Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “Nay, it would just cause more trouble than it would solve,” Diarmot finally said. “All my instincts tell me this danger I face is mine and mine alone.”

  “But if ye are wrong?” Connor asked quietly.

  “Then I have already drawn Margaret into my danger by betrothing myself to her.”

  “True. At least, as your wife, ye would have better control o’er the protection of her. Weel, I dinnae think I have helped ye much. I sense ye are still uneasy.” Connor stood up. “Years ago I would have looked at your bride’s bloodline, her land, and her dowry and said ‘good lad.’ Once I wed Gilly, I lost that blindness.”

  “And if Gilly had turned your life into a near hell upon earth as Anabelle did mine? Would ye wish to risk giving any lass that sort of trust, e’en power, ever again?”

  “Nay,” Connor replied immediately. “Ye made your point. I just wish it wasnae so.”

  “So do I, but far better a wife so unexceptional I forget she is about than one who rips my heart and soul to shreds.”

  Connor walked to the door, but paused on his way out to look back at Diarmot. “There is a third choice and ye have until the morning to decide.”

  “What third choice?”

  “No wife at all.”

  Diarmot was still considering Connor’s parting words as he watched the dawn brighten the sky. He had slept very little, troubled by that strange dream again as well as his own uneasiness. Although there were any number of times in his life that he knew he should have thought twice, this constant worrying over something was unlike him.

  It was possible that his memory was beginning to return, although he wished it would not do so in strange dreams. He could not understand how that should make him question his decision to get married, yet, that seemed to be what it was doing. Until the strange dreams had begun, he had been content with his choice of bride and his plans for the future. In fact, he could not figure out what scarlet elves and fiery demons had to do with anything.

  Suddenly realizing he had missed the dawn because he had become so lost in his own thoughts, Diarmot cursed and rang for his bath. Enough was enough. Illness and a strange reluctance to bed any of the willing lasses around Clachthrom had kept him celibate for a year. That was what was disordering his thoughts and dreams. In a few hours he would be a married man again and he could do something about that problem.

  Constant company and the final preparations for the wedding feast kept him busy and he was glad. Diarmot wanted no more time with only his own tangled thoughts for company. It was as he walked to the church with Connor at his side that Diarmot realized he was not going to be able to go blindly to the altar, marry his bride, and get it over with. Connor was tense with the need to say something.

  “Weel, what is it?” Diarmot grumbled.

  “I was rather hoping ye would take the third choice,” Connor murmured. “So was Gilly.”

  “Why?”

  “Weel, Gilly says Margaret is indeed sweet, shy, and biddable. She also says she is, er, empty.”

  “Empty? What does that mean?”

  Connor shrugged. “Not much emotion in the lass.”

  “Good,” Diarmot snapped, although Gilly’s impression troubled him. “I have had my fill of emotion. Anabelle drowned me in emotions, good and bad. Calm would be a nice change.”

  “It could also be teeth-grindingly dull.”

  “I dinnae care.” He looked away from Connor’s expression of wry disbelief. “I may not find any fire in my wife’s bed, but at least when I choose to go to her, she will be there. She may nay welcome me verra heartily, but she willnae be welcoming anyone else, either—mon nor woman.”

  Connor whistled softly. “Ye caught Anabelle with a woman?”

  “Aye, although the woman fled ere I got a good look at her. Anabelle thought it all verra funny. Said she and the lass had been lovers for years. Tried to tell me I couldnae call that adultery. I could keep ye entertained for days on all the tales I have of Anabelle, her lovers, her rages, her wailing spells, and her wanderings. It was like trying to live in the heart of a fierce Highland storm. After that, dull sounds verra sweet to me.”

  Diarmot was relieved when Connor said no more. He did not like pulling forth the painful memories of his time with Anabelle. Such memories, however, did serve to remind him of why he had chosen Margaret. He craved peace, he thought, and walked toward the church with a surer step.

  It was as he knelt beside his bride that his doubts trickled back. A voice in his head kept saying this was wrong, although it offered no explanation. Margaret’s hand in his was cool and dry, her expression one of sweet calm. What could possibly be wrong?

