Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  “Adair marrying you?” Ceit interjected, her expression mild, but censure in her brown eyes. “You could always try for Hamish Mac Glogan if you want a chieftain.”

  Fionnaghal sniffed, then slid a sharp and cruel glance at Dearshul. “Maybe I will.” She swayed her hips and thrust out her breasts. “At least I’ve got something worthwhile to offer.”

  Dearshul straightened her shoulders. “I’m sure you’ve offered it to plenty, too, which may be why neither of the chieftain’s sons want anything to do with you.”

  Glaring at Dearshul, Fionnaghal started toward her. “You little—!”

  “Quiet,” Ceit snapped, stepping between them. “Enough chatter, the pair of you. Get your water and be about your work.”

  Keeping an eye on the scowling Fionnaghal, Dearshul filled her bucket, then marched away. One by one, the others took their water and departed, until only Ceit and Fionnaghal remained beside the well.

  “She has no chance with Lachlann,” Fionnaghal declared as Ceit poured water into the vessel she held. “Everybody knows it, and it’s no kindness to encourage her.”

  “I would have said no Norman woman stood any chance with Adair, either,” Ceit observed.

  She regarded the younger woman steadily. “You’ve lost Adair, Fionnaghal. Find another. As you say, you’ve much to offer. As for Dearshul, she’s been pining for Lachlann since she was eight years old. He won’t have her—too ambitious by far, that one—so leave her be and let her have her maiden’s dreams. And tread carefully with Adair’s wife. She’s got the look of fire about her, and I wouldn’t want to get burned, if I were you.”

  AS THE GRIM BAND OF CLANSMEN RODE into the village of Lochbarr, Adair saw something that made him yank Neas to a sudden halt: Dearshul spreading sheets on some bushes near the river to dry. He recognized the mended rent in one of them—the bottom sheet from his bed, where he’d made love with Marianne last night after assuring her that no one would be checking for signs of virginity.

  She’d surely think he’d lied. God help him, he didn’t need that, too.

  After giving his father a brief farewell, he spurred Neas to a gallop and rode toward Dearshul. When he brought his horse to a prancing halt, she nearly dropped the basket she was holding with one hand and balancing on her hip.

  “Are those sheets from my bed?” he demanded without preamble, although he was sure he already knew the answer.

  Dearshul flushed and gripped the basket tighter. “Aye.”

  Adair tried to keep a rein on his temper. Maybe washing the sheets had been Marianne’s idea. “Who told you to wash them?”

  “N-nobody,” the young woman stammered, snuffing his brief flicker of hope that Marianne had made the request. “I just thought, your wife being a lady and all, she’d want them laundered after…after last night.”

  Maybe she would, but Dearshul should have waited for the request. “Did Marianne see you take them?”

  “Aye,” Dearshul answered, dashing another brief hope. “I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have done this without asking, Adair. I was only trying to help.”

  When she looked as if she was about to burst into tears, he immediately regretted speaking so harshly. Dearshul was a sweet, kindhearted lass. He shouldn’t get angry or fault her for what she’d done, especially given how most people in Lochbarr would treat Marianne. “’Twas kind of you to think of her comfort, Dearshul,” he said, meaning it. “You’re a very thoughtful lass.”

  Her lower lip trembled as she smiled.

  “I’ll be sure to tell my father how pleased I am with your kindness,” he said, avoiding any mention of his brother. “Is my wife still in the teach?”

  “No. I saw her walking toward the village.”

  He couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why was she going there?”

  Again, Dearshul looked as though she might start crying. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it was my place to question her. I thought she must have told you what she planned to do before you rode out.”

  An obvious assumption, given that Marianne was his wife. “Aye, you don’t have to know where she is and what she’s about every moment of the day,” he replied. “I’m sure she’s safe.”

  Safe? Why had that word come to mind? Of course she would be safe. Nobody in Lochbarr would dare to harm his wife, including Cormag.

