An English Bride In Scotland (12 page)

“There,” Seonag said as they straightened from packing away the gowns. She glanced at Annabel and then said, “Ye should break yer fast now, m’lady. I should ha’e thought to bring ye up something when I headed to yer room. Ye must be hungry.”

“I am fine,” Annabel assured her as they headed toward the trestle tables. “I ate late last night. But a warmed cider would be nice about now. I—what is that smell?” She interrupted herself to ask, her nose working as a most unpleasant odor reached it.

“It’s that damned dog.”

Annabel turned at that announcement from Angus. The cook stood between the tables and the door to the kitchens, a cleaver grasped in his hand and a scowl on his face as he eyed Jasper. The dog was hunched over in a corner, proving that he was the source of the smell by creating more of it.

“The bloody beast was in the kitchen doing his business and stinking it up and I chased him out, not thinking he wasn’t done and would continue out here.” Cook turned to her, his anger giving way to despair as he cried, “This stink will ruin the lovely squab I am preparing for the nooning.”

“Oh dear,” Annabel muttered, eyeing Jasper unhappily. The poor beast appeared to be suffering a digestive ailment of some sort at the moment, and while she had all the sympathy in the world for him, she wished he could have waited until tomorrow to have it.

“The poor bugger has no’ smelled that bad since that time the Gordons were visiting and their boy fed him some cheese,” Seonag commented with a frown.

Annabel stiffened guiltily. “What? Cheese?”

“Aye. It seems he does no’ like cheese. Or his stomach does no’ like it anyway. It always affects him badly for days afterward. ’Tis why the old laird ordered that no one feed him but hisself. He’s a delicate stomach, does Jasper.”

Annabel closed her eyes briefly at this news. She had done it to the poor dog herself by feeding him cheese last night. Dear God!

“What are we going to do?” Cook asked miserably. “He shall ruin everything.”

Annabel rubbed her suddenly aching forehead, careful to avoid the gash there and then sighed and let her hands drop away. “We shall have to put him out in the bailey and clean up this mess.”

R
OSS WAS TALKING
to Gilly and Marach as they watched the men practice at battle. They were discussing their strengths and weaknesses and deciding how best to improve on their skills, when the stable master came rushing up. The man was red faced and out of breath, but it didn’t stop him blurting, “She’s gone!” the moment he reached them.

“Who’s gone?” Ross asked with a frown, but the man had used the last of his breath on the announcement and merely shook his head, then bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he panted for breath.

“Speak, man,” Gilly snapped, never having been very patient.

The stable master raised a hand, silently begging a moment, but then straightened and looked to Ross as he managed to get out, “Yer bride.”

“What?” he barked, stiffening. “What the hell are ye talking about? Where has Annabel gone?”

“Back to England?” Gilly asked and Ross glared at the man. Annabel better not have headed back to England. He’d wring her bloody neck if she had. She was his. And why the hell would she go there anyway? Surely life with him was better than life with those two coldhearted English—

“Nay. To fetch flowers,” the stable master said, sounding a little less breathless.

Ross turned an uncomprehending glance his way and asked with bewilderment, “Flowers?”

“Aye. Jasper has the flux. He’s stunk up the great hall with it. They cleaned up the mess, but the smell just will no’ leave, and yer sister is comin’, so yer lady went to . . .” His words trailed away. Ross was no longer listening. He’d turned on his heel with a curse and was running for the stables. Gilly and Marach were hard on his heels.

“
H
ONESTLY,
J
ASPER, WHY
on earth did you eat the cheese if it affects you so?” Annabel asked with exasperation from beneath the hand covering her nose and mouth. Her head was turned away from what the dog was doing so she didn’t have to see it, but there was no escaping the smell.

Jasper had been waiting on the steps when she’d come out of the keep and had promptly fallen into step beside her as she’d headed to the stables. That being the case, she had not been surprised when he’d trotted out of the bailey right behind her mare. She should have ordered him to stay behind though. The poor beast was suffering. This was the third time he’d had to hunch over and vacate himself since they’d left.

