Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  “Family loyalty?” Nicholas jeered. “Where was her family loyalty when she ran off with you?”

  “She didn’t run away with me because we were lovers. She came with me because she thought she had no other choice—that you’d given her none, and neither had I.”

  “She didn’t choose to go with you?” Nicholas demanded skeptically.

  “She didn’t think you’d believe her explanation for my unwelcome presence in her chamber.”

  “And what explanation would that be?”

  “That I’d come there to rescue her, although she hadn’t asked me to. In fact, Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe, she refused my help and was trying to make me leave when we were discovered.”

  Nicholas wouldn’t believe him. “Are you trying to tell me you weren’t lovers?”

  “No, we weren’t,” the Scot said, shaking his head. “And if you’d been calmer, she would have told you so.”

  Nicholas still refused to believe him. “She was in her shift.”

  “She was in her shift because she doesn’t sleep in her gowns.”

  Nicholas would not accept that he was at all to blame for Marianne running off with the Scot. “Yet she married you.”

  “Aye—and not as willingly as she would have led you to believe, although it was her idea. She wants children and thought what had happened would make men—well, Normans, anyway—loath to wed her. So I was her last hope for motherhood. That’s how it began, anyway. Now I love her.”

  Nicholas frowned. “Love? Love is for minstrels and foolish girls to sing about. You lust after her, that’s all.”

  “At first, I won’t deny it was only desire I felt, but I swear to you that now she’s as dear to me as my own life.”

  Nicholas’s lip curled with derision. “That sounds exactly like a minstrel’s nonsense.”

  “If you believe that love is nonsense, I pity you.”

  “And what of Marianne? You don’t really expect me to believe she could ever love a man like you?”

  “What else but love would compel a woman as proud as your sister to stay with her defeated husband and ask for help from the brother who disowned her?” The Scot tilted his head and studied the Norman. “What else but love for that brother would make her hope he didn’t really mean it when he said she was dead to him?”

  Nicholas crossed his arms. “Maybe she’s afraid and knows I can protect her when you obviously can’t.”

  “Afraid? God save us, man, you ought to know she’s as brave as any man you’ve ever met.” Adair shook his head. “But if it pleases you to think that’s why she’s come, I won’t argue. And if you don’t understand what love is, I’m sorry for you.”

  Marianne stirred.

  Both men went quickly to the bed, one on either side.

  “Look what you’ve done to her,” Nicholas murmured. “She was a beautiful woman—”

  “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and she’d be the most beautiful woman in the world to me if her face was scarred. She’ll be the most beautiful woman in the world to me when she’s old and gray, if I’m blessed to live so long.”

  A minstrel could hardly have put it better, Nicholas thought. “You have the soul of a poet, do you?” he asked with dismissive disdain.

  “So does every man when he’s in love,” Adair replied.

  Foolishness. Such talk was rank foolishness, or for those weak in the head.

  The maidservant appeared at the door, bearing a tray with a carafe and a goblet.

  Glad of the interruption, Nicholas watched as Adair hurried to take the wine. Sitting on the bed, the Scot gently raised Marianne’s head and helped her to drink.

  Whether there was such a thing as love or not, the Scot was certainly gentle with her.

  She spluttered a bit, then opened her bright blue eyes and smiled up at her husband in a way that made Nicholas suddenly feel that if there was such a thing as love, the couple before him shared it, and it was something he should crave, not reject.

  “What happened?” Marianne asked.

  “You fainted,” Adair said, rising and handing the goblet back to the maidservant, who was staring, openmouthed.

  “You can go,” Nicholas said to the young woman before turning his attention back to his sister. “Your husband said you aren’t ill.”

  “No, I’m with child,” she replied, shifting so that she was sitting with her feet on the floor. “I felt a bit dizzy and…” She looked around. “Where am I?”

  “My bedchamber.”

  “How are you feeling now?” the Scot asked, watching her carefully.

  “I’m fine. I’m just a little weary.” She patted Adair’s hand, then regarded Nicholas. “Did Adair tell you why we’ve come?”

  Pushing aside useless thoughts about love, Nicholas focused on the problem before him, which was whether to offer his men for their aid, or refuse.

  It wasn’t a difficult decision to make, because as Marianne had said, it was better to have a peaceable relative for a neighbor—especially one who would now be beholden to him—than a gang of men who’d rebel against their lawful chieftain. “How many men do you need?”

  Her grateful smile seemed to warm the entire room. “You’ll help us?”

  “As you so wisely point out,” he replied evenly, “I’d be a fool not to. I’m not a fool. Now, how many of my soldiers do you require?”

  “A hundred, if you can spare that many,” the Scot answered.

  “I can.” Nicholas started toward the door. “And I’ll come with you.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Nicholas,” Marianne said, rising, her arm around her husband.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied. “Your husband must be restored to his rightful place. We can’t allow rebels to run loose.” He made a grim little smile. “Besides, members of a family should help one another in times of trouble.”

  Marianne left her husband and embraced her brother. “Oh, thank you, Nicholas! I hoped you didn’t mean it when you said I was dead to you.”

  Over Marianne’s shoulder, the Norman and the Scot looked at each other.

  As they did, Nicholas realized her husband knew he’d meant it when he’d disowned her, but that Adair would never tell her.

  And for that, Nicholas was grateful.

  “LACHLANN, YE WORTHLESS gomeral!” Cormag bellowed as he ran into the hall. His gaze flew around the room, passing over the broken furnishings, the empty hearth and the filthy, stinking rushes on the floor before finally coming to rest on the figure sprawled in the chieftain’s chair, head hanging back as if he was dead. Lachlann’s shirt was stained with wine, and his skin had a sickly pallor.

  His claimh mor in his hand, Cormag ran up to Lachlann, grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him hard. “Wake up, ye drunken dolt!”

  Lachlann’s bloodshot eyes cracked open and his hand went to the hilt of his dirk as he tried to focus on his cousin. “Go ’way.”

  “We’re under attack, ye daft shite!” Cormag shouted, shoving Lachlann hard against the chair. “Adair’s come back with an army! You didn’t kill him. I should have guessed you’d be useless in a fight.”

  Lachlann blinked and struggled to sit upright. “Adair isn’t dead?”

  “No! Are you deaf? He’s got an army with him—a Norman army and that bloody Sir Nicholas, too!”

  Lachlann stared at Cormag in stunned disbelief. “The Norman?” he whispered.

  Then he started to laugh, his laughter getting louder and harder until tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Are you mad? There’s nothing funny about this,” Cormag cried as he hauled Lachlann to his feet and raised his hand to strike. “They’ve come to kill us.”

  Lachlann caught Cormag’s hand in midswing. “Nay, I’m not mad. I’m a dead man, the same as you.” Lachlann released his cousin. “Or maybe I was mad to betray my brother and shame my father’s memory. And now my punishment is upon me.” He smiled coldly at Cormag. “Yours, too.”

  Cormag glared at him. “So
you’re not going to fight?”

  Lachlann shook his head. “Why bother? We’re doomed anyway.”

  With an exclamation of disgust, Cormag turned away. “Stay here, then, ye shite, and wait for death.”

  The door opened before Cormag reached it. A woman appeared.

  “Ah, it’s little Dearshul come to warn you,” Cormag jeered, twisting to look over his shoulder at Lachlann. “Although you’re such a fool you never took what she offered. Well, she was sweet. Fought me every step but that only made it more enjