Bride of Fire

by Glynnis Campbell

  He knew better. But rather than ask her questions she’d answer with lies, he swept past her to the window and peered out. A rope of knotted bedsheets flapped in the wind from the adjoining window.

  He was so astonished, he almost hit his head on the window when he pulled it back in.

  “Ye climbed o’er from the other window,” he guessed.

  She gave him a cocky smile as she nodded.

  “Are ye daft, lass?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I made it, didn’t I?”

  Suddenly, he looked at the beautiful, fiery maid with new eyes. He’d already experienced her hotheadedness and strong will. But now he saw she was clever. Brave. Daring. And brilliant. The combination made her a formidable adversary indeed.

  “Someone had to do something about the infernal noise,” she explained. Glancing down at the bairn, who stared back at her with inquisitive eyes, she murmured, “What’s its name?”

  “What?” he grunted.

  “The babe. What’s its name?”

  Morgan stared blankly at his son.

  When he didn’t answer, Jenefer turned to Bethac.

  Bethac worried her hands together and knitted her brows. “He hasn’t got a name yet, Miss.”

  “What? Hasn’t he been baptized?” Jenefer glanced back at Morgan. “Whose babe is it?”

  Guilt and shame tied Morgan’s tongue.

  Cicilia began to answer. “Why, Miss, do ye not know? ’Tis the son o’ the lai—”

  “The Lady Alicia!” he broke in before she could finish. He didn’t dare give Jenefer any more leverage over him. The lass might appear to have a way with infants. But if she found out this one was his son, he had no doubt she’d bargain with the bairn’s life to gain her freedom.

  Jenefer smirked in disgust. “And where is this Lady Alicia, that she makes no effort to pacify her own babe?”

  His eyes flattened. He’d tell her the brutal truth. That should shut her up. “Lady Alicia is d—” To his consternation, his voice caught on the word. It was too difficult to say.

  Jenefer’s brow creased, and she turned to Bethac for an answer.

  Bethac’s face fell. She murmured, “I’m afraid she’s no longer with us, Miss. She died givin’ birth to this wee lad.”

  Chapter 16

  Jenefer furrowed her brow. That made up her mind. She was definitely going to take the babe.

  The wee thing was clearly too much work for the old maidservant. And the laird knew less than Jenefer did about dealing with infants.

  She’d take him off their hands and find a wet nurse at Rivenloch to care for the child.

  “You should at least name him,” she said, peering down at the newborn. Now that his face had paled from an angry, wrinkled red to a calm cream, she saw he was rather comely—for an infant. He had a sweet mouth, long lashes, and a fine dusting of dark hair covering his shapely head.

  The maidservant exchanged a curious glance with her laird.

  The Highlander scowled in irritation. “He’ll get a name in due time.”

  Jenefer scowled back. It was ridiculous to put it off. And since she intended to take the lad with her anyway, she decided to name him herself.

  “Well, if you won’t do it…” She tipped her head down to ask the babe, “What about Miles, lad? Do you like the sound o’ that?”

  The babe waved his fists. She decided to take that as his approval.

  “Then Miles ’tis,” she proclaimed.

  The maidservant beamed and gushed, “Och aye, ’tis a brilliant name!”

  “Nay!” the Highlander boomed.

  The babe stiffened. His lower lip quivered as if he might cry again. Jenefer scalded the Highlander with a look.

  “What’s twisted your trews?” she demanded. “’Tis a fine Scots name.”

  “I’m the laird,” he told her, crossing his considerable arms over his considerable chest. “I’ll be the one namin’ the bairn.”

  She let her gaze course over the Highlander. Was that how they did things in the Highlands? Did the laird name all the babes of his clan? It seemed unfair.

  But she wasn’t going to argue with him now. Standing like that, he looked quite imposing and formidable. He had the confidence of a man who believed his word was law. And he probably thought he could squash her like a flea.

  But all men had weaknesses. She’d find his—eventually.

  Meanwhile, she arched a brow. “Do what you will. But I’m going to call him Miles.”

