An English Bride In Scotland (7 page)

“What happened?” Annabel asked as she shifted her attention and hands to the man’s bloodied leg and began to feel along its length, checking for broken bones. Silence met her question and Annabel glanced up with a frown to see that everyone, including the man she knelt over was staring at her with wide-eyed amazement and uncertainty.

“Well answer yer lady, ye dolts!”

Recognizing Seonag’s voice, Annabel glanced over her shoulder to see that the maid had followed her out of the keep and now stood at her back. She offered the servant a grateful smile and turned back to the injured man as several people began to speak at once in a confusing cacophony of voices.

“One at a time,” Seonag barked as Annabel ran her hands down the man’s leg again. She hadn’t felt anything that suggested a break, but it was best to be sure before moving him too much.

“That damned dog startled my horse. The beast reared and took off and his halter snapped, but not before my cart overturned, throwing myself and my goods to the ground,” the injured man explained through gritted teeth. His accent was English rather than Scottish and had Annabel not already guessed he was a visiting merchant, his mention of goods would have. However, she had no idea what he meant by “that damned dog,” but that didn’t matter at the moment anyway.

“I need a knife,” she announced, glancing around at the faces in the crowd.

“What do ye need a knife for? You don’t need a knife,” the injured man assured her, his voice suddenly several octaves higher.

“Here. Will me
sgian dubh
do, m’lady?”

“Thank you.” Annabel smiled absently at the man who offered her a small knife and then turned back to the merchant, who was staring wide-eyed at the small sharp blade.

“What the devil do you think you’ll be doing with that?” he asked with alarm.

“Hush. I shall not hurt you,” Annabel said reassuringly and quickly slit a line up the length of his braies from the bottom to several inches above the wound on his thigh just above his knee. The action sent an immediate rush of whispers through the crowd, but Annabel ignored it and tugged the cloth aside to get a better look at his wound.

“You’ve ruined my drawers!” the tradesman squawked with dismay.

“Yer drawers were ruined by the accident,” Seonag pointed out dryly. “If ye were a Scot and wearing a plaid, her ladyship would no’ ha’e had to cut that away.”

There were several murmurs of agreement to that, but Annabel ignored them all as she examined his wound. She had no idea what he’d cut his leg on. It was deep, straight and clean, almost like a sword wound. Not what she would expect from an accident involving an overturned wagon, and then she noted the tip of a bloody blade sticking out under his other leg and she reached over to tug it free. She examined the blood on the blade and then glanced at him in question.

“I was eating an apple,” he admitted reluctantly. “I had the blade in my hand. Must have cut myself when I went ass over heel off the wagon. Begging your pardon,” he added quickly as he realized what he’d said.

Annabel’s lips twitched with amusement at his apology. She didn’t hold his words against him. The man was no doubt in shock. He was also losing a lot of blood, she noted, and was about to rip a strip off the hem of the gown she was wearing to bind it up, but then recalled the cloth at her throat, and tugged that off instead to wrap around his leg.

The merchant sucked in a sharp breath as she tightened the makeshift bandage and Annabel glanced up to offer him an apologetic smile, only to pause when she saw that his wide eyes were fixed on her bosom. Glancing down at the expanse of creamy flesh trying to work its way out of the gown, Annabel sighed and straightened.

“He shall have to be brought into the keep. I need to sew him up,” she announced.

Seonag nodded and opened her mouth, no doubt to order a couple of men to cart him inside, but she didn’t have to. Several men were already lifting the fellow off the ground. More men than were really necessary, truth be told . . . and every one of them seemed to be staring at Annabel’s bosom rather than the man they were lifting.

“I’m thinkin’ we’ll be havin’ to let out the bosom o’ Lady Magaidh’s gowns,” Seonag commented, falling into step next to Annabel as she led the way to the keep doors.

“Aye,” she agreed quietly, resisting the urge to try to push her breasts back down again. It would just draw more attention to them. Besides, it didn’t really do much anyway. They just bounced back up. Driving that issue from her mind for now, she said, “I’ll need a needle and thread.”

“I shall fetch it fer ye as soon as we’re inside,” Seonag assured her.

“And salve and whiskey,” Annabel added.

“Whiskey?” Seonag asked with interest.

