Bride for a Knight (12 page)

He’d e’er suspected some of his randier cousins used the secluded little sanctuary for a trysting place with light-skirted kitchen lasses, but even if a kinsman had indulged in such bed sport inside the darkened chapel, he didn’t ken a one of them who’d spread his plaid on the uneven stone floor and leave it there.

And to be sure, he didn’t ken a soul who’d toss a wet plaid across the solemn form of a sleeping forebear.

Frowning, he stepped closer, touching a finger to the sodden wool. His suspicious warrior nose noted, too, that the plaid didn’t stink.

Its drenching was recent.

Yet the slanting rain now lashing against the chapel walls had only begun after he’d carried his bride inside. The rain that had dampened them in the churchyard at the burial cairns had been little more than a Highland shower.

A wetting rain, aye, but not near enough for the voluminous folds of a many-elled great plaid to absorb such a huge amount of water.

A startled gasp sounded behind him and he whirled around to see Aveline hurrying toward him, her gaze fastened on the plaid-draped effigy, her feet flying all too quickly over the wet floor.

“Dia!” she cried, looking aghast. “What is—”

“Slow, lass! There’s a puddle,” Jamie warned too late.

“
Ei-eeee!”
Her foot slipped on the slick stone flags and she went flying, her arms flailing wildly. But only for the instant it took Jamie to leap forward and catch her before she could fall.

His heart pounding, he clutched her to him, cradling her in his arms and holding her head against his shoulder. “Saints o’ mercy,” he breathed, not wanting to think of what might have happened if he hadn’t caught her.

If she’d slammed down onto the hard, wet stones of the floor.

Or worse, hit her head on the edge of a tomb.

“Dinna e’er run across a wet floor again,” he said, well aware he was squeezing her too tightly but somehow unable to hold her gently.

She twisted to peer up at him, the movement bringing her face dangerously close to his. “I didn’t know the flags were wet,” she said, her soft breath warm on his neck. “I couldn’t see the puddle in the dark.”

Jamie frowned. “Then dinna do that, either,” he warned, releasing her. “Flying about in the shadows!”

She shook out her skirts. “I wanted to see what was bothering you.”

You and all your enchantments are bothering me,
Jamie almost roared.

Instead, he allowed himself another
humph
.

Then he looked at her, astounded she didn’t know how perilously close he was to forgetting the wet floor and even his dripping-tartan-hung ancestor.

He could ponder such mysteries later.

For now, she looked too fetching and dear for him to care about much else.

Especially considering her skirts had hitched to a delightful degree, plainly exposing her slim, shapely legs and even a glimpse of pale, satiny hip.

And, saints preserve him, for one heart-stopping moment, he’d caught an intimate enough flash of nakedness to know the curls betwixt her thighs looked so silky and tempting he burned to devour her whole.

“You know I shall not be taking you back to Fairmaiden tonight,” he said when he trusted himself to speak. “The hall at Baldreagan should be nigh empty by the time we return and I would enjoy sitting with you in a quiet corner, perhaps before the hearth fire.”

If the hall proved as private as he hoped.

And above all, if he wasn’t mistaking the meaning of the flush staining her cheeks. The wonderment in her soft, wide-eyed expression and the way she kept moistening her lips.

How pliant she’d gone in his arms.

All soft and womanly.

As if she’d welcome another kiss, perhaps even some gentle stroking.

“Sorcha and I have slept at Baldreagan before,” she said, watching him. “On nights when your father was restless and wished to talk.”

Jamie drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Your sister’s plight weighs heavy on my mind,” he said, picking up the wet plaid with his free hand. “So soon as things settle and she is in better spirits, I will do what I can to find a husband for her. Perhaps—”

“My sister loved Neill,” she cut in, letting him lead her from the water-stained tomb. “She truly grieves for him. I do not think she will wish to wed another.”

No one will have her
.

Some even whisper that losing Neill has turned her mind
.

The unspoken words hung between them, loud and troubling as if they echoed off the chapel walls.

Frowning, Jamie cleared his throat, seeking a solution.

“Even if she does not desire a husband,” he began, hoping he’d found one, “perhaps she will warm to the thought of a family? A marriage to a widowed clansman? One with wee bairns in need of a mother?”

