Читать книгу The Highland Wife - Lyn Stone - Страница 11

Rob did not tell Mairi of the oath when she returned downstairs and again took up the vigil by her father’s side. Morning would be time enough to wrest her from the only home she had ever known, and without a proper departure.

She would have a much sadder farewell to endure before that time came. He sat beside her on the bench while she leaned forward, her elbows resting upon the table where her father lay.

Suddenly, Mairi straightened and jumped as though startled out of sleep.

“What is wrong?” Rob asked her. More to the point, he should have asked her what was not wrong?

“Did ye hear? The cock just crowed,” she muttered. He almost did not catch the words. “’Tis morn.”

Laird MacInness turned his head toward where they sat and smiled his adieu at the both of them. “Keep her…safe,” he said, and breathed his last as though well content to do so.

Noble till the end, Rob thought, admiring the man for facing death as he had done. Not with whimper or complaint. Only a smile and a demand for the safety of his daughter. Any man could be proud of such a death, and Rob saw that pride reflected on the faces of the laird’s men.

Mairi’s delicate fingers trembled as she closed her father’s wrinkled eyelids. Exhaustion, pain and grief had leached her features of their usual bloom, and lent her body a stiffness he wished would abate. She would do well to give way to her anguish now and be done with it.

Nay, he thought, chastising himself. She would not be done with it even if she wept for days, months. One did not relinquish a loved one to death so easily as that.

Rob could only imagine the terrible, all-pervading sadness he would feel forever did he lose the man he treasured as a father.

His real sire had been another matter altogether. Had Rob known how at the age of ten, he would have arranged a real celebration at that man’s passing, for himself, his lady mother and all the others at Baincroft who had fallen under the harshness of that wicked wretch’s hand. Even now, these long years later, he could never bear to call that one his father.

But then the Comte de Trouville had arrived from France to wed the widow. No finer man ever lived, Rob had decided shortly thereafter. He still believed so.

In all things, Rob struggled daily to measure up to the comte’s fine example of what a noble knight should be. He called him Father from that time on, and always thought of him as such. Trouville’s son, Henri, was Rob’s brother in heart. And the comte’s death would crush both his sons beyond bearing.

Nay, he could not expect Mairi to banish her grief in a short span of time. Mayhaps not ever, since she and the old laird obviously loved each other well.

In direct opposition to his earlier avowal concerning a show of sympathy, Rob reached out and clasped her upper arms from behind and drew her away from the body of her sire.

Though she resisted, he turned her to face him and pulled her close, surrounding her with his arms. “Weep now,” he suggested.

For a moment she fought him, pushing and pounding upon his chest as powerfully as the small space between them allowed. Then, of a sudden, she collapsed against him, her small shoulders heaving as she sobbed.

“Better,” he murmured into the fair, silken hair that had come loose of its plait, running his hands along her back, cradling and comforting her as he would a distraught child.

Over her head he shot dark looks at everyone around them until they moved far enough away to afford Mairi some privacy to mourn.

He waited patiently until she grew still again, wept out. Then he again took her by her shoulders and held her gently away so that he could see her tear-ravaged face. So lovely, she was, even in the throes of bereavement.

Rob raised a hand and brushed her cheeks with one finger. “We must go now,” he said, hoping his words sounded as gentle as he meant them to.

“Go?” she repeated, her widened eyes searching his for meaning.

“Aye. Now. We go to Baincroft.”

She pulled back from him, aghast at his words. “Nay, we cannot! What of Father?”

Almost desperately, she backed to the trestle where the body lay. With one hand she reached behind her and grasped the old man’s bloody sleeve.

“I promised him,” Rob explained, each word clear and firm, brooking no argument, knowing that she would leap upon any further display of tenderness in order to have her way.

He was uncertain whether he could deny her anything in her present state unless he braced himself against her pleas.

“We will go now,” he repeated.

She flew at him then, shoving him backward with the flats of her palms. “Go then! Get out! Coward! If ye think that I will let—”

The remainder of her words were lost on him as he caught her arms and secured her wrists with the long slender tail of one flowing sleeve.

It pained him to restrain her, yet this was necessary for her own protection. Mairi would never go willingly, but she must go nonetheless. Above all, he must keep her safe as her father bade him do.

With MacInness dead and Mairi gone, there would likely be no further attacks on this keep or its inhabitants. The tanist had instigated the first invasion. Now he would simply come and assume command as the new laird. Then he would almost surely come for Mairi. What man would not?

Rob would have to kill him then, he decided. Though he’d recently found it pained him to take a life, in this instance he would not mind overmuch.