  Nobody in Lochbarr…but what of Dunkeathe? What if her brother’s harsh words had been a ploy to make them think he didn’t care about his sister, while his men were on the way to take her back by stealth and force combined? That would be the Norman’s way. That was the way they did everything.

  He dismounted. “Take Neas to the stable for me, will you?” he asked as he handed her the reins.

  He didn’t wait to hear her answer as he started toward the main street of the village, a collection of stone houses and stalls clustered around a central open space that served as a market in good weather.

  Since the sun was shining, several of the merchants had set out tables in the green, the better to display their wares.

  Perhaps he was wrong to suspect her brother, and Marianne had been curious to see what the merchants had to offer.

  He was nearly to the green when Fionnaghal stepped out from behind a cottage and blocked his way. “What’s the matter, Adair? Lost something?” She smiled slyly. “Like your wife?”

  Fionnaghal had been a pain in his side ever since she’d arrived in Lochbarr with her family five years ago. “I haven’t lost my wife. Now out of my way, Fionnaghal.”

  The young serving woman laughed and twirled a lock of thick brown hair around her finger. “If you do lose her, or tire of her, you know where to find me.”

  Adair frowned and made no secret of his impatience. “I’ve known where to find you for years, and never troubled, so why would I now?”

  “Because that wife of yours’ll ne’er make you happy, with her haughty Norman ways.” Fionnaghal sauntered nearer, her hips swaying, breasts out. “I’ll make you happy, Adair.”

  “Have you no sense at all, woman?” he asked, amazed at her persistence, especially now that he was married. “If I’d ever wanted you, you’d have known it. But I didn’t, and now I’ve got a wife, so you’ve no chance at all with me.”

  “Aye—a Norman wife!” Fionnaghal retorted as he marched past her toward the market. “A Norman wife you had to marry.”

  Adair ignored her. Fionnaghal was a nuisance. She’d probably be more than a nuisance, if not an outright enemy, to Marianne.

  Marianne was no fool. She must have guessed she wouldn’t be welcome in Lochbarr before she proposed the marriage, so she must have decided she could manage their resentment and enmity.

  She made the proposal because she thought she had no other choice. No matter what came after or how bold and brave she looked in the hall, she was alone and desperate, and that’s why she married you.

  He tried to ignore his conscience as he continued through the village, paying special attention to women in brown dresses. Here, too, he wasn’t greeted with the usual good cheer. There was a wariness now, and suspicion.

  His father was right. He should have thought of the possible consequences of his actions. But even if he had, he would never have guessed the people of Lochbarr would look at him as they were doing now.

  Marianne wasn’t among them. He couldn’t find her in the village.

  His dread increasing, he stood beside the kirk and wondered where else she might have gone, and all by herself. A familiar, sickening fear came over him as he looked at the sky. How soon until dusk?

  He put his hand on the stone wall of the church to steady himself as that horrible memory of Cellach, her body bloody, her dress torn, her eyes staring open at the sky, came to his mind. Breathing hard, he stared at the ground, trying to force it away.

  Cellach had been a girl. Marianne was a woman—a woman who’d climb down a wall with bleeding feet and command a man to catch her. Yet even so—

  He started to run back to the fortress
, determined to mount a search without any more delay, his gaze still searching for signs of his wife as he ran.

  A flash of brown wool beneath a willow tree on the bank of the river leading to the loch caught his eye. He halted and looked closer.

  Marianne! Thank God.

  His heart still racing despite the relief pouring through him, he jogged toward the river bank. A wall of stones formed an enclosure on two sides, where sheep and cattle were gathered for the fall slaughter. At present, the meadow was occupied not by livestock, but a group of boys playing with an inflated pig’s bladder, kicking it and chasing it, and one another, as children do. Three dogs also seemed to think they were part of the game, running and barking excitedly.

  Marianne wasn’t alone under the willow. Teassie, the nine-year-old daughter of the village smith, was with her, and Marianne was wiping the little girl’s face with the edge of her sleeve.

