The Highland Wife

The Highland Wife Lyn Stone “God’s holy mercy!” she whispered. 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? 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…. Praise for a few of Lyn Stone’s previous works Bride of Trouville “I could not stop reading this one…. Don’t miss this winner!” —Affaire de Coeur The Knight’s Bride “Stone has done herself proud with this delightful story…a cast of endearing characters and a fresh, innovative plot.” —Publishers Weekly The Wicked Truth “Stone has an apt hand with dialogue and creates characters with a refreshing naturalness.” —Publishers Weekly The Highland Wife Harlequin Historical #551 #552 ANNE’S PERFECT HUSBAND Gayle Wilson #553 LONGSHADOW’S WOMAN Bronwyn Williams #554 LILY GETS HER MAN Charlene Sands The Highland Wife Lyn Stone www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Available from Harlequin Historicals and LYN STONE The Wicked Truth #358 The Arrangement #389 The Wilder Wedding #413 The Knight’s Bride #445 Bride of Trouville #467 One Christmas Night #487 “Ian’s Gift” My Lady’s Choice #511 The Highland Wife #551 Other works include: Silhouette Intimate Moments Beauty and the Badge #952 Live-In Lover #1055 Special thanks to my son, Eric, for providing inspiration and informal signs, to my daughter, Pamela, for her encouragement, and to my husband, Allen, for everything. Contents Chapter One (#u99826e9d-6122-527c-b7ae-74e721bba3b4) Chapter Two (#ue3f28369-5a22-5b57-a064-cb9ba4786b3c) Chapter Three (#u4c6b6bb5-75b7-5ad2-8a03-82495ae999bd) Chapter Four (#ue112972b-84f0-503c-9d76-c0f9348b95db) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One The Highlands Summer 1335 What the devil was he doing in this place? He did not need a wife this desperately, Robert MacBain told himself. Yet here he rode, into the very heart of the unfamiliar. Into these alien hills, to wed an unseen betrothed who was likely more apprehensive than he was about the whole matter. Yet he was obliged to carry through. Thomas de Brus had traveled far and spent half a year arranging this marriage, urgently driven to it because his sister had spurned Rob and broken their lifelong betrothal. Rob had not the heart to refuse his friend and leave him with that guilt, but now he wished he had waited for Thomas to recover and come with him. The date of Rob’s arrival had been agreed upon, however. His bride awaited. So here he was, facing the only terror that ever plagued him. The unknown. The makings of his worst nightmares. This was not a fear he would ever admit aloud. Nor a thing he would avoid. He glanced around and up at the harsh gray peaks that defined the Highlands. This forbidding region looked so different from the Midlothian he called home. Neither did it bear any resemblance to the various places on the Continent he had visited to participate in tournaments with his brother Henri. Rob had no wish to be in this place, yet its peculiar scents and incredible beauty fascinated him nonetheless. He decided he must dwell upon the favorable aspects of this journey instead of his dread. Would his Highland bride hold true with her surroundings? Would she differ so greatly from the women he had explored in the past? Would she beguile, or repel him? Or perhaps do both at once, as did her homeland? The sharp blade of anticipation sliced through his apprehension. While that did not banish it altogether, it certainly made it more manageable. The woman might make all this worthwhile. Thomas had promised she was quite beautiful as well as congenial. He inhaled a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and shook his head to clear it of the useless musing. Whether he liked the lass or not, she would be his wife. His family and Thomas would cease worrying about him then. Rob needed to get an heir from some woman. If he could not have the lady meant for him, he might as well take this one since Tom had gone to so much trouble. His man, Newton, reined his cob and waited until Rob rode abreast. “Craigmuir’s just through yon hills, milord.” He pointed ahead, off to the right. “Would you care to rest? Tidy yourself?” Newt made a scrubbing motion on his chest and cocked his brow. “Your bride awaits!” The merry grin Newton wore told Rob how begrimed he looked after a week’s travel in the same garb. “There’s a burn up ahead we must cross to get there.” Rob nodded and rode past Newton. Their mounts picked up the pace to a trot, scenting the water. His father had taught him that in any confrontation, Rob should appear as though he already conquered the world. Thus far, the advice had served him well. It would today. “He comes! He comes!” cried the sentry on the wall. Corby was all but leaping about with glee as he pointed toward the south. Mairi MacInness refused to play overeager. Especially when everyone else at Craigmuir acted as though Christmas mummers were expected. She supposed they had good enough reason for their excitement, with the feast and merrymaking imminent. For them it would be a grand holiday. As for herself, she would reserve judgment until she saw whether she had any good cause to celebrate. Her father joined her on the steps to the hall. “Best you wait inside, dove,” he advised her. “I would meet him first.” Mairi complied, but she did not go far, certainly not to her chamber to await being summoned. Instead, she went to the small chamber her father used to tally his accounts and store his books. From there, she would be able to see all that took place within the hall without being seen. She wanted no surprises. If the man proved loathsome, this would allow her time to prepare a proper reaction when they were introduced. While waiting, Mairi once again straightened the neck of her chemise, smoothed her skirts, rearranged the belt, her chatelaine and the simple scabbard that held her eating knife. Satisfied that she appeared as presentable as possible, she then kept avid watch upon the hall door. Her eyes grew wide with wonder when at last she saw him enter. Mercy, he did look impressive. Taller even than her sire, he was, and quite a contrast to her cousin Ranald. She had hoped never to see that one again. He’d arrived late, but there he came now, hurrying to catch up to her father and the newcomer as they crossed the hall. Unable to quell her curiosity, desperate for a closer look at the stranger who had come to wed her, Mairi decided she would risk appearing eager after all. They had halted at one side of the raised dais. Mairi approached just behind and to the right of her sire and remained silent and unobtrusive, as was proper. Her time would come, and none too soon to suit her. Baron MacBain’s emissary had arrived to make the arrangements two months prior to this. She had met him briefly, but had not known why the man was here until he had departed. After informing her rather curtly of the marriage plans, her sire had said nothing more on the subject no matter how she had plagued him about it. Mairi had prepared herself to refuse the match if it was not to her liking, no matter that her father had already arranged her wedding down to the last ribbon on her gown. Now she forgave him that, for it seemed he had done right well by her after all. Her mother would be proud of Da’s arrangements and of Mairi’s biddable acceptance, had she lived. What a pleasant surprise that the intended was such a young and comely man, Mairi thought. Since she was four and twenty, a good decade past the age his kind usually sought in a bride, she had fully expected to meet a groom in his dotage, minus most of his hair and teeth. That the man chosen was not a Highlander only counted in his favor. Leaving this isolated place would pose little hardship as far as Mairi was concerned. All her life she had craved adventure and travel to new places, even while thinking how unlikely she was to experience either. She would miss her father, of course. Though most of the time the laird scarcely gave her more attention than he did his hounds, she knew he loved her well. Otherwise why would he trouble himself to chastise her roundly now and again and caution her to be more thoughtful and prudent? Since she had never known her mother, he must feel obliged to make a proper lady of his only child. Mairi was glad he cared enough to bother. At the moment Da headed her list of favorite people simply because he had chosen such a fine husband for her. Aside from the occasional raids by the neighbors, life at Craigmuir proved exceedingly dull. Even those events possessed a sameness. Ride near, steal a few head of kine and ride out. Then her father’s men would retaliate. Other than patching up the few minor wounds acquired and enduring the curses when a raid failed, none of it affected her own routine. Now here stood her hope for great change. His light brown, sun-streaked hair had been neatly groomed, combed away from his wide brow. His dark gray eyes seemed to miss nothing, though he did not turn his head and gape as some did upon entering the cavernous hall. He must be used to even larger and better. Mairi thought so because his exquisitely embroidered woolen tunic and tightly woven hose seemed richer, and his excellent weaponry more costly, than her father’s. Or any other she had ever seen, for that matter. Silver spurs and the chain he wore marked him as a knight as well as a noble, but she had already known that about him. One of the few details she’d been granted was his title of baron. And how seriously noble he was. She smiled in welcome from her place just behind the laird, hoping for a ready response that would signify friendliness. Yet judging by his countenance, the man might have been approaching a hangman’s noose. He gave neither her nor her smile any notice whatsoever. Of course, he did not know yet who she was, Mairi reasoned. She clenched her teeth and maintained the smile, silently determined to not judge the man too swiftly. He must be as