Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  Calling her name, Iain tensed and shuddered, his seed flooding her. With their bodies joined as one, Iain rolled to the side and then kissed her, but Brigette was unaware. Her eyes were already closed in sated sleep.

  * * * *

  Brigette felt something warm and moist tickling her face. “Ross, don't,” she said, giggling, then heard his deep rumble of laughter.

  “I amna’ the guilty party,” he protested, but the tickling continued.

  Her eyes flew open, and Iain laughed at her surprised expression. Sly was licking her cheek.

  “I'll let him out.” Brigette modestly wrapped herself in the blanket, earning a mockingly arched brow from Iain, but he said nothing.

  After Sly had answered nature's call, Brigette returned to the fur. Iain, his dark eyes glowing with love, kissed her deeply and thoroughly. Their moment of truth had arrived.

  “I know a woman should not be so forward,” Brigette said, giving him the perfect opening, “but I wish we were wed."

  “We are.” His voice was a light caress. Then he added, matter-of-factly, “We return to Dunridge in the mornin'. This raidin’ season promises to be especially bloody."

  “What?” Brigette stared blankly at him.

  “We return to Dunridge, hinny, in the mornin'."

  “No! We cannot go there!"

  “We must."

  “Ross.” Brigette's voice was a contrite whisper. “Ross, I am not a Gypsy—"

  Iain's laughter cut off her confession. “I'm aware of the fact ye arena’ a Gypsy, Lady Brigette."

  “You know who I am?” She was flabbergasted. “You know I'm your brother's wife?"

  “Ye arena’ my brother's wife, sweetheart."

  “But I am!” she protested and sat up. “Iain and I were wed by proxy in England—"

  “Listen to what I'm sayin', hinny,” he interrupted, his voice gently insistent. “I am Iain MacArthur, yer husband."

  “No, you are Ross MacArthur, the bastard son of the Earl of Dunridge."

  “I am Iain Ross MacArthur, heir to the Earl of Dunridge,” he said, smiling. “And yer my bonnie Sassenach bride, the future Countess of Dunridge.” His hand reached to caress her cheek.

  Understanding lit Brigette's eyes. She slapped his hand away and leaped to her feet, then glared at him in a murderous rage. “You lying ... scheming ... vile ... underhanded ... treacherous...” she sputtered, searching for a more hideous word to describe him.

  Iain stood and towered over her, his size alone threatening. Humor had vanished from his expression; his eyes, so recently filled with love, had hardened coldly against her.

  “Ye dare call me schemin’ and lyin'?” Iain laughed harshly, then mimicked her lies. “The daughter of the king of the Gypsies, wi’ hundreds of servants to do her biddin', no’ to mention the cookin'. The Sight!” He snorted derisively.

  Frightened, Brigette stepped back, but Iain captured her wrist in his steely grip. “We return to Dunridge in the mornin'."

  “I won't!” Brigette hurled defiantly, her stubborn streak surfacing at his imperious tone. Absolutely no one, barring the queen, spoke to a Devereux in that overbearing, arrogant tone of voice. “I am returning to England,” she added more calmly, her husband's size tempering her wrath. “The marriage will be annulled."

  “Ye idiot!” Iain roared. “Our marriage is consummated—there can be nae annulment."

  “Knave!” Brigette exploded. “You dirty, stinking, treacherous knave! I hate you!"

  What little control Iain had on his temper disappeared with her words. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly, his long fingers digging brutally into her tender flesh. “Ye hate me?” In a dangerously low and deadly voice, he asked, “Do ye know, my wee Sassenach wife, what life is like for the woman whose husband doesna’ care for her? Do ye?"

  Frightened, Brigette shook her head and Iain smiled grimly. He dragged her across the chamber, yanked the blanket from her quaking body, and shoved her onto the bed, then laughed without humor.

  “When a mon is tied to a woman who hates him, she becomes a brood mare, a thin’ for the breedin’ of heirs. Like this...” Iain made a move toward her.

  “Please, don't hurt me,” Brigette whimpered, blinded by a blur of tears.

  Iain stopped short, realizing with disgust what he was about to do to the woman he loved.

  “Bloody Christ!” he swore, then turned on his heels and left the lodge, slamming the door behind.

