The Winter Laird

by Nancy Scanlon

  “No, it’s a love match.” She almost choked on the words. “He asked me, and I said yes. But he won’t come for me. He doesn’t know where I am. I don’t know why I’m explaining this to you; it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

  He frowned. “Is he a laird?”

  “No. He’s in trade.”

  Nioclas scoffed. “Trade! You, the daughter of a powerful Irish clan, agreed to marry a tradesman? ’Tis laughable. You’re worth more than that.”

  She bristled. “Apparently so. You bought me.”

  He immediately sobered. “Aye, I did. Will he wait for you, if he receives word that you are to return in three months?”

  “Are you offering to send word?” she asked cautiously.

  “Nay, and you know why. I simply wonder if he would wait that long for you.” Nioclas paused. “Three months is not long, to be sure, but some men have different priorities in a marriage. Often, time is important.”

  Brianagh shrugged. “I would like to believe he’ll wait for me.” But I wonder if he would.

  Her unspoken thought hung in the air between them.

  “Your parents—”

  “Who haven’t known me since the moment I was born—”

  “—assured me you were unattached—”

  “—and had no idea what my life was like before I was sold to the highest bidder—”

  “—and I married you to avoid war, not bring it to my doorstep—”

  “Well, maybe you should’ve asked Reilly, seeing as he was with me from the minute my mother gave me up!” Brianagh snapped.

  “O’Malley? You were betrothed to O’Malley?”

  “No! I was betrothed to Matthew de Burgh!”

  “A Frenchman?” Nioclas exclaimed in disgust. “And probably a distant relation to the Burkes—an entire side of the clan left Ireland years ago to get away from my sire’s rule. I had heard tell they changed their name. Cowards.”

  “Oh, now you want to insult an entire family based on the fact they changed their names?”

  “Are you always this argumentative?” Nioclas countered angrily.

  “Absolutely not. I’m usually quite agreeable!” she shouted. With effort, she lowered her voice. “Well, again, Matthew doesn’t know where I am. So I’m fairly certain he won’t come banging on your gates in the middle of the night.”

  “Are you so desperate to get back to him that you’d give up your honor?” Nioclas spat. “Surely, if he thinks you’re ruined, he’ll want no more of you.”

  “That’s not how he thinks,” she replied hotly. “He won’t care about that.”

  “The man won’t care if his love marries another?” Nioclas raised an arrogant brow.

  “If the lass I loved married another, I would ride to the ends of the world to find her. Then I would slay the fool who thought to steal her from me.” He lowered his voice. “And I wouldn’t wait to do either.”

  “We have different visions of love,” Bri said, her voice unsure.

  His eyes, full of questions, locked on hers for a long moment. “I don’t think we do, lass.”

  She laughed nervously. “Your words are quite romantic, Nioclas. I hope that when you find your own love, you can say them with the same finesse.”

  His eyes clouded. “You know me not, Brianagh. Tread carefully with your tone. You may be able to speak with your Frenchman”—he uttered the word angrily, as though it were an insult upon his person—“like that, but you will not do so to me.”

  “Why are you so angry about this?” she demanded. “He’s not going to come looking for me!”

  “How are you so certain?” Nioclas demanded back, closing the distance between them. “Are you not important enough to fight for? Is he just too busy with his trade to be bothered by this?”

  The truth of his questions slammed into her, and she sucked in a breath.

  Nioclas’s expression immediately softened. “By the saints, Brianagh. ’Tis the truth, isn’t it?”

  Brianagh could feel his warm breath caress her face. Stiffening her spine, she tried to ignore the hot, intense flash of lust, and remained silent.

  “When I kissed you, I felt your surprise.” Nioclas pressed closer. “I thought it was maidenly senses or some such rot, but it’s worse than that, isn’t it?”