worried as she was about this first meeting. Her father had yet to notice she was present, for she stood out of his sight. He had just greeted her cousin and was making introductions. “Lord Robert MacBain, Baron of Baincroft, meet my kinsman and chosen tanist, Sir Ranald MacInness.” He inclined his head toward their cousin who would be laird of the MacInness after him. Ranald was a tall, stalwart man of thirty years who seemed cursed with a perpetual smirk. The sin-dark eyes examined their guest as intently as the man’s silvery-gray gaze regarded him. Though Ranald bore the sword, spurs and other trappings of a knight, Mairi knew he possessed none of the inner qualities required of one. Chivalry, humility and honor were unknown to him. She wondered whether that would be obvious to one who had never met him before. Lord MacBain’s handsome face remained so unexpressive, she could not tell what he thought. “Sir Ranald,” MacBain acknowledged gruffly, her cousin’s name sounding foreign upon his tongue. He offered his arm and, after a short hesitation, Ranald clasped it briefly in greeting. “MacBain,” he replied with obvious disdain, ignoring the baron’s title. An insult. Mairi felt a prickle between her shoulder blades. Ranald would bear watching, she thought. It was a safe wager the man had a purpose in being here other than to meet her bridegroom. He had requested that nebulous honor for himself with some regularity, much to her disgust. “I regret I cannot stay for the nuptials,” Ranald told her father. “I must return to Enslor before the morrow.” “Expecting trouble?” the laird asked. “Nothing I cannot deal with,” her cousin replied curtly. “’Tis little enough I have to do these days when I could be relieving you of many duties hereabout.” Mairi’s father sighed. “Ambition is often admirable, Ranald. But I’m not dead yet, as ye can see.” This could degenerate into another family squabble, Mairi thought with mounting apprehension. What an embarrassment to them all, that would be. Her gaze leaped to Lord MacBain, who observed her father and Ranald with keen interest. Ranald pressed a hand to his chest in mock dismay. “Ye mistake my offer of help, m’laird.” He looked past her father and fastened his evil gaze on Mairi. “Just as ye mistook my frequent proposals to become as a son to ye.” Her sire snorted inelegantly. “Cousin is a close enough tie to suit me. The clan chose ye years ago, and ye’ll have yer due, but not through me or mine.” Ranald looked Mairi up and down, then smiled his oily, suggestive smile. How often he had done this, silently promising her what would happen if he ever caught her alone? Abruptly the MacBain stepped between them, purposely cutting off her cousin’s view of her. Only then did Ranald halt his taunting of her and take his leave. Thank God he did. The man made her skin crawl as though she were covered with leeches. When they were finally free of Ranald’s presence, her future husband turned and looked her straight in the eye, as if she were the only person in the world worth seeing. Mairi’s skin felt fine at that moment. A bit overheated, yet fine. ’Twas her bones that melted. God save her soul, this man could charm the thorns off of thistles. She felt totally bereft when he looked away to focus expectantly on her father. Today, for the first time since she had found she was to marry, Mairi MacInness felt the definite thrill of expectation. Of course, she had another reason for that feeling. She had not even hoped that he would be this handsome or look so worthy, given her father’s obvious reluctance to speak to her of the match. “Lord MacBain, here is my daughter, Mairi MacInness,” her father said by way of introduction, and drew her forth by her arm to stand immediately before her intended. “Yer bride.” Again she became the target of his full regard. The steel-gray, long-lashed eyes widened slightly with avid interest, mayhaps even desire. Mairi almost shivered. Cautiously, as though he thought she might refuse the gesture, he extended one large hand, calloused palm upright. Mairi offered her own and watched as he lifted her fingers to his lips. He had wonderful lips. She sighed. His eyes never left her face as that finely shaped mouth nearly touched her knuckles. She felt his breath warm upon them. That sent tingles up her arm and they did not stop at her shoulder. “My lord,” she acknowledged. She wished she had not sounded quite so breathless, but indeed she was. His size and very presence quite overwhelmed her. But in the most wonderful way she could imagine. “My lady,” he murmured in a very deep voice completely devoid of inflection. She could not decide whether she liked the sound of him. However, the rest certainly left no room for complaint. He bore the scent of costly spices from the East. Cloves, she decided, drawing another deep breath. And cinnamon, which she dearly loved. That boded well, Mairi thought, used as she was to men bearing only the smells of sweat and horse. Her father cleared his throat. “Coom, sit and rest yerself,” he commanded loudly, and motioned across the hall toward the low-burning fire. “Bring us ale!” He nearly shouted the words at the servants now bustling about the tables, readying them for the evening meal. “Da! Please, speak more softly,” Mairi reprimanded quietly, patting her sire’s arm. He merely grunted in a very low voice, not moving his mouth, “’Tis lack o’ hearing, lass. Sad to say, but ye must have pity and patience. I should ha’ mentioned it before.” Mairi sighed, troubled, but not overmuch. Such a loss was to be expected in a man of her father’s advanced years. Yet he did not have to treat everyone as though they shared his affliction. Still, the young baron seemed not to have taken umbrance at her father’s loud barking. Mayhaps he understood. To her surprise, her intended bypassed the comfort of the only two cushioned chairs, leaving these softer ones for his host and hostess. Deferring to a lady and an elder spoke very well for the man’s manners, she thought. Why, then, did her father look so uneasy? Not fearful, exactly, but certainly wary. There was little that ever disconcerted him. He probably worried she would disgrace them all. Not so, this time. She’d put her rash, impulsive ways behind her. Never again would she rush into an action or for a judgment, forsaking caution and good thought. Was she not proving this even now? Each move the baron made, she evaluated with great care. After all, her very future depended upon how well they got on together. Mairi modestly bowed her head and busily arranged her skirts as she asked pleasantly, “Were yer travels here remarkable, my laird? The hills are bonny this time o’ year, aye?” He disregarded her completely as though she did not exist, his full attention still focused on her father. “I wondered whether ye encountered any difficulties along the way, or if the trip proved an easy one,” she continued softly, waiting, unmoving, determined to get a reply of some kind from him. He gave her none, but kept his eyes trained upon her sire as though expecting him to reproach a forward daughter for speaking freely. Da did grimace at her in warning when she glanced at him. “Hist, lass,” he muttered, shushing her. That turned MacBain’s attention. He inclined his head to her slightly as one might to notice a bug upon the floor. “You think me impertinent for speaking?” she prompted the baron yet again. Daring him, really. That gained her an almost imperceptible shrug. Barely there and then gone. His lips curved, but it was not a smile. More like a gesture of mild annoyance. And she had thought this man mannerly? How churlish of him, deliberately refusing to answer her. Contentious knave. Did he think so little of females in general? Or was it her in particular he found offensive? Had she mistaken his former look of interest after all? When he did speak, it definitely was not to her. He had ceased looking at her and addressed her father. “When may we wed? I must go home,” he stated very slowly in the same low, brusque tone that did not vary up or down. Each word, he presented distinctly, as if it would stand alone. Did he think her father a lackwit? Or did he mock him as a Highlander who was unused to comprehending correct English? Either way, he had no cause to insult. Craigmuir might be isolated, but its laird was certainly educated, nonetheless. The MacInness had traveled widely in his youth and was well read. He had even insisted that she be taught to read and cipher. Her father sighed sorrowfully as he replied. “Ye must wed soon, I suppose, since we’ve settled upon it.” Then, as though he had not yet answered, he forced a smile and raised his head as well as his voice. “Soon. Ye may marry this week.” “This week?” Mairi exclaimed. She glared at her father, willing him to heed her. Did he not realize that she must get to know this man before the wedding? If, indeed, there was to be one, she thought diffidently. Fine, young and wealthy as the man appeared, Mairi was not certain she liked him at all. With a succinct nod, MacBain then turned to her. “Do you agree?” At last! He deigned to notice she was present for this conversation, could one even call it that. It was likely to turn to an argument if he did not change his ways on the instant. If there was anything she detested, it was to be ignored. Mairi smiled sweetly at him. “Ye jest, surely, my good laird! Have ye ever known any maid of my age to cry off a marriage? However, I feel you might wish to think twice on it, ere ye get more than ye bargained for!” “Mairi!” her father gasped. “Mind yer tongue!” She rose and turned on him then, giving the pompous baron her back. “Well? I am four and twenty, Da. Not that anyone has bothered to notice my aging these past dozen years. Now ye invite this man to take me off yer hands? Paugh! He can scarcely stand to look at me! He will not even reply to a common pleasantry!” Her father grasped