Annabel let her hand drop with a sigh and urged her mare to move again when Jasper finished his business and moved into view. Truthfully, judging by the way he was still prancing about, he wasn’t suffering all that much. Everyone else was though. The smell in the keep was enough to bring tears to the eyes, even after a thorough cleaning, and all Annabel had been able to think to do was to find flowers to add to the rushes and cover the smell. However with the servants spread so thin giving the great hall floor another good wash, dusting and polishing, and bustling about in the kitchen to help Cook with this unexpected meal, there had been no one to send on the task . . . And since she was the one responsible for this mess, Annabel had decided she would fetch the flowers she hoped would help mask the matter.

Afraid Seonag would try to stop her, Annabel had not told her what she planned to do. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to slip out of the stables with her mare undetected, despite not bothering to saddle the beast, and she’d ended up telling the stable master where she was going. He, of course, had protested vehemently that he was quite sure his laird would not be pleased, and Annabel, of course, had simply shrugged helplessly and gone ahead and done as she wished. Though she’d had to remind the man that she was his lady and to be obeyed when he placed himself physically in front of her mare in an attempt to stop her.

The old man’s face had turned red then and he’d suddenly whirled and raced off, no doubt to tell on her.

By now, Annabel suspected Ross would be pacing angrily about, deciding what to do with her when she got back. She just hoped it wasn’t anything too bad. She was very aware that husbands were allowed to beat their wives.

“Now where are those bluebells?” Annabel muttered to herself as she surveyed the area. She and Ross had ridden through a veritable field of bluebells on their way to the clearing where they’d picnicked. The smell had been intoxicating. With enough of that strewn among the rushes, she was sure they could hide the stench Jasper had caused in the keep. And they were pretty too, she thought.

Annabel smelled the flowers almost at the same moment as she spotted them ahead. As she eyed the rash of flowers that had sprung up under the trees, Annabel supposed
field
was not quite the right word, though there were so many of them they could have made a field. But bluebells didn’t like strong sunlight and preferred more shaded areas where the sun could only reach her fingers through the branches overhead to sprinkle them with her light.

Releasing a sigh, Annabel reined in her mare and slid off her bare back to the forest floor, then untied the bag she’d brought with her from her waist. She’d had the forethought to bring a knife in case the stalks were tough in Scotland, and a large sack to put them in for the ride home. Leaving Jasper to wander as he wished, she began her work, quickly gathering an armful of the fragrant flowers and stowing them in her bag before continuing on.

Annabel was placing the third and last armful of flowers she could fit in the now bulging bag when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced that way. She was expecting it to be Jasper. The dog had wandered off almost the moment she’d dismounted and she’d kept an eye out for his return. Annabel was hoping he’d come back on his own and save her having to call for him.

But it wasn’t Jasper. It was a large man in a plaid, and Annabel stared at him nonplussed for a moment as she recognized him as the man who had come upon her in the clearing the first night they’d made camp on the journey here. But that had been in England. And he’d been wearing English clothes then. And this couldn’t be an accidental encounter.

Straightening, she dropped her bag, but kept her hold on her knife as she began to back away, and asked, “Who are you?”

“It’ll go easier on ye do ye just come quietly, lass,” the man said, his words so soft-spoken she almost missed the threat until he added, “I don’t want to have to hurt ye.”

Those words though decided her course and Annabel stopped backing away and turned to make a break for her mare. She nearly reached her too, and was only a couple steps away when he tackled her from behind. Annabel went down with a cry, pulling the hand with the knife back toward herself to avoid stabbing her mare as she tumbled to the ground at the horse’s hooves. Of course, the commotion frightened the poor mare, making her scream and rear. All Annabel could do was cover her head and pray she wasn’t stomped on.

She should have been praying the horse stomped on the man on top of her though, Annabel decided a moment later when her mare backed away, still making distressed sounds and she heard a tearing as she was dragged over onto her back. All she could think as her back slammed into the dirt was that she didn’t have anything else to wear to meet her new sister-in-law and this man was ruining the one presentable dress she did have.