He grunted when the sharp toe of Mairi’s sturdy shoe bruised his shin. She was making this much harder than need be, but he had to admire her mettle.

Fury at him for dragging her away might even set aside her sorrow for a time, he decided, justifying his necessary rudeness. Let her think him craven and heartless if it helped.

She could rant and rave all the way to Baincroft and that would be fine with him. Better so, than to have to watch her weep throughout the journey. Aye, this would serve to get her past the worst few days.

Her shouts and curses when he bent and hefted her onto his shoulder were likely startling the mounts in the stables outside, Rob mused. He could feel the harsh, angry hum of her voice where her wriggling middle made contact with his shoulder, but he was immune to the sounds of it, thank heaven.

He had discovered a few advantages to his deafness over the years. This was definitely one to add to the list.

Mairi ceased her struggles when her husband placed her in the saddle and proceeded to mount behind her. She agonized over the confusion their hasty departure was causing among the people who stood by and watched. There was nothing she could say to them to explain it and not a thing they could do to help her.

Her father’s squire watched with tears in his eyes. Poor Davy.

What must he and the rest think of her husband, forcing her to abandon them to Ranald’s mercies? And to leave her father to be interred in the family vault without even hearing a Mass said over him?

“Oh, please! Please stay,” she begged, to no avail. MacBain simply clicked his tongue, nudged his mount and rode through the gates his man had ordered opened.

Mairi held herself as stiffly as possible, hating the feel of this man’s body against her back, his arm surrounding her middle like a yoke of steel.

She raised her hands, still bound by the silken tail of her sleeve and pounded them against his forearm in one final protest. Her only reward was the bruise caused by the links of his chain mail.

Tears gathered and slid down her cheeks like a hot, sluggish waterfall. She held her breath to calm her grief and alarm. Her desire for adventure had flown away in the face of reality.

On a mount laden with their supplies as well as rider, MacBain’s man rode ahead of them, leading her saddled mare. He had tied pouches stuffed with food on either side of his saddle. She could see the outline of several loaves of bread. Her mare carried two unfamiliar packs as well as one of her father’s, containing what she supposed to be her gowns.

A fold of her red woolen surcoat poked out of the pack’s flap like the mocking tongue of an impertinent child.

Mairi leaned sidewise and peered behind them only to see the gates of her home swing shut. Try as she might, she could not stifle a groan of purest misery.

The arm MacBain had locked around her tightened, and he had the audacity to pat her side as though to comfort her. She reached down and pinched his thigh through the heavy hose he wore and had the satisfaction of hearing his sharp intake of breath.

“I will kill ye fer this, MacBain!” she announced.

He rode on, urging his horse to a gallop as they turned sharply off the main road and cut through the forest. Then she had little breath for curses. He bent her forward beneath him to avoid low-hanging branches, all but pressing her face against his mount’s sweat-pungent neck. The stiff horsehair abraded her cheek.

Add injury to indignity, why don’t ye? she thought with a further burst of fury. The heat of anger dried her tears and lent her purpose.

“Ye’ll pay fer this, MacBain! I will make ye dreadfully sorry fer this day!”

The wretch did not bother to acknowledge her threat. He rode on south by southeast at a quick and steady pace, forcing her from her duty as a Highlander’s daughter toward an uncertain future as a Lowlander’s wife.

And to think, she had embraced this fate of her own free will not an hour past! If only she had known MacBain would betray her this way and make her break her vow of vengeance, she would have denied him her hand and wished him to the devil. She would have held Craigmuir against Ranald and mayhaps killed that blackguard herself!

Why did she always act without proper thought aforehand? Her thoughts about MacBain had been in no way proper and just look where they had led her.

Poor Da. At least he had died believing her compliant for once in her life. Welladay, she was through being that!

Later in the day when they came upon a stream, Rob decided they were far enough away from Craigmuir to halt for a while, water the horses and allow Wee Andy a rest.

When accosted on the wall walk by the intruders, the poor fellow had taken a blow to the ribs that left him badly bruised despite his generous padding of fat. Riding in such a state must be painful, indeed, and no just reward for the man’s valorous deeds. Rob felt he could stand a short rest himself.

Surely his new wife would not be foolish enough to risk returning to Craigmuir alone, but he meant to keep close watch on her. He knew she had hated leaving her father immediately on his death, and Rob greatly sympathized. However, the old man had the right of it. Mairi must be well away before the laird’s successor arrived.

That cousin of hers must have been extremely impatient to have both Craigmuir and the lady to mount such a vicious attack. He would have been laird eventually anyway. Mairi’s impending marriage must have led him to the act. Rob had formed an instant dislike of Ranald MacInness when introduced to him, and had not been at all surprised to hear he was behind the deed.

