The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Her calm smile belied the fire in her words. “I am a baroness and will be afforded the privileges of my rank.” She patted his hand. “An enemy who is wary is better than a nuisance who would plunge a knife into your back.”

  Birk shot her a startled look, then faced the men gathered. “This council bade me marry and produce an heir for the benefit of the clan. I present to ye my wife, Carys Wen, filia Pedr, now Baroness MacLean.”

  They’d heard the rumors—both true and false, for Carys had heard many of them herself—of Birk’s new wife, and excitement rushed through the group with the swoosh of fire through dry grass. Carys schooled her face into a careful absence of expression, back straight, head held high.

  After a moment, Birk raised a hand, and the murmurs faded to silence. “I will answer questions I deem appropriate. But let it be known, Carys is my wife by the grace of God and the Holy Church, and therefore subject to all courtesy due her. Any who finds fault with my decision is encouraged to take it up with me personally after this discussion.” His glare landed squarely on Gregor.

  Several men glanced at each other, but none offered to accept Birk’s challenge. Carys suppressed a smile. Perhaps they weren’t as short-witted as she’d first thought.

  “She isnae one of the lasses we presented ye.” Gregor’s jaw jutted forward, face furiously red.

  “I declared more than a month ago I wouldnae marry a woman from yer list.” Birk’s reply was final.

  “Why her?” another man whose name Carys did not know asked.

  Birk planted his feet. “Yer new baroness is fierce.”

  Ah—one of the virtues he espoused. Carys longed to know the others, but she was content, for the moment at least, to listen to him address the subject of their marriage to the council.

  A wolfish smile full of approval for Carys’s actions a few moments earlier aimed at Gregor as the word fierce rolled off Birk’s tongue. “She dinnae seek me out for my wealth or position. She dinnae seek me at all. I sought her. I couldnae ask for a better wife.”

  Carys momentarily lost her composure. I should have already asked him for his reasons. I had no idea of his standards—or that I had somehow met them.

  She lifted her chin, bringing her swirling emotions under control. Birk’s hand, still possessively on her shoulder, squeezed lightly.

  “She brings naught to the marriage,” Gregor scoffed, unwilling to concede the point. “’Tis said she is a refugee from Wales. Shipwrecked, without family, and penniless.”

  “’Tis true she and one other were sole survivors of a storm off the Ardnamurchan Peninsula this past spring. As for family, the whole of Clan MacLean stands ready to support and care for her.” His eyes lit as he canted his head, his gesture mocking. “Any who do not, will find themselves outside the clan. Where do yer loyalties lie?”

  Carys’s blood warmed. Her husband’s position was crystal clear to all in the room. He allowed their questions, but he would protect her with his answers. She had forgotten what it felt like to have someone’s firm support. Her chest tightened, but she set aside the unfamiliar sensation for reflection another time. Gregor shifted once again in his seat. It was clear he was not satisfied.

  Birk reached beneath his tunic and drew forth a leather bag. He tossed it onto the desk where it landed with the heavy chink of metal. “As for wealth, she brings this. The bounty from several clans set on Colin Dubh’s head. Forty silver pennies. Two witnesses watched her kill Colin Dubh and two of his men single-handedly. I saw the bodies. The bounty is hers as is the gratitude from all who suffered under the bastard’s murderous ways.”

  Murmurs buzzed again, some in disbelief one lass could kill three men, while others spoke of respect, though all silenced quickly as Gordon stormed to his feet. “Forty silver pennies is naught. The pretty dress she wears means naught. Ye have married a woman who brings no glory or honor to our clan. Her children will be half-blood Scots.”

  Carys quickly grasped Birk’s hand as it slipped from her shoulder, pulling him firmly back to her side. She accurately read the fury in his clenched jaw, the white lines in his red face, and his shoulders hunched forward a mere instant from pummeling the older man for his insolence.

  He married me for my fierceness. Let this be the first test.

  She drew the slender chain around her neck from beneath the borrowed gown and fingered the ring Hywel had given her. The crimson dragon edged with gold warmed beneath her touch. She opened the clasp and pulled the ring free of the chain, holding it for all to see. Bitter sweetness greeted her as it always did when she gazed upon Hywel’s ring. As she grasped the proof of her lineage, the truth of her heritage fired her blood.