  Bri stepped back, but he followed. “Well, you did kiss me in front of all those people. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I’m talking about the kiss inside the castle walls, Brianagh. When it was just you and me. Tell me, did your de Burgh ever kiss you like I did?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I wonder…” His voice was barely above a whisper and Bri leaned involuntarily toward him, drawn by a force she couldn’t control. “I wonder if he’s ever made you feel this?” Nioclas’s lips met hers in the barest of kisses.

  Somewhere, someone whimpered.

  That couldn’t have been her. She was angry with Nioclas, not burning for him. And she didn’t whimper.

  And then his lips were on hers, hungry for her taste. Instinctively Bri wrapped her arms around his neck as her heart pounded in her ears. He tasted like fine wine, intoxicating her. His mouth was making love to hers in a sweet tangle of tongues and teeth. Her knees buckled, and he swept her up without breaking the kiss.

  Carrying her to the bed, Nioclas carefully laid her down, feasting on her lips, coaxing her response to a fevered pitch. Bri knew she should stop it before things spiraled out of control, but she couldn’t find it in her to push him away. She’d dreamed of this for years; having it here, now, was surreal and wonderful and confusing. She was so hot she was going to combust, and she couldn’t—didn’t want to—do anything to stop it.

  Nioclas’s hand reached for the ties to her dress and gave them a quick yank. The knots fell away, as if they, too, really thought this was a good idea.

  She dimly realized his tunic was off, and she caught a glimpse of bicep. A tattoo wound its way around the large, corded muscle. Fascinated, she gently traced it with her finger, curious as to where it led.

  “You’re worth something, Brianagh.” He trailed kisses down her neck. “You’re worth fighting for. Don’t allow anyone to say otherwise.”

  “No,” she whispered. She couldn’t sleep with Nioclas; she wasn’t the kind of woman who had flings. She had never flung before and she really didn’t want to start in the Middle Ages.

  “Have you ever been kissed here?” Nioclas continued, trailing kisses down her neck. “Or here?” Over her collarbone. “Or…here?” The top of her breast.

  Oh, God, it was just like in her dreams. His lips were so familiar to her; she was drowning in her desire, and she had a sinking suspicion that were she to give into him, their game would become a whole lot more dangerous than either of them realized.

  She drew a deep breath. “This isn’t love, Nioclas. It’s lust. And I can’t give myself to a man who doesn’t love me. And you’re right. I am worth something; after all, you bought me. If I sleep with you, I’m no better than a prostitute.”

  Nioclas reared back, as if struck. The anger on his face sent a frisson of fear cascading over her.

  Wordlessly, he glared at her, and then withdrew from the chamber completely, leaving her cold and aching.

  It was nothing less than she deserved.

  • • •

  Much later, when Nioclas finally returned, he wrapped himself in a blanket and laid himself on the floor next to the bed where Brianagh slept.

  Kiernan certainly had played him well. He found Nioclas at his weakest point when he was a desperate lad. Extracting a promise for something so far into the future was cunning, even Nioclas admitted that. But to encourage the marriage when the lass was already betrothed?

  He had no idea what betrothals meant in France. In England, to which he’d traveled once and hoped never to return, betrothals were as binding as marriage, and the only way to break it was to have both sides agree, then involve the church. It was a long process, and by the time it was do
ne, the lass was thought too old to be married.

  Brianagh was about that age. He supposed if they were to annul their marriage, it would take her until she died to get all the necessary approvals from the continent. Ireland wasn’t nearly so difficult—all she needed was clan approval.

  Considering how much pressure he had been under to get married in the first place, however, approval might be more difficult than obtaining the proper documents from France.

  Grudgingly, he admitted that she fascinated him. She was different than other women of his acquaintance. Intelligent, bold, saucy…and beautiful. He couldn’t deny the pleasure her face brought him when he looked upon it.

  His head began to pound and his body surged again, seeking relief from its earlier…hopes.

  Growing up, Nioclas always had dreams of a woman he ached for; one whose love was so unconditional, so fulfilling, that he felt uncompelled to marry. When those dreams faded to a distant memory and reality intruded, he understood his duty. Marry, produce heirs, protect the clan. He was mere hours away from doing all of that…

  The Fates must be women, he decided abruptly. Fickle, mean-spirited creatures who enjoyed torturing unsuspecting men in their dreams.

