one would be enough. Simply wedding the MacBain might provide that last wish, Mairi thought with a hidden grin.

He might not bother to speak to her any more than was strictly necessary, but she had to admit he was not hard to look upon. Given time, she could surely coax some semblance of geniality from him.

Once she accomplished that feat, Mairi suspected that their bedding together would be no unpleasant chore. She believed she had felt his brief assessment of her for that purpose, if none other. She supposed it would have to suffice unless they could find some other common ground. Many marriages had not even that to recommend them.

Determined to show him that she could provide interesting company, Mairi headed to the kitchens soon after Mass and put together a basket of cheese, cold meats and bread fresh from the ovens. She added a flagon of wine and set out to find her betrothed, who had not bothered to attend either Mass or the informal breaking of fast afterward.

She found him in the stable, grooming his steed. “Good morn, m’laird,” she said, summoning her brightest smile.

He smiled back at her, a blindingly sweet expression that stopped her right in her tracks and made her suck in a sharp breath. God’s mercy, the man could spellbind when he put his mind to it, Mairi thought, absently patting her chest with one hand. Her heartbeat had speeded to a dangerous pace and she felt quite giddy of a sudden.

Just as rapidly as it had come, his smile faded. The taciturn baron frowned as he regarded the basket she carried. That left her wondering if she had merely imagined his greeting. Wishful thinking?

Her wits returned, Mairi lifted the cloth on the basket to show him. “I brought food. There’s a wondrous place I could show ye, if ye’d like to ride.” She then lifted a bridle off its peg and handed it to him, nodding toward her mare.

“Ride?” He glanced around them and back at her. “Alone?”

She grinned and cocked her head to one side. “Why not? We are betrothed. Who’s there to censure us? None, that’s who!”

With a shrug of uncertainty, he reached for her saddle. Mairi felt content to simply watch him move as he readied her mount and then his own.

Grace in motion, she thought, impressed by the economy of his every action, the play of muscles just visible through his well-fitted clothing.

Rude or not, he stirred her blood, this man. He was the first to do so, and so she half forgave him for his inattentiveness last evening and the lapse of that enchanting smile just now. Mayhaps he was only shy, or had never been taught better manners.

She could teach him. For a first lesson, she waited expectantly for him to assist her in mounting. After a hasty perusal of her person, he grasped her waist, lifted her as if she weighed no more than the basket of food and plunked her atop her mare.

Had those braw hands of his lingered longer upon her than necessary? She thought so. A good sign, that.

He quickly mounted and they rode in silence for a while with Mairi leading the way. Her special place awaited them, a lovely clearing in the wood where a stream pooled beneath a shallow fall. The ferns and flowers growing there made it seem a faerie glen. They could spend a few quiet hours away from the keep, becoming acquainted.

Not that she would allow him any liberties. He would know better than to attempt that before the wedding, certainly. Or would he?

Mairi smiled to herself, almost wishing he would abandon propriety. Many a couple anticipated their final vows. Not that she would countenance such doings, of course, even to turn him up sweet. A lady must have limits. Da said so.

So many times Mairi had wished to speak with another woman about these matters. Her mother was long dead and the few females left at Craigmuir were not the sort she’d ask for advice of that nature. Most were right free with their favors and made no secret of it.

When they reached her destination, MacBain remained mounted and spent quite some time observing the surrounding woods. She could have sworn he checked the grassy ground for tracks and sniffed the air for trouble. Did he believe she had invited him into a trap of some kind?

“I like it,” he announced finally as he dismounted and came to assist her off her mare.

Then he bent down and quickly gathered a fistful of wildflowers. “For you,” he said, all but glaring as he held them out. Mairi chose to believe he merely worried whether she would appreciate the offering. She decided to ignore the intensity of his regard. God’s truth, he rarely blinked.

“I thank ye!” she muttered, quite taken aback by the gesture, perfunctory as it was. He certainly wasted no time. Or tenderness. However, he had made an effort and she would give him the credit for it.

“Coom with me,” she ordered, reaching for the strong hand she had just emptied of the blooms. She grasped it and pulled him along toward the bank of the stream, set upon making friends with the man, no matter how rough his manners.

He dropped to a sitting position, gently pulling Mairi down with him. Once seated, he glanced at the water, shot her a look of daring and began to remove his boots.

Intrigued at his unexpected hint of laddie-like behavior, she took the dare and did likewise, tossing her shoes and hose over her shoulder onto the grass. In moments, they sat side by side, bare feet slowly swishing in the cold, clear water.