his chest and rolled his eyes as though caught in the throes of apoplexy. Not that she believed that for a moment. ’Twas an oft used ruse to raise her guilt and gain an apology. Well, he’d not get one now, she decided. Not after trying to match her to this surly scoundrel. “Do excuse me, Father,” she said as haughtily as she could. “I would retire and leave ye to your guest! I am certain he willna be missing me.” With chin high and without another glance for her erstwhile betrothed, she stalked off toward the stairs. Handsome the man might be, but damned if she would shackle herself to one who had likely been bribed to wed her. From the look of him and the way he behaved, her father had not paid nearly enough to make the haughty wretch glad of the transaction. She had done without a husband all these years and fared well enough. Why take one now who did not consider her worth a smile, a kind word or even a second glance? Rot him, then. She would stay a maid. Rob appreciated the swing of those slender hips as the fair-haired lady took herself away. A pity he could not grasp one word in ten of what she said or he might guess the reason for her leaving. He found any Highlander’s odd speech hard to ken, especially when one spoke as rapidly as did she and with hardly moving her lips. The old laird made an effort on behalf of Rob’s understanding, but the woman did not. Possibly, she did not yet realize she needed to. Could that be? Had they not told her? Thomas said he had insisted that she know. Rob had made it a firm condition before his steward set out on the quest. He shrugged off the worry. Thomas would never lie, not about that. The woman knew about him. She simply did not understand how to deal with it yet. That could be taught easily enough. Mairi MacInness was a lovely woman by any man’s standard, not at all the timid girl he had feared he might find. Thomas had not told him her age, but Rob guessed she had passed twenty. That suited him. Anger at her sire had added color to the smooth cream of her cheeks. The blue eyes had sparked when she had included him in her fit of pique. Whatever had caused her displeasure, he was glad that she showed some spirit. She would need it. Again he faced the laird. “You did tell her?” “What?” the old man asked warily, his gaze darting here and there, avoiding Rob’s. Rob eyed him steadily, waiting, not bothering to define what the man already knew but was obviously reluctant to discuss. “Aye, I told her, but I was brief.” He ducked his head, then looked up again. “And I left it late,” MacInness admitted. “Late?” Rob repeated, sorely afraid he now understood the woman’s anger all too well. “How late?” The laird looked shame-faced and ran a hand through his graying hair. “Today. Just now.” Rob exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Damn.” “She’ll grow accustomed,” MacInness said hopefully. “Mairi is a guid lass. Kind,” he added. “When you told her,” Rob asked, hiding his apprehension, “she was angry?” Rob did not want her to reject him, he realized. With others, he had not cared so much. Except for Jehannie. Her betrayal had nearly destroyed him. Since she had broken their long-standing betrothal, he had cared not one way or the other whether he ever wed anyone. If he had not needed to produce an heir for Baincroft, he would never have agreed for Thomas to contract a match for him. He had felt no great rush to wed anyone. Not until he had seen this woman… “Nay! Nay. ’Tis not that which angered her,” the laird assured him, shaking his head. “She but wants courting, I think. All women do.” Rob nodded. Courting, of course. He should do that, yet he had little time or inclination for it. Nor did he think it necessary in this instance. The betrothal contract had been signed. The woman was his. All that remained was signing the marriage documents and repeating the vows. And the bedding, of course. Not likely he would forget that now that he had met her. He chewed his bottom lip for a second, caught himself doing so and quickly smoothed his features. If he did not court her properly as her father suggested, she might be the one willing to forget that final detail of the ceremony that Rob so looked forward to accomplishing. She could cry off the match and he would never touch that fair, smooth skin of hers the way he wanted, or inhale fully that subtle scent of roses she wore. Not to mention the other pleasures he now anticipated. Fine, then. He would court, but he would not prolong it. Now, he only wished to wed and go home again. Once they reached Baincroft, the lady would soon see that she had no reason to doubt his ability to care for her and the children they would make together. There, among his people, lay his best chance to impress a wife. However, if she wanted constant courting and sweet words daily after their marriage, she might go lacking. Rob had tried being courtly with his first betrothed as soon as she’d grown old enough for it. That had come to no good end. His beloved stepfather and brother had been right all those years ago to caution him against showing any gentler feelings he might have. They had said he must cultivate a stern and commanding demeanor in order to gain respect. Though both had spoken of Rob’s dealings with other lords, knights and men of business, Rob wondered if the advice might not hold true for women he wished to respect him. Should he play the smiling, teasing courtier with this one as he often did with the women he sought for pleasure? Or ought he to remain somewhat aloof, since she was a noble and about to be his wife? He wished Trouville or Henri were here to advise him in this. He did not like to be away from Baincroft, especially in these strange surroundings where he knew only the four men who rode with him. Because of their low rank, he could not keep them close by in these delicate encounters with his future bride and the MacInness laird. Had Thomas come with them to speak for him, matters might be proceeding more smoothly. Then this would not be so difficult because Thomas already knew these people. Unfortunately, that one lay abed back at Baincroft with a broken leg. Rob damned his luck, losing the services of his friend and factor at such a critical time. The loss of his usual self-confidence plagued him. Jehannie’s doing, of course. Only once, as a child needing the love of a father, had he given any particular care at all as to what a person thought of him or his abilities. Until Jehannie had refused to wed him. Since that time, self-doubt had increased with every new acquaintance he made. He must somehow recapture his early certainty of his worthiness. His mother had worked too diligently to instill that for him to lose it forever. But he much doubted he would regain it here and now amongst these people. Was it lack of courting alone that had put the Lady Mairi off? No matter how much he might wish that were the case, Rob found it hard to believe. Especially in view of what she had only just learned about him. That surely must play a part. Well, it was her misfortune, then, if she could not deal with her lot in life. The bride price was paid. She must honor her father’s contract. Rob would have her. The laird looked miserable, he noticed. Sad to be losing his daughter, Rob surmised. Losing her to such a man as the MacBain could not be easy for him. Rob admitted he might feel the same way in like circumstance. Thomas said that he had explained everything in detail to MacInness. Since the laird had only told her just now, she would not have those details as yet. Would she be consoled to know that Rob’s deafness would not pass down to their children? His mother assured him this was so, since he had been able to hear for a while after his birth. A fever had stolen the sounds. Would it help her to know that he could hear some things? He scoffed at that as soon as he thought of it. Heavy drumbeats and shrill whistles did not count for much when nothing but muffled silence existed between the two extremes. No, she likely would not care about the fine points of it. To all intent and purpose, he was deaf as a stone and that was that. The contract had cost him dearly because MacInness had not wanted to let Lady Mairi go to him as wife at first, so Thomas had said. However, the laird had needed to see to his daughter’s future now that he was growing old. Rob might not be able to hear the lass, but he could make her a very wealthy woman. In return for the bride price, Rob would gain a crumbling estate near the border as her dower. A bog around rocks, that place. He had gone out of his way to see it on the way here. He might as well have accepted the woman dowerless for all the good that useless property would do him. But he knew such was not done, even among the lower classes, though Rob would have been well content with only her person after having seen her. Rob needed a son to inherit sooner or later. Considering his deafness, it was not likely any other family of nobles who learned the truth about him would trust him with a daughter. He supposed he must concede something to MacInness for extending that trust. “For two days, I court,” he promised MacInness, holding up two fingers for emphasis. “Then we wed and go.” The laird slumped and nodded, then pushed heavily from his chair and flung a hand idly toward the tables at the head of the hall. “Come, eat.” Rob took his seat in the place of honor. The Lady Mairi did not come to table at all. The laird said nothing more to him until they had finished their meal. Then he turned and faced Rob with a frown. “Will you be good to my Mairi? Did you like her at all?” Rob’s heart softened in spite of himself at the parental concern evident in the old man’s eyes and offered what reassurance he could. “Aye, sir,” he affirmed, attempting to remain brusque and failing miserably. “I like her.” Chapter Two The next morning Mairi approached the situation more pragmatically