Of course, she fretted about them all, with the exception of Geoffrey, perhaps. Marion could not imagine the most scholarly de Burgh seeking out the pursuits of war. And yet she was concerned for Geoffrey, too, wishing that he might find himself a wife, for sometimes she caught a wistful yearning in his gaze that could not be satisfied by books or arms or anything to be found at Campion.
The youngest and most energetic de Burgh roamed the room like a smaller version of the Wolf, until he came to sit at Marion’s feet. Despite her protests, he pushed a stool under them, and Robin insisted on fetching her a cushion while she tried to hide her amusement. The rough, gruff de Burghs were treating the mother of the future heir as if she were a fragile flower, and although Marion knew better, she let them.
Her pregnancy had been easy thus far, with only a voracious appetite and a tendency to become weepy to mark its passing. But then, Dunstan pampered her far more than even his brothers would dream of doing, scowling ferociously if she lifted a finger at Wessex. Smiling her own secret smile at his regard, Marion scooted closer to the fire, unaware he was watching her until he moved to her side and settled his great bulk next to her. She curled into him, warmed more by the heat of his body than by any blaze, and snuggled beneath the proprietary arm he placed around her shoulder.
Whether in deference to Marion’s condition or the Christmas celebration, the brothers were not quarreling as much or as loudly as usual, and even Stephen had tempered his taunts. All in all, the solar at Campion was a perfect scene of domestic tranquillity—except for the glaring absence of the earl himself.
They were all waiting for Campion, who had called them to the solar after receiving a message from the king. Although the situation reminded her far too strongly of that day in early summer when she had been ousted from the castle, Marion told herself that not all news from the king was bad. Even the order to send her back to Baddersly had proved, in the end, to be a blessing, for how else could she have married the Wolf?
As if sensing her thoughts, Dunstan slid his great palm over her belly in a possessive gesture that acknowledged the son—or daughter—nestled inside. She smiled up at him, and his lips curved ever so slightly in response, a smile that was not one, but that had the ability to touch her heart more deeply than anyone else’s giddy grin.
They could have been alone, but for the sudden hush in the room that drew their attention to Campion’s entrance. He stepped to the center of the solar with regal grace, and Marion tried to judge the tenor of the news from his expression, but it was, as usual, unreadable.
Nodding to his sons, the earl spoke without preamble, as was his wont. “The king has a task for one of you,” he said, and Marion saw some of the de Burghs sit up straighter, impatient for whatever battle lay ahead.
“‘Tis a great sacrifice, but I know that this time one of you may be counted upon to step forward,” Campion said. This time? Marion grew curious as to the king’s charge and listened intently as the earl continued.
“His will is that one of you marry in order to assure the proper dispensation of his lands and protection of its people.” Marion hid a smile as the brothers who had seemed so eager slumped back in their seats now, trying to disappear into the furnishings. What a hardened group of bachelors! Although she understood their reluctance, privately Marion thought she would enjoy having another woman in the family and other children to grow up kin to her own.
“I am sorry, my sons, but there is no way to escape the king’s decree,” Campion said, and Marion was surprised at the grim set of his features. His wise gaze held a hint of sadness that made it seem as if he were announcing a death sentence instead of a betrothal. “Since her father’s death has left her not only with a sizable property, but at the mercy of landless rogues who would seek to wed her against her will…”
Suddenly, Marion became aware of tension, thick and threatening, growing in the room at Campion’s words and the abrupt stiffening of her husband’s arm about her shoulders.
Of whom did the earl speak? Was the heiress a child, a crone, a hag? Whoever she was, Marion felt a hot rush of compassion for the woman none wanted for a wife.
“The king wishes one of you to marry Fitzhugh’s daughter.”
“Fitzhugh’s daughter!” Seven deep male voices rose in protest, startling Marion in their vehemence.
“She is well-known for a shrew!” muttered Robin, horrified.
“A harpy!” echoed Reynold.