“Ah, here’s a pleasure, in’t?” she commented, lying back upon the lush carpet of green behind her. “Have ye such a place near yer home? Somewhere special to ye as this one is to me?”

Though he did not answer, he reclined on one elbow, leaned over her and fixed that avid gray gaze upon her face. For a moment Mairi thought he might kiss her, but he only reached for the flowers she still held in her hand and chose one.

“Beauty,” he whispered gruffly, teasing her nose with the petals. “Here,” he said, dragging the flower across her lips. “Here,” he repeated, drawing it down her neck to the edge of her chemise that peeked above her gown. “Hiding,” he teased, trailing the small bloom across the fabric covering her breasts and stomach.

Heat flared within her. More than anything, she wished to see that smile of his. She had surprised it out of him once at the stable. Could she do it again?

“Kiss?” she murmured coyly, adopting his peculiar habit of brevity in speech.

As an answer, he simply lowered his mouth to hers. After a moment’s gentle press of his lips, he eased hers open with his tongue. She’d never been kissed so in her life. More’s the pity, Mairi thought, enjoying the sensation immensely. She quickly responded to his exploration with a foray of her own.

She met the hot, wet warmth of his mouth, tasting his heat as her own increased. Encompassed and loving it, Mairi saw no need to withdraw. They gave and took with an abandon that sent a trail of fire down her middle, a consuming blaze she could scarcely control. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as sparks danced behind her eyelids.

When he drew back, breathing as heavily as she, Mairi blinked up at him in wonder, realizing that nothing save their mouths had touched. If he could wreak that sort of havoc with only lips and tongue, whatever might he do with the rest of him? She released a heavy sigh and closed her eyes again, just imagining.

“You want me?” he asked. And sounded serious.

“Is the sky blue?” she replied wryly, eyes still shut, a silly grin stretching her lips wide. “What do ye think, ye foolish lad?”

He laughed. A strange sound, she thought. Too loud and abrupt, as if he did that rarely and it had caught him unaware.

Mairi rather liked his laughter the more because it was not planned. Because she had surprised it out of him. Surely a man could love a woman who made him laugh, especially if he had little laughter in his life.

She would provide that for him, Mairi decided on the instant. Laughter and children. Both, in abundance. She laughed, as well, delighted by the notion.

He seemed easier to be with now, more comfortable in her presence after their kiss and her bit of teasing.

For what seemed hours, they lay side by side, the fingers of her right hand interlaced with those of his left. Now and again, he would turn his head to look at her—sometimes quizzically, other times with satisfaction—but no words passed between them. She detected a ripple of uncertainty beneath his calm, as though he wished to speak of something, but held back.

What a mystery he was! Why did he not ask questions of her or tell her about himself? Mairi longed to know about the home he planned to offer her and the route they would take to reach his keep in the Midlothian.

She kept waiting for him to say something first, so that she would not seem too forward as she must have done last night. But he appeared content to simply lie there, soaking up the errant rays of sun that stole through the foliage of the leaf-laden branches overhead.

Despite her eagerness to learn more of him, there was much to be said for this silent reflection, Mairi thought to herself. Somehow she felt a kind of peace had sprung up between them so that now they might go on from here to some sort of closer communion. It could only bode well for their marriage, their getting on this well after so short a time.

She felt badly for misjudging him last evening and treating him to that wicked temper of hers. Her worst failing was to judge too quickly. He was not the first to suffer for it, but she would make amends.

Likely he had only been tired and out of sorts from the long journey. And very shy, of course. Mairi was firmly convinced that was his greatest problem. Nothing she could not alter, of course. Anyone would vouch that Mairi MacInness harbored not one shy bone in her body.

In a while he got up, replaced his boots and found her shoes and hose for her. While she donned them, he left her to fetch the basket still lashed to her mare’s saddle.

Silently, speaking only with their eyes, they ate, relishing the food and imagining each other’s thoughts.

He held out a sliver of cheese. Mairi leaned forward and accepted it, grazing the tips of his finger and thumb with her lips as she did so. The heat in that gray gaze rekindled the fire inside her his kiss had first ignited. She carefully banked it for now. There were the vows to say yet and he mustn’t think her wanton.

What a strangely intimate meal it was. Now that they had kissed, MacBain’s eyes spoke clearly of what he would rather be doing. Yet he restrained himself, as did she. She chose to believe he did so out of respect for her and applauded that, even as she regretted the rightness of his restraint.