With that thought, Annabel swung furiously at his head, not recalling the knife held in it until it slammed into the arm he lifted to block her blow. Annabel froze then, eyes going wide, and she almost blurted an apology. Before she could do something as ridiculous as that, though, he slammed the fist of his uninjured arm into her head, briefly stunning her.

It was a deep growl and bark that brought her eyes open again, but Annabel had trouble focusing on the blur that was Jasper as he charged toward them at full tilt. The man leapt to his feet and took off at a dead run. He never would have outrun the dog, but she wouldn’t risk his harming the beast with a kick to the head or something and immediately shouted, “Jasper!” when he charged past her after her attacker.

The dog responded at once, nearly doing a somersault in his effort to stop. He then stood there for a moment, looking to her and back to the man twice before turning and trotting to her side.

“Good boy,” Annabel breathed, hugging him when he sat down beside her. She had meant it only to be a brief hug to reward him for obeying despite his instinct to give chase, but ended up holding on to the animal to stay upright as a wave of exhaustion rolled over her.

That exhaustion disappeared though, as her ear caught the sound of approaching riders. Her husband and his men, no doubt, Annabel thought and forced herself to gain her feet to face his anger. Only it wasn’t her husband and his men. She didn’t recognize a single man in the approaching party, and Annabel instinctively tightened her fingers around . . . nothing. She no longer had the knife she’d borrowed from the kitchen for this excursion. It was still in the arm of the man who had attacked her. The only weapon she had now was the dog at her feet.

Mouth tightening at this realization, Annabel raised her chin and watched as the party of about six riders drew to a halt before her. Silence filled the glade as the men eyed her. It went on long enough that she began to grow uncomfortable, so Annabel finally said, “Good morning.”

For some reason her polite greeting drew a chuckle from several of the men. The only one who did not laugh, that she could see, was the one in the lead. Her words brought a frown to his face and he said, “English.”

“Aye,” Annabel said warily, raising her chin a little more.

The other men had stopped laughing abruptly at the word
English
and were now eyeing her with a speculation she did not understand until he asked, “Ye’d no’ be Ross MacKay’s new bride, would ye?”

Annabel stiffened, suspicion beginning to creep up within her. That suspicion exploded into full-blown realization when a woman on horseback charged out of the trees with a mounted man hot on her horse’s tail.

“Dammit, Giorsal, I told ye to wait,” the leader barked as she reined in next to him. Truthfully, he sounded more exasperated than surprised. At least, he did until his gaze shifted to the man drawing to a halt behind her. Then his voice was short with anger as he said, “Ye were to keep her where she was safe until we’d scouted out the situation.”

“Don’t fash at Brody, husband,” the woman said with a laugh. “Ye ken he did his best. But I wanted to know what was happening and why the lass screamed.”

Annabel listened to this exchange, her heart sinking as her fear was proved true. When everyone then turned back to her in question, she instinctively raised a hand to push the hair back from her face, only to pause as she spotted the blood covering it and glistening on the sleeve of her gown.

Frowning, Annabel peered down at herself then and could have shrieked with frustration when she saw that her gown was torn and covered with blood and grass stains. Really, it was enough to weep over. This was not how she’d planned to meet her husband’s sister.

Chapter 8

“T
his isna’ good.”

Ross’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t respond to Gilly’s comment as he watched Marach run his hands over his wife’s saddleless mare in search of wounds, and then checked her hooves to see where she’d been.

Annabel had disappeared into the woods by the time he’d led Marach and Gilly out of the bailey. They’d crossed the narrow barren land that surrounded the castle and then had begun to search the area just across from the drawbridge, thinking the woman didn’t know the area so wouldn’t have strayed far. But when that had turned up nothing, they’d begun to discuss splitting up and searching further afield, only to pause when her mare came charging through the woods toward them. The horse had been in a panic. On spotting them, she’d turned sharply and tried to avoid them, but the men had given chase and caught her.

“Anything?” Ross asked as Marach finished his examination and straightened.