“A murderess, for did she not kill her last husband in their marriage bed?” Simon asked, and Marion recalled the dreadful stories about the fearsome female.
Campion eyed them all with gentle sympathy. “Apparently, the king is taking a rather magnanimous view of that incident, since the groom, Walter Avery, was naught but a rebel knight who forced the wedding upon her.”
“Still, ‘twas a vile deed,” Simon muttered, and Marion saw Geoffrey shudder.
Although she knew the situation was serious, Marion could not help but see the humor in it as she glanced around the room. Here were six strapping warriors who had not quailed before a trip to Wessex to free their brother against unknown odds, and yet every one of them had turned pale at the thought of a mere woman.
As if sensing her coming chuckle, Dunstan abruptly rose to his feet. “Let us know when congratulations are in order,” he said gruffly. Then, with amazing gentleness, he helped Marion up from her seat and out of the solar.
To her surprise, Marion saw that Dunstan’s face was nearly as white as those of his brothers, and as soon as the door was shut behind her, she let out a giggle at the sight.
“‘Tis no laughing matter, Marion,” Dunstan growled, dragging her along with him to their chamber. Faced with his most ferocious scowl, Marion was forced to quell her amusement until the last candle was extinguished and her smile was hidden by the darkness.
“Wren?” Dunstan reached for her, his tone thick with some underlying emotion.
“Hmm?”
“It appears I must thank you for saving me from the Fitzhugh wench!” he said, and then the low rumble of his laughter rang out beside her. Marion joined him, and they laughed together in bed, shushing each other so that none might hear them, until the hushing whispers turned into kisses and more serious matters pressed between them.
“‘Twas nothing,” Marion answered breathlessly, as she felt the familiar spark at the touch of his questing hands, rough and dear, upon her. “Methinks the Wolf was ready to be tamed.”
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, why not check out another Medieval romance from Harlequin Historical!
To avoid a betrothal, Lianna MacKinnon gives herself to an intriguing stranger. But her lover is none other than Rhys de Laurent—her betrothed—in disguise! Now there’s no escaping their marriage vows…
Turn the page for a glimpse of Michelle Willingham’s Forbidden Night with the Highlander, the second in her Warriors of the Night series.
CHAPTER ONE
Scotland—1171
‘My daughter is…not like other women.’
Rhys de Laurent eyed the Scottish chief, Alastair MacKinnon, wondering what the man meant by that statement.
There was a pained look upon the MacKinnon’s face, but Rhys waited for the chief to continue. When there came nothing further, he prompted, ‘Is she shrewish or is her face marked by pox?’
Alastair shook his head. ‘Nay, she is fair of face. But you’ll ken what I mean when you marry her. She is different.’
Rhys was not eager to claim the Scottish bride promised to him since her birth. He had travelled north for nearly a fortnight to Eiloch, Scotland, and he had no desire to live in this godforsaken land, half a world away from his family.
But he had come here for the sake of duty and obligation. He was a man who honoured promises, though he was not certain he would go through with the marriage as of yet.
Truthfully, he was here for his younger brother’s sake. Warrick had no land of his own, due to an es
trangement with their father. These lands in Scotland would give his brother a place to live in peace, and Warrick could help to defend the fortress when it was necessary. It might be that his brother could marry the bride, if he could coerce the young woman’s father into changing the agreement.
The MacKinnon lands held value, and in the midst of unrest between the Normans and the Scots, Rhys knew his responsibilities. His father had made an alliance that depended on this marriage.
But he was uneasy about wedding a woman he had never seen before.
‘I want to meet with my bride before I agree to the formal betrothal,’ he told the chief. ‘Both of us deserve that much.’
A tight expression crossed Alastair’s face. ‘That would no’ be wise. Lianna has said she willna marry a Norman.’
Rhys wasn’t surprised to hear it. ‘Which is why we should meet and get to know one another. She may change her mind, once we are acquainted.’ And he could discover if his brother might be a more suitable match.