  Brianagh’s blue eyes, looking at him with love. Her sweat-soaked body after their lovemaking in the forest, the meadow, by the sea. Her laugh, her smile, even her hair, haunted his dreams.

  He recognized her when they dismounted from his horse, but refused to believe it. What kind of woman could come to him in his dreams, then be brought to his doorstep?

  The irony that he himself had carried her there was not lost on him.

  Nioclas knew before he kissed her how her lips would taste. His heart settled somewhere deep in his chest, and for a brief moment, his entire world shifted, then righted itself into its proper place.

  He never was one to let opportunities sneak by, so when she responded, he allowed hope to enter his hardened heart. But damn him if the lass claimed to love another. Now that he had her in the flesh, he wasn’t sure he wanted to let her go.

  He loathed how insignificant it made him feel.

  Brianagh murmured something in her dreams, and Nioclas paused. It was curious how he’d dreamed of her face—and her body, if he were truthful—for years. And ’twas also strange how she came into possession of the brooch; he’d lost it in the ocean almost a year prior, and while the one O’Malley handed him wasn’t as pristine as the one he’d created, there was no mistaking it.

  Nioclas only fashioned the one brooch, and that was after one of his more vivid dreams. He entwined his initial with the leaves of ivy that grew along the walls of his castle. The hawk, which adorned his clan’s crest, was an obvious choice, and he’d carved his own sword through the initial. He wanted to have his smithy replicate it. Though it took him months to create the brooch, within days, he’d lost it. And with it, dreams of the woman he now recognized, who was snoring softly on the feather mattress.

  • • •

  Brianagh was exhausted the next morning, and when she woke from a particularly fitful bit of sleep, Nioclas wasn’t anywhere in sight. He had been angry; when she woke up during the night, she could feel the tension radiating off him as he lay on the floor. Bri wasn’t sure what to expect. She’d let her guard down last night and it didn’t feel like the outcome was going to be any good.

  It didn’t help at all that when she did sleep, she dreamed of his lips on hers.

  She turned her thoughts away from that. Stretching, she noticed the bed wasn’t made out of straw—it was feathers, as she suspected. She wondered if she could move in to this room instead of going back to the other one. At least she woke up warm, with a fire in the little hearth she hadn’t noticed the night before.

  A dress was laid out at the end of the bed, and Brianagh grudgingly got up. She changed, performed her morning ablutions, then sat back down on the bed.

  She had no idea what to do next.

  Bri was never one to sit around and wait for life to happen to her. The fact was she was stuck in medieval Ireland for three months; perhaps she could do something to help the castle. Her decision made, she hopped off the bed with renewed purpose.

  Pulling the heavy door open, Bri slipped into the hallway and tried to determine which was the correct way. There were too many hallways in the castle for her to attempt to keep them straight. Maybe she’d ask Nioclas for a map. Then again, she thought, her heart sinking as he strode towards her, maybe not.

  His face was devoid of all emotion. She tried a greeting, but he wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries and cut her off midsentence as he led her back into the chamber and closed the door.

  “I’ve sent messengers out to determine what de Burgh’s plans are. If his goal is to steal you away in the night, I’ve no stomach to send my men into battle for you, and if they find out I’ve deceived them in this, they will not trust me.”

  She blinked, taken aback. “I told you, he won’t come.”

  Nioclas’s pitying gaze seared her. “Then he’s a fool, as are you, to be so blind to his lack of affections.”

  She frowned. “I’m not blind to it. I know his faults.”

  “I’ve no wish to argue the point when we’ve already thoroughly done so. Today, I’ll be in the lists. You may stay with Lady Maguire, in your solar. Meals are served three times per day, and you will take them with her. She will instruct you on how the castle runs and your expected duties as my wife. Your family has departed, and you should be aware that I strongly dislike your father, though your mother seems tolerable. Do not expect many visits.”