It greatly disturbed Rob to leave Mairi’s home and people under such leadership, but there was naught he could do with only one nearly disabled man at his side and the very law of the Highlands against him.

Craigmuir, he could not hold safe from the new laird at present, but the woman, his wife, he would protect until his last breath. He would not risk having her widowed and wed to a kinsman who placed no value on the lives of his future tenants and clan. Later, once Rob had Mairi secured at Baincroft, he could return with more men and set matters to rights for them.

Telling her this would serve no purpose at present, however. She was not ready to hear it. In her need for immediate action against her cousin for his treachery, she would not welcome the necessary delay.

He dismounted and reached up to assist her down. She allowed it, glaring at him balefully as he set her on her feet.

“Untie me, ye fiend!” she ordered, presenting her hands to him.

Rob did so in a perfunctory manner and stepped back, gesturing toward the water. “Drink and wash.”

He watched her regard her sleeves—the ends still covered with the dried blood of her father—and saw the effort it took for her to quell a surge of grief. How he would love to hold her again, comfort her, gentle her anger and explain more fully why he had dragged her away so swiftly.

She would not thank him for it, he decided with a shrug and turned away to lead his mount to the edge of the swiftly flowing stream they would shortly need to cross.

“Do you hurt?” he asked as he joined his friend and lay a hand on his shoulder. Lank blond hair, darkened with sweat, clung to Wee Andy’s forehead just beneath his tight-fitting leather helm. His face always looked ruddy, but pain had paled him.

“Nay.” Andy shook his head, but the tightened lips and furrowed brow told the truth of it. Rob had tightly bound the injured ribs for him, but he knew that did little to prevent the pain of jostling in the saddle.

He recalled the times he had suffered the same after tourneys himself. Regretfully he made the signs to say they must ride again soon. They will follow, he added.

Andy nodded, glanced at Lady Mairi to show he understood why, and knelt carefully at the water’s edge to scoop up a drink.

Rob also looked at his wife who was leaning over the bank to dip and scrub fitfully at the sleeves of her gown. Her face and the golden hair around it were wet where she had washed away her tears.

Aye, her anger did serve better to overcome her sorrow than his attentions would, so he would continue to let her be. He turned his regard to satisfying his own thirst and that of his horse.

Suddenly, Andy grabbed his arm and pointed. Rob leaped to his feet, his first thought of attack. Then, following Andy’s frantic gesture, he spied the billow of fabric and one small boot kick out of the water.

With a roar, Rob jumped in. The strong icy current dragged unmercifully at his legs as he lunged to grasp a handful of her gown. And missed.

Throwing himself full-length into the stream, he recalled too late the weight of his mail. He sank like a stone, then struggled to the surface and kicked with all his might toward the rapidly moving tangle of skirts and flailing limbs.

At last! He wrapped his fist in the folds of her gown and dragged her along toward the far edge of the burn. Undecided whether to curse or pray, he did both.

Crawling out of the water himself was no mean feat, but he managed and quickly turned to haul his burden ashore. Flipping her onto her stomach, he lifted her at the waist, hoping to empty some of the water that must be filling her.

Thank the Good Lord, he immediately felt the racking of her cough. Rob collapsed beside her, his head on one arm, near done in himself. Next to him, she shuddered as if thoroughly chilled. Though the late summer sun shone mercifully and warmed the day, the water had been damned cold.

With a heartfelt sigh of relief that she still lived, he pulled Mairi into his arms, holding his own breath, carefully feeling the expansion of her ribs to assure himself that her breathing was returning to normal.

She said something, for he felt the rapid movement of her lips against his cheek. Whatever it was, he figured it was just as well he did not understand it. It might possibly be thanks for his saving her from death by drowning, but more likely it was curses, blasting him for his bringing her to this stream in the first place.

In answer to either, Rob simply held her closer and pressed his lips to her temple. She did not fight him or squirm away, so he hoped for the best.

He turned his head enough to see how far they had drifted downstream. Not the leagues it had seemed, apparently. Even from here, he could see Wee Andy cautiously making his way across to join them. He had their mounts in tow, water splashing against their withers, threatening to sweep the sturdy beasts off their feet.

Mairi pushed away from him and sat up, raking her hair out of her face. Deftly ignoring him, she struggled to stand and began wringing out the folds of heavy, sodden cloth. Her lips worked rapidly, her teeth gritted together, as if she grumbled to herself. Rob wisely hid his smile.