“We should go back,” she said slowly, reluctantly, when they had finished the meal.

He nodded and began to help her gather up the cloths and cups and place them in the basket. Then he rose and offered her his hand.

The instant she gained her feet, he drew her into his arms and surrounded her with his strength. Mairi could feel the warmth of his lips brush the crown of her head.

Never had she felt so protected. And wanted, too. She could hear his heartbeat against her ear when she pressed her head comfortably against his chest. Mairi decided she could stay where she was forever and be content.

The sound of distant thunder distracted her. Puzzling. It had not rained for several days and she had seen no clouds anywhere this morn.

Suddenly he tensed, his hands grasping her shoulders as he set her away from him. When she looked up to question him, she saw how watchful he had become, how alert and still, as though expecting danger.

His nostrils flared as if seeking a particular scent. Then he looked down at her. “Do you hear?”

“Only thunder,” she replied with a shrug. “Still far away, though. It will not reach us for some time yet, but—”

He placed two fingers over her mouth. “Listen.”

Mairi obeyed, tuning her full attention to the rumbling noise. “Not thunder!” she whispered in awe, clutching his forearms. The sound did not abate or vary, but was constant and growing louder. “Hoof beats!” she cried, pushing him away, toward their mounts. “A raid! Coom, we must hurry!”

But MacBain rushed ahead of her. He leaped onto his horse and drew his sword. “Wait here!” he commanded, whirled his mount around and set off at a gallop.

Mairi led her mare over to the same large stone she always used to remount when she came here. In moments, she was right behind him, careful to keep a few lengths distant in the event he would turn and order her back to the glade for safety.

Even some distance away, she heard the shouts and cries and clang of metal. Swords!

When she drew closer, Mairi realized this was no neighborly raid to filch a few of her father’s cattle. Craigmuir was under serious attack.

Rob charged through the open gates of Craigmuir and found hell itself.

Unable to distinguish friend from foe in the melee, he quickly searched for his own men. Markie was down, a dirk in his chest, eyes staring sightless at the sky. On the steps lay the hefty Elmore in a pool of blood. He did not see Newton. Or Wee Andy.

His fleeting gaze snagged on a dark blue mantle spread like wings upon the ground near the well. The laird!

Rob surged toward the attacker towering over his host and slew the raider with one swing of the blade. A small figure darted past the body even as it fell.

“Mairiee!” Rob shouted and swung off his mount. Damn the woman! Had she not heard his order to stay in the wood? Another enemy rushed at him the moment Rob grasped Mairi around the waist. Just in time, he twisted sidewise and thrust his sword up, spitting the oncomer. The opposing blade just missed striking her face.

He roared as he kicked the body off his weapon, furious and frantic to get Mairi to safety. In desperation, he backed against the well wall, trapping her behind him.

“Stay!” he commanded.

Instead she wriggled right past him and ran to her father, who had managed to get to his hands and knees. Rob dispatched another who would have cut him down and then joined her.

Half dragging the laird, he sheltered the two in a corner betwixt the castle wall and the armory and stood guard against any who would do them harm.

He chanced to spy Wee Andy on the parapet wielding his short bow with a vengeance. The stout lad made his next shot, waved Rob’s way and pointed to a tangle of bodies around the gate. He raised one hand and rotated his fist, Newton’s name sign, given for his expertise with a flail. Then Andy held a palm up and quickly turned it down. Newton, dead. Damn!

Rob nodded to show he understood. Of the contingent who had come to Craigmuir with him to fetch his bride, only he and Andy were left. He could not wait to quit this cursed land, to take his bride and go from here.

Had the tournaments taught him nothing? He’d been too long away, that was the problem. Soft, he was becoming. Like the gentle lad he’d once been, harboring that profound reverence for life his father had warned him against revealing to those who might do him ill.

Trouville had encouraged him to travel the Continent with Henri, and thereby caused Rob’s absence when the boy king from England had thrust into Scotland two years ago. Now Rob wished he had been there. He sorely lacked experience in this.

Here was no mock battle with rules set by the marshal and a horn to sound the end. Men were dying, three by his own blade thus far! Mairi’s death had been a very near thing and his own barely avoided. While he did not fear death, neither did he welcome it just yet.

The time had come to steel himself, to banish again any empathy or sympathy that would mark him as weak. To be the warrior he had trained so diligently to be. To kill and kill again, or else be killed.