  These interfering men know not who they challenge.

  Carys stood tall and in turn locked gazes with those who questioned her fitness as baroness of Clan MacLean. For centuries, Cymru warriors had fought the Vikings, the Romans, and the English—and before them, the Picts. Their proud spirits filled hers to overflowing as she scanned the room.

  “I bring no alliance to Clan MacLean, for my bloodline is nearly at an end. I am of the house of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, Prince of Cymru, and as a princess, the blood of Prince Llywelyn runs through my veins. I add noble blood to that of Clan MacLean. Any man who dares doubts my claim may meet me outside with steel in hand.”

  A slow grin spread over Birk’s face. She’d seen to it he knew of her skills firsthand. The tilt of his head told her he half-hoped someone in the council was foolish enough to accept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Carys stroked Tully’s head, her fingers lightly feathering through his short-cropped bright red hair. He curled next to her on the wide couch in the women’s solar, Dewr and Tegan at their feet. Abria and Eislyn sprawled beside him, clutching him tight, sharing his joy and grief. He was going home, and the anticipation was bittersweet.

  Hanna’s wooden knitting needles clacked quietly from her chair where a beam of sunlight crossed her lap.

  Completely worn out by the emotional tumult of the past two days, Carys softly sang the lilting strains of a lullaby her mother had once sung to her.

  “Dacw nghariad lawr yn y berllan

  Tw rymdi, rô rymdi, radl idl al

  O na bawn i yno fy hunan

  Tw rymdi, rô rymdi, radl idl al

  Dacw’r ty a dacw’r sgubor

  Dacw’r ddrws y beudy’n agor

  Ffaldi radl idl al, ffaldi radl idl al, tw rymdi, rô rymdi, radl idl al"

  Abria sighed and snuggled closer. “I like it. What does it mean?”

  “’Tis a love song,” Carys replied. “There’s my love, down in the orchard. Tra, rymdi, ra, rymdi, radl, idl, al.” She smiled. “The last part is rather like singing tra, la, la, but much prettier, I think.” She hummed the tune for a moment. “Oh, how I wish I was there, myself. Tra, rymdi, ra, rymdi . . ..”

  “Radl, idl, al.”

  The ragged chorus of the children’s voices brought tears to her eyes. “There’s the house,” she sang, “and there’s the barn; and there’s the cowshed door open.”

  “Tra, rymdi, ra, rymdi, radl, idl, al.” They sang the nonsense words with her.

  Eislyn giggled. Tully snorted. Abria ducked her head against Tully’s tunic.

  “Will we ever see ye again, Tully?” Eislyn asked, bringing a close to the song.

  Tully pulled his head from Carys’s shoulder and straightened, kicking his feet as they dangled an inch above the floor. “Och, aye,” he assured them with a fervent nod. “I’s gonna have a ship as big as Da’s was. Then I can sail here any time.”

  Eislyn scooted to the edge of the cushion and slipped her feet over, matching their swing to Tully’s. “I dinnae wish for ye to go.”

  Carys studied the children. Eislyn had adopted Tully as her big brother, not quailing at ordering the much older child around. He followed her faithfully, never objecting to her often imperious nature, but always quick to laugh and do as she asked. Though they’d been together less than a f
ortnight, their bond appeared unbreakable.

  Abria eyed him, tears in her eyes. She was rarely far from Tully’s side, hounding his steps like a puppy—eager to please and happy to be able to join him and Eislyn.

  “I like ye, and Abria, too, but I have brothers and sisters at home.” His breath hitched. “And, I miss my ma.”

  Eislyn turned and wrapped her arms about him. “I know,” she said. “Sometimes I miss my ma, too.” She sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “But we have Carys now, and I dinnae think of Ma as much. Ye will feel better once ye are home.” Her matter-of-fact voice cleared the air of its sadness, invoking absolute assurance that Tully’s reunion with his ma and siblings would right all that was wrong in the world.

  And just that quickly, Carys saw the tension around the children ease. Smiles lit their faces, happy once again.

  Abria popped up onto her knees. “Ffaldi radl idl al, ffaldi radl idl al, tw rymdi rô rymdi . . ..”