than she had the evening before. If she did not marry this baron, nothing would change for her. She would spend the rest of her life counting the linens and shining Craigmuir’s meager collection of silver, upbraiding unruly servants and ordering goods for the keep. Yet, should she accept the man as husband, she at least had some chance of establishing a family of her own, of having children who would love her. And, at last, she would see what lay beyond the sparsely inhabited hills and glens of the Highlands. More than anything, she longed to see a city, any city. She wanted to travel, to meet new people and hopefully have an adventure along the way. Just one would be enough. Simply wedding the MacBain might provide that last wish, Mairi thought with a hidden grin. He might not bother to speak to her any more than was strictly necessary, but she had to admit he was not hard to look upon. Given time, she could surely coax some semblance of geniality from him. Once she accomplished that feat, Mairi suspected that their bedding together would be no unpleasant chore. She believed she had felt his brief assessment of her for that purpose, if none other. She supposed it would have to suffice unless they could find some other common ground. Many marriages had not even that to recommend them. Determined to show him that she could provide interesting company, Mairi headed to the kitchens soon after Mass and put together a basket of cheese, cold meats and bread fresh from the ovens. She added a flagon of wine and set out to find her betrothed, who had not bothered to attend either Mass or the informal breaking of fast afterward. She found him in the stable, grooming his steed. “Good morn, m’laird,” she said, summoning her brightest smile. He smiled back at her, a blindingly sweet expression that stopped her right in her tracks and made her suck in a sharp breath. God’s mercy, the man could spellbind when he put his mind to it, Mairi thought, absently patting her chest with one hand. Her heartbeat had speeded to a dangerous pace and she felt quite giddy of a sudden. Just as rapidly as it had come, his smile faded. The taciturn baron frowned as he regarded the basket she carried. That left her wondering if she had merely imagined his greeting. Wishful thinking? Her wits returned, Mairi lifted the cloth on the basket to show him. “I brought food. There’s a wondrous place I could show ye, if ye’d like to ride.” She then lifted a bridle off its peg and handed it to him, nodding toward her mare. “Ride?” He glanced around them and back at her. “Alone?” She grinned and cocked her head to one side. “Why not? We are betrothed. Who’s there to censure us? None, that’s who!” With a shrug of uncertainty, he reached for her saddle. Mairi felt content to simply watch him move as he readied her mount and then his own. Grace in motion, she thought, impressed by the economy of his every action, the play of muscles just visible through his well-fitted clothing. Rude or not, he stirred her blood, this man. He was the first to do so, and so she half forgave him for his inattentiveness last evening and the lapse of that enchanting smile just now. Mayhaps he was only shy, or had never been taught better manners. She could teach him. For a first lesson, she waited expectantly for him to assist her in mounting. After a hasty perusal of her person, he grasped her waist, lifted her as if she weighed no more than the basket of food and plunked her atop her mare. Had those braw hands of his lingered longer upon her than necessary? She thought so. A good sign, that. He quickly mounted and they rode in silence for a while with Mairi leading the way. Her special place awaited them, a lovely clearing in the wood where a stream pooled beneath a shallow fall. The ferns and flowers growing there made it seem a faerie glen. They could spend a few quiet hours away from the keep, becoming acquainted. Not that she would allow him any liberties. He would know better than to attempt that before the wedding, certainly. Or would he? Mairi smiled to herself, almost wishing he would abandon propriety. Many a couple anticipated their final vows. Not that she would countenance such doings, of course, even to turn him up sweet. A lady must have limits. Da said so. So many times Mairi had wished to speak with another woman about these matters. Her mother was long dead and the few females left at Craigmuir were not the sort she’d ask for advice of that nature. Most were right free with their favors and made no secret of it. When they reached her destination, MacBain remained mounted and spent quite some time observing the surrounding woods. She could have sworn he checked the grassy ground for tracks and sniffed the air for trouble. Did he believe she had invited him into a trap of some kind? “I like it,” he announced finally as he dismounted and came to assist her off her mare. Then he bent down and quickly gathered a fistful of wildflowers. “For you,” he said, all but glaring as he held them out. Mairi chose to believe he merely worried whether she would appreciate the offering. She decided to ignore the intensity of his regard. God’s truth, he rarely blinked. “I thank ye!” she muttered, quite taken aback by the gesture, perfunctory as it was. He certainly wasted no time. Or tenderness. However, he had made an effort and she would give him the credit for it. “Coom with me,” she ordered, reaching for the strong hand she had just emptied of the blooms. She grasped it and pulled him along toward the bank of the stream, set upon making friends with the man, no matter how rough his manners. He dropped to a sitting position, gently pulling Mairi down with him. Once seated, he glanced at the water, shot her a look of daring and began to remove his boots. Intrigued at his unexpected hint of laddie-like behavior, she took the dare and did likewise, tossing her shoes and hose over her shoulder onto the grass. In moments, they sat side by side, bare feet slowly swishing in the cold, clear water. “Ah, here’s a pleasure, in’t?” she commented, lying back upon the lush carpet of green behind her. “Have ye such a place near yer home? Somewhere special to ye as this one is to me?” Though he did not answer, he reclined on one elbow, leaned over her and fixed that avid gray gaze upon her face. For a moment Mairi thought he might kiss her, but he only reached for the flowers she still held in her hand and chose one. “Beauty,” he whispered gruffly, teasing her nose with the petals. “Here,” he said, dragging the flower across her lips. “Here,” he repeated, drawing it down her neck to the edge of her chemise that peeked above her gown. “Hiding,” he teased, trailing the small bloom across the fabric covering her breasts and stomach. Heat flared within her. More than anything, she wished to see that smile of his. She had surprised it out of him once at the stable. Could she do it again? “Kiss?” she murmured coyly, adopting his peculiar habit of brevity in speech. As an answer, he simply lowered his mouth to hers. After a moment’s gentle press of his lips, he eased hers open with his tongue. She’d never been kissed so in her life. More’s the pity, Mairi thought, enjoying the sensation immensely. She quickly responded to his exploration with a foray of her own. She met the hot, wet warmth of his mouth, tasting his heat as her own increased. Encompassed and loving it, Mairi saw no need to withdraw. They gave and took with an abandon that sent a trail of fire down her middle, a consuming blaze she could scarcely control. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as sparks danced behind her eyelids. When he drew back, breathing as heavily as she, Mairi blinked up at him in wonder, realizing that nothing save their mouths had touched. If he could wreak that sort of havoc with only lips and tongue, whatever might he do with the rest of him? She released a heavy sigh and closed her eyes again, just imagining. “You want me?” he asked. And sounded serious. “Is the sky blue?” she replied wryly, eyes still shut, a silly grin stretching her lips wide. “What do ye think, ye foolish lad?” He laughed. A strange sound, she thought. Too loud and abrupt, as if he did that rarely and it had caught him unaware. Mairi rather liked his laughter the more because it was not planned. Because she had surprised it out of him. Surely a man could love a woman who made him laugh, especially if he had little laughter in his life. She would provide that for him, Mairi decided on the instant. Laughter and children. Both, in abundance. She laughed, as well, delighted by the notion. He seemed easier to be with now, more comfortable in her presence after their kiss and her bit of teasing. For what seemed hours, they lay side by side, the fingers of her right hand interlaced with those of his left. Now and again, he would turn his head to look at her—sometimes quizzically, other times with satisfaction—but no words passed between them. She detected a ripple of uncertainty beneath his calm, as though he wished to speak of something, but held back. What a mystery he was! Why did he not ask questions of her or tell her about himself? Mairi longed to know about the home he planned to offer her and the route they would take to reach his keep in the Midlothian. She kept waiting for him to say something first, so that she would not seem too forward as she must have done last night. But he appeared content to simply lie there, soaking up the errant rays of sun that stole through the foliage of the leaf-laden branches overhead. Despite her eagerness to learn more of him, there was much to be said for this silent reflection, Mairi thought to herself. Somehow she felt a kind of peace had sprung up between them so that now they might go on from here to some sort of closer communion. It could only bode well for their marriage, their getting on this well after so short a time. She felt badly for misjudging him last evening and treating him to that wicked temper of hers. Her worst failing was to judge too quickly. He was not the first to suffer for it, but she would make amends. Likely he had only been tired and out of sorts from the long journey. And very shy, of course. Mairi was firmly convinced that was his greatest problem. Nothing she could not alter, of course. Anyone would vouch that Mairi MacInness harbored not one shy bone in her body. In a while he got up, replaced his boots and found her shoes and hose for her. While she donned them, he left her to fetch the basket still lashed to her mare’s saddle. Silently, speaking only with their eyes, they ate, relishing the food and imagining each other’s thoughts. He held out a sliver of cheese. Mairi leaned forward and accepted it, grazing the tips of his finger and thumb with her lips as she did so. The heat in that gray gaze rekindled the fire inside her his kiss had first ignited. She carefully banked it for now. There were the vows to say yet and he mustn’t think her wanton. What a strangely intimate meal it was. Now that they had kissed, MacBain’s eyes spoke clearly of what he would rather be doing. Yet he restrained himself, as did she. She chose to believe he did so out of respect for her and applauded that, even as she regretted the rightness of his restraint. “We should go back,” she said slowly, reluctantly, when they had finished the meal. He nodded and began to help her gather up the cloths and cups and place them in the basket. Then he rose and offered her his hand. The instant she gained her feet, he drew her into his arms and surrounded her with his strength. Mairi could feel the warmth of his lips brush the crown of her head. Never had she felt so protected. And wanted, too. She could hear his heartbeat against her ear when she pressed her head comfortably against his chest. Mairi decided she could stay where she was forever and be content. The sound of distant thunder distracted her. Puzzling. It had not rained for several days and she had seen no clouds anywhere this morn. Suddenly he tensed, his hands grasping her shoulders as he set her away from him. When she looked up to question him, she saw how watchful he had become, how alert and still, as though expecting danger. His nostrils flared as if seeking a particular scent. Then he looked down at her. “Do you hear?” “Only thunder,” she replied with a shrug. “Still far away, though. It will not reach us for some time yet, but—” He placed two fingers over her mouth. “Listen.” Mairi obeyed, tuning her full attention to the rumbling noise. “Not thunder!” she whispered in awe, clutching his forearms. The sound did not abate or vary, but was constant and growing louder. “Hoof beats!” she cried, pushing him away, toward their mounts. “A raid! Coom, we must hurry!” But MacBain rushed ahead of her. He leaped onto his horse and drew his sword. “Wait here!” he commanded, whirled his mount around and set off at a gallop. Mairi led her mare over to the same large stone she always used to remount when she came here. In moments, she was right behind him, careful to keep a few lengths distant in the event he would turn and order her back to the glade for safety. Even some distance away, she heard the shouts and cries and clang of metal. Swords! When she drew closer, Mairi realized this was no neighborly raid to filch a few of her father’s cattle. Craigmuir was under serious attack. Rob charged through the open gates of Craigmuir and found hell itself. Unable to distinguish friend from foe in the melee, he quickly searched for his own men. Markie was down, a dirk in his chest, eyes staring sightless at the sky. On the steps lay the hefty Elmore in a pool of blood. He did not see Newton. Or Wee Andy. His fleeting gaze snagged on a dark blue mantle spread like wings upon the ground near the well. The laird! Rob surged toward the attacker towering over his host and slew the raider with one swing of the blade. A small figure darted past the body even as it fell. “Mairiee!” Rob shouted and swung off his mount. Damn the woman! Had she not heard his order to stay in the wood? Another enemy rushed at him the moment Rob grasped Mairi around the waist. Just in time, he twisted sidewise and thrust his sword up, spitting the oncomer. The opposing blade just missed striking her face. He roared as he kicked the body off his weapon, furious and frantic to get Mairi to safety. In desperation, he backed against the well wall, trapping her behind him. “Stay!” he commanded. Instead she wriggled right past him and ran to her father, who had managed to get to his hands and knees. Rob dispatched another who would have cut him down and then joined her. Half dragging the laird, he sheltered the two in a corner betwixt the castle wall and the armory and stood guard against any who would do them harm. He chanced to spy Wee Andy on the parapet wielding his short bow with a vengeance. The stout lad made his next shot, waved Rob’s way and pointed to a tangle of bodies around the gate. He raised one hand and rotated his fist, Newton’s name sign, given for his expertise with a flail. Then Andy held a palm up and quickly turned it down. Newton, dead. Damn! Rob nodded to show he understood. Of the contingent who had come to Craigmuir with him to fetch his bride, only he and Andy were left. He could not wait to quit this cursed land, to take his bride and go from here. Had the tournaments taught him nothing? He’d been too long away, that was the problem. Soft, he was becoming. Like the gentle lad he’d once been, harboring that profound reverence for life his father had warned him against revealing to those who might do him ill. Trouville had encouraged him to travel the Continent with Henri, and thereby caused Rob’s absence when the boy king from England had thrust into Scotland two years ago. Now Rob wished he had been there. He sorely lacked experience in this. Here was no mock battle with rules set by the marshal and a horn to sound the end. Men were dying, three by his own blade thus far! Mairi’s death had been a very near thing and his own barely avoided. While he did not fear death, neither did he welcome it just yet. The time had come to steel himself, to banish again any empathy or sympathy that would mark him as weak. To be the warrior he had trained so diligently to be. To kill and kill again, or else be killed. Rob pulled in a harsh breath and observed the fighting, searching for identifying characteristics in the combatants. The few men he did recognize from the evening before in Craigmuir’s hall looked a sight more refined than the great, hairy, half-naked brutes who fought them. A ragged, unwashed band, these raiders who had come to do battle. And at the moment, they were prevailing. Quickly he turned and pulled the wounded laird to his feet. “Go in!” he shouted to Mairi. After a quick glance to insure the armory was empty, he shoved her and her father inside. “Bar the door!” Satisfied that they would be safer there than anywhere else in this godforsaken place, Rob drew another deep breath, dashed forward and fully engaged in the slaughter. When the clangs and shouts of the fight finally diminished, Mairi heard a frantic knocking. Hurriedly she peered through a crack between the boards and threw open the door. Young Davy, her father’s foundling squire, rushed in. “Did ye see him, m’laird?” the lad asked as he dropped to his knees on the dirt floor of the armory beside his master. “Afore ye fell, did ye see?” “So it’s over then?” Mairi asked absently, shoving the gangly bairn out of the way. “Aye!” young Davy answered, his voice full of awe. “The handful left standin’ turned and ran just now. Laird MacBain gives chase! God’s nails, he’s ruthless, that one!” Then his gaze dropped and focused upon his master’s wound. “Ach, sire, ’tis verra bad, this here!” Mairi motioned him back outside. “Get some of the men. We must move him into the keep. ’Tis too dark in here to treat his wound.” Mairi pressed both her hands over the gaping gash in her father’s side. “Make haste, Davy!” Her sire might not live the night, she reckoned, but she would not give him up just yet. “Hold on, Da,” she whispered, struggling to imbue her voice with hope. His wan smile worried her more than a gruff reprimand would have done. One of his huge paws wrapped around her bloody wrist. “Lass, get…get you from Craigmuir, lest Ranald find you here when he comes back.” “Ranald?” Mairi’s disgust made her grimace. “Aye, I should have guessed this was his doing,” she growled. “Greedy wretch! Th’ cowardly bastard didna swing his own sword today, I’ll wager ye that!” “Nay, he’ll be elsewhere so he can look innocent of it. But he’ll come once he hears I’m dead, daughter. He is my tanist, God rot his hide.” Mairi tossed her head in disgust. “We can hold Craigmuir against the likes of him anyday.” “Nay, he’ll have my place here, Mairi. The clan decided that years ago,” he argued, gasping. “But he’ll no’ have my lass. I told him so…our kin’s too close.” “Greater reason than that not to have him!” Mairi exclaimed. “I’d die first!” He clenched his eyes shut and grimaced. “Wed MacBain this night, Mairi…and begone afore it’s too late.” “Hist!” she said to hush him. She would wed, but she’d not leave. “Ranald sent those men to do murder, Da. He should be punished for it, not rewarded with Craigmuir!” “May be, but he…he will have it nonetheless,” he insisted. “Just marry and go, hinny. Please!” he gasped the word and groaned. “As ye wish, Da.” She’d not leave, of course. She could never desert her father when he lay mortally wounded. Nor would she abandon her home as a boon for that dastardly cousin of hers. But she would wed MacBain as soon as someone could fetch the priest. Not only to fulfill her father’s wish. She wanted to. Ranald MacInness would never claim her as his wife if she had to wed the devil himself to prevent it. Fortunately, it would not