Rob pulled in a harsh breath and observed the fighting, searching for identifying characteristics in the combatants. The few men he did recognize from the evening before in Craigmuir’s hall looked a sight more refined than the great, hairy, half-naked brutes who fought them. A ragged, unwashed band, these raiders who had come to do battle.

And at the moment, they were prevailing.

Quickly he turned and pulled the wounded laird to his feet. “Go in!” he shouted to Mairi. After a quick glance to insure the armory was empty, he shoved her and her father inside. “Bar the door!”

Satisfied that they would be safer there than anywhere else in this godforsaken place, Rob drew another deep breath, dashed forward and fully engaged in the slaughter.

When the clangs and shouts of the fight finally diminished, Mairi heard a frantic knocking. Hurriedly she peered through a crack between the boards and threw open the door. Young Davy, her father’s foundling squire, rushed in.

“Did ye see him, m’laird?” the lad asked as he dropped to his knees on the dirt floor of the armory beside his master. “Afore ye fell, did ye see?”

“So it’s over then?” Mairi asked absently, shoving the gangly bairn out of the way.

“Aye!” young Davy answered, his voice full of awe. “The handful left standin’ turned and ran just now. Laird MacBain gives chase! God’s nails, he’s ruthless, that one!”

Then his gaze dropped and focused upon his master’s wound. “Ach, sire, ’tis verra bad, this here!”

Mairi motioned him back outside. “Get some of the men. We must move him into the keep. ’Tis too dark in here to treat his wound.” Mairi pressed both her hands over the gaping gash in her father’s side. “Make haste, Davy!”

Her sire might not live the night, she reckoned, but she would not give him up just yet. “Hold on, Da,” she whispered, struggling to imbue her voice with hope.

His wan smile worried her more than a gruff reprimand would have done. One of his huge paws wrapped around her bloody wrist. “Lass, get…get you from Craigmuir, lest Ranald find you here when he comes back.”

“Ranald?” Mairi’s disgust made her grimace. “Aye, I should have guessed this was his doing,” she growled. “Greedy wretch! Th’ cowardly bastard didna swing his own sword today, I’ll wager ye that!”

“Nay, he’ll be elsewhere so he can look innocent of it. But he’ll come once he hears I’m dead, daughter. He is my tanist, God rot his hide.”

Mairi tossed her head in disgust. “We can hold Craigmuir against the likes of him anyday.”

“Nay, he’ll have my place here, Mairi. The clan decided that years ago,” he argued, gasping. “But he’ll no’ have my lass. I told him so…our kin’s too close.”

“Greater reason than that not to have him!” Mairi exclaimed. “I’d die first!”

He clenched his eyes shut and grimaced. “Wed MacBain this night, Mairi…and begone afore it’s too late.”

“Hist!” she said to hush him. She would wed, but she’d not leave. “Ranald sent those men to do murder, Da. He should be punished for it, not rewarded with Craigmuir!”

“May be, but he…he will have it nonetheless,” he insisted. “Just marry and go, hinny. Please!” he gasped the word and groaned.

“As ye wish, Da.” She’d not leave, of course. She could never desert her father when he lay mortally wounded. Nor would she abandon her home as a boon for that dastardly cousin of hers. But she would wed MacBain as soon as someone could fetch the priest. Not only to fulfill her father’s wish. She wanted to.

Ranald MacInness would never claim her as his wife if she had to wed the devil himself to prevent it. Fortunately, it would not come to that. She had a perfectly good husband-to-be at hand, thanks to her father’s foresight.

When the men—grimy from battle and grieving for those lost to it—had moved the laird into the hall, Mairi made him as comfortable as she could. Someone had brought a pile of blankets and furs from his bed abovestairs and placed them upon one of the long oak trestles used for meals.

It looked to Mairi like a bier, which she realized it soon would be. She had stopped his bleeding at long last, but not quickly enough to save him.

His tunic, the blankets that covered him and her own sleeves were soaked with his blood. Her father was not long for this world, she knew.

“I am with ye, Da,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

The priest had come and administered rites. He now stood by, praying silently for his old friend and laird. There would be further duty for the Father Ephriam if only her betrothed would get himself within the hall.

Where was MacBain? Mairi wished with all her might that he would arrive in time. Her father would rest so much easier if he could witness the wedding and know that she had at least complied with one part of his behest.

Seeing the marriage accomplished would give him peace in his final hours. There was little more she could do for him, other than grieve for him when he was gone, and then avenge his death.