  “Radl idl al!" Eislyn chimed in, Tully’s voice a chant as he pumped out the nonsense words.

  They collapsed against the bolstered back of the couch, clutching their sides as they giggled and guffawed.

  The door to the solar opened. Dewr and Tegan leapt to their feet and rushed forward. Birk managed one step inside the room before they circled him tightly, effectively halting him until they were acknowledged.

  “Ye are well protected,” he noted. “Get bye, lass. Aye, Tegan, ye are a good lass.” He fended the excited dogs off with both hands for a moment, then put an abrupt halt to their antics. “Staund!”

  Both dogs immediately dropped their paws to the floor, furry bodies quivering as they eagerly awaited his next command. The children clapped hands over their ears at Birk’s bellow, grins widening as he then strode across to Hanna’s chair. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She smiled.

  “Ye learned that tone of voice from yer da,” she said, lowering her needles to her lap.

  “I should, I heard it often enough. Usually stopping me from one stramash or another.” He moved to the couch and planted a longer kiss on Carys’s cheek, smoothing a palm over her hair. He glanced at the boy next to her.

  “Are ye ready, Tully? The Már is set to sail first thing in the morning.”

  Tully nodded. “I’s ready. Carys helped me pack.”

  “And me!” Eislyn reminded him.

  “Me!” Abria piped up.

  Hanna sighed. “It warms my heart to hear them chatter so. And who knew Abria had such a lovely singing voice?”

  “Singing?” Birk eyed the girls, letting his gaze settle on Carys. “Who is teaching the girls to sing?”

  “Carys is, Da,” Eislyn proclaimed. “But the words are in Cymraeg, and they sound funny.”

  Abria slipped from her seat and tugged on Birk’s tunic. “Da, I’m packed, too.”

  Carys returned Birk’s startled look. She hadn’t helped Abria pack—or even suggested it.

  He chucked her beneath her chin. “I am pleased ye accomplished this on yer own. Howbeit, ye and Eislyn will be staying with yer amma.”

  Howls of dismay rocked the room. “I wanna go!” Abria sobbed. “Tully needs me!”

  “Please, Da! We dinnae wish to stay behind!” Eislyn grabbed Tully’s sleeve as though to anchor herself to him.

  Hanna rose, setting her knitting aside. The girls’ eyes darted immediately to her, and their cries faded at the implacable look on her face.

  “Do not worry, dearlings.” An expectant look fell over the children. Hanna smiled serenely at Birk. “I, too, am going sailing.”

  * * *

  Carys struggled to remain awake. For the second night at MacLean Castle, Birk was late to bed. The night before, he’d slipped into their chamber hours after she’d fallen asleep, waking her in the still hours, stirring the passion that seemed to lie just beneath the surface, always eager for his touch.

  She found him less irritating to be around recently. Which of them had changed? She sighed. ’Twas far more likely she’d grown accustomed to his abrupt ways and decided to not let them bother her. His actions were not petty, he was simply used to getting his own way and clearly astonished when people or circumstances did not line up immediately at his bidding.

  Hanna had something to do with that, Carys suspected. It was quite likely Birk was headstrong as a lad, but Carys could easily imagine and sympathize with a woman giving birth to a son long past the time she thought to bear children and raising him as she grieved the loss of her older child. Deep inside Birk was the gift of caring Hanna had obviously planted, sometimes hidden by the strong, unwavering man his father had shaped to be the leader of Clan MacLean.

  She would like to have met Alexander MacLean.

  A cool draft found its way beyond the curtained bed and Carys shivered. Weighing the discomfort of crossing the room to prod the banked coals into action against waiting for Birk to arrive and accomplish the chore, Carys wiggled from beneath the blanket and scurried to the hearth. Tucking her bare feet beneath her chemise, she perched on the warm stone and used a metal rod to poke the smoldering embers.

  The door creaked softly open and Carys crouched on the hearth, fingers flexing to seek the balance of the poker, letting the tip linger in the hot coals.

  Birk entered the room and pulled up short. He jerked his chin at the metal rod in her hand. “’Twill make a good weapon, heated like that.”