“No injuries, but something spooked her,” he said, running a soothing hand down her back. “She has black dirt ground deep into her hooves.”

“Hmm,” Ross muttered, considering the different areas nearby with black dirt. There were a lot of them. Stomach clenching with frustration and worry, he ordered, “Marach, take the mare back to MacKay, and round up some men to help search. Gilly and I will split up and head the way the horse came. If we find Annabel—” He paused and jerked around in his saddle as a tinkle of laughter reached his ears.

“It sounds like more than one woman,” Marach said as a second burst of female laughter joined the first.

“Seonag?” Gilly suggested uncertainly.

Ross considered that, but said, “The stable master did no’ mention anyone accompanying me wife.”

“Nay, he didn’t,” Marach agreed, and then as the riding party came into view through the trees, he added, “And that’s definitely no’ just a couple o’ women.”

“Nay,” Ross growled, squinting to get a better look at the group. Another moment hadn’t passed, though, before he recognized them as MacDonalds.

“Ah, Giorsal’s come for a visit,” Gilly said, apparently recognizing the group as well. “And it appears she and yer wife are getting along like a hut on fire.”

“Then why isn’t she riding with her?” Ross asked testily as he noted his wife’s wee figure seated before his brother-in-law on his mount. She threw her head back on another laugh then, her dark hair flying back and splashing over Bean’s cream shirt and dark green plaid, and Ross growled deep in his throat, his fingers tightening on his reins.

“On the bright side, she looks unharmed and well from here,” Gilly pointed out, sounding amused for some reason.

Ross merely grunted and urged his horse forward to meet the party.

Bean spotted him first, and the MacDonald laird gave him a solemn nod over Annabel’s head. Giorsal, who had been grinning as she listened to something Annabel was saying, saw her husband’s action and turned to look Ross’s way. A wide smile immediately claimed her lips and she cried, “Brother!” and urged her mount eagerly forward. The silly chit damned near knocked him off his horse when she threw herself off her mare and at him. Fortunately, Ross knew his sister well and had braced himself the moment she urged her mount forward. He was prepared for the impact and quick enough to catch her to his chest so she didn’t tumble to the ground.

“I like your new bride,” Giorsal laughed, hugging him so tightly she near choked him. Then she sat back in his lap and said seriously, “But ye’d best find out who it is that keeps attacking her. Next time she may no’ be so lucky.”

Stiffening, Ross shifted Giorsal to the side so that he could get a better look at his wife. Bean had continued forward at a sedate pace, a long-suffering expression on his face as he watched his hooligan of a wife greet her brother. Even so, he had nearly reached them and Ross could now see that his wife wasn’t as well as he’d first thought. Her hair was a little wild around her head, a dark bruise was coloring her left temple, looking almost a match to the one in the center of her forehead from the day before, and her gown was torn, the neckline hanging askew and almost indecent.

“The blood’s not hers,” Giorsal said reassuringly and Ross suddenly noted that her red gown was a little darker red in places; her right sleeve, neckline and bodice. Drying blood. Her gown hid it well.

“Her attacker?” he asked, eyes narrowing and rage rising up within him at the thought of his wee bride alone and fighting for her life against some faceless bastard like the big behemoth he’d seen chasing her in the clearing the day before.

“Aye. She stabbed him in the arm, and then Jasper scared him off,” Giorsal announced and he now noticed Jasper trotting along beside Bean’s horse. The dog kept tipping his head up to Annabel, and then to the path ahead, and then back to Annabel again. It was how he used to follow his father, Ross recalled, and suspected his wife had been adopted by the beast in his father’s place.

He was distracted from this thought when Giorsal added, “We heard her scream and came to investigate, but he was gone ere we got there. The men were going to search for him, but she said no’ to bother, that you and the men have searched each time he has appeared and the man seems to disappear into the wind.”