  Angry and hurt, Brigette lay back in the bed and pulled the blanket up, covering her quivering nakedness. Rolling over to face the wall, Brigette rued the day she'd first heard the name of MacArthur.

  “Damn every treacherous one of them to hell,” Brigette cursed softly, then surrendered to her sobs. Foolishly, she'd given her heart and body to Ross; but without warning, he'd changed into a monster called Iain. Her sister Heather was correct. Highlanders do kill and maim for pleasure. And torment unsuspecting innocents too!

  When Iain returned, he sat at the table and watched her weeping, and became filled with remorse at his cruel treatment of her. In spite of her beguiling beauty, Iain knew his wife was a child, ignorant of men. But he was a full-grown man and should have known better, should have met her misplaced anger with patience. Unfortunately, her professed hatred had rendered him irrational, and he suffered for it.

  Absently, Iain reached down to stroke Sly. The fox bared his teeth and growled low in his throat, then joined his mistress on the bed.

  With his anger dissipated, Iain longed to offer his wife comfort and love, but his head overruled his heart. Brigette must learn proper obedience and respect, his mind countered unyieldingly. My young wife is obligated to please me, and when she does, I'll reward her with my gentle consideration. If she doesn't? Iain refused to think about that.

  For the first time since she'd awakened at the lodge, Iain and Brigette passed the night separately—she sobbing in her sleep on the bed and he, sleepless, rolled in his plaid on the rug.

  5

  “Get up."

  In the swirling mists of her sleep-befuddled brain, Brigette heard the commanding voice and sought to escape it. Rolling over, she drew the coverlet over her head.

  “Get up, I said!” Iain yanked the coverlet, and startled, she bolted up.

  Except for her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, Brigette looked sensuously bedraggled, as if interrupted in a lover's tryst. Iain's manhood tingled, but he ignored the powerful stirring that urged him to take her. A long day of riding lay before them. There would be many nights in their future when he'd enjoy the leisure to satisfy his urges.

  Brigette stared groggily at her husband's forbidding countenance, then blushed, remembering their lovemaking of the previous evening. Almost immediately, fear marred her expression as she recalled what had come after.

  “The oatmeal is ready,” Iain said and turned away in regret, having recognized where her thoughts had wandered.

  Brigette swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Retrieving her now-dry chemise, she pulled it over her head, then sat glumly at the table to eat the steaming porridge.

  Ross—no, Iain—lied to me, she fumed in silence. He played me for a fool.

  You lied too, an inner voice reminded her.

  “I've thin's to do outside,” Iain said abruptly. “Use this time for yer private needs.” He gazed at Brigette for a long moment before leaving, but she refused to look up.

  Tears of anger and despair welled up in her eyes, but Brigette fought them back. She forced herself to finish the porridge, then dressed and tidied the chamber in a futile attempt to keep her mind a blank. Brigette didn't want to think of the miserable life stretching endlessly in front of her. At seventeen years of age, she wondered dramatically, how many years of enduring my husband are left before death finally frees me from his clutches? Not only was her future bleak, but she'd lost the man she loved. Ross never existed, she reminded herself. What a fool I've been!

  Iain returned and doused the st
ill-smoldering fire in the hearth. With Sly at their heels, they stepped outside.

  “Ye'll give me nae problems along the way or I'll tie ye and throw ye across my horse like so much baggage. Ye ken?” Iain threatened. Brigette nodded.

  He lifted her onto the saddle and started to mount behind, but Brigette's voice stopped him. “Sly cannot walk so great a distance. Please, pass him to me."

  Grim, Iain looked her straight in the eye. “The fox stays here."

  “What?"

  “Ye heard correctly,” he answered coldly. “The beast remains in the wild, where he belongs."

  "Sly's my pet!"

  “Dinna use that shrewish tone wi’ me,” Iain warned. “Dunridge is nae place for a fox to abide. Ye had nae business makin’ a wild beastie yer pet."

  “Please,” she pleaded, “Sly won't survive on his own.” When he ignored her and mounted, she vowed in a small voice that cracked with loss, “I hate you."

  “So ye've said,” Iain whispered harshly against her ear, pulling her tightly, painfully against his unyielding body. “Yer repeatin’ yerself."

