After a beat of silence, Nioclas finally said, “A hawk.”
“Like this one,” Aidan said, walking over and handing Brianagh something smooth, round, and heavy.
“My brooch!” she exclaimed. “Wait. How did you get it?”
“My lady, I ask that you show me the mark on your arm,” Kiernan said, his voice brooking no argument.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, she began to roll the sleeve of her dress. She just wanted to go home, but they weren’t going to let her go without a fight. She yanked up the last of the material. There, no larger than a quarter, was the only mark on her, aside from a smattering of freckles across her lower back. And she certainly wasn’t going to bare any more of herself than she was at present.
Kathryne’s sigh of relief likely carried to the next village over, it was so loud. “Aye. You are the chosen one.”
Wordlessly, Brianagh looked at her in shock and a little bit of pity. The woman was so desperate to believe she was her daughter. Bri felt almost guilty. There was no way that small scar was the shape of a hawk. She glanced at it. It was the same scar she’d always had. She remembered how she’d fallen, but she hadn’t needed any stitches or even a trip to the doctor. But the scrape had scarred, and despite every type of cream Evelyn put on it, it never faded.
She looked at the brooch in her hand, then froze. Her gaze flew to the scar, then back to the brooch. Then back to the scar. Surprised, she looked up into the grimly determined face of Nioclas. Her scar was a near-perfect outline of the hawk on the brooch she held.
Nioclas spoke, his voice ringing with finality. “We marry tonight, before Burke has a chance to strike.”
She shook her head, but no sound emitted. This was absolutely not how her day was going to go.
Chapter 8
Somehow Brianagh found her way back to her chamber, where she spent an hour trying to calm herself. She couldn’t be expected to marry someone she’d only just met.
She had to figure out a way to get back home, and Reilly clearly wasn’t going to help her. She had to convince him he had the wrong person. She was not a time-traveler—well, not by choice, anyway.
Bri knew if she tried to leave the castle, she’d be stopped. She doubted she’d get past the front door, much less the huge portcullis she spied out her window. She stepped closer to the alcove in her room, watching the bustle of people outside. Her room appeared to be located in the keep, as she was higher than any other building, maybe the fourth floor from the ground. She saw three walls outside: one to her left that seemed connected to the keep, one in front of her that contained the wicked-looking portcullis, and the wall to the right. The courtyard—bailey, as Reilly referred to it—was expansive; people were everywhere. A few women were hanging laundry, children were playing with wooden swords, and horses were being led toward the wall on the right. She watched as the men leading the beasts walked through an archway she hadn’t noticed. Apparently there was more down there than she could see.
Beyond the front wall was another, smaller building of some sort. The portcullis was up and so was the drawbridge. Outside the castle walls was a barbican, and from her vantage point, she could make out helmets and weaponry glinting in the sunlight as guards walked its parapets.
Her shoulders slumped. There was no way she could make it across the bailey, over the drawbridge, and out of the barbican without someone noticing her. Brianagh straightened and gave herself a good shake. She couldn’t give up; she had to at least try. Someone in this castle had to know where Newgrange was, and once she found out, she’d make her way there. She could find Dowth from what she remembered in her brochure; she couldn’t be too far.
With renewed purpose, Brianagh flung open her door and ran smack into a hard chest. Arms grasped hers, and the touch traveled like lightening up her arms. Bri looked up…and up…and up.
Nioclas MacWilliam was one very, very big man.
The top of the dark curls piled atop her head didn’t reach his shoulders. He wore no adornment on the léine wrapped about his chest, and his lower legs were bare except for his boots, an assortment of knives tucked into them. His hair was restrained with a strip of leather, and his eyes were still the intense gray she remembered from her dreams. His hands—big, strong, and calloused—held her arms gently.
The gesture was at odds with his fierce appearance.
He released her, then gave a swift bow. “Perhaps, my lady, you would humor me with a walk in my gardens.”