“To clean the needle and thread as well as the wound,” she explained. Annabel was more used to working with animals than people, but there had been the occasional injury among the women at the abbey and Sister Clara was the most knowledgeable of the nuns when it came to injuries and illness whether it was animals or people. Annabel had always helped her in such cases. However, she’d rarely had to actually tend the wound herself. She’d usually just assisted; handing her what she needed when she needed it and soothing the animal or person being tended. This would be her first time doing the actual sewing of the wound. Oddly enough, she was nervous.

“Where do ye want him? On the table?” Seonag suggested as they entered the keep.

Annabel glanced at the trestle tables, and then back to the crowd following them . . . and it was a crowd. It wasn’t just the men carrying the merchant who had trailed her and Seonag into the keep—every single person who had gathered around the accident appeared to be following them inside.

Apparently, she would have an audience while she tended the man. Brilliant, Annabel thought, but nodded in response to Seonag’s question. “The table will do.”

Chapter 5

R
oss drove Gilly to his knees with the last blow to his shield, and then lowered his sword and stepped back. This was obviously not a good time to practice warfare, he acknowledged with a grimace. He was likely to kill one of his men if he continued in this mood.

“Is everything all right?” Gilly asked, eyeing him warily as he lowered his shield and got to his feet.

“Aye,” Ross muttered, but shook his head when Gilly reluctantly raised his sword and shield again. “Enough for now.”

Gilly didn’t bother hiding his relief as he relaxed. When Ross turned and started to cross the bailey, Gilly fell into step beside him and commented, “Yer in a fou’ mood for someone newly married to the sweet young lass ye’ve just brought home.”

The words startled a wry laugh from Ross. “Sweet young lass? I thought her being English convinced ye she was Devil’s spawn,” he pointed out dryly and reminded him, “Ye were the one saying I should no’ marry her because she was the second daughter.”

“Aye, well I did no’ ken her then, did I?” Gilly said with a faint smile. “But by the second day o’ the journey home I kenned I was wrong about all that. She’s a good lass. Smart, and curious and . . .”

“Sweet?” Ross suggested dryly.

“Aye.” He nodded.

Ross sighed. It had not gone without his notice that his wee bride had quickly wrapped his tough-as-rocks, battle-hardened warriors around her little finger during the journey home. Annabel had chattered away like a magpie for the majority of the journey, asking what this or that was, and telling this or that tale. Most of her stories, he’d noted, had to do with animals or women . . . to the point that he’d actually wondered at one point if her father had not kept her completely segregated from his soldiers and male villagers. Even her father did not feature in any of her stories. Nor had her mother. Though she’d mentioned her sister often enough. “Sister did this” and “sister did that.”

Ross shook his head as he recalled it, and how every tale had held his men enthralled. She had a way of telling a story that made even the most boring event seem an adventure and his men had sat astride their horses or around the fire, watching her with an incredulous fascination that would have made most think these men had never seen a female before.

But he supposed the truth was none of them had ever encountered a female quite like Annabel before. There was an innocence and naivety to her that seemed to ooze from her skin and she was always so bloody cheerful. Even after a day trudging through rain on horseback, and with an undoubtedly sore backside from bouncing about in the saddle, she could still see the bright side of things and manage a smile and story that cheered them. And Annabel hadn’t once acted the lady of the manor on their journey, demanding special treatment. Instead she’d insisted on helping out when they’d made camp each night. The truth was, she’d got in the way more than anything else. If he hadn’t guessed it from her atrocious riding skills, her lack of knowledge when it came to camping would have told them that she’d never been on a proper journey in her life. But she’d tried and that was worth more than gold to his mind, and obviously it had impressed his men as well.

Truthfully, while Ross could claim no responsibility for her disposition, he’d been proud as hell at how she’d conducted herself during the journey. She hadn’t once complained at the discomfort, or the fact that she hadn’t been allowed to pack and bring even one extra gown let alone her lady’s maid and such. She’d simply made the best of everything. She hadn’t even commented on the lack of a tent and the fact that they’d had to bed down around the fire each night with his men. She’d simply snuggled up to him when he’d spooned up behind her and she’d instantly dropped off to sleep as only the innocent and just could.

It was Ross who had lain awake each night, listening to her breathe and wishing he’d brought a tent for them to have some privacy. Idiot that he was, he’d lain there each night, imagining what he could have done had they a tent available to them. He’d imagined stripping her naked, rolling her on her back and finding all those secret places that made women such a joy to be with. He’d imagined making her moan and then weep with pleasure, and then sinking his body into hers and finding his own. These imaginings had not helped him sleep. Only the promise that when they reached MacKay he would get to do all those lovely things to her had eased the ache enough to allow him to eventually find sleep.