come to that. She had a perfectly good husband-to-be at hand, thanks to her father’s foresight. When the men—grimy from battle and grieving for those lost to it—had moved the laird into the hall, Mairi made him as comfortable as she could. Someone had brought a pile of blankets and furs from his bed abovestairs and placed them upon one of the long oak trestles used for meals. It looked to Mairi like a bier, which she realized it soon would be. She had stopped his bleeding at long last, but not quickly enough to save him. His tunic, the blankets that covered him and her own sleeves were soaked with his blood. Her father was not long for this world, she knew. “I am with ye, Da,” she whispered. “I’m here.” The priest had come and administered rites. He now stood by, praying silently for his old friend and laird. There would be further duty for the Father Ephriam if only her betrothed would get himself within the hall. Where was MacBain? Mairi wished with all her might that he would arrive in time. Her father would rest so much easier if he could witness the wedding and know that she had at least complied with one part of his behest. Seeing the marriage accomplished would give him peace in his final hours. There was little more she could do for him, other than grieve for him when he was gone, and then avenge his death. That, she vowed she would do. It was her duty as well as her heart’s wish. Ranald MacInness would die a gruesome death for this day’s work. She could envision his dark hair whipping in the wind, that smirk permanently frozen on his face when they mounted his head upon a pike outside the gates of Craigmuir. A scant hour later, when she had almost given up, MacBain strode in, followed by several of her father’s men. No decently groomed lord now, he wore a savage look upon his face and carried himself like the victor he had proved to be. Her father had chosen wisely for her. And for Craigmuir. When MacBain stopped several feet away and remained silent, Mairi beckoned him closer. “We must wed now,” she announced clearly, fearing for some obscure reason that he would object to the haste. He merely looked at her, a question in his sharp gray eyes. “My father is dying. He desires me safely wed to you without wait. I would have it so.” The baron turned to the priest, who nodded in agreement with her words. From his sleeve, Father Ephriam drew the parchments prepared long before MacBain had arrived, and handed them over to her betrothed. Within moments they had signed them and the official deed was done. Even without the spoken vows to follow, they were contracted man and wife. All that remained were the words of acceptance and, later, the consummation. She grasped his hand, eager to proceed for her father’s sake. Her sire looked on from the table upon which he lay. With great effort to suppress her tears, Mairi smiled at him, telling him with her eyes how dear he was to her. No matter that he had been a gruff old father who reprimanded far more often than he praised. She could see his caring much more clearly now than ever before in the provision he had made for her. “Lord Robert Alexander MacBain, wilt thou have this woman, Mairi MacInness, to wife?” the priest droned. “Aye,” his lordship answered gruffly, squeezing her small hand gently in his. Mairi noted bloody smears on both and shivered with dread that this presented a bad omen. Nay, she thought, this marriage was a good thing. The blood just spilled would bond them inexorably. She watched the baron slip a gold crested ring off his smallest finger and slide it onto her third. A circle of fire it was, hot from the heat of battle, wet and slippery with sweat and gore he had shed for her and hers. She made a fist to keep the ring in place. A fist full of vengeful promises that must be honored. “Lady Mairi MacInness, do you take this man to husband?” She glanced up at MacBain—called Robert, so she had just learned—and caught a fleeting look of apprehension. Did he fear she would say nay? “I will,” she answered emphatically, and added a nod for good measure. Not for anything would she leave a doubt in anyone’s mind. This was her choice. She was this man’s wife now. As soon as humanly possible, she would make certain no man could alter that. Strange and fearsome as he was, the man could fight. And he had done all he could to save her and her father during the attack. At the moment, she could think of no better recommendation than that for a husband. Her new lord might not be a Highland man, but he was a true Scot. And when the wedding and bedding were done, he would be family. Then he could do naught but marshal her father’s men, give them their orders and lead them out to avenge the laird. Ranald MacInness must die at his hand, and the MacBain must rule Craigmuir. She had decided. And no man—not even her father at his fiercest—had ever been able to sway Mairi MacInness once she had settled upon a true course of action. The night through, Rob sat beside Mairi near the laird’s deathbed. Now and again, she would lean forward and adjust the covers, caress her father’s brow or pat his hand. Her strength and control impressed Rob. Not once had she wept for what was to come, though she surely knew. Only once did she excuse herself to go abovestairs and then only for a short time. Long enough, however. The old laird roused himself and gave Rob orders to take Mairi away at first light. He spoke haltingly, yet formed each word clearly and precisely. “Ranald wants her…and my place here. No matter what Mairi says, take her and depart.” Rob nodded in understanding and grasped the gnarled hand the laird offered him. “Leave me to my men,” MacInness instructed. “Travel light and swift. And watch your back.” Rob did not ask why. He did not need to. Any man who wanted Lady Mairi would not relinquish her easily. MacInness’s tanist would follow. In his place, Rob would certainly do so. The woman was a treasure worth fighting for. “I beg you, do not rest until my lass has seen her last of the Highlands. Never bring her back here. Promise you will honor my…my wishes! Swear!” What alternative did Rob have but to give his word? A last request was a last request, after all. And the laird was Mairi’s father, and now also his, by marriage. Reaching down, Rob grasped his sword and raised it enough for the old man to see. He bent his head and put his lips against the jeweled pommel, then lifted the weapon higher, as though swearing on the cross formed by hilt, cross-guard and blade. “I so vow,” he declared. Chapter Three 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. Chapter Four Rob could not say how he knew for certain they were being followed, but he did know. He could feel it in his bones. If Ranald MacInness did not come himself, he would send others, just as he had hired men to rid him of Mairi’s father. Rob knew that if anyone had deprived him of this woman, he would go to the very ends of the earth to retrieve her and would never trust the task to underlings. He hoped Ranald would risk himself. That would save a journey back to the Highlands to get rid of him later. To pass the time as they traveled, Rob forced himself to think in words instead of images. Though it never came naturally for him to do so, he had made it a regular habit since he had learned to read. Early on he’d discovered that it provided good practice for forming speech, getting words in the proper order so that he would not appear unlearned. He did that now, making lists of possible ways the eventual attack might occur if they were overtaken. Countering with exact accounts of his probable response to each and every one. In his experience, such preparedness often made a difference in dealing with any problem. When dwelling upon Mairi, he had to make an even greater effort to prevent his mind’s collective vision of her overpowering all his senses at once. He put her into words. Rob purposely gave name to her delicate fragrance of roses that blended so enticingly with her own sweet scent. Syllable by syllable, he inwardly described her tresses, like honey-colored silk sliding over his fingers. He spelled out the tangible hum of her voice as she spoke when he was touching her, and silently narrated his joy in the act of simply looking at her. He composed poetry of epic length to celebrate her beauty and her courage, seeing the letters unfold upon an imaginary scroll of parchment as he did so. Separating and enumerating her charms occupied a large portion of his time, he realized. So much time that he wondered whether it helped or hindered his attempt to reduce the stunning effect she worked upon him. His dreams of her, of course, he would not be able to control. There she would likely spring to mind in her entirety. Given the way Mairi had reacted to their first kisses, Rob could not pretend he dreaded sleep during which thinking in words was impossible. All day they had trekked through the Highlands, moving at a steady pace, halting to rest whenever the horses seemed weary. Though they were well away from Craigmuir, Rob did not alter their pace. Her kinsmen’s men could not move any more rapidly than this and hope to preserve their mounts. He cast a brief glance behind him and noticed how proudly Mairi rode. She had her chin raised and her back straight as if she had not ridden the day long through terrain that would daunt the hardiest of travelers. They had plodded up and down hillsides and through gorges so narrow his shoulders nearly touched each wall as they passed. And yet Mairi continued to endure without a protest. Or at least Wee Andy had not seen fit to pass it on to him if she had. Rob had a feeling she would not have waited for him to gain the news secondhand if she meant to issue any complaint. The small clearing they now passed through would make as good a camp as any, he supposed. No place would prove truly safe until they entered the gates of Baincroft, but they could