That wasn’t at all what she expected to hear coming out of his mouth. She stood there, trying to assimilate what he wanted, when he raised an eyebrow at her.
“I won’t bite, I assure you.”
She tamped down the thrill of excitement that kind of statement elicited and gritted her teeth. The man oozed sex.
When he offered her a smile, her knees weakened and she repeated to herself, Not going to get involved. At all.
He still stood, his arm outstretched. Really, what else was she going to do? Slam the door in his face and hide in her room? At least this way, she could gauge her best attempt at fleeing. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeated as they walked down the hallway. “I’m unfamiliar with that word.”
“Sorry. I meant, I agree.”
“Ah. Then I won’t complain.” He led her down the circular stairway, then, at the bottom, signaled to a servant. “Bring me a woolen cloak for Lady Brianagh.” He glanced at her. “Rather cold out today. November in Ireland tends to be much colder, but we’re in a warm spell.”
The servant bobbed a curtsey, and a few minutes later, returned with a heavy, light-blue cloak lined with fur. Brianagh allowed Nioclas to fasten it about her shoulders.
The cold blasted Brianagh and she shivered as they stepped outside the castle walls. “This is a warm spell?”
He chuckled. “Oh, aye. In January, sometimes it is so bitter I have my clansfolk sleep in the great hall instead of their houses in the village.”
She had nothing to say to that. Instead she walked next to him, silently observing the hustle and bustle around them. He walked her to the archway she’d noticed earlier. It led to another bailey containing the stables, a blacksmith, and a small building with smoke rising. “The kitchens,” he explained, noticing her concern. “It connects to the main castle in the back. There’s a garden on the other side of it.”
“I had no idea castles were so big,” she murmured.
“Some are. This one is only so large because my grandfather, and his before him, worked it. I added this bailey when I realized moving the kitchens out of the main building lessened the risk of fire.” He led her around the side of the kitchen to the mostly walled-in garden. Alcoves with small benches carved into them were built into the walls, He led her to one and she was surprised to see the walls were hollow, creating a passageway.
“They don’t go anywhere,” Nioclas said as she peered into the wall. “In summer, we store food and supplies for the castle in them.”
“How many castles are there in Ireland?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A handful. None as large as this, though. My clan is a prosperous one—we have the sea at our back and fertile lands through our borders.” He nodded once to a guardsman standing near the wall, and the man nodded back before leaving. “Let’s discuss our concerns about this wedding.”
Brianagh was relieved at his straightforward observation but had no idea what to say, so she just inclined her head.
“O’Malley has led me to believe you have a full life where you’ve been living, on the continent.”
She almost corrected him but remembered America hadn’t even been discovered yet.
“I have an idea that would benefit us both,” he said carefully. “I was betrothed to another as of yesterday. She is unsuitable. Many other clan lairds want my alliance and wish to use their daughters as a way to secure it. My clan elders wish for me to marry to avoid any unhappy lairds knocking on my door.” He slanted his eyes at her. “If I wed
a lass outside my clan, our clans are allied, and my clansmen will battle alongside that clan, as they would for us. If I marry you, I’m already in alliance with the O’Rourkes, who are a peaceful clan. I will not have to involve my clansfolk in any other battles for yet another clan.”
“I’m sorry, but—” she started, but he held up a hand, effectively silencing her.
“In my clan, when you marry for love or fall in love with your wife, you are not expected to marry once she’s dead.” At her gasp, he shook his head. “No, do not misunderstand me. I have no reason to hurt you. You wish to return to the life you’ve built in your country, and I need to marry, if only to stop ambitious sires with very young girls whom I have no interest in taking as a lover or a wife. If you agree to stay for three months, which is enough time for other clans to hear of our nuptials, and enough time for my clan to perceive us in love, I will return you to your home, unscathed. And I will arrange travel with men who will verify your status as a clan widow.”
She considered that; he would believe that she’d need the protection of widowhood to get along in the world, and she appreciated his kindness in thinking of it. She nodded, then asked, “Do you know of Newgrange?”