  Murmuring something in French he couldn’t quite make out, Marianne gave the girl a quick hug and pointed her back toward the boys. Adair couldn’t begin to guess what use the French would do, for Teassie wouldn’t understand it.

  Apparently, though, whatever Marianne had said or done, it had been enough to encourage Teassie to approach the boys.

  Marianne’s whole focus was on the child, and when Teassie glanced back, uncertain, Marianne gave her the warmest, brightest, most encouraging smile Adair had ever seen. Her whole face lightened with it. Then she raised her chin a little.

  Teassie raised hers in silent imitation before marching up to Donnan, her brother, who was six years older and built like a miniature version of his father, broad-chested and stocky, with a sheaf of dark hair that fell on his forehead.

  Hands on his hips, Donnan’s lip curled with disdain as he regarded his sister. “Away with you, Teassie. You’re too small to play with us.”

  Teassie straightened her shoulders, reminding Adair very much of his bride. “I want to play,” she insisted in a high wavering voice.

  “You’re too little. You’ll get hurt.”

  Teassie got a stubborn look in her green eyes that also reminded Adair of his wife, who was still watching from the shelter of the tree.

  Teassie pointed at a lad easily half a head shorter than she. “You let Curadan play, and he’s smaller than me.”

  “He’s a boy.”

  “I can run faster.”

  “He’s a boy.”

  “I can kick harder.”

  “But he’s a boy!” Donnan persisted, eloquence obviously not his strong suit.

  “You have to let me play. She says so.” Teassie pointed at Marianne. “And she’s the chieftain’s son’s wife.”

  Donnan looked at Marianne. “Wheest, what has she to do with it?” he asked dismissively.

  “She’s Adair’s wife.”

  As Donnan was turning back to his sister, he caught sight of Adair. His face reddened and he rubbed his toe in the dirt.

  Aware that Marianne had likely seen him now, too—unless she’d been stricken blind—Adair walked toward the lad. “Let her play, Donnan.”

  Donnan wasn’t pleased by that suggestion.

  He’d truly fallen far if even the blacksmith’s son didn’t respect him anymore. Before he’d gone to rescue Marianne, Donnan would have done as he’d asked without question or qualm.

  “An honorable man should always be kind and generous to women,” he said to the boy.

  “Teassie’s not a woman. She’s my sister.”

  “Well, what harm could it do to let her play?”

  “She’ll get hurt.”

  “Not if you’re careful,” Adair repeated, and this time, it wasn’t a request. “Let her play, Donnan.”

  The lad grudgingly nodded.

  “Go on with you, then, back to the game.”

  As Donnan ran off, Adair started to turn toward Marianne, when he felt a little hand touch his arm.

  He looked down to see Teassie smiling shyly up at him. “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Her bright eyes shining, she gave him a gap-toothed grin before scampering away to join in the game.

  Somewhat mollified, Adair continued toward his wife, who was waiting for him, his hands clasped together, a worried look on her face.

  He didn’t want to have to tell her what had happened with her brother. He wanted to make her smile again.

  “I don’t know what you said to Teassie,” he remarked when he reached her, “or how she understood it, but it seems to have been very effective.”

  “She was watching the boys play, crying and looking so longingly at them, it wasn’t hard to guess what had happened,” Marianne explained. “I told her not to give up.”

  Adair raised a brow. “In French?”

  Marianne’s bonnie blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight that made its way through the shifting curtain of willow leaves. “Yes. But I showed her what I meant, too.”

  “Like a mummer?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I wish I’d seen it.”

  Marianne suddenly frowned, her brow furrowing like an angry war god. Planting her feet, arms akimbo, she thrust out her chin. “She understood that I was telling her not to let them bully her.”

  “She did indeed,” Adair agreed as they started back to the village.