“Andy comes,” he said. “You can change.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands and shaking them at the sky, her temper more evident than ever. “He speaks! Answer me, MacBain, do ye ever utter more than three words in a row?”

“Not very often,” he replied in three words just to vex her.

He probably should have rewarded her instead. At last she had said something that he fully understood. Difficult not to, since she flung the words at him one by one, like rocks.

Rob felt satisfied he had gotten the meaning she intended. Sarcasm was not that hard to recognize, since he often employed it himself.

She huffed with frustration, rolled her lovely blue eyes, and went back to wringing out her garments, muttering again.

He smiled to himself, glad she was holding up this well after her fright. If he were honest, he felt a bit shaken himself. However, making more of the accident and coddling her any longer only would have upset her more.

Again she took refuge in her anger, and he did not mind bearing the brunt of it. He began to see a pattern in Mairi’s behavior. She would never admit to fear, but masked it immediately.

For now, he thanked providence for her bravado. Better that than for her to suffer hopelessness. That he could not bear to see and would not be able to assuage with words until he knew her better.

Rob tried to not dwell on regrets of any sort, but at the moment he did wish he had more to offer his new wife. Once he became more accustomed to the way she spoke, he might venture into a prolonged conversation. For now, he had no time for the total attention and tremendous effort that would take on his part as well as hers. Yet he was loathe to try to explain that to her just now. She might decide he did not wish to take the trouble, ever.

He could not blame her for a lack of compassion. It must be very trying for her if she’d never before encountered anyone who lacked hearing.

As Lady of Craigmuir, she must be well used to the people around her minding her every utterance. Well, he would make up for the inconvenience as soon as he got her safely home to Baincroft. For the nonce, he must dwell solely on accomplishing that and allow no distractions.

Wee Andy plodded toward them, looking paler than ever. Rob waited patiently and helped him dismount. “Rest,” he ordered, and began plundering through the pack for dry clothes for himself and Mairi.

He pushed aside a red garment and fished deeper for something of more natural color that would better blend with their surroundings.

Still dripping, Mairi stood by and waited until he handed her a grass-green gown. “Go there,” he suggested, pointing to a leafy tree that would give her seclusion to change. As for himself, he needed none.

He toed off his soaked boots. Then, without any compunction at all and no thought to modesty, he shucked off his chain-mail shirt and the heavy water-logged gambeson beneath it. Next came his chausses and loincloth. Naked and still shivering a bit, Rob let the sun warm and dry his skin for a while as he tended the weary horses.

Mairi’s brush with death had doused her fury and somehow made her see more clearly, past her grief. MacBain had saved her life in more ways than one, she admitted.

If they had stayed, Ranald would have arrived soon. Craigmuir’s people would have had no choice but to honor that traitor as their new laird and follow his orders. He would have had MacBain killed. Then would have tried to make her his own wife. She would have died resisting that. While her death might have roused the clan enough to go against Ranald, she would still have been dead.

MacBain told her he had promised to leave, and she knew what and to whom he had given his word. In all truth, it was for the best, his taking her away from Craigmuir. But that did not absolve her from her own vow of vengeance. She would simply have to persuade MacBain to help her honor that.

Mairi peeked through the leaves that now concealed her to see whether he was brooding about her harsh words to him after the rescue.

“God’s Holy Mercy!” she whispered when she saw him. He was naked as the day he was born! Eyes wide with fascination, she watched MacBain as he checked the horses for injury and resettled the packs on their saddles. The man had no shame whatsoever!

Of course, he thought there was none to see him save his manservant who appeared to be sleeping, Mairi reminded herself. But did he not remember that she must come out of the woods soon? Did he want her to see him so exposed?

She shivered out of her wet gown and chemise, letting the dry one fall over her from where she had gathered it ’round her neck. Not for a moment would she bare herself to possible view as he was doing.

And yet, she did wonder what MacBain would think if he looked upon her as she now saw him. She was small and had no great attributes to boast about, but would he find her winsome?

She found him so, right enough! Her face flamed at the sight, but she could not tear her gaze away. What muscles he had, she thought, as they flexed in his arms, shoulders, and even his backside. Ah, that backside was something to see!

Her hands clenched, imagining the smooth feel of all that sun-kissed skin. The desire to touch him all but overcame her. Would he allow it when they stopped for the night?

A jest that was, she thought with a smirk. He would likely insist upon it! Her trepidation warred with anticipation in a battle that left her breathless and confused.

“Hoo!” she huffed in surprise as he turned. Her eyes slammed shut, but immediately opened again for a wicked squint through her lashes.