  As they rode away from the hunting lodge, tears streaked Brigette's cheeks, and she was unable to control the sobs escaping her throat. Sly tagged along behind them, running excitedly here and there, but always returning to follow the horse.

  Brigette saw Sly following them, and eventually her sobbing subsided. Every few minutes, she peeked around her husband to see how her pet was faring. What will happen to Sly when we reach Dunridge? she wondered. Can I save him? If the monster who calls himself my husband causes Sly's death, Brigette vowed, I'll make his remaining years unspeakably miserable.

  Each passing mile saw the fox tiring and his mistress worrying more and more. A mournful yelping suddenly rent the air and Brigette stiffened. Iain halted the horse. They looked back to see an exhausted Sly sitting a short distance away.

  “He's too tired to go on,” Brigette said, “and I'm certain he won't survive on his own."

  “Yes,” Iain agreed. “Stay here.” He dismounted and drew his dagger, making Brigette gasp in horror.

  “If you do this,” she threatened, a sob catching in her throat, “I swear, at the first opportunity, I'll do the same to you."

  “Keep yer mouth shut or ye'll regret it.” Purposefully, Iain walked back to the fox. With his wife's muffled sobs at his back, he approached Sly, who wagged his long, bushy tail in greeting. Instinctively submissive to his mistress's mate, the fox rolled onto his back and gazed up with doleful eyes.

  Iain glanced at Brigette, whose shoulders shook with grief, and then down at her pet. He sheathed his dagger and lifted Sly into his arms, pausing for the briefest moment to pat the fox. “Percy's likely to roast me for this,” he muttered to himself, then walked back to the horse and placed Sly onto Brigette's lap.

  Surprised, she looked up, and through tear-blinded eyes, met her husband's gaze. “Thank you,” she whispered, and smiled tremulously.

  Iain nodded curtly and mounted. Cuddling her beloved pet against her breast, Brigette relaxed and leaned against Iain. He decided, smiling somewhat speculatively at the top of her coppery crown, that subject to ridicule or not, he'd acted wisely.

  It was afternoon when they sighted Dunridge Castle. Built in medieval times, the castle appeared bleak and forbidding to Brigette, even though she'd lived her entire life at Basildon, another medieval castle.

  Iain halted his horse before they reached the outer gate. “Welcome to yer new home, my lady.” His voice sounded almost friendly.

  “Where is Loch Awe?"

  “On the back side of Dunridge.” Iain smiled, pleased that his wife was exhibiting interest in her new home.

  “Ye'll act like a lady,” he added, inadvertently ruining their truce, “and no’ disgrace me before my—” Bristling at his words, Brigette cast him a scathing glance.

  Realizing he'd said the wrong thing, Iain broke off and nudged his horse forward. As they passed through the gate and outer courtyard, the guards called a cordial greeting to Iain, then stared at Brigette and the furry creature nestled in her arms. Reaching the inner courtyard, they stopped in front of the main building's entrance.

  “Iain! Lady Brigette!” Percy strode toward them. “Welcome!"

  Iain dismounted and then helped Brigette, who smiled warmly at his brother. Much too warmly, in Iain's opinion.

  “What's this ye've got?” Percy asked.

  “My pet—” Before Brigette could finish speaking, one of Dunridge's hounds, having eluded the master-of-the-hounds, bounded up to them, intent on investigating the squirming bundle of copper fur in her arms.

  With hackles rising upon his neck and back, the hound growled ominously and then barked. Frightened, Sly leaped from Brigette's arms and ran.

  "Sly!" Brigette screamed and gave chase. Iain and Percy dashed after her.

  Nipping at the fox's heels, the hound was fast, but Sly was faster. He raced around the side of the keep closest to the garrison house, whose occupants, hearing the uproar, rushed outside. A small fox was being chased by one of the hounds, who was also being chased by a shrieking madwoman who, in turn, was being chased by Iain and Percy!

  Sly flew into the rear garden, then scooted up the nearest tree. The furious hound leaped at the tree and barked madly, unable to reach his quarry.

  Crazed by the thought that her pet might be eaten, Brigette charged into the garden after the hound, but her feet became tangled in her skirt and she fell. Sly's cries of fear and the hound's vicious barking broke the last thin thread of her composure. Downed by her own skirt, Brigette was unable to rise. She pressed her face into the dirt and wept disconsolately.