  She could see the Highlander wanted to gainsay her. But unless he was willing to cut out her tongue, he couldn’t very well prevent her from calling the babe whatever she wished, whether it was Miles or Methuselah the Miserable.

  Just to provoke him, she ignored him to address the babe. “You like your new name, don’t you, Miles? And I’m sure Lady Aelfeva would have liked it as well.”

  “Not Aelfeva,” the man groused. “Alicia.”

  “Is it now?” For someone who wasn’t in a hurry to name things, it was curious he cared whether she got the mother’s name right. She bowed her head in salute to the babe. “Well, Miles, good even to you. My name is Jenefer du Lac.” She added under her breath, “Soon to be Laird Jenefer of Creagor.”

  “What was that?” the Highlander demanded.

  “Just telling him my name.”

  He lowered his brows in disapproval. “Why? He’s a bairn. He can’t understand ye.”

  “’Tis the proper thing to do.” She gave him a scornful glance. Apparently, it was true what they said—Highlanders had no grasp of common manners. “’Tis ne’er too early to learn courtesy.”

  Slowly the babe’s eyes drifted shut, and Jenefer handed the drowsy Miles off to the maidservant. The woman settled the babe into his low crib by the hearth and tucked blankets in around him.

  Then Jenefer faced the Highlander, mirroring his menacing posture—crossing her arms over her chest—and muttered, “Methinks you could have benefited from early lessons in courtesy.”

  He looked daggers at her. “Ye dare to insult me?” he challenged. “Do ye know who I am?”

  “Nay, I don’t,” she replied, “which is my point. You have yet to properly introduce yourself.”

  “Ye don’t know who I am?” He blinked in disbelief. “Do ye mean to say ye’ve decided this land doesn’t belong to me, yet ye don’t even know who I am?”

  It did sound rather odd when he put it that way.

  “I know who you think you are. You think you’re the Laird of Creagor.”

  His arms unfolded. He clenched his fists and moved to loom over her. This close, he looked as if he might swallow her whole at any moment.

  “I am the Laird o’ Creagor,” he bit out.

  His quiet words were far more chilling than a shout. Despite her usually indomitable courage, in the shadow of the Highlander, she gulped and felt her fingertips dig into her arms. She’d poked the beast one too many times. And there was something menacing in his intense gaze that made her want to keep her distance.

  Nonetheless, it wouldn’t do to let him know she was anxious. So her tone was flippant when she said, “If you won’t introduce yourself properly, perhaps I shall make up a name for you as well. Let me see… William the Weak? Olifard mac Awful? Marmaduke the Malevo—”

  “Morgan!” he thundered in impatience, making her jump.

  She cast a swift glance toward Miles, hoping the laird’s shout wouldn’t wake him.

  Morgan’s eyes were steely and his teeth clenched as he lowered his voice to say, “Laird Morgan Mor mac Giric.”

  Mor. It meant “big.” An apt description, she thought as she peered up at him, mere inches away from his glowering countenance, close enough to feel the heat of his anger.

  Her voice came out on a breathy wisp of air, but she forced herself to meet his stare with steadfast courage. “Pleased to meet you…Morgan,” intentionally omitting the “Laird.”

  His eyes blazed into hers at the obvious slight. But she refused to look
away. Showing vulnerability would have been a tactical mistake.

  They locked gazes, her green eyes gleaming with feigned confidence beneath the scorching heat of his…what were they? Brown? Green? Golden? It was hard to tell.

  As the moment drew longer and longer, neither of them willing to surrender in their silent contest of wills, a curious thing happened. The heat in his regard slowly cooled, like a coal diminishing from a riotous flame to a smoldering glow. The crease between his brows softened.

  To her astonishment, a twinkle began to spark at the outer edges of his eyes. One corner of his lip curved up into the merest hint of a smile. Finally, he shook his head and let out a single chuckle.

  “Are ye?” he asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Are ye pleased to meet me?”

  Her lips twitched. Those had been her words. Spoken out of habit, they hardly described the sentiment of a woman kept prisoner against her will.

  Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help but be amused. An answering glint of mischief entered her eyes.

  “I’d be pleased to meet you,” she replied, “on the battlefield.”

  This time, his eyes danced with laughter, and he almost showed her an actual smile.

  Her heart tripped. Despite her distaste for Highlanders, she had to admit, when he wasn’t vexed and threatening, Morgan was dangerously attractive. Though it was flawed by injuries at the moment, his face was finely sculpted, with an angled jaw, prominent cheekbones, and a nose that was strong, if not quite straight.

  “Ah, lass,” he admitted with a sigh, “I’m far too weary to do further battle this eve, even a battle o’ wits.”

  She wasn’t surprised. He’d probably traveled a long way, spent the entire day installing his household—a household she intended to dismantle as soon as possible—and wanted nothing more than to get a good night’s sleep, free from the sound of a babe crying.

  But she couldn’t forget what Hallie had said. It would be far more difficult to oust the invader if he had time to settle in.

  “What about the morrow then?” she proposed. “I’ll fight you for Creagor at dawn.”

  The maidservants gasped.

  “Ye aren’t serious?” He seemed genuinely surprised. He shook his head. “I won’t fight a lass, no matter what combat skills ye claim to have.”

  “Claim to have?” She could feel her blood starting to simmer, as it always did when a man doubted her worth. “I’ve bested bigger warriors than you.”

  That was absolutely not true. But she had no doubt she could best bigger men than him.

  “I doubt ye’ve seen a bigger warrior than me,” he said, exposing her lie. He softened the blow by adding, “But I’m sure ye could send a grown man limpin’ from the battlefield…if not from the keen side o’ your sword, then from the sharp edge o’ your tongue.”

  The younger servant giggled behind her hand.

  Jenefer opened her mouth to reply and couldn’t. Every response she thought of would only prove his point.

  Flustered, she finally snapped, “Be ready at first light. I’ll need to beg a sword and shield, as chivalry allows.” Before he could refuse her, she jabbed a finger at his chest. “And know this, sirrah. If you do not accept my challenge, I shall brand you coward and spread that name far and wide.”

  Chapter 17

  Morgan felt steam building in his ears. He lowered his gaze pointedly at the finger prodding him in the chest. The lass might look as appealing as a warm hearth, with her eyes blazing and her cheeks aflame. But like a poker, her insolent finger stirred the coals of his anger.

  He reached up and curled his fist tightly around her offending digit, trapping her.

  “Ye’ll do no such thing, lass,” he said. “This is my keep and my land. If ye’re civil and honorable, ye may stay as a guest.”

  She clamped her lips and tried to jerk away, to no avail.

  “If not, ye’ll remain a prisoner.”

  “I can’t be a prisoner in my own castle.”

  “’Tisn’t yours, lass.”

  “The hell ’tisn’t!”

  Morgan hadn’t been jesting when he’d said he was weary. He was brain-drained and bone-tired. He had no desire to engage the lass, either this eve in a battle of words or on the morrow in a clash of swords. So he cast her finger back at her.

  “Ye’ll go back to my chamber now…and stay.”

  “Oh, aye, I’ll stay,” she bit out, “but only because I vowed to my cousins I wouldn’t leave them in the hands of savage Highlanders.” She sneered the words, “Not because you’re commanding me like a hound.”

  Deep in his throat came an impatient sound that was half-sigh, half-growl.

  She headed toward the window.

  “Not that way,” he said. “Through the door.”

  She turned and raised her chin. “Fine.”

  Striding past, she pointedly snatched her hem aside so it wouldn’t touch him.

  He shook his head in chagrin. The lass was wearing his leine, after all.

  He followed at her heels, giving a farewell nod to the maidservants. He hoped he could trust them to be discreet about what had happened here. The last thing he needed was a crowd of his clansmen gathered at dawn, wagering on a match rumored between the new Laird of Creagor and a helpless, pesky flea of a wee lass.

  He steered Jenefer back into his bedchamber. He was tempted to slam the door after her, just to emphasize the seriousness of his order.