But the chief was already shaking his head. ‘Nay, if she sees you as a Norman, she’ll do everything she can to avoid the marriage. Better if you should dress like a Highlander and let her ken who you are as a man. You would find her more appealing.’ The Scot eyed him carefully. ‘Unless you are too proud to wear our clothing.’
Rhys considered the matter. The chief was right that Lianna MacKinnon would judge him as an outsider, no matter what he said or did. Fear would govern her opinion, and that was no foundation for a marriage. But he was uneasy about the deception. ‘I don’t like the idea of lying to my bride.’
‘You need not give your name,’ Alastair said. ‘Trust me when I say that Lianna will soften at kindness. And then you may see her warm heart.’ The Scot studied him carefully. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Rhys de Laurent. Most say you are a fair man, respected as a leader. I would never give my daughter into your hands, did I not believe it.’
He gave no reaction to the flattery, for he knew Alastair had no choice but to uphold the arrangement. If Rhys did not accept Lianna as his bride, then he had the right to take Eiloch back again and place Norman soldiers in command of the fortress. His own father, Edward de Laurent, could have done so a generation earlier, but out of respect for his mother, Margaret, he had not. Although she was Norman, she had loved her second husband, Fergus MacKinnon, and had spent many happy years in Scotland, as if it were her sanctuary.
Alastair motioned for one of his men to come forward, and murmured an order in Gaelic. Rhys understood every word, for he had learned the Scottish tongue at a young age. His grandmother had insisted upon it, for the MacKinnons would never accept him as their leader otherwise.
The servant disappeared to obey, and then Alastair turned back. ‘I think you will be pleased with my daughter as your bride, once you ken the sort of woman she is and understand her ways.’
Rhys met the man’s gaze. ‘I will judge her for myself.’
Alastair nodded. ‘She rides out to the coast every day for her noontide meal. You will meet her at the dolmen, but I caution you not to let her ken who you are. At least, not yet.’
His servant returned with a shirt and trews similar to those the chief wore. Alastair held out the garments and said, ‘Wear this. And I’ll bid you luck with Lianna.’
Rhys took the clothing and asked, ‘How do I know she will be there?’
Alastair sighed. ‘My daughter is a woman with ingrained habits. She has taken her meal by the dolmen every day for the past year. Believe me when I have no doubt you will see her.’
Rhys wasn’t certain what to make of that, but he inclined his head. ‘So be it.’
* * *
Lianna MacKinnon prided herself on order, keeping everything in its place. Her bedchamber had not a speck of dust upon the wooden floor, and every corner of the coverlet was tucked beneath the mattress. She ran a finger along the edge of a small table and found that it was spotless, just as it should be. The sight of the chamber filled her with satisfaction, and she felt a sense of contentment knowing that, at least within this place, she could control the life she lived.
A knock sounded at the door, and her maid Orna opened it without waiting to be invited inside. ‘I’ve news for you, Lady Lianna. The Norman and his men are meeting with your father this morn.’
A cold sweat broke out upon Lianna’s brow. Though the men had sent word of their impending arrival at Eiloch, she could not bear to think of it. The idea of marrying a stranger was a disruption she didn’t want to face. Though she had been promised to Rhys de Laurent since birth, she would do anything to avoid the marriage. And now, that moment was here.
Lianna’s gaze flickered to the dirt tracks the older woman had brought into the chamber. She moved towards the broom resting on the opposite wall, feeling the desperate urge to clean the floor.
‘He will not be my husband, Orna.’ Lianna began sweeping up the dirt her maid had tracked in, forming a small pile as she moved towards the door. The older woman likely hadn’t noticed it at all, given her failing eyesight. ‘I will find a way out of this betrothal.’
She refused to believe that anything else would happen. Over the years, she had saved every spare silver coin, planning to bribe Rhys de Laurent into abandoning this marriage. She had never bought gowns or ribbons, preferring to keep herself plain and save the coins for something far more valuable—her freedom.