  She wasn’t entirely happy with his attempt to enter the room so silently, so late. “’Tis a fine weapon, hot or not.”

  He nodded and strode to the chest at the foot of the bed. Dropping his cloak, he pulled off his boots and unlaced his trews.

  “I thought ye would be asleep.”

  She motioned briefly to the crackling fire as she sank back onto the warm stone then returned the rod to its place on the hearth.

  “I was cold.”

  Birk’s eyes flashed and he paused briefly. “I needed to explain things to Hanna.”

  Carys hugged her knees to her chest. “Why don’t ye explain them to me?”

  He tossed his trews aside and placed his sword on the chest next to the bed, taking his time about arranging his weapons so they were within easy reach in the middle of the night.

  “I’m not the only one with secrets.” He sent her a sidelong look. “My shipwrecked poacher is a princess of Cymru?”

  Carys could not tell from his voice if he was angry or pleased. Or perhaps simply frustrated she’d had knowledge to which he had not been privy. It didn’t really matter. She was angry. “Och, and ye’ve been a paragon of truth? What bothers ye more? That ye threatened to hang a woman of royal blood? Or that my rank is superior to yours?”

  Birk scowled. “Rank? This has naught to do with rank. I married ye because ye dinnae care about who I was.”

  Carys slipped from her seat at the hearth to stand before him, fists clenched in frustration. “Didn’t care? I didn’t know! And I will tell ye now, if I’d known ye were a bloody baron, I’d have sought the gallows!” She flipped a hand at him in annoyance. “I’m willing to bet that didn’t make it into your chat with your ma.”

  “Interestingly enough, it did.” Birk’s eyebrows beetled together. “I now fear she may have me dropped overboard on the return voyage from Kinlochkillkerran.” His face cleared and he sent her a mocking look. “Ye should have been there. Ye could have collected more Norse insults for me to translate for ye.”

  “I’m certain they were fervently meant. I have a few for ye in Cymru. Hanna and I could compare them.”

  Birk rubbed the back of his neck. “I had my reasons.”

  Carys’s temper flared. “Aye. And they were your reasons, yet they affected us all.”

  Birk narrowed his eyes, stubbornness firming the muscles in his jaw. “I willnae be questioned. I acted in the best interest of the clan.” His palm slashed sideways through the air. “I am finished.”

  Carys stepped closer, matching his mulish look. “Questioned? Or held accountable? Just b
ecause your council is out of control does not give ye the right to manipulate others’ lives.”

  “Ye are a princess!” Birk exploded. “And I looked a bloody fool trying to convince the council ye are fit to be my wife.”

  She drew back and tossed her head. “Och, so the truth of the matter is appearances, is it? As long as I was a nobody ye rescued from—well, I do not think they know about the gallows, so mayhap ye liked them to think ye simply felt sorry for me and wed me because I appeared to be a woman capable of caring for your girls. As long as this was true, ye could lord it over those silver-haired men who shouldn’t have their noses in your bed to begin with. Show them how their offers of noble ladies and wealth and alliance didn’t mean anything to ye.”

  Carys stepped neatly to one side as Birk reached for her. “But I defended myself against them without your help. I’m not a peasant wench without a penny to my name, a woman in need of your protection. I am a princess of Cymru with a small fortune recovered from the wreck of the Seabhag, and a ring to prove my bloodline.”

  Birk’s shoulders rounded, his chin lowering until his gaze burned directly into hers. “They bought my first wife from the MacDonalds as surely as if they’d exchanged coin for her. And a lot of bloody good it did me. She enjoyed my wealth, her status, and the attention from the men who swarmed to her side. After Eislyn was born, she stopped coming to my bed, and locked her door after Abria’s birth. She spent most of her time taunting me with her list of grievances and bed partners.”

  His chest heaved, but he did not move closer. Carys eyed him with interest, scarcely daring to breathe lest he decide he’d said enough. She wanted to hear it all. She needed to know why her husband wanted nothing more from her than an heir. She had far more to give, and was heartily tired of being pushed aside as if her use did not extend past the bedroom.

  Birk fisted his hands on his hips. “I was too big, too brutish, gave her no pleasure. She finally left me and fled with her lover to Stornoway, but their ship sank crossing the Minch.”