Midnight's Bride (12 page)

“Saints help me!”

Netta tried to pry Marcus' locked fingers from her horse's reins without success. Sickening waves of terror crashed over her as the fearsome rider came closer. She clutched Marcus' arm, her only security. Pride barely kept her from scrambling onto his mount with him.

The man riding toward her was a giant. Puffs of wind lifted light hair, golden mixed with brown, to fly about his face and shoulders. A Morgan plaid rode well above his knees as he straddled the back of
M'Famhair.
Wolf furs held by a huge brooch covered his massive bare chest and shoulders. Leather bands hugged his wrists and forearms. He used no saddle. Spread across the destrier's back was a blanket, not for the man's comfort, but to shelter the horse.

Blue paint covered one side of his face.

His eyes traveled over the men as he passed them; discipline and pride showed in their squared shoulders and erect backs. All wore the Morgan tartans. He nodded his approval.

Elise spied the barbarian sitting astride the huge war horse and screamed, “Blessed Saint Agnes. Netta's barbarian found us.”

With not a flicker of expression on his face, his back straight as a spear, he advanced toward Netta.

Icy chills crept over her back. Her teeth chattered together. She snapped them shut and lowered her chin to her chest, hugging herself, hoping he could not hear her shameful fear. But he would smell it, wouldn't he? The savage Baresark was as terrifying as if she were alone in the forest on a moonless midnight, hearing leaves rustling, twigs snapping and the deep, throaty snarl of a wolf.

Finally, he was close enough she saw his face. Light sea-green eyes studied her. She quaked as fearful images of being a possession of this man streaked through her mind. Waves of cold chills followed by heat washed over her.

“Greetings,
mo bean na bainnse,
my bride.”

His voice was gentle, so like Mereck's voice.

“You cannot be here. I left you behind. What have you done to Mereck of Blackthorn?”

Netta gasped for air. Her tongue fought to form words in a mouth so dry she could not swallow. She shook Marcus' arm.

“Marcus, surely you know this man has followed us and slain your leader. Is he kin to Mereck? He poses as him. Are their faces so alike you do not see it?”

Netta cringed and tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and this barbaric man.

“Nay, milady. Our leader is afore you.
M'Famhair
would allow no other on his back but Mereck. Can you not see how content the steed is?” The warhorse nickered.

“B-But,” she stuttered. “He's dressed like the savage.”

“Sir Mereck seldom travels using Scottish clothing and trappings. For your comfort, he did so until now. He favors his Welsh ways”—he grinned wryly—“and is as you first saw him at Wycliffe.”

The stable! Why had she not recognized it was Marcus who delivered the horse to her savage at Wycliffe? She swallowed hurriedly, for now her mouth filled with saliva. Oh, she was going to be ill. She put her hands over her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. Perchance if she closed them long enough the apparition would fade away and the demanding Mereck would reappear. Her shoulders shook. Soft moans escaped her clamped lips.

Gentle hands rested on her shoulders. She flinched.

“Come, lady. Dinna take on so. I am the same man whose pallet lay next to yours each night.” His voice close to her ear was soft, coaxing. “The same man whose warmth you shared,” he whispered.

Saints. Images flashed through her mind of the past mornings when she awoke snuggled tight to this man's side.

This
barbarian's
side.

She caught Mereck's familiar scent, causing that still unfamiliar tingling to streak from her breast to the pit of her stomach. She shuddered. Still, she refused to open her eyes.

“But you wear furs. Men do not dress in wolf skins.”

“You must become accustomed to the sight. At Caer Cad-well, you will see many men garbed thus.”

Netta peeped through cautious lids. His warriors chuckled over her fright. Dafydd and Fergus hurried to reassure her he was truly Mereck, and not strange in any way. This was the traditional way many Welshmen dressed. They likely thought her a frightened mouse to take on so. But they did not understand.

It was not only his clothing.

He was the man her father swore she would marry. The man about whom her parents had told such gruesome tales.