Her maid frowned. ‘It may not be possible, my lady.’
Lianna found a rag and knelt down to wipe up the mud, cleaning the floor until it was spotless. ‘It will be.’ It had to be. For the idea of surrendering herself to a strange man was impossible. Rhys had been born and raised in England and knew nothing of their ways. He would not even be able to speak their language.
Her insides twisted up in knots at the thought of wedding a stranger—or worse, sharing his bed and bearing him children. Fear gripped her at the thought. Her father had accepted it as a necessary arrangement, but she would not give up so easily.
‘When Rhys de Laurent hears my proposal, he will gladly return to England without me. My father will remain the chief of Eiloch, and everything will return to the way it was.’ Lianna clung to that idea, for it was the only future she wanted to imagine. She wanted her life to remain steady, in an ordered pattern, without straying from its path.
Then she squared her shoulders and informed Orna, ‘It is time for my daily ride.’
Today, more than ever, she needed to travel along the coast. The speed of the horse and the wind upon her face would help her to forget about the future pressing her into a corner.
‘And what if the chief summons you to meet your husband?’ Orna asked. ‘You must be here if he does.’
Lianna shuddered at the thought of being displayed before the Norman like a prized sheep. ‘I am not married yet.’ She reached for her shoes that lay against the far wall, walking barefoot across her clean floor. ‘I must go.’
‘Please, don’t be making trouble for your father, Lianna. You must marry Rhys de Laurent and bear a son. Only then can we stay here, God willing.’ Her maid risked a glance at the door. ‘If you make him angry, the Norman lord will send us away, and we’ll have nowhere to live.’
Lianna opened the door and paused. ‘Don’t be afraid, Orna. I will find a way to avoid this marriage and keep Eiloch in my father’s hands. No one will take over our lands, I promise you.’ Even if it took every last coin she possessed, she would bribe the man.
Her maid eyed Lianna as if she were uncertain. ‘Should you not try to be the wife he wants?’
No. She would not even consider such a thing. With a half-smile, she admitted, ‘Orna, I ken what I am. No man finds me appealing, and if my own kinsman do not care for me, why should this one be any different?’
She adjusted her woollen brat to cover her fiery red hair. It was difficult to tame, but she combed it seventy-seven times every morn. And she would do the same when she returned from her ride. ‘I will be back by this afternoo
n.’
Her maid’s expression held doubt, but she said nothing. Lianna strode past the woman, carrying her shoes. She walked barefoot through the large gathering space, past her older brother and his men. Sían’s face curved in a knowing smile, and he lifted his hand in greeting. She nodded to her brother, feeling her cheeks redden as she overheard one of the men mutter, Thanks be, none of us has to wed her now.
She didn’t know which of them had spoken but pretended that she hadn’t heard the barb. Holding her shoulders back, she glanced up at her brother, only to see him cuff Eachann MacKinnon. Though she appreciated his defence, Lianna was well aware that the men were laughing at her. She ignored them and put on her shoes before she walked down the stairs outside and stepped into the mud.
They thought it strange that she kept to her habits, leaving every day at the same hour to go riding. Each day, always the same. But she liked having the same pattern. It was comforting to know what she would do every day.
Sían lived his life from one hour to the next, never thinking beyond what happened today. His confident manner sometimes bordered on arrogance, but Lianna found that it was easier to quietly clean up the disorder her brother left behind than to defy him.
Her father’s house was larger than the others, a tower fortification built of wood and stone. The dwelling could hold twenty men, with three smaller chambers on the second floor. Beyond that, several crofters lived in thatched homes set in a semicircle.
Lianna spied her horse already waiting for her near the stables, and a kitchen boy hurried out to meet her. He held out the wrapped bundle of food, and she took it, knowing what was inside. One piece of bread, one hunk of cheese, and a small jug of ale—just as always. She thanked him and secured the bundle beside her saddle before mounting her mare.
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