He shook his head. "I've already asked Liam to have patience with you, that's all I'll do."
He reached out and stroked her cheek through the black netting. "I'll come for you in an hour, be ready."
***
Banners decorated the field. The crowd leaned close to the makeshift barricades which kept them from the arena. At the middle of the ellipse, there was a stand for Laird Malcolm and his daughter to observe the match. A throng of people waited with restless anticipation for their arrival.
A surprised hush fell over the crowd when they finally appeared. Devon clung to her father's arm for support hearing a ripple of whispers shoot through the crowd.
"She wears her widow's weeds for the tournament," a fat woman scoffed.
Devon ignored their jibes as she found her way to the stand. Just before she went up the narrow stairs, a peasant woman pushed her way forward and grabbed Devon's hand.
"There are those of us who have sympathy for you, Milady," she whispered.
Devon managed to murmur a thank you and then felt herself propelled onto the platform above the crowd. Was this what she had become, a mournful figure fit only for pity and criticism from the people who had once loved her? She fought to control her emotions. It was easier to stay a recluse. The remarks she overheard hit her like a thousand tiny arrows, but the pity was worst. Her back went ramrod straight when her father addressed his people.
"We are gathered today to decide which of these two suitors will have Devon's hand in marriage." The crowd interrupted Malcolm with a cheer. He held his hands up to silence them. "The winner shall marry Devon and he shall take my place as Laird of Dunsmore Heath. Let the contest begin!" A deafening roar went up from the assembly.
Bryce rode into the ring on his white horse. The armor he wore for the joust sparkled in the sun and a white plume rose from the helmet on his head. His supporters cheered when he took off his helmet and trotted his horse up to face the platform.
Without waiting for Bryce to finish his display, Liam entered the arena at a gallop—his horse draped in a silky, black covering. Everything about him matched the black-draped figure of Devon Dunsmore Forbes, from the sheen on his armor, to the black plume above his head.
The gathering cheered longer and louder for Liam than they had for Bryce. Liam’s plan was working perfectly, exciting the imagination of the crowd. He was the black knight the perfect mate for the ethereal widow. With a smile, he guided the horse in a short run around the arena and pulled up beside Bryce.
Taking off his helmet, Liam addressed Devon. "Lady Devon, I ask the gift of your favor."
Liam thought he saw the hint of a smile beneath her veil. Would she have the courage to insult Bryce publicly by bestowing her favor on the challenger? The crowd hushed when Devon rose to her feet and pulled a small lace handkerchief from her sleeve.
Liam danced his horse closer to the platform to receive her offering. When he took her hand to claim the prize, he noticed she was trembling and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.
"I wilna disappoint you, Milady," he promised.
Bryce let out an angry growl when Liam tied the handkerchief to his lance and rode around the arena for all to see. The unruly mob went wild.
The initial contest pitted the skills of each man against the other. They demonstrated their ability to ride at a full gallop and collect tiny rings on the ends of their lances. It seemed an even match with the two men showing above average skill on the field. Both men had a perfect performance and the tension increased.
Malcolm stood to announce the beginning of the final competition. Each man would have three chances to unseat the other as they rushed toward one another at a full gallop. The winner would be the one who was able to take the punishment and keep his horse beneath him. The challenger was to have the right of first attack.
A flag dropped to give the signal and both men rode at one another down the narrow roped path. Liam hit his opponent hard, but Bryce failed to topple off his horse. Perhaps the man was tougher than Liam first imagined.
Bryce began his first run trying to make solid contact with his lance, but Liam parried the thrust with ease, exciting the crowd with his skill.
Liam took his second turn once again hitting Bryce. Still the man kept his seat. It was a puzzle. Bryce was obviously suffering from the punishment Liam administered yet he took it.
Bryce caught Liam off guard in his second run by trying to spear Liam’s horse. A chorus of hisses and boos ran through the gathering. Liam dodged just in time to avoid having the horse go down with him. If Bryce wanted to play, Liam would show no mercy.