Ross frowned. Annabel had claimed not to see the man who had chased her in the clearing the day before, and the only other event had been the man who had walked up on her while she was trying to relieve herself on the journey here. Both times the man had seemed to disappear into thin air, but surely she wasn’t suggesting all three incidents involved the same man? It had been an Englishman in England, and a Scot yesterday. Or, at least, the man had been wearing English clothes in England by Annabel’s account; he had not seen him. He had, however, seen the man the day before and had noted he wore a plaid.

“May I have my wife back?”

Ross blinked his thoughts away to peer at his brother-in-law at that question. A frown claimed his face when he saw that Annabel was no longer seated before the man. Ross looked around, his expression turning grimmer when he saw her presently pulling herself up onto her mare’s bare back with a leg up from Marach. A bulging bag that no doubt contained flowers hung from her one hand. Ross immediately scooped up his sister and tossed her the couple of feet to her husband. He barely waited to ensure Bean caught her before turning his horse to urge it up next to his wife’s. Ross plucked her up just as she settled on the animal’s bare back with a little satisfied huff at the successful effort.

“Husband,” she protested. “I can ride. I am not hurt.”

“Yer gown is torn and bloodied and ye’ve added yet another bruise to yer pretty face. Do no’ tell me yer no’ hurt,” he said grimly, shifting her about before him until she was pressed snugly up against his groin. Satisfied with her position, he then gestured for the others to follow, and turned his horse toward the castle. He rode fast at first and let a moment pass to get ahead of the others, before saying, “Ye told me ye had no’ seen the man in the clearing yesterday.”

“I did not,” Annabel assured him, swiveling to look at him with a bit of excitement as she was recalled to the day’s events. “But I saw his plaid and the man today was wearing the same color plaid. He was big too. And, he was the same man as the one who startled me in England on our journey here, so I am beginning to think it was the same man all three times.”

“Ye’re sure it was the same man as in England?” he asked, not happy at the thought.

“Aye. I only caught a glimpse that first time, but he is hard to mistake,” she assured him. “He is very large and has a pretty face.”

That brought a scowl to Ross’s lips. He didn’t at all like her finding someone else attractive, which was silly, he supposed. It wasn’t like she was going to run off with her attacker. According to Giorsal, she’d stabbed him. Besides, he himself wouldn’t have been flattered to be called pretty.

“Ye mean handsome, do ye no’?” he suggested.

“Nay.
You
are handsome, husband.
He
is pretty,” she said in a tone of voice that suggested that should clear the matter up. It didn’t.

“Is there a difference?” Ross asked cautiously.

“Aye,” Annabel said as if that should be obvious. “Handsome is rugged and manly and . . . well . . .
handsome
,” she finished helplessly, and then added, “Pretty is big eyes, sculpted jaw and hair that flops across the eyes.” She paused briefly before continuing with some consideration, “He would make a lovely girl were he not so muscular across the shoulders and chest.”

“Ah,” Ross said, unable to repress a grin. Whether she realized it or not, his wife was saying she thought he was a sexy beast, while the pretty boy was . . . pretty, but not in a way she found especially attractive. He liked that.

His smile didn’t last long though. Now that he’d got past the bit about her attacker being pretty, he was considering that her description fit the man he’d seen chasing her through the clearing yesterday. It would seem that he was the fellow from all three incidents, after all. “Did he speak?”

“Aye,” she answered and then recalled, “He had a Scottish accent.”

Ross let his breath out on a disappointed sigh. He’d rather been hoping it was an Englishman trying not to draw attention up here, rather than a Scot who had taken on English garb that first time, no doubt in an effort to try to fool them into thinking he was English. If it was a Scot, though, it meant these events likely had more to do with him than with his bride. Someone was trying to get to him through her.

“He said it would go easier did I not fight,” Annabel added suddenly. “That he did not wish to harm me, but would. So I guess it was my fault he punched me in the head.”

“I am going to hurt him when I find him,” Ross said grimly.

“I already did,” Annabel admitted on a sigh. “I fear I stabbed him in the arm.”

Ross tightened his hold on her. She sounded almost apologetic when she admitted it, but he was proud of her. She was a fighter, his wife.