The man from whom she ran.

Before she could worry further, the call of an eagle sounded high above. Her eyes widened when she heard the same sound come from close-by. Her savage had answered the call. He watched the sky, his face alight with pleasure. An eagle circled lower and lower until it was over their heads. Mereck's arm raised. With a soundless glide, the eagle landed on his leather-clad wrist.

“Cloud Dancer, I have seen you watch over us these last days. You come to escort us home, do you not?” He uttered soft chirps and warbles from deep in his throat, as he looked from the eagle to Netta. The raptor's gaze traveled from her face to his.

The eagle stared into her eyes seeming to study her. Soothing warmth seeped over her body, calming her. Surprising herself, she smiled at the beautiful face of the raptor.

Cloud Dancer ruffled the feathers on his great head and nodded. He walked sideways up Mereck's arm and perched on his shoulder, then gave a series of warbles, as if giving the man permission to continue his travels.

Her savage Welshman nodded, then motioned for Marcus to join him at the head of the line. Warriors closed in on both sides of Netta and Elise. Mereck gave her no time to fret, for he led them in a fast canter toward their goal.

“Hsst, Netta. Why did you not tell me Mereck was your barbarian? When he visited Ridley, he never dressed thus.”

“Oh, Elise, I am so confused. Savage. Barbarian. Baresark. Mereck. I know not which man he is. But if he
is
my savage barbarian and has the marriage contract, what am I to do?”

“Bleddyn will help you. In Gwynedd, he is a nobleman. He is overlord over Caer Cad-well and controls all things there. 'Tis why your mother's legacy gives him final say as to the man who weds you.”

They broke out of the deep woods, and Dafydd eagerly told them they rode on Blackthorn's ground. At the foot of the hill, the green forests ended. Ahead, the land rose in a gentle slope. A village surrounded by fields and lush pastures lay afore them.

The castle stood on the cleared span of land running north and south parallel to the bay's inlet. Tongue Bay cut into the eastern part of the ridge and formed river cliffs that protected the castle from attack. Curtain walls surrounded the huge area. On the west they followed the cliff's outline while the walls to the north, east and south rose behind a large moat. Sitting in the midst of a clearing was a massive rectangular keep, its formidable stones rising high in the air. It was built in the Norman way. Baileys surrounded by stone walls lay on either side of the castle.

Everyone halted to allow Netta to study the scene afore her. She startled when Mereck spoke.

“Lady, have no fear anyone will mistreat you in your new home. You and Elise will have ample female company. Connor's sister, Meghan, and Brianna are close of an age. Also, wives of the knights and castle members live with us.” His gaze scanned her face. “Lady Phillipa oversees all.”

“I do not fear such, sir. I would not allow it,” she said with conviction.

It startled him, for her fragmented thoughts told a different story.
Savage temper—alone—defend Elise—who will champion me?
Pangs of regret struck him that she had seen his loss of control in the woods. He longed to reassure her he would never harm her. He would not—as long as he honored his vow never to love her. But no other man would hurt her. That he could promise with confidence.

As they rode closer, people hurried from the fields and buildings of the village. Men astride short Highland ponies raced on either side of them, shouting and welcoming the men back home. They slowed as they rode through the village, and the comforting aroma of food cooking in the huts drifted to them.

The villagers must have become used to having a Sassenach as their laird's wife, for the women smiled and waved as they passed. She returned their greetings. If Bleddyn refused to help her, she would make plans to escape Blackthorn and mayhap find someone here who would give her aid. To even think on it was foolish. She was at the farthest tip of Scotland's mainland, surrounded by the fiercest warriors in the country.

The exciting skirl of bagpipes called to them. She spied two pipers high atop the barbican. A fascinating figure stood beside them. Even from this distance she could see a man wearing a brilliant hued cloak about his shoulders. Long, shaggy black hair whipped around his face.