  Marianne’s golden hair gleamed in the afternoon light, like a shimmering halo, and he’d never known a woman who walked with such a graceful step. Her feet must be healing well, and that was a relief.

  “Did you play with boys when you were her age?” he asked, trying to picture her as a nine-year-old, full of spirit and mischief, with bright golden hair.

  “Just my brothers,” she answered. She gave a little sigh. “It seems boys are all the same when it comes to letting girls join in their games.”

  “I bet you were good at games.”

  “I was fast on my feet,” she admitted. “That skill served me well in the convent, too, although once, Sister Mary Katherine nearly caught me after I…”

  “After you what?” he prompted when she fell silent.

  “We have more important things to talk about,” she said briskly. “What happened when your father went to Dunkeathe this morning?”

  They’d reached the marketplace, and the censorious, curious villagers were watching them with interest. “Your brother accepted the bride price and there’ll be no reprisals.”

  “What about the betrothal with Hamish Mac Glogan?”

  “He said nothing of it.”

  She looked puzzled. “Nothing?”

  Marianne was obviously going to require more of an explanation, yet he didn’t think this was the time, or the place. “I’ll tell you about it when we’re in our teach.”

  To his relief, she nodded and didn’t press him further.

  “What did you do that you had to flee the sister? Steal some holy wafer?”

  She flushed, her cheeks blooming pink. “No.”

  He couldn’t resist teasing her a little, hoping to brighten some of that Norman seriousness that now clouded her features. “The wine?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Then what?” he asked. “I think if my wife has an outlaw past, I should know about it.”

  “I most certainly wasn’t an outlaw. Or a thief.”

  “A bit of a prankster, then? You can confess your sins to me, Marianne. I was hardly a perfect child myself.”

  “I can well believe that,” she replied. “I can also believe you were always excused.”

  “Why would you say that?” he asked, mindful of what Cormag had said that morning.

  “Because I suspect you could smile and talk your way out of any punishment.”

  He didn’t like to think she shared Cormag’s opinion of him. “We were talking about you, and what made the good sister give chase.”

  “I was looking over the wall to the road outside the convent.”

  “That was a serious offense?”

  She
answered with obvious reluctance. “I was, um, watching some people.”

  “That doesn’t sound such a sin. What sort of people?”

  Another blush colored her cheeks as they neared the gates of the fortress. “Just some boys from the farms down the road.”

  Boys from farms? And she in a convent. “Ah. Too tempting for young girls, were they?”

  “The sisters thought so.”

  He nodded at the sentries at the gate as they passed them, and thought it a good thing they couldn’t understand French, or the proud Marianne might not be so forthcoming.

  “What did you think?” he asked as they approached their teach. “Did you find them tempting?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Her answer was swift—too swift. She had been tempted, but she didn’t want him to know, as if the notion that being interested in boys was something shameful. That was the Normans for you. Hide girls away for years and be shocked when they were curious about boys.

  He would have been shocked if she hadn’t been. “They were homely?”

  “What does it matter what they looked like?”

  “I’m just curious, that’s all, since they didn’t tempt you. Was it a hot day, by any chance?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Oh, yes, she did, and it was, and he’d wager ten marks the lads hadn’t been wearing much in the way of clothes. He stifled a smile as he imagined a young Marianne sneaking looks at half-naked farm boys over the convent wall.

  She gave him another sidelong glance. “I’m sure you looked at girls all the time.”

  “Naturally. And they looked right back.”

  “I’ve noticed the women here are rather brazen.”

  Fionnaghal came to mind, and he wondered if Marianne had already had words with her.

  “It’s not going to be easy for you here,” he said as they entered the teach. “There’ll be resentment and distrust.”

  Standing beside the bed, Marianne turned to face him. “Especially from one rather buxom young woman, I think.” She saw his frown. “You know of whom I’m speaking?”

  “I can guess,” he said as he sat on the chest. “Her name’s Fionnaghal and in case you’re curious, I’ve never taken her to my bed.”