Obviously not the answer he expected. “I cannot say that I am familiar with it.”
Brianagh flashed back to the brochure in the car and remembered reading it was “rediscovered” in 1699. She wasn’t sure about Dowth, though. “How far are we from Dublin?”
His impassive mask stayed firmly in place. “Four, perhaps five days’ ride.”
Brianagh hadn’t built a thriving company based on indecision. She had a great aptitude for assessing a situation and making executive decisions as fast as she could gather all pertinent information. And in this situation, she knew she couldn’t get anywhere near Newgrange if they were that far from Dublin.
She would need this man’s help to get home. There wasn’t any alternative. She had no money, no transportation, and no sense of direction, as James repeatedly pointed out to her whenever she called him, lost on some back road in the suburbs of the city.
She let out a sigh, then nodded. “If you promise to bring me to Dublin, I will agree to this.”
She could see he didn’t understand why she wanted to go there, but all he responded with was, “As you will. And, as we’re to be married…you may call me Nioclas.”
She inclined her head. “I’m Brianagh. But my friends call me Bri.”
“Those closest to me call me Nick.”
“Shall I call you Nick?”
“I prefer Nioclas,” he replied dryly, “but I suppose, as you’ve accepted my hand for the next three months, you may call me whatever you wish, as long as it remains ‘my laird’ in front of any clansmen. Shall I call you Bri?”
“I prefer ‘my lady,’” she said, fighting a smile, “but you may call me ‘my lady Brianagh.’”
“You’re rather feisty,” Nioclas said, fighting his own smile. “I do think we’ll get along quite well.”
“Talk to Reilly,” she suggested as they headed back to the main building. “He’ll tell you all about how feisty I am. Just don’t believe it.” Brianagh cautioned herself not to let her guard down, but she already felt her heart lighten. She just prayed he was true to his word, for she fully realized she needed someone’s help to get home.
A fake wedding and marriage for three months?
She was a matchmaker by trade. She knew all the signs to look for in a match. She could certainly pretend most of them to uphold her end of the bargain. It seemed a small price to pay to get back to her life.
• • •
That afternoon, Brianagh was back in her room and surrounded by at least ten women, all convinced they were the best to help her dress for the wedding. She was getting a headache listening to them talk over each other. There was no clear hierarchy that gave one person management capabilities over another.
The businesswoman in her was tearing her hair out.
“Ladies,” she said, holding up her hand. The arguments continued, so she raised her voice. “LADIES!”
“Aye, my lady?” ten voices asked at once.
Brianagh zeroed in on the oldest woman. “How many weddings have you helped with?”
“Well, there was me own daughters, there’s four right there, and a right mess, too, with the last.”
“Does anyone else have more than four weddings under her belt?” Bri asked. At the confused, blank expressions, she clarified. “Has anyone helped in more than four weddings?”
One woman stepped forward, bobbing a curtsey. “Aye, my lady, I have had a hand in fourteen.”
“Oh, I did so love Regan’s wedding,” one of the other women exclaimed. “Getting her ready in just an hour, and rushing her to the abbey before Cormac’s family arrived! ’Twas nicely done!”
“All right. You—” Brianagh motioned to the woman with the most experience. “—are in charge. Determine what needs to be done, then give half of the tasks to her.” She indicated the first woman who stepped forward. “Then, the two of you can tell the others what they need to do—smaller tasks, such as fetching ribbons or…” She faltered, not sure what else was needed for a medieval wedding. She just matched people and attended weddings. The only involvement she had in planning was to hand the happy couple a business card of her most-used wedding planner.
“I see what you need, my lady,” the woman with the most experience said, saving her from thinking about it anymore. “My name is Sheila, and this is Iona. We’ll take it in hand from here.”
“Wonderful.”
Two hours later, Brianagh was bathed, dressed, coiffed, and ready to head to the abbey.
“My lady, a word?” The others had left, and Iona stood alone near the door.
“Of course.”