Cloud Dancer screeched his greeting. Careful not to harm Mereck, the bird moved from his shoulder back down to his raised wrist. With a slow sweep of his wings, the eagle lifted into the air without ruffling a hair on Mereck's head.

Netta watched, fascinated, as it soared above them to the man waiting beside the pipers. After landing on his left shoulder, Cloud Dancer's right wing moved like a caress over the human's head.

“Do you see, Netta? 'Tis our Bleddyn. You may not remember him clearly. Baron Wycliffe sent you to us these last five years when he expected Bleddyn to visit. Bleddyn was a great favorite with my Sinclair cousins. Brianna and her sister Abbess Alana are his special loves. He has always seen to their protection. The same way Father says he has looked after you and Caer Cad-well.”

“I remember him. Does he bear a terrible scar that starts from the right side of his forehead and across the eyelid to end at his lip?”

“Aye. When he paints it red and the opposite side of his face blue, he frightens men who are as big as yonder steed.” She pointed at
M'Famhair
with a nervous giggle.

As the sounds of the pipes swirled around them, they rode up the steep trail to the castle entrance. The closer they came to the massive portcullis, the clearer Netta saw the second piper was a woman. The entrance through the curtain was an arch, with an elaborate outer gatehouse behind. A round tower stood to the right of it, another at the end corner of the curtain wall.

The battlement walkways above the gatehouse swarmed with men on each sides of the pipers. The young woman pulled the instrument from her lips and let loose a signal cry so powerful they heard it above the wail of the other bagpipe.

Mereck's gaze lifted, and he echoed the sound back to her. She waved and turned to race down the steps to the bailey.

They clattered over the wooden bridge and through the confining entrance to the gatehouse. Netta studied the archers' slits and the murder holes on the ceiling above. This was a massive fortress, nothing like her father's castle. As they rode across the bailey toward the entrance to the keep, people gathered to await them at the steps.

Netta flinched when Mereck lifted her from the mount. His familiar scent comforted her, though she tried to pull away from his possessive hand on her waist. He would not allow it.

Before they could step forward, Elise's shout halted her.

“Netta. Tell him to go away. I told you of him. You vowed you would protect me.”

Netta turned. Elise, atop her mount, scowled down at a very large man. She refused to allow him to aid her and held tight to the horse's mane. The hair on its poor neck looked like she was likely to pull it out afore she would release it.

The man's laughing brown eyes looked up at Elise, his mouth stretched wide in a smile. He was as tall and muscular as Mereck. Was the Highlands a land of giants? From Elise's description of him earlier, Netta recognized Connor, Mereck's cousin. He did not appear a villain to her.

“Come, little mouse. I vow not to eat you afore dinner,” Connor coaxed. He pried Elise's fingers from the pony's mane and lifted her to the ground before she had time to utter a word. She bolted straight to Netta and clung to her arm.

“Connor, shame on ye, scarin' the puir lassie.”

The tall girl who played the pipes had spoken. Her hair was long, and as deep brown as Connor's. Light green eyes sparkled beneath a broad forehead, and her mouth was as wide and generous as his. Were her eyes brown instead of green, she would have looked to be his twin. She wore breeches and a long open-necked shirt with a leather belt around her waist. A sheathed dagger hung from it and rested against her hip. When she approached Connor and shoved his shoulder, she surprised Netta. Then she remembered Elise speaking of a young woman called the Warrior Woman of Blackthorn. It was her.

“Keep yer grimy paws off the lass, brother, at least 'till she has rested. Greetings, Mereck.”

Mereck solemnly bent and kissed her cheek. Laughing up at him, she hugged his waist before coming to Netta and Elise.

“I am Meghan.” A broad smile lit her face. “I see this lumberin' beastie brought somethin' besides smelly men back with him. Connor has paced the battlements fer hours. We have been expectin'ye, Elise.” Meghan hugged Elise, then turned to Netta and studied her. “Bleddyn told us ye wud be comin', Lynette. Welcome to Blackthorn. Do ye prefer Netta, as Elise calls ye?”