Liam wheeled his horse to start the third run when he caught sight of a familiar figure. Archie was perched on a stump near the field, his back facing the tournament. The old man was waving his arms wildly. The rest of the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath in anticipation.
Handing his lance to the page, Liam turned his horse and rode over to investigate. "Archie, what troubles you?" Liam inquired.
"I thought you said you could see. I been wavin' at ye till me arms almost dropped off," the old man chided.
"It might help if you faced the right direction."
"Not again," he said with a dejected sigh. "At least I'm not too late. I heard Nigel and Bryce talkin' in the barn. Bryce has tied himself to the horse."
"I'll thank God for your keen ears," Liam said, taking hold of Archie's arm and turning him the right direction.
Going to the center of the ring, Liam rode up beside Bryce examining his gear. With a motion to the crowd, he ceremoniously cut the tether that bound Bryce to his mount and then held the rope up.
"I give my opponent the next turn," Liam shouted. "Because after my next run, he'll eat the dust." The people screamed their delight.
Bryce took his next run, but failed to touch Liam. Smiling, Liam took up his lance and moved to salute Devon. It was then he noticed the substitution. Devon's handkerchief didn't flutter at the tip of the lance. Drawing the weapon down, he examined it carefully. A scored line ran around the middle so that it would break easily. Gripping it firmly on both sides of the tampering, he snapped it in half with his hands.
"I want my original lance back," he demanded. Looking red-faced, the page retrieved the spear from beneath the pile. Turning to the crowd, Liam saluted Devon and her father with the decorated lance. Riding back past Bryce he prepared to seek his revenge.
Liam barreled down on his opponent with deadly accuracy. Bryce tumbled to the ground, knocked out from the fall. The people swarmed in around Liam as he rode over to receive his reward.
Malcolm was beaming when he made the announcement. "I give you our champion! Tomorrow we'll celebrate the wedding of Laird Liam MacLean and my daughter." Liam tore off his helmet and threw it to the well-wishers surrounding him.
By the time Liam had freed himself from the throng, Devon had disappeared.
***
Drawing her cloak tight around her, Devon slipped into the back door of the stable. Archie rose from his seat in the corner as she entered. "Who goes there?" he asked.
"'Tis only me," Devon replied, patting his shoulder affectionately.
His gray hair shimmered in the dim light as he shook his head. "You shouldna be sneakin' about in the stable. Why are you not at the victory celebration?"
She was glad he couldn't see her, but knew he was probably aware of the quake in her knees without seeing her discomfiture. "I wanted to see if Bryce had left."
"Bryce? Have ya lost yer senses?"
"I canna rest easy until he's gone."
"Forget Bryce and go to the party."
"He hasn’t left, has he?"
The old man's shoulders slumped in resignation. "Nay, Milady, he hasna. He and Nigel are in the tack room." Devon brushed past him. "Lady Devon," he called.
Coming back, she placed a kiss on his forehead. "Hush old friend. I must find out if he is leaving. Dinna give me away with your worry." He mouthed a protest, but she silenced
him with her finger. "Stay here and wait for me."
Hurrying off, she sneaked into the small storage room adjoining the tack room and peered through a crack in the boards.
Bryce Forbes sat on the edge of a cot in the corner. "I suppose I should be grateful I didna wake from my unconsciousness to see his victory celebration."
"What will you do now?" Nigel asked. "He's stopped us dead. I'll go and gather your things from the keep and we'll away. There must be other rich widows wanting for attention."
"Fool! I have lingered over a year waiting for Lady Devon Dunsmore. Do you think me dissuaded so easily? I've still inherited one tenth of Laird Malcolm's lands from my brother. I won’t leave Dunsmore Heath until the new laird kicks me out."
Bryce eased himself back down on the cot. "Liam MacLean will rue the day he chose to be her champion," he predicted. "I could have kept her in line, but he'll feel the bite of her insanity the first night he forces her to his bed. Mark my words, the girl is dangerous!"
"You think she had a hand in Frazer's death?" Nigel said incredulously. "I dinna believe it!"