“I did not mean to,” she admitted. “I had forgotten I had the knife in my hand . . . and I was aiming for his head.” She grimaced, and then added, “I am glad he raised his arm. Knifing him in the head would have been disgusting.”

“Aye,” Ross agreed. He’d done it in battle on more than one occasion, but on purpose. A good jab in the ear, in the eye, or up under the jaw was always a battle stopper. Removing the knife afterward was the disgusting bit. The suctioning sound that accompanied the chore was rather gruesome, and sometimes the eye might come out with the blade if you stabbed them there, and then you had to remove that . . . also gruesome.

“Could it be the old trouble?” Gilly asked.

Ross glanced to the side and back at that question to see that he hadn’t left everyone behind after all. Gilly and Marach had kept apace, and had apparently heard all. Ross turned forward again, a grim expression on his face at Gilly’s words. He was suggesting that the battle for clan chief was not yet over and someone was trying to use Annabel to force him to give up the title. But, if that were the case, the attacker would be his uncle or Fingal, and he’d seen the man in the clearing and—“I did no’ recognize him. He’s no’ a clan member.”

“He could ha’e been hired to do the chore for another,” Gilly pointed out quietly.

That was a very real possibility and one Ross wished he didn’t have to consider, but he did. He’d hoped killing Derek had put an end to it all, and certainly the other three men who had been vying for the title of clan chief at the time had seemed to back down and fall in line. His cousin, Derek, had been the son of his father’s deceased twin brother. He had used age as the excuse for why he would be a better clan chief, but the man had only been four years older. The moment Derek had brought up age as the reason, Ross’s two remaining uncles, Ainsley and Eoghann, had each stepped up, pointing out that they had more age and wisdom than either of the two younger men and therefore should be the choice. The final man to try to claim entitlement to the chiefdom was Fingal, the blacksmith in the village, and the bastard son of Ross’s grandfather. As such, he too felt he had every right to go after the seat.

All three of the older men had backed down after Ross had killed his cousin, Derek, in battle. Derek had lain in wait and ambushed Ross, Gilly and Marach while they were out hunting. The element of surprise had not helped him. Nor had his having a dozen men with him. Ross had ended the battle quickly and decisively, riding furiously through the other men to his cousin, who was staying at the back of the group, allowing his men to fight the battle for him. Ross would never see such a coward rule their people. He’d given Derek a mortal chest wound as the man had tried to turn his horse to flee.

Whether it was shame at their leader’s cowardly behavior or simple self-preservation, the moment Derek was dead, the other men had lain down their weapons and sworn fealty.

Fingal and his uncles had done the same on learning the news. All three claimed they had simply been trying to show Derek that his being four years older did not give him a claim to the title, and that leadership skills and courage were what mattered, not age.

Ross’s uncle Ainsley had since passed away when his heart seized up the past winter, but Eoghann and Fingal still lived. Eoghann had a little farm outside the village, and Fingal still worked as a blacksmith in the village. The question now became, was one of them still interested in the title clan chief, and if one of them was, how was he planning to use Annabel to gain it?

“
T
HANK YOU,”
A
NNABEL
murmured when Ross helped her down from his horse. Reaching down to give Jasper an absent pat when he rushed up, she glanced the way they’d come and saw that the others were just crossing the drawbridge. She only had moments before they would reach the keep. Fingers tightening on the bag in her hand, she whirled and rushed up the stairs to the keep doors, aware that Ross and Jasper were following.

The smell in the great hall was not nearly as bad as it had been, but still hung in the air like a ghost, faint but noticeable and very unpleasant. Grimacing, Annabel glanced over the dozen or so women re-scrubbing the various spots where Jasper had left his gifts earlier. She was looking for Seonag, and spotted her just as the maid glanced up and saw them. The woman glared briefly at Jasper when she saw that he was with them, but then her gaze found the bag Annabel carried and relief replaced the scowl. That relief turned to a pained grimace, however, as she struggled to her feet. Annabel frowned with concern and rushed forward as the woman started to shuffle toward them with a limping gait.