  Rounding the side of the keep, Iain and Percy burst upon this scene. Behind them came a group of astonished men-at-arms. Iain raced for Brigette while Percy ran for the hound.

  “Jamie,” Percy called, dragging the hound away from the tree, “take him back to the kennel."

  Iain lifted his wife from the ground. Nearly hysterical, Brigette wept within the safety of his embrace. She appeared battle weary; her skirt was torn and her face was smudged with dirt and streaked with tears.

  “Are ye injured?"

  Brigette shook her head and sobbed almost incoherently, “S-S-Sly..."

  “...is well,” Iain finished.

  Percy placed the trembling fox into her arms. Burying her face against her husband's chest, she wept with relief; and caught between the two, Sly fidgeted uncomfortably. Without thinking, Iain kissed the top of his wife's head, then cast his amazed warriors a warning glance. Reluctantly, they dispersed.

  “Black Jack wants to see ye immediately,” Percy informed them. “Dinna keep him waitin'. He's anxious to meet yer bride."

  Iain tilted Brigette's chin up and smiled encouragingly. “Are ye ready, hinny?” In between sniffles, she nodded. He escorted her inside through the garden entrance, and then, certain his father preferred a private meeting, led her into the earl's study instead of the great hall.

  The image of Iain as an old man rose from a chair near the hearth. John Andrew “Black Jack” MacArthur was still an impressive-looking man. He was extremely tall, well over six feet, and as sturdily built as an oak tree. His eyes were intensely dark like his son's, his hair liberally salted with silver, and his face was tanned and ruggedly chiseled. There was nothing ancient about this old man.

  The earl stared in surprise at the two disheveled travelers and their animal companion. Black Jack saw before him a petite young woman, lovely but incredibly smudged and soiled, commonly dressed like a beggar or worse. Could this be the noble bride for whom he'd sent to England?

  His eyes narrowed and shifted to his son. “This is yer wife?” he asked in amazed disbelief.

  “Father, may I present Lady Brigette.” Iain grinned a trifle sheepishly. “Bria, this is my father, the Earl.” Humiliatingly aware of how she must appear, Brigette smiled shyly, and then curtsyed awkwardly, due to her grip on Sly.

  “What did ye
do to her?” Black Jack asked sharply, looking at his son. “And why?"

  Iain opened his mouth to explain, but Brigette's tongue was faster. “He did nothing. I fell in the garden,” she said. Iain smiled inwardly at his wife's ready defense of him.

  “I wasna’ speakin’ to ye,” the earl said. Brigette gaped at his rudeness, and her eyes narrowed into green slits of displeasure.

  “It's as she said,” Iain confirmed.

  “What's that yer carryin'?” the earl asked, his gaze falling on the fox.

  Thinking the father was as disagreeable as the son, Brigette looked him straight in the eye and squared her shoulders determinedly, ready to do battle. “This is my pet fox, Sly."

  “Get rid of it, Iain."

  “The hell he will!” Brigette's anger flared, and Iain fought to hide a smile.

  “What did ye say to me?” Black Jack was appalled.

  "I said, the hell he will!" she roared, then added softly, “Sly is my pet. You have no authority."

  “N-nae authority?"

  “Ye made the match,” Iain interjected, stepping between them. “What would ye have me do?"

  “I am returning to England,” Brigette announced, stepping from behind her husband, whose eyes lost their humor. “We will annul the marriage. I've no wish to continue with this arrangement, especially after what happened last night."

  “Last night?” Black Jack arched a questioning brow.

  “Your son almost raped me."

  Iain burst out laughing. Black Jack stared open-mouthed at her, then asked his son in a loud whisper, “Is she simple?"

  “Simple? Why, you blustering old man!"

  "Blusterin’ old mon?"

  “Enough!” Iain shouted, then turned on his wife. “Dinna talk nonsense, Bria. A mon canna rape his wife."

  “But you almost forced me to—"

  “It's a mon's right to take his wife as he pleases, whether she be willin’ or no',” Iain informed her, then smiled arrogantly. “That's the law."

  “The law! You expect me to honor Scotland's law in this? I absolutely—"