Iona fidgeted, then smiled. “I wanted to thank you. The way you put Sheila at the front of it and all…it made a difference. The last big wedding we had in the bailey, it took us all day to get the bride ready. The groom thought she’d run off, but really, we just spent so much time arguing over whose way was best…well, your way helped. And I thank you for sparing us womenfolk the weeks of arguing that usually happens between us after the blessed event.”
Bri smiled back. “You’re welcome. Thanks for telling me.”
Iona curtsied, then added quickly, “The MacWilliam’s a good man, takes care of all of us. Your sire chose well.”
Bri offered another smile, and Iona closed the door behind her.
Bri’s smile disappeared. I don’t have a sire. But, perhaps I do have a purpose here.
• • •
Brianagh managed to not grind her teeth in frustration, but she was nearing the end of her patience.
How long was a medieval wedding ceremony supposed to take?
She felt as though she’d been standing for hours, hearing Latin—and of course, she couldn’t understand a word. Nioclas was listening attentively, as was Kiernan, Kathryne, Reilly, Aidan…and the entire MacWilliam clan. There had to be over five hundred people standing in the bailey, watching the laird take his wedding vows. Bri hoped she wasn’t the only one who had no idea what was going on in the ceremony.
“I will,” Nioclas said solemnly.
Oh, that she recognized. She let out a little sigh of relief. At least she didn’t have to answer anything in Latin and put her ignorance on display. She realized Nioclas was looking at her expectantly, and she quickly said, “Oh. I will too.”
He slid a gold band onto her finger, and the entire clan burst into wild cheers that melded into a chant of some sort. She couldn’t make out what they were yelling, but she turned and smiled at the crowd anyway.
“They’re saying, ‘Kiss,’” Nioclas murmured as he smiled at his people and gave a wave. “Let the game begin, aye?”
And then, in front of everyone, Nioclas pulled her close, bent her backward, and cradling her in his arms, covered her mouth with his own. When she let out a surprised gasp, he slid his
tongue between her teeth, where it tangled in a heated battle with hers…a battle to which she quickly surrendered.
As far as kisses go, Brianagh thought, her mind fuzzy as he righted her and reluctantly ended the kiss, I just had my socks blown off.
Chapter 9
Nioclas didn’t bother cursing himself for giving in to his temptation. Brianagh was standing on the step of his castle and she had agreed to be his wife. He told himself it was his duty to make the marriage seem realistic. It didn’t hurt that her crystal-blue eyes held intelligence, or that her mouth—the color of raspberries in summer—was shaped just for kissing. He let himself have just a taste, and he was certain he would regret it. Eventually.
Leading her up the castle steps, he turned, waved one last time, then entered the great hall. It was blessedly empty, save his normally stationed guardsmen. Once they were inside, Nioclas looked at his bride, who looked as though she still hadn’t fully recovered from his kiss.
He grinned and led her over to the stairway. Two steps up he backed her against the wall, dug his hands into her hair, and lowered his mouth to hers again. He felt her resistance, but as his skillful tongue and lips worked their magic, she melted against him, her arms coming to rest lightly on his shoulders as she allowed him in.
He toyed with the fine hair at the back of her neck and felt the gooseflesh rise as she shivered. Kissing down her neck, then back up to her ear, his hand slid farther and he began to knead her backside—
“MacWilliam!” a voice boomed into the great hall.
“Damn him,” Nioclas growled as Brianagh dropped her head onto his neck, her breathing ragged.
“Who is that?” Brianagh asked, licking her lips.
“Maguire.” Irritation laced the word.
“Remind me to thank him,” she said as she pulled back, regaining her equilibrium. “We almost made a very bad mistake there.”
“MacWilliam! There you are! I heard tell you just got yourself married!” A man with dark-blond hair and brown eyes, dressed in a blue-and-red léine, rounded the corner of the stairs. “Oh ho! And apparently ‘just’ is exactly when!” His laughter boomed as loudly as his voice, echoing off the stone.
The Winter Laird Page 7