"Believe what you will. My brother would not be dead now if he could have kept away from her. When she's finally mine, she'll pay for her sins."
"This is madness," Nigel muttered. He looked over at his cousin, but Bryce had already closed his eyes in repose.
Devon sank to the floor shivering. He hadn't left—wasn't giving up! Would she ever escape this madness? She sat motionless for a few minutes, then eased herself up and silently exited the storeroom.
As she made her way past the burned out wing of the castle, her future husband stepped out of the charred tower. Devon gasped
“I didna mean to startle you,” he said, coming close.
Drawing her cloak tight about her, she continued to walk as he fell in beside her. “I suppose you are angry with me for not attending the victory feast.”
“I had hoped you might come celebrate your freedom from Bryce Forbes.”
She stopped and looked up at him. He didn’t seem angry. In fact, he smiled at her. She didn’t understand him at all.
“Come, I wilna have you catch a chill by lingering.” He slipped his arm around her and guided her through the darkened courtyard.
His nearness distracted Devon. He didn't remove his arm from around her shoulders until they stood at the door to her chamber. He stood with his hand propped against the wall. It felt as if he surrounded her, leaving her only the door to her chamber as an escape.
"Until tomorrow," she murmured shakily, brushing against him as she grabbed the latch.
She felt his hand lightly grasp hers. "Devon," he whispered. Her heart raced when he leaned closer to her veiled face. "I would have you do me something for me." His voice was a dark, seductive whisper that sent a chill up her spine.
"What?" she choked, feeling suffocated by his nearness. "What can I do, Milord?"
Liam leaned back away from her and squeezed her hand. "I didna mean to frighten you," he said easily. "I…." He broke off looking at her. "I have a small request, though I think it may not be such a small matter in your eyes."
Devon felt her pulse quicken. Straightening, he folded his arms across his chest. Had he noticed how quickly she drew the hand he touched up under her veil?
"You've been through a terrible ordeal. Your husband died and your own body was scarred in the fire that killed him."
"He betrayed me and I'm glad he's dead," Devon blurted out. Realizing what had tumbled from her lips, she backed away grabbing for the door latch.
Liam's eyebrows shot up. He placed his large hand over the crack in the door preventing her from opening it and fleeing beyond his grasp. "I'm surprised to hear you give voice to your feelings, but I was aware your marriage was unhappy," he said calmly. "Regardless of your motives, you've hidden yourself in widow's weeds for over a year. Tomorrow is our wedding day. I want you to come to me in some other color gown." His hand toyed casually with her black netting.
She started to raise her hand in protest, but he grabbed it and pulled it to his muscular chest, holding it there while he continued. "You hide your scars from the curious eyes of the world. Someday I hope you will not feel that necessity. For now, I would settle for a dress of any color other than black. Whatever veil or covering you want is fine. I dinna know the extent of your deformity and I dinna care. I will be a husband to you in spite of it."
Devon could feel his heart pounding beneath her hand. She inhaled sharply. "'Twould be better, Milord, if you never looked upon my face. For I think it would not be easy to care for a woman such as myself if the true picture were shown."
"In time I hope you'll trust me enough to show me the cause of your pain. Until that time, my only request is that you stop wearing these black clothes. They haunt your father as a constant reminder of his failure to protect you from harm's way."
"Haunt my father? Explain yourself, Milord?"
Liam’s dark eyes studied her. "He told me he has hopes his phantom daughter will disappear and in her place will be the happy girl that he remembers."
"That girl is dead. And this one can disappear as well if that is what my father desires!"
Liam pulled her to his chest so tightly she could feel his hot breath through the thick veil. "I have lost one bride-to-be by her own hand. I will not lose another!" he grated through clenched teeth.
He had grasped her meaning immediately, seeing through to her deepest thoughts. How could that be?
"Give me your word you wilna harm yourself or I won’t let you out of my sight until the matter is resolved," he threatened.
Devon laid her head against his rock-hard chest to keep from staring into his angry, black eyes. So his Sarah had taken her own life, why?