To his relief, Aveline smiled. “Oh, aye, that might please her,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

“Och, a cousin or two,” Jamie offered, thinking of Beardie.

Recently widowed and a bit of a lackwit, but left with five snot-nosed, bawling sons. Wee mischievous devils ranging in age from less than a year to seven summers if Jamie’s memory served.

But even good-natured Beardie might balk at the prospect of taking Sorcha Matheson to wife.

A superstitious soul, the widowed Beardie might worry that ill luck clings to the maid. That fear alone would deter the most ardent Highland suitor.

“I don’t think we should say anything to Sorcha for a while,” Aveline said, and Jamie almost leaned back against the nearest tomb in relief.

Truth was, his bride’s sister posed a devil’s brew and he couldn’t imagine what to do about her, much as he’d like to help the lass.

So he did what seemed natural and slid his arms around
his
Fairmaiden lass, pulling her to him and kissing her until she melted against him. And even then, he kept kissing her, absorbing her sweetness and reveling in the way she tunneled her fingers through his hair, clutching him to her as if she, too, craved the intimacy and closeness.

Maybe even needed or welcomed his kiss.

And outside the chapel, the squally wind and rain dwindled and the moon sailed from behind the clouds, its silvery light spilling across the little churchyard with its burial cairns and ancient Pictish stone.

Illuminating, too, the tightly entwined young couple standing just inside the open chapel door and kissing so feverishly.

Feverishly enough to send a shiver through the watching hills.

A cold and deadly shiver.

Chapter Six

I
n a world far beyond Clan Macpherson’s little churchyard, more specifically in the isle-girt castle known as Eilean Creag, just off the shores of Kintail’s Loch Duich, Lady Linnet MacKenzie sat near the hearth fire of her well-appointed lady’s solar and frowned at the untidy stitches of her embroidery.

Clumsy, careless stitches.

And were she honest, the worst she’d made in a good long while. Though, with her needlework gracing countless cushions, bed drapings, and tapestries throughout her home, everyone within the MacKenzie stronghold’s proud walls knew she’d ne’er mastered a lady’s skill of being able to make tiny, nigh invisible stitches.

Her stitches fell crooked and large, easily identifiable at ten or more paces.

A lacking her puissant husband, Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, accepted with notable tolerance. E’er a man apart, he even complimented her most inept efforts, never letting on that her skills were anything but splendiferous.

Forbearance she did not expect when he returned from paying a call to Kenneth, their nephew, and discovered that her dread
taibhsearachd
had once again visited her.

Linnet glanced at the hearth fire and sighed. Even after a long and happy marriage, her otherwise fearless husband still felt ill at ease when it came to her special gift.

Her second sight.

As seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, the
taibhsearachd
was something she’d lived with since birth. And while it was ofttimes a blessing, it was more often a curse.

“Aye, a curse,” she muttered, letting out a shaky breath.

Shuddering, she set aside her needlework and wriggled her stiff and tired fingers. It was no use sitting on her hearthside stool, jabbing her needle into the hapless cloth. Her gift had unleashed a nightmare this time, and all her usual distractions were failing her.

She couldn’t forget what she’d seen.

Or undo its truth.

The action she’d set into motion because of it; a bold undertaking sure to unleash her husband’s wrath.

“O-o-oh, he’ll be sore vexed,” she admitted, speaking to Mungo, a tiny brown-and-white dog curled at her feet and who belonged to her stepson, Robbie, and his lady wife, Juliana.

Biting her lip, she reached down and tousled the dog’s floppy ears, gladly obliging when he rolled onto his back to have his belly rubbed.

With Robbie off with Duncan at Kenneth’s recently restored Cuidrach Castle, and Juliana gone at Linnet’s own behest, wee Mungo was in her care.

And from the way the little dog trotted after her, never leaving her side, she could almost believe that he, too, possessed a touch of her gift. That he knew how much trouble would soon descend upon her.

Sure of it, she moistened her lips and stood, grateful to stretch her legs and move about the lady’s solar. Even if she would’ve preferred awaiting Duncan’s return on the wall walk of Eilean Creag’s high-towered battlements, as was her usual wont. A habit she doubted she’d allow herself to indulge for a good, long while.