However, it had been after midnight when they’d arrived at MacKay. He’d been exhausted, and Annabel even more so. She’d actually dozed off in the saddle hours before that and he’d taken her on his horse so she wouldn’t topple out of her own. By the time they’d arrived, it had been all Ross could do to carry his sleeping bride inside and upstairs to their room. There he’d stripped and set her abed, and then tugged off his plaid and dropped into bed beside her, falling immediately into an exhausted sleep.

Despite that, Ross had woken before her this morning. Annabel had been burrowed under the furs, sleeping so peacefully he hadn’t had the heart to disturb her. So he’d gone in search of his second to get his report on events during his absence. However, he’d had one hell of a time concentrating on the man’s words. His mind had kept wandering upstairs to his sleeping bride until he’d finally excused himself to go up and find her . . . only to have her remind him that it was Wednesday.

He should have known that a bride who wore a chemise carouse on her wedding night would definitely balk at consummating on a Wednesday. The church frowned on anyone, even married couples, indulging in carnal acts on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. In fact, he’d heard it had been made a law. That wouldn’t have stopped him. As far as he was concerned, such laws were ridiculous and made up by bitter men who were jealous of what others could have and they couldn’t. The rest of God’s creatures did not refrain from procreating on certain days. He doubted God cared when people did either. However, if his bride was upset and anxious about the church decrees and breaking them, he wouldn’t force her. That would hardly encourage her to enjoy the bedding and he did want her to enjoy it.

“So with such a sweet wife, why are ye so miserable?” Gilly asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

Ross sighed. “ ’Tis Wednesday.”

Gilly looked briefly mystified and then his eyes widened. “Ohhhh.”

“Aye,” Ross said dryly.

Gilly nodded sympathetically. “That’s a damned shame. Especially after ye could no’ indulge these last three nights on the journey.”

“Aye,” Ross agreed miserably.

“Hmmm.” Gilly shook his head and then brightened and pointed out, “Well, as I recall our priest always calls it bedding when he’s going on about that decree.”

“So?” Ross asked with bewilderment.

“The priest at Waverly probably calls it the same thing,” he pointed out.

“So?” Ross repeated.

“Well, is it still bedding if yer no’ in a bed?” Gilly asked.

Ross blinked at the question and then considered it, a slow smile claiming his lips.

“Ahhh, see,” Gilly grinned. “Yer getting me thinking now.”

“Aye,” Ross agreed.

“And here’s another thought fer ye,” Gilly said. “As I recall, she vowed to obey ye in that wedding ceremony, did she no’?”

“Aye,” Ross said, wondering what he was getting at.

“Well then, even does she argue that if yer no’ in a bed ’tis still bedding, ye can order her to allow it. After all, she vowed before God, the priest and her family to obey ye.”

Ross frowned at that. He would not order her to allow it. He’d rather try seduction and convincing. He wanted a true partnership with his bride as his own parents had enjoyed, not a bitter resentful wife who lived under his thumb. He didn’t say as much though, but simply turned away and headed for the keep. As he went, his mind was planning how to handle the matter. He would take her on a picnic in the woods outside the wall and seduce her on a blanket under the trees, Ross decided. And if she had the presence of mind to protest before he kissed her silly, he’d point out that there was no bed about, so technically it was not bedding.

Nodding to himself, Ross pulled open the keep doors, stepped inside and paused abruptly as he noted the noise and activity around the trestle tables. A large crowd had gathered and was protesting loudly over something.

Curious, Ross approached the table as someone said, “What are ye thinking? Ye can no’ waste good
uisge beatha
like that.”

The crowd immediately murmured in agreement.

“I told you. The whiskey will clean the wound and help prevent infection.” Annabel’s voice was clear as a bell and obviously exasperated as Ross reached the edge of the group and peered over the heads before him to where his wife presently knelt over a man on the trestle table. She was scowling at the cook, Angus, and as he watched, she held out her hand, a determined expression on her face. “Now give it over, Angus. I am your lady, and I order it. I need to stitch his wound ere he bleeds to death on me.”

The surly old cook tsked with disgust, but handed her a goblet apparently filled with whiskey, muttering, “Aye fine, clean his wound then. But next ye’ll be cleaning the great hall floor with it.”