Well made, she noted before forcing herself to face in the opposite direction. Extremely well made. Mairi fanned her face with her hand while she held on to a tree branch with the other. Her reaction to MacBain disturbed her more than a little.

Determined to not return to the edge of the stream until he had covered himself decently, Mairi used the time to wring out her wet clothing and remove her boots. The cold water running over her hands and arms did nothing at all to banish the persistent fever stirred by the sight of her husband.

Every few moments she would risk another peek. Finally he donned another loincloth. She watched shamelessly, highly intrigued by the unfamiliar garment.

Highland men wore nothing beneath their plaids. She had briefly caught sight of many a bared bottom and less frequently, one of the men’s true pride. Not one she had glimpsed had such cause to boast as did the MacBain.

A small hum of disappointment escaped before she could stop it when he pulled on his braies. She trudged out of the woods a few moments later, making much noise to announce her return. He had finished dressing by the time she reached him.

“Your man’s asleep,” she whispered, pointing as she observed the fellow who accompanied them.

MacBain nodded and prodded the fellow with his foot until he awoke.

“Time to go,” he announced to Mairi. “They follow.”

“Ranald’s men?” she demanded, casting an anxious glance across the burn in the direction they’d come. “How do you know?”

With a shrug, he took her wet clothes from her and draped them across the back of his saddle. “He wants you,” he replied.

Mairi waited as MacBain slipped the mail hauberk back on over his shirt and buckled on his sword belt. This time when he reached for her, he set her upon her own mare and handed her the reins.

She watched as he gave his man a hand up and noticed for the first time that their companion seemed to be injured.

He was a short, stout fellow with stringy blond hair and cheeks round as apples, though they lacked in color. She quite appreciated his merry smile, especially since she knew he must not feel much like smiling at the moment.

“What happened to ye?” she asked him. “Hurt in the battle?”

“Aye. A cudgel to the ribs, my lady,” he said, obviously stifling a groan. “Lord Rob wrapped ’em. They pain me some, but I’ll do.”

“Verra brave of ye,” she commended, pleased that he was not a complainer. She sought Rob’s agreement. “Aye, m’laird?”

MacBain never answered or looked in her direction. He simply rode past her and led the way into the woods from whence she’d just emerged. She followed, but not too closely.

“He’s busy thinkin’, my lady. Hard thinker is our Rob,” the man explained as he fell in just behind her. “Thinks damned near as hard as he fights.”

“Surely ye have a name,” she said, sensing she might have found an ally, or at least someone who would talk to her. “No one has thought to tell me what that might be.”

“I am Wee Andy,” he replied, grinning when she looked over her shoulder. He went on to explain, “That’s to distinguish me from Braw Andy, the miller’s son. Now there’s a lad with girth! Wait’ll you see him! Rob’s hard put to keep that one fed.”

“Ye called yer laird by his forename?” she asked. “He allows this?”

“Nay. He just don’t hear it, so I figure he won’t mind now and again. No lack o’ respect to him. Sometimes I forget. We’ve known each other since we was bairns at the breast.”

“Ah, he’s a good laird, then, is he?” she probed, anxious to know more about this enigma she had wed. “A fair one?”

Wee Andy sighed. “Aye, he is that. Fair in his judgment, fair in his dealings, and…muckle fair to look upon, eh, m’lady?” He chuckled wickedly and issued an almost inaudible, “Hoo!”

Heat swept over her face and neck. “Fair indeed,” she admitted under her breath as she nudged her mare to a trot and left the portly eavesdropper several lengths behind her.

Fair, MacBain might be of face and body, but she was still not certain about the fair dealing Wee Andy had mentioned. Wise or not to do so, and all promises aside, any Highland husband would have insisted on remaining at Craigmuir and paying Ranald MacInness in kind for his betrayal and greed.

She must believe that wisdom had led MacBain to his decision to leave. He was so different from the other men she had known, Mairi determined to not judge him unfairly.

If any justice existed, Ranald would follow and provide her the chance to exact the vengeance she had sworn. She prayed for that, and for the strength to see it done herself if her husband seemed unwilling to take her part when the time came.

Could she be a good wife to the MacBain if he did refuse to help her? The man prompted feelings in her that she could not sort out no matter how hard she tried.

He had saved her life. That should count for much, she supposed. On the other hand, he had taken her away from her father’s deathbed by brute force. She misliked being forced to do anything. She much preferred a man employ simple reason. If he had taken the time to do that, she might have agreed to go quietly.

Nay, she could not ken what drove him to be so kind one moment and to act so heartless the next. But she could be absolutely certain of one thing about her husband: he was not about to explain.