not hope to ride for four days without decent rest. It was nearing dark and he admitted he could use a few hours of sleep himself, having had none the night before. The laird’s deathwatch had not allowed it. His bride must be ready to fall from the saddle, despite her determination to show no weakness. The decision made, Rob reined in and dismounted. “We sleep here,” he announced as he strode back the few lengths necessary to reach Mairi’s mare. He took the reins from her hands, plucked her from the saddle and set her on her feet. Her legs promptly buckled. Rob caught her before she crumpled to the ground. With a small laugh, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the nearest tree. It was huge with giant roots that rose above the ground. One provided a smooth seat for her. “Make a fire,” he ordered Andy, and began dragging the packs from the horses. He unrolled a woolen blanket and placed it over a cushion of thick grass. On the other side of the fire Wee Andy was preparing, he placed another coverlet. When he indicated with a gesture that Mairi should lie down, she frowned, shook her head and spoke. He caught the words sleep and beside you. No test of his reasoning here. She would not sleep with him. Not surprising, he thought with a shrug. He had not expected her to lie willingly beneath him tonight. Despite that, he assumed an aggrieved look and heaved a huge sigh of pretended resignation, not wanting Mairi to think he had not desired her. He certainly had…did, however, now was neither the time nor the place to relieve that. He pulled his cloak out of his pack and tossed it several feet away from the blanket meant for her. He busied himself gathering more firewood, watching surreptitiously as she stood and tested her legs, then disappeared into the trees for a short while. When she returned, she snatched up the blanket and removed it to a place well away from where he had thrown his cloak. Rob grinned. He would never take pleasure of his bride in such a place as this, but if it gave her peace of mind and a feeling of control to put a greater distance between them, he would allow it. Until she fell asleep. He turned, saw the observant Andy frowning at him, and winked to assure the man he was not piqued. Wee Andy seemed to be developing protectiveness for the lady. He likely thought her sharp words might anger a new husband, but Rob did not take them amiss at all. Mairi’s ire over her forced departure from her home obviously had not abated. He believed it was that alone that drove her to deny him, not the fact that she abhorred his deafness. He had thought it might distress her, and was relieved it had not seemed to. She had kissed him willingly enough yesterday in that glade. She had wed him, had she not? However, he wondered now if it might not have been better to have laid the matter bare between them at the outset, before the wedding. That way he would have known exactly what he faced, and so would she. He misliked guessing what she thought of it. Not once had she indicated that she cared one way or the other. Had she decided to ignore his lack of hearing altogether, pretend it did not exist? That would certainly not last for long. Some people roundly feared the affliction and considered him cursed. Because of that, he had grown used to concealing it from all but his friends and family. Once he had learned to speak, that had never proved difficult with chance met acquaintances. They simply never thought to suspect such a thing. It was a rare enough condition, so he’d been told. When it did occur, most people so stricken were also mute. His ability to speak usually prevented any suspicion of deafness. A few did know, of course, and he imagined he was the object of some discussion behind his back. But he had never even considered withholding the knowledge from his intended bride or her father. He had made a point of ordering Thomas to tell the laird before the betrothal contracts were drawn up, assuming that the laird would tell the daughter the problems she might encounter if she accepted the marriage. Rob knew his deafness would affect their life together more than any other thing. Mairi would not understand that yet, but the realization must come to her one day soon. He wondered how she would react if some fool accused him of consorting with devils, bartering his sense of sound in exchange for dark, evil powers. That had happened twice before, once with his mother’s uncle and then later with Thomas and Jehannie’s grandfather, Sir Simon. Even many priests believed it so. Rob did have powers, of course. He smiled to himself, recalling the looks of awe—and sometimes fright—when he dealt with animals. Wild or tame, they loved him. He could coax them to do nearly anything he wished. Only he knew the secret was in caring about them, in showing no fear and banishing their fear of him. They sensed his respect and it calmed them, made a wild beastie as tractable as the laziest hound. As he mulled that over, Rob unsaddled the horses and brushed them down with tufts of grass, examining their legs for scratches and their hooves for stones. All three nuzzled him in turn, thanking him for the attention. His familiars, some accused. Strange word, to have such sinister meaning and yet be so descriptive of how he actually felt about most animals. He liked them more than people at times, for they were also hampered when it came to communicating what they truly needed. He made the effort to understand them and they returned the courtesy. It was that simple. Also, his ability to see at night astounded many who knew him. For Rob, it seemed as natural as seeing in the day. God had given him that ability, he was certain. It proved quite valuable at times, and would later this night when they must rise and travel again with only the meager light of the moon. A gift. He could sometimes divine exactly what others were thinking. This, however, was no real gift at all. He merely watched people more closely than most bothered to do. Or perhaps sounds distracted them so that they could not. Expressions, arms closed about the chest, fists clenched, trembles of fear or rage not quite masked by a pretense of calm, shifting eyes. Those gave true thoughts away. He could spot a liar before he opened his mouth to speak. And a plotting mind stood no chance of concealing itself. There was an air of intensity, of reckoning, so apparent as to be written in ink across the forehead. Rob straightened from his task and looked at Mairi. She now sat upon the blanket, her elbows resting on her drawn-up knees, one finger absently twirling a strand of hair that had escaped her shining braid at the temple. Such a pensive, faraway look she wore. Child’s play to see inside that mind, Rob thought with a wry twist of his mouth. Mairi was forming a plan of some sort. She either thought to escape him and return to Craigmuir to avenge her sire, or she meant to cajole her new husband into promising he would do the deed for her. Powerless at the moment, she obviously hadn’t quite decided as yet which she would do. And so, he must watch her and keep her from acting on the first option, should she choose that one. Mayhaps soon he would tell her he had already elected to return and set matters to rights if Ranald did not come after them and seal his fate. Rob smiled. He was not above allowing her to ply her charms first to convince him that he should accede to her wishes. He might have a bit of the devil in him, after all, to consider such a thing. Andy soon summoned them to partake of the bread, cheese and cold meats he had packed before they left Craigmuir. They sat near the weak blaze and passed a wineskin among them. If Mairi minded the silent meal, she did not say so. Rob suspected her exhaustion prevented her caring one way or the other. “Sleep now,” he told her when she had finished eating. Obediently, she gave them good-night and retired to her blanket. Rob wrapped himself in his cloak and sat against a nearby tree. Andy moved to the shadows beyond the fire to keep first watch, as was his duty. Rob had not meant to sleep until he could claim a place close enough to Mairi that he might be awakened should she attempt to leave in the night. However, he awoke with a start several hours later when the pale moon had tracked high overhead. A sense of impending threat made his skin tingle. He rose quickly and hurried toward the horses. What is it? Andy signed as he approached from across the clearing, an arrow already nocked in his bow. Danger, Rob indicated. Wait here. Keep close watch. At Andy’s obedient nod, Rob quietly saddled his horse and led him into the trees. He mounted quickly and retraced their earlier path for nearly an hour. At intervals, he would stop, sniff the air in all directions for wood smoke. When he smelled it finally, he let the scent lead him where it would. The enemy camp had bedded for the night. Rob counted four sleeping bodies, rolled in blankets around the glowing coals. Another man had been set to guard duty, but had fallen asleep. Five corresponded with the number of mounts. Rob took the time to lead the horses well away from the camp and tether them near his own. Could one of these men be the cousin, Ranald? Rob hoped so. Then it would end here. Unthinkable to slay sleeping men, he decided. And there was the slight chance these were not sent by the new laird of Craigmuir. “Ho, the camp!” he shouted. “MacBain is here!” He laughed aloud at their sudden confusion. Two tangled so helplessly in their wraps, they could not gain their feet. The wakened guard rushed him, sword drawn. Rob dispatched him cleanly and kicked him off the blade. The advantage of surprise worked quite well. A second man managed a nearly lethal thrust before Rob cut him down. He handily caught the next one with the backswing of his blade. The fourth laggard, mouth open and eyes wide with sheer terror as he looked back, took to