Not after such a fright.

Shuddering again, she hugged herself, rubbing her arms until the gooseflesh receded.

Only then did she glance at the carefully bolted window shutters, wishing she could risk opening them to the brisk evening breeze.

But she didn’t dare.

Sparing herself a repetition of the grim vision she’d seen the last time she’d looked upon the still, shining waters of Loch Duich was more important than filling her lungs with fresh night air.

Air she knew she’d need as soon as the door flew wide and she came face-to-face with Duncan wearing his most thunderous expression.

An unpleasantness that was about to crash down upon her, for she could hear angry voices and the sound of hurrying feet pounding up the turnpike stair.

Two sets of heavy, masculine feet.

Accompanied by two identical glares, for Robbie would be with him and equally displeased.

Then, before she could even smooth a hand over her hair or shake out her skirts, the door burst open and the two men swept into the room. Chill night wind from the stairwell’s arrow slit windows gusted in as well, its rushing draught gutting a few candles and making the torch flames flicker wildly.

But not near so wild as her husband looked.

Frowning darkly, he strode forward, sword-clanking and windblown, his eyes blazing. “Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” he roared, staring at her. “Tell me you haven’t sent my daughters to the north.
To anywhere.
And without my consent!”

Looking equally mud-stained and disheveled, Robbie shook his head, his expression more of disbelief than fury. “Surely we misheard.” He glanced at his father. “Juliana would ne’er ride off without telling me. If she had need to make a journey, she would’ve waited until I returned from my own.”

“She went because I asked her. She—” Linnet broke off when Mungo streaked past her to hurtle himself at Robbie’s legs.

Scooping him up, her stepson clasped the little dog to his chest, some of the darkness slipping from his face, washed away by Mungo’s excited wags and yippings, his wet slurpy kisses.

Duncan snorted.

His brow black as his tangled, shoulder-length hair, he ignored his son and the squirming dog and glanced around the fire-lit room before heading straight to a table set with cheese and oatcakes, an ewer of heather ale. Helping himself to a brimming cup of the frothy brew, he downed it in one long gulp, then swung back around, looking no less fierce for having refreshed himself.

“God’s wounds, woman, I have loved you for long.” He narrowed his eyes on her, his stare piercing. “But this is beyond all. I canna say what I will do if aught happens to either of my girls.”

Linnet clasped her hands before her and lifted her chin. “Our daughters are well able to look after themselves,” she returned, meeting his glare. “They are escorted by a company of your best guardsmen. Juliana”—she glanced at Robbie— “accompanied them for propriety’s sake.”

“That doesn’t tell me why they are gone,” Duncan shot back, looking at her long and hard.

“You know I would have known if danger awaited them.”

“Faugh.” He folded his arms. “’Tis still a bad business.”

Linnet held her ground, flicked at her skirts. “I sent them away for a reason.”

Duncan arched a brow. “And would that be the same reason you’ve barricaded yourself in here with all the shutters drawn tight? You, with your love of fresh air and open windows?”

“To be sure, I would rather have the shutters flung wide,” Linnet admitted, lowering herself onto her stool. “I—”

“By the saints!” Robbie’s voice echoed in her ears, already sounding distant, hollow. “Father, do you not see?”

Vaguely, Linnet was aware of Robbie setting down Mungo, then grabbing his father’s arm, shaking him. “She’s closed the shutters to block the view of the loch! Like as not, she’s had another one of her spells. The
taibhsearachd
. . .”

But Linnet heard no more.

Truth be told, she wasn’t even in the lady’s solar anymore, but standing on the parapet walk of Eilean Creag’s battlements, enjoying the wind in her face and a splendid Highland sunset.

A glorious one, with the still waters of Loch Duich reflecting the jagged cliffs and headlands, the long line of heather and bracken-clad hills rolling away beyond the loch’s narrow, shingled shore.

Only then the open moors and rolling hills trembled and shook, drawing ever nearer until the vastness of Loch Duich narrowed to a treacherous defile. A deep, black-rimmed gorge hemming a rushing, raging torrent, all white water, rocks, and spume.