  Just as the priest asked if anyone knew why Diarmot and Margaret could not marry there was a disturbance at the doors of the church and a clear, angry woman’s voice said, “I think I might have a reason or two.”

  Shocked, Diarmot looked behind him and his eyes widened. Marching toward him was a tiny woman with brilliant copper hair. Behind her strode eight large, scowling red-haired men. She held a bundle in her arms and a small, dark-haired girl walked beside her holding another.

  “Weel, now, Diarmot,” drawled Connor, smiling faintly, “it seems your dreams have become prophetic.”

  “What?” Diarmot glanced at Connor who was slowly standing up.

  “Did ye nay dream about a scarlet elf and a troop of fiery demons?”

  Diarmot decided that, as soon as he found out what was happening, he would pound his grinning brother into the mud.

  Chapter TWO

  Pain seemed to be coursing through Ilsa with every beat of her heart, as if it was carried in her blood. When they had been told the laird of Clachthrom was marrying, her brothers had been enraged. So had she, but she had also wished to simply turn around and go home. Her brothers had refused to allow that retreat. As they had forced her toward the small stone church, she had both hoped it would be too late and feared that it would be. Ilsa knew that the best she could hope for was that she would retain enough wit and strength to stop blood being spilled.

  To see her lover, the father of her children, kneeling beside a pretty, fulsome young woman murmuring marriage vows had slashed her heart. Then rage had swept over her, a rage born of pain and betrayal. She could not believe she had spoken out before her brothers. As she marched toward Diarmot, who slowly stumbled to his feet and helped his pretty bride to stand, her fury grew. He was looking at her as if he had never seen her before.

  He was still so beautiful it made her heart clench to look at him. Tall, well built, lean and strong, his form was all any woman could wish for. His hair was the color of rich clover honey, thick and a little long, hanging to several inches below his broad shoulders. His broad forehead, elegant straight nose, and well-shaped mouth with a hint of fullness to his lips formed a face that had haunted her dreams for a year despite all her efforts to banish him from her mind. Beneath slightly arced brows, and rimmed with enviable dark lashes, were eyes of a beautiful deep blue, but looking into them only added to her pain. Gone was the soft warmth she had seen before when he had held her close and sworn they would soon be together again. Now there was only a cold anger and suspicion. She fought the sharp urge to flee that look, struggled to cling to her fury.

  “What right do ye have to disrupt this ceremony?” Diarmot demanded, telling himself the reason the sight of this woman made him so uneasy was that she reminded him too strongly of his strange dreams.

  “The right ye gave me a year ago,” she replied.

  “I have nay idea what ye are babbling about.”

  The audacity of the mon, Ilsa thought. “Show him the papers, Sigimor.”

  As the rest of her brothers kept a close watch on the guests, some of whom were looking increasingly angry, her eldest brother stepped forward and handed Diarmot all the papers concerning their handfast marriage. Ilsa tried to ignore the way he paled as he looked them over. She noticed the large, fair-haired man at Diarmot’s side read them as well, con
stantly casting her looks that held a wealth of curiosity.

  “They appear quite in order, Diarmot,” Connor said quietly as he took the papers out of Diarmot’s limp grasp.

  “What is going on?” demanded Margaret, curling her arm around Diarmot’s and trying to catch a glimpse at the papers.

  When Diarmot just stared at the woman, Ilsa drawled, “It appears your betrothed is already married—to me.” From the uproar she could hear, Ilsa knew the bride’s family was furious, but she trusted her brothers to hold them back. “Diarmot and I were handfasted a year ago.”

  “Handfasted? Is that all? Such marriages are set aside easily enough.”

  Ilsa stared at the woman, torn between an urge to gape and one to slap her pretty face. What was truly surprising was how little reaction the woman revealed to the possibility that her betrothed had deceived her, that she had almost been dragged into a false, bigamous union. Where was the anger, the righteous sense of insult? There was not even the glimmer of pain in the woman’s pale blue eyes. Either Diarmot’s pretty little bride had no depth of feeling for him or she was an idiot.

  “It cannae be done so easily, Margaret,” Diarmot said.