  “I only just met them yesterday, and they didn’t seem like the warm, loving type. I hope Reilly remains here?”

  “Nay. He took his leave with your sire.”

  Brianagh felt a moment of panic as she stared at his impassive face. Reilly was gone? “Nioclas, I need Reilly to get back. You’ll bring me back to him, right?”

  He looked more through her than at her. “I honor my vows.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said last night,” Bri offered, feeling a bit shaken at his cool countenance.

  “You stated nothing more than the truth. I did purchase you, but you did not come away without something as well, my lady.”

  Her heart sank at the clipped words. She hated when her temper got the best of her, and she knew an apology wouldn’t be enough.

  “You’re right, and I’ll do exactly as we agreed.”

  “We never agreed to a marriage in name only.”

  She paused. “We didn’t?”

  “Nay. If you recall, you are to be returned with widow status.”

  She chewed her lip. She wasn’t a fool, contrary to Nioclas’s earlier assessment. She had many clients fall into just such a place; keep it casual, keep it distant, keep it fun.

  Well, at some point, one party started to want more. It was a dangerous game to play, and Bri knew her heart wouldn’t recover. It was already breaking with the acceptance that the man of her dreams lived in a time not her own, in a life far different than what she loved.

  “Is this something you’ll force from me?”

  He frowned. “Nay! I don’t take unwilling lasses to my bed, Brianagh. Lady Maguire will be along to take you to your solar. If you need anything, my clan will attend to you.” He bowed stiffly and walked away.

  Brianagh’s stomach fell even further, then twisted upon itself. She had the distinct impression that she’d hurt his feelings, but wasn’t sure how. She didn’t know him, nor he her. Last night, she threw cold water on a hot situation.

  She tried valiantly to convince herself that the pain in her chest was relief, not disappointment. The Nioclas she knew was the stuff of dreams. The real MacWilliam was someone completely different, and rationally, she knew she couldn’t hold him to a standard she’d created in her mind.

  Brianagh swallowed past the dry lump in her throat.

  Three months suddenly seemed an eternity.

  Chapter 11

&n
bsp; In the shelter of the trees, the man slid the bag of gold into his boot. Rain soaked his blue-and-silver léine and his tunic clung to his chest. The sword strapped to his back was slick with mud but held fast to its position, belted into place with leather straps.

  “MacWilliam has married.”

  Burke’s obsidian eyes flashed in the gloom. “Her name?”

  “Lady Brianagh. She was brought here two nights past. She was pulled from your pit by MacWilliam, his brother, and the O’Rourke clan.” The man hunched his shoulders against the wind.

  Burke scratched his beard. “Brianagh O’Rourke. Did the O’Rourke claim her as a daughter?”

  “His only daughter,” the man confirmed.

  Burke felt a flash of rage. Years ago, after he was banished from his clan, Burke began to formulate his eldest son’s demise. Every attempt at killing Nioclas proved unsuccessful as each man Burke managed to get into the castle proved inept, and was either killed or languished in the man’s dungeon until death claimed him.

  He resisted the urge to smash his fist into the nearest tree. He had his men on the lookout for the Kildare lass, as stealing Nioclas’s bride would’ve brought Nioclas directly to him. However, they unknowingly captured something infinitely more important.

  Everyone in Ireland heard the whispers of the O’Rourke child who had powers greater than that of a witch. The legacy, they whispered, would be fulfilled only by one who was worthy enough to respect it. Burke hadn’t paid much attention to the rumors, but he always suspected the lass would bring ransom enough for him to hire the best assassins in the country.

  His mind spun. There were other ways to destroy the MacWilliam. “What do your clansmen think of your laird marrying an O’Rourke?”

  “They’re superstitious fools,” the man replied with a scoff. “No person can control time. ’Tis the only way O’Rourke instills fear, as his battle skills leave much to be desired.”

  “And you desire battle?” Burke asked, not caring about the answer.