the woods on the opposite side of the clearing and disappeared. Rob trapped the last of the clumsy group still fighting his way out of his blanket. The oaf smelled of strong drink. A sharp rap on the head stopped his struggles. Ranald MacInness must have combed the Highlands for the worst trained warriors available. Rob imagined his lowliest cotters armed with sticks could have held their own against these dullards. A pitiful excuse for a fight, Rob thought as he bound his captive. He thought about chasing down the man who had escaped, but decided not to bother. That one was on foot and would require at least two days to make Craigmuir. Besides, Mairi’s cousin needed to receive the message his minion would carry. What the MacBain claimed remained his own, and Mairi belonged to none other. Could Ranald resist such a taunt? Rob thought not. He would come after Mairi himself next time, but now would be at least three or four days behind them. Satisfied that he had taken care of the problem for the duration of their journey to Baincroft, Rob hauled the bound man toward the horses, threw him aloft and tied him on. He meant to have answers of this one. Rob would soon know the number and sort of men Mairi’s cousin commanded and whether he would pursue her all the way to the Midlothian. The information he would gain should assist him in eventually deposing the treacherous cousin. He hoped Mairi would feel her father partly avenged by this night’s work. “It’s Lord Rob!” Wee Andy called, waving his arm and hurrying around the fire to where Mairi stood. “You see? I told you he’d be back soon!” She pulled her blanket closer against the night’s chill. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing at the body draped across the shaggy, unfamiliar mount her husband towed into camp. “Your cousin’s man,” MacBain answered as he reined up before the fire. He dismounted and stretched, obviously weary. “He only sent one?” she asked in disbelief. “Five,” he said calmly, and turned away to drag his captive off the horse. “Five? Where are the others? What happened? And how did ye know they—” “My lady, please,” Wee Andy interrupted, stepping between her and MacBain. “There’s naught to be worried about. Leave off a moment and let’s see what we’ve got here, eh?” Mairi blew out a breath of exasperation and desisted, though she could hardly contain herself. With anxious eyes, she scanned the darkness of the tree line, wondering if at any moment the other four would emerge to wage a fight for their friend. “Where are they?” she asked Andy. “What happened to them?” “Dead, I expect,” he said gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “Or breaking a new road straight back to where they came from.” “Rest now, Andy,” her husband ordered as he returned from where he’d laid his unconscious burden against a tree. To her, he said, “Go to sleep.” “Sleep?” she all but screeched. “Ye ride in here, dragging one of those devils, say there are four more out there and expect me ta sleep?” Mairi threw up her hands. “Why, they could ride down on us at any moment! Or are they truly dead? Five against one and ye’d have me believe ye slew them all? If not, the least ye can do is tell me—” He placed his fingertips to her mouth and impatiently shook his head. “You are safe.” She shook off his hand. “Safe? And that is all ye say? Why do ye never answer me straightly, MacBain? Why do ye treat me like a stray bairn unworthy of regard? Ye might as well strike me as ignore me the way ye do. I despise that! I would know what transpired in the woods this night and why ye come back with only—” “I ken nothing!” he said through gritted teeth. “Nothing you say!” “Well I know that!” she shouted, leaning toward him, shaking one fist. “And do not wonder at it! Ye never listen to me! It’s as if I do not exist for ye half the time, and the other half—” “Leave off, woman!” he thundered, drawing up to his full height, his fists clenched, causing the muscles in his arms to bunch. The flickering light from the campfire played over his features, lending them a menacing, otherworldly glow. Fear greater than any she felt for Ranald’s hirelings skittered up her spine. Here was true danger and all too immediate. He looked fit to strike her down. Silently, Mairi backed away from him, gripping her trembling hands together, sorely afraid she had tread too far. Never before had he exhibited real anger toward her. But she had seen the effect of his rage at Craigmuir during that battle with Ranald’s men. Wives held no immunity from the ire of their husbands and she had certainly courted MacBain’s with her loud demands just now. Righteous, she might be, but she should not have shouted at him. Neither should she have refused to sleep beside him earlier, but she had not wanted to grant him forgiveness all that quickly for hauling her away from Craigmuir as roughly as he had done. To admit to him how profoundly he affected her would surely have given her husband the upper hand. Which he certainly had now anyway. Without another word she quickly retreated to her blanket, lay down upon the grass and turned her back to him. She would not be able to sleep, but she would pretend for all she was worth. Hopefully by morn, his surly mood would have improved. If the other four men Ranald had sent after them did not slay them all before then. Silence reigned in the clearing behind her, which seemed odd. Why was he not telling Wee Andy what had happened? Or making plans in the event they sustained an attack? Surely he would not ride in that way and simply lie down and fall asleep! But she dared not turn over to see for herself. Mairi closed her eyes as tightly as she could and prayed she would be alive to open them come the morn. A pelting rain woke her soon after daybreak. Though the ground beneath her felt relatively dry, the covering above her, supported by a framework of branches, did leak a bit. She brushed the droplets off her hair and face. How had he managed to build that thing right over her without her waking? Mairi raised herself to her elbows and peered out into the soggy morning. Across the clearing, Wee Andy lay beneath a makeshift tent much like her own. She spied the hindquarters of the gray MacBain rode disappearing into the trees. “Wait!” she cried, quickly crawling out of her cover and dashing after him. “Dinna leave us! Where is it ye go?” Before she could get halfway to the tree line, he had disappeared. “Gone back to bury them what he killed,” Wee Andy called, “and see what he can find amongst their packs.” Mairi released a pent-up breath. For a moment she feared he had gone on without them, then realized he was headed in the wrong direction for that. Besides, he would not have left his man behind. Now she was a different matter. After the way she had railed at him last night, she admitted she wouldn’t much blame him. The rain was letting up, but she was already wet. Hopefully, the sun would be out soon to dry her clothes and hair. Bedraggled and aching from her night on the hard ground, Mairi made her way to the packs that lay sheltered by a small shelf of rock. Wee Andy joined her there, accepting the portion of bread she tore off a loaf and handed to him. “He’ll be back afore noon. Said we was to stay put and guard the prisoner.” Taking a bite of the bread, Andy nodded toward the unfortunate man still tied to a tree and soaked to the skin. The wretch looked miserable. “I suppose we are taking him with us?” Mairi asked, slicing off a portion of cheese with her eating knife and offering it. Andy thanked her with a smile and a bob of his head. “Aye. Rob—Lord Rob, that is—plans to have him questioned. Find out more about your cousin.” “To what end?” “I did not ask,” Andy admitted. “And he seldom announces his reasons. Nonetheless, they are always sound.” Mairi hesitated to talk about her husband with a man who served him, but she had to find out about him somehow. “I do wish he’d answer my questions, if not yer own! He rarely speaks to me and never seems to hear a thing I say.” Wee Andy shot her a worried frown. She realized she should never have criticized her husband’s behavior to one of his men. “I do not speak ill of him,” she assured. “Truly. I but wonder why he seems so stern. Is he always like that?” “Stern?” Andy repeated with a gust of laughter. “Aye, I suppose he can be when there’s a need for it.” His eyes sparkled then. “But Rob loves a good jest. None of us was safe from him as lads and he’s not much improved since then.” “Jests?” Mairi asked, unable to imagine the stoic MacBain playing tricks for fun. “Oh, aye,” Andy assured her, warming up to a tale. “Why just last month he smartly humbled one of his knights, Sir Belden—he’s a God-cursed temper, that man. Ever one to pick a fight for no good cause.” “Go on,” she encouraged. “What did the MacBain do to him?” “Goaded the man past bearing. Did it exactly the way Sir Belden would do to another. Niggling, smirking, poking fun. Kept at him until he demanded Rob fight him.” Andy chuckled and shook his head. “The man will think twice afore he strikes up another match over some piddling words.” “MacBain defeated him soundly, did he?” she asked, ripping off another chunk of bread. “You might say that. They was squared off, y’see.” Wee Andy demonstrated, standing with his short legs spread, stretching his arms as if about to draw his blade for attack. “Go on, finish it!” Mairi encouraged, eager to hear the outcome. Andy nodded and shifted his stance. “Then Robbie slides that huge sword of his out of its scabbard and holds it gleaming in the sun, evil grin on his face, looking ready to fight to the death.” He narrowed his eyes at Mairi, but his lips quivered with barely contained mirth, spoiling the effect. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lyn-stone/the-highland-wife/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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