  “It cannae be done at all,” snapped Ilsa.

  She unwrapped the blanket around Finlay. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gay quickly open the blanket wrapped around Cearnach. It shocked Ilsa a little to see that Gay looked as furious as she herself felt. For the moment, outrage had apparantly dimmed Gay’s fears.

  “Your sons, Finlay and Cearnach.” Ilsa nodded toward each child as she introduced them. “They are three months old. These lads give me the right to claim ye as my husband. They also, by your own vow, compel ye to make me your wife before God and kinsmen, before a priest.”

  “Nay, they are not my get,” said Diarmot.

  Ilsa felt Sigimor take a step closer to Diarmot and heard him growl. There was an echo of the ferocious noise from behind her, her seven other brothers clearly sharing Sigimor’s fury. Although she was feeling violently angry herself, she was pleased that the men had left their weapons outside the church as custom demanded.

  “Nay, Sigimor,” she said as she wrapped her son back up in his blanket.

  “He insults ye,” snapped Sigimor. “He insults us.”

  “Aye, true enough, and, although there is a part of me which would like to see him stomped into a smear upon the floor, I still say nay. Ye were the one who pressed me to seek him out, to make him honor his obligations. I cannae do that if ye break him into wee, bloodied pieces, can I. It wouldnae be good for the lads to see their uncles slaughter their father, either.”

  “How can I be their father?” demanded Diarmot. “I dinnae e’en ken who ye are, woman.”

  Diarmot fought the urge to take a step away from the outrage and fury directed at him by the woman and her companions. This was impossible. Someone was trying to deceive him. He could not believe he would forget having a wife no matter how severe his injuries had been. A wife with copper-colored hair and ivy-green eyes was surely something a man would recall. He looked to Connor for help only to find his brother and the priest carefully examining the papers. When both men glanced at him, Diarmot felt panic stir in his blood. The look they gave him told him he would find little help from them.

  “Is this your signature upon these papers?” the priest asked Diarmot.

  “Aye, but—”

  “Nay, no arguments, please. These papers say ye are bound to this woman,” the priest glanced down at the papers, “this Ilsa Cameron.” He cast a pointed look at the twins before returning his gaze to Diarmot. “Ye have proved verra compatible indeed, thus she is the woman I will be marrying ye to.”

  Before Diarmot could say another word, a unified roar of fury rose up from the Campbells. He looked for Margaret, although he was not sure of what he could say or do, only to see her standing next to the altar. She still looked sweet and calm, but there was a hint of gleeful anticipation in her eyes. Before he could wonder at that, he caught sight of a large fist headed his way, and ducked. A heartbeat later, he found himself caught up in a melee of fists and bellowed threats of retaliation.

  Ilsa quickly backed up toward the far side of the church. She felt a trembling Gay keeping pace with her. When they were pressed up against the wall, Gay tucked herself up close to Ilsa’s side. As she turned to speak with Gay, Ilsa saw a pretty, obviously pregnant woman with faintly mismatched eyes standing on the other side of Gay.

  “I am Gillyanne MacEnroy,” the woman said. “Wife to Connor, the big mon who stood at Diarmot’s side.”

  “I am Ilsa and this is Gay.” Ilsa watched as the woman inspected the twins. “They are Diarmot’s sons.”

  “Aye, I ken it. They have his eyes, as weel.” Gillyanne lightly stroked Gay’s arm. “Be at ease, child. These men will ne’er hurt ye. Big and loud though they are now, the MacEnroys and the Camerons would ne’er harm a lass.”

  “Most of me kens it, m’lady,” said Gay, then she frowned. “Ye didnae include the Campbells, the bride’s kinsmen.”

  “Nay, I am unsure of them.” She ruffled the thick red curls on Cearnach’s head. “Lovely.”

  “I had hoped they would have Diarmot’s hair,” Ilsa murmured, noticing that Gillyanne’s words, perhaps her very presence, had calmed Gay.

  “There is naught wrong with red and I suspect twill darken some.” Gillyanne glanced toward the men and winced. “Nanty just went down. Ah, there, he is back on his feet.”