“I will not,” Annabel assured him dryly, and then glanced down with a start as the man lying on the table suddenly sat up, snatched the goblet from her and gulped down the liquid. Eyes wide with amazement, she snatched the goblet away, peered into what Ross guessed was the empty container and then scowled at the man and asked, “Why the devil did you do that? Now I need more whiskey.”

“I thought I was supposed to drink it to clean my wound,” the man spoke the obvious lie with a straight face. His accent, Ross noted, was English.

“Drinking it will not clean your wound, and well you know it,” Annabel said on a sigh, and then glanced to Angus and held out the goblet. “I need more.”

Angus crossed his arms, eyes narrowing, and lips pursing and Ross could see he was about to rebel. Scowling, he started to move through the crowd, intending to set the man straight on the matter of obeying or disobeying his lady, but he needn’t have bothered. His sweet, chatty magpie of a wife, Annabel, suddenly leaned across the man to snatch the cook by the front of his apron and dragged him closer to the table as she hissed, “I am your lady, Angus. Fetch me the bloody whiskey or you shall be searching for a new position elsewhere. I will not let this man die because you are a stubborn cuss too used to having your own way. Understood?”

Angus nodded wildly. “Aye, m’lady. At once, m’lady.”

Annabel nodded and released him, and then watched the man hurry away with a sigh and an expression that suggested to Ross that she regretted what she’d had to do to get the man to obey her.

Movement under his wife drew Ross’s gaze from Annabel to the man she was leaning over and his surprise turned to a scowl of displeasure as he noted that her position had placed her chest over the injured man’s face, and apparently his injury was not so bad that he was not enjoying the view. Seeing how grand the view was did not improve his disposition any and Ross continued through the crowd, traveling much more swiftly than he had the first time.

“Oh, husband,” Annabel gasped with surprise and apparent embarrassment when he caught her attention by grasping her arm and dragging her upright where she knelt on the table. “I was just—Cook—I—”

Her stammered effort to explain what he had just witnessed died when he suddenly put his hands to her breasts. He had meant to fan them over the expanse of creamy flesh bulging out of the tight neckline, but somehow his hands got the message mixed up and simply latched on to each generous globe through the cloth. That brought a choking sound from Annabel that was accompanied by a blush so bright red he wondered there was any blood left in her body. It appeared to have all risen to her face and neck. Muttering under his breath, he shifted his hands to do what he had meant to do all along and said, “Ye need to change.”

When Annabel’s mouth worked without anything coming out, Seonag stepped up beside them and reminded him, “She has nothing to wear but the gown ye brought her in and yer mother’s gowns. Yer mother was no’ quite as large in the upper area as your lady wife is. Lady Annabel did have a kerchief there, but—” Seonag turned and gestured to the man on the table and he saw the blood-soaked cloth tied around his wound.

Ross frowned as he realized that his wife’s present situation was all his fault for not letting her pack a chest to bring with her. He had been so damned eager to get her away from her parents . . . Ross sighed and then glanced to the interested crowd around them and said succinctly, “Out.”

The word was sharp enough, or perhaps his expression was unpleasant enough, that every single person turned and headed at once for the doors. Satisfied, Ross let his hands drop from Annabel’s chest and relaxed a little.

Annabel hesitated, but then cleared her throat and said, “I know I was overstepping when I threatened Angus. But I need the whiskey to clean the needle and the wound or this man could lose his leg.”

“Lose my leg?” The man on the table squawked with horror.

“If it is not cleaned properly before I sew it up, yes,” Annabel admitted and then patted his arm and assured him, “But I will not let that happen. I was trained by the best. You will be fine.”

Recalling the way the man had been ogling his wife’s chest as it had hovered over his face, Ross scowled at him. His scowl only deepened when he realized he didn’t recognize him. “Who the devil are you?”

“The spice merchant,” Seonag answered for him. “He was injured when Jasper startled his horse and the beast overset his wagon.”

Ross cursed under his breath.

“Jasper?” Annabel queried curiously.

“He was my father’s animal,” Ross admitted. “A damned fine hunting dog and companion until father died. He’s been uncontrollable ever since.”

Annabel nodded solemnly, and glanced around as the cook hurried out of the kitchens and rushed across the room with another goblet of whiskey. She murmured “thank you,” as she took the liquid, her earlier anger with the man nowhere in evidence.