"Milord," she whispered. "I will not harm myself. You have my word," she promised. "'Twas a threat made in anger and frustration, nothing more."
He lifted her until her face was inches from his. "Dinna mention it again," he ordered. "To lose a second bride to her own hand would kill me as surely as if you ripped my heart from my chest. If you have any compassion at all, you will not ruin my life and yours by such contemplation."
"Liam, I will not do this thing," she told him.
Something about the way she spoke his name drove Liam wild with desire. God how he wanted her, scarred or not. If he could, he would drag her into his room and teach her the joys of life and love, but maybe she already knew them from happier days with her dead husband. The thought cooled Liam's burning loins. It made him jealous to think of her in another man's arms. The whole thing made no sense. Why would he feel so possessive over a woman who didn't want to be his wife?
Was he confusing her with Sarah? Maybe his feelings rose from seeing the depressed state in which she existed and remembering how he found Sarah when he returned from battle. Sarah too had worn black and hidden from him. It wasn’t until years after she took her own life that he learned why. Did he see Devon as a chance to make up for not saving Sarah? Would his nightmares cease if he made Devon happy? He gently let Devon’s feet slide back to the floor and released her.
Devon's veiled head tilted up at him and she gingerly placed her hand on his chest. "I'll do my best to honor your request about my attire," she said. "I'm sorry about missing the celebration tonight. I'll try not to be a burden to you."
Her light touch sent the fire back through him as surely as if she stood naked before him. Liam wondered at his sanity. She turned and opened the door of her room.
"Good night," she said softly.
"Good night," he whispered to her parting image. He made his way back to his room shaken by the whole experience. What madness was descending on him that he should feel such emotions in her presence?
Wearily Liam stripped off his clothes and sank into the bed, but peaceful sleep eluded him. He tossed fitfully, his nightmare in full bloom. Devon came toward him dressed in her black, phantom garb. She rubbed enticingly against his bare chest. He filled with throbbing desi
re. He reached out for her snatching the ugly, black netting from her head.
He screamed and sat bolt upright in bed, a vision of ruined flesh still stinging his mind. He fought to calm his racing heart. Could he live with a monster for a wife? Was her deformity so awful? What would he do if he gazed upon it?
Drawing in his breath sharply, he tried to force himself back to sleep. How could he have these thoughts? If she lived with such horror, surely he could. His mind went back to the portrait of the vivacious young girl, the brilliant fire of her hair, the erotic heat of her eyes. His breath became heavy as a brighter vision wiped away his nightmare.
His hands caressed her perfect flesh, then his lips. This time his body began to writhe in the pleasure of his fantasy, exploring her, tasting her, plunging deep within her. He found her lips with his, but they evaporated. There was no face—no face—only the rough and rippled scars wrought by a fiery inferno. He cried out and woke again exhausted by his garish slumber.
A gray light flickered across the floor. It was the morning of his wedding day.
Chapter Four
"Lady Devon." Devon refused to look at her servant. "Lady Devon," Moira repeated. Slowly Devon turned to face her, wiping away a single tear trickling down her cheek. "There is the matter of what you will wear today. You canna wear black on yer weddin' day. Like it or not, we must get this straight now. If you insist on wearin' a veil, I must make one to go with the gown ye choose."
"I like the black."
"This man has saved you from the clutches of Bryce Forbes. He publicly gave you the chance to snub Bryce. I know it pleased you. Dinna shame 'im by comin' to yer weddin' dressed for a funeral," the maid argued.
Emitting a tremulous sigh, Devon looked Moira in the eye. "The clothes are my shield from their prying eyes. I don’t feel safe without them."
The portly woman shook her head. "Milady, you no longer need this shield. Let yer new husband be yer shield. He seems more than willin'."
Liam had asked this one thing of her. Could she find the courage to cast off her armor to honor his request? Mayhaps this gesture might make him more patient with her. He would know she was trying to please him. “I’ll wear the purple velvet, but I must have a veil.”
Connie C. Scharon - Highland Legends 02 Page 4