  Ilsa looked toward the men and noticed there were two more men who looked akin to her husband standing shoulder to shoulder with Diarmot, Connor, and a few of her brothers. “Nanty?”

  “Antony, Diarmot’s brother. We call him Nanty. He is to Diarmot’s left. Angus, another brother, is to Connor’s right. His brother Andrew and his sister Fiona remained at Deilcladach. Was that one of your brothers who just disappeared under all those Campbells?”

  “Aye. Twas Elyas, but Gilbert and Tait will soon have him out. Tait is my twin.”

  “I am hoping this doesnae cause a bitter feud.”

  “Ah, that would be a curse, for certain. I will be sorry if I am the cause of such trouble. Mayhap—”

  “Nay, no mayhap, no hesitation. Ye are Diarmot’s wife.”

  A little surprised by the woman’s words, Ilsa asked, “Ye believe me?”

  “Och, aye.” Gillyanne shrugged. “I feel things, ye ken. I can feel the truth in ye.” She nodded toward Margaret. “She makes me verra uneasy, has from the start. I feel nothing in her. There are some people, like my husband, who seem to have a shield o’er their feelings I cannae get through e’en if I try, but Lady Margaret doesnae feel like that to me. She just feels, weel, empty, if that makes any sense at all.”

  “Some,” murmured Ilsa, faintly unsettled by Lady Gillyanne’s words, yet unable to question the woman’s claims. “I did think it odd that she had so little reaction to my claims. She remained calm, almost serene.”

  “Aye, she is always calm and serene.”

  “That just isnae natural,” muttered Gay.

  Gillyanne laughed softly. “Nay, it isnae.” She looked at Margaret again. “I did sense some anger now and again, but it came and went so quickly, I dare nay swear it was really there. I am verra pleased that she willnae be a part of our family.”

  Ilsa studied the woman Diarmot had planned to marry. Margaret stood by the priest who had given up his attempts to stop the fighting and was wise enough not to venture too close to the melee. If she had been about to marry a man only to have the marriage stopped because a wife he neglected to mention suddenly appeared, bairns in arms, she would be enraged. She would be as hurt and angry as she felt now as the instigator of this trouble. Yet, Margaret remained calm, her hands clasped lightly in front of her skirts. It did not seem to even matter to her that her kinsmen were being soundly beaten, that this incident could easily blossom into a bloody feud lasting for years. Ilsa felt uneasy just watching the woman and looked back at Gillya
nne.

  “At best, she appears faintly amused by all of this,” murmured Ilsa. “I dinnae have your gift, but I do have some skill at sensing how a person thinks or feels. Or, I thought I did.”

  “Oh, ye do, Ilsa,” Gay said.

  “Do I?” Ilsa sighed. “If so, it utterly failed me with Diarmot. I thought him honest, trustworthy, yet he tries to claim he has no knowledge of me or our handfasting. I was obviously verra wrong in my judgment of him.”

  “Nay, ye were right,” Guillyanne said. “He is honest and trustworthy.”

  “But, he said—”

  “A lot of nonsense. Unfortunately, he probably believes what he says. That could be because, in many ways, it may be the truth. Shortly after he left ye, Ilsa, Diarmot was set upon and beaten nigh unto death. He made it to a crofter’s small home ere he could go no farther. He retained enough wits to tell the mon there who to seek out and that mon sent word to Connor at Deilcladach. We went to fetch him and I did what I could. E’en so, we werenae sure he would survive. Once back at Deilcladach, we sent for my Aunt Maldie Murray, a reknowned healer. Despite her great skill, it was a long time before we could all feel confident he would live. Diarmot insisted upon returning here and, once we were certain he would survive the journey, we brought him back to Clachthrom. His recovery took a verra long time and, in truth, I am astonished that he healed as weel as he did. Howbeit, although he healed in body, his mind remains, weel, injured.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “He cannae recall anything from that time. He doesnae ken why he was where he was, when or how he was beaten, or by whom. He has little memory of the worst of his pain and illness, his time of healing. Diarmot truly doesnae remember you.” Gillyanne smiled faintly when Ilsa frowned at her. “Tis hard to believe. I understand.”