That, she vowed she would do. It was her duty as well as her heart’s wish. Ranald MacInness would die a gruesome death for this day’s work. She could envision his dark hair whipping in the wind, that smirk permanently frozen on his face when they mounted his head upon a pike outside the gates of Craigmuir.

A scant hour later, when she had almost given up, MacBain strode in, followed by several of her father’s men. No decently groomed lord now, he wore a savage look upon his face and carried himself like the victor he had proved to be. Her father had chosen wisely for her. And for Craigmuir.

When MacBain stopped several feet away and remained silent, Mairi beckoned him closer.

“We must wed now,” she announced clearly, fearing for some obscure reason that he would object to the haste. He merely looked at her, a question in his sharp gray eyes.

“My father is dying. He desires me safely wed to you without wait. I would have it so.”

The baron turned to the priest, who nodded in agreement with her words. From his sleeve, Father Ephriam drew the parchments prepared long before MacBain had arrived, and handed them over to her betrothed.

Within moments they had signed them and the official deed was done. Even without the spoken vows to follow, they were contracted man and wife. All that remained were the words of acceptance and, later, the consummation. She grasped his hand, eager to proceed for her father’s sake.

Her sire looked on from the table upon which he lay. With great effort to suppress her tears, Mairi smiled at him, telling him with her eyes how dear he was to her.

No matter that he had been a gruff old father who reprimanded far more often than he praised. She could see his caring much more clearly now than ever before in the provision he had made for her.

“Lord Robert Alexander MacBain, wilt thou have this woman, Mairi MacInness, to wife?” the priest droned.

“Aye,” his lordship answered gruffly, squeezing her small hand gently in his. Mairi noted bloody smears on both and shivered with dread that this presented a bad omen. Nay, she thought, this marriage was a good thing. The blood just spilled would bond them inexorably.

She watched the baron slip a gold crested ring off his smallest finger and slide it onto her third. A circle of fire it was, hot from the heat of battle, wet and slippery with sweat and gore he had shed for her and hers. She made a fist to keep the ring in place. A fist full of vengeful promises that must be honored.

“Lady Mairi MacInness, do you take this man to husband?”

She glanced up at MacBain—called Robert, so she had just learned—and caught a fleeting look of apprehension. Did he fear she would say nay?

“I will,” she answered emphatically, and added a nod for good measure. Not for anything would she leave a doubt in anyone’s mind. This was her choice. She was this man’s wife now. As soon as humanly possible, she would make certain no man could alter that.

Strange and fearsome as he was, the man could fight. And he had done all he could to save her and her father during the attack. At the moment, she could think of no better recommendation than that for a husband.

Her new lord might not be a Highland man, but he was a true Scot. And when the wedding and bedding were done, he would be family. Then he could do naught but marshal her father’s men, give them their orders and lead them out to avenge the laird.

Ranald MacInness must die at his hand, and the MacBain must rule Craigmuir. She had decided. And no man—not even her father at his fiercest—had ever been able to sway Mairi MacInness once she had settled upon a true course of action.

The night through, Rob sat beside Mairi near the laird’s deathbed. Now and again, she would lean forward and adjust the covers, caress her father’s brow or pat his hand. Her strength and control impressed Rob. Not once had she wept for what was to come, though she surely knew.

Only once did she excuse herself to go abovestairs and then only for a short time. Long enough, however. The old laird roused himself and gave Rob orders to take Mairi away at first light.

He spoke haltingly, yet formed each word clearly and precisely. “Ranald wants her…and my place here. No matter what Mairi says, take her and depart.”

Rob nodded in understanding and grasped the gnarled hand the laird offered him.

“Leave me to my men,” MacInness instructed. “Travel light and swift. And watch your back.”

Rob did not ask why. He did not need to. Any man who wanted Lady Mairi would not relinquish her easily. MacInness’s tanist would follow. In his place, Rob would certainly do so. The woman was a treasure worth fighting for.

“I beg you, do not rest until my lass has seen her last of the Highlands. Never bring her back here. Promise you will honor my…my wishes! Swear!”

What alternative did Rob have but to give his word? A last request was a last request, after all. And the laird was Mairi’s father, and now also his, by marriage.

Reaching down, Rob grasped his sword and raised it enough for the old man to see. He bent his head and put his lips against the jeweled pommel, then lifted the weapon higher, as though swearing on the cross formed by hilt, cross-guard and blade. “I so vow,” he declared.