  But he didn’t wish to wake Miles again. So he closed it gently and sighed as he looked down at his makeshift bed of fleece just outside the door.

  Miles.

  Now the pushy wench had him calling the lad Miles.

  He had to admit it wasn’t a bad name. When the bairn was grown, his full title would be Laird Miles mac Morgan. It was a good name, a strong name.

  Still, it rankled at him that the lass had brazenly attached a name to the bairn, not even knowing whose it was.

  He’d change it, he decided as he stretched out on the fleece. There were plenty of good names that would suit the son of Morgan Mor mac Giric. Maybe he’d christen the lad Allison, in honor of Alicia. Whatever he chose, he’d be damned if he’d let a headstrong warrior lass name his firstborn.

  Yet to his annoyance, after several hours of blissfully undisturbed sleep, his first thought upon waking the next morn was gratitude that wee “Miles” had slept through the night.

  With a self-mocking grimace, he rose up on one elbow. He yawned and raked his hair back from his brow.

  As he blinked the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, he heard stirring on the other side of the door. At first it was just the scraping of coals on the hearth and the patter of feet on the floor. Then he heard a flurry of female whispering.

  He sat up with a sniff, stretching his arms carefully over his head. Yesterday’s fight with Colban had left his ribs bruised and his shoulders aching. And his nose was still tender from the wench’s punch.

  The whispers were increasing in volume and agitation, though the words were too muffled to understand.

  He’d have to sort everything out soon. He’d never taken hostages before. He was not in the habit of dealing with lasses much at all. Especially lasses as hostile, outspoken, and prone to squabbling as these Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch.

  He didn’t want to hold them any longer than necessary. With any luck, the documents from the king would arrive today, proving his claim. By afternoon, he could return the maids to their proper home and put all this behind him.

  Then he could proceed with settling in to his new keep—exploring the land, purchasing provisions, finding a more suitable chamber for Miles, where his cries wouldn’t disturb Morgan’s sleep.

  He frowned. It seemed the name Jenefer had given the bairn was going to stick.

  He didn’t care. Not really. The bawling bairn could be called Jehoshaphat, as far as he was concerned. He just didn’t like the self-satisfied lass who believed she was the Laird of Creagor to
think she could issue commands in his household.

  From the other side of the door, he heard the self-important lass now.

  “Aye, ’tis my handiwork. But you can see I’m still here,” Jenefer was insisting. “Don’t try to blame me for this!”

  He couldn’t hear her cousin’s reply.

  But Jenefer’s response was, “I hope her da’s knights do come. I told you from the beginning, we should have used force. Now maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

  That brought Morgan to his feet.

  He flung open the door.

  The dark lass called Feiyan was standing beside the open window. In one hand was looped the rope of bedsheets Jenefer had made.

  Jenefer wheeled toward him, her arms akimbo, her gaze defiant. Despite her rebellious expression, by day, she was even more captivating. The light of dawn filtered through the pale saffron of the leine, outlining her body in tempting relief. Her tawny tresses looked as inviting as sunshine.

  Then he noticed the enticing flash in her emerald eyes. A flash that told him she kept a fatal secret.

  “What have ye done?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  “I haven’t done a thing,” she said smugly.

  He turned to Feiyan. “What’s happened?”

  Before Feiyan could reply, Jenefer responded with a silky, self-assured smile. “Exactly what I warned you about.”

  “Jen,” Feiyan scolded.

  Jenefer clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have taken what wasn’t yours…Morgan.”

  She’d omitted the “Laird” just to annoy him again. But he wasn’t going to take the bait.

  He turned to Feiyan again. She might at least give him a straight answer. “What are ye two up—”

  He stopped abruptly as a swift perusal of the room told him what was wrong.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the third?”

  Chapter 18

  Jenefer had to give Hallie credit. She knew her cousin was clever. But she hadn’t expected such ingenuity from her. Though Hallie had commanded Feiyan and Jenefer not to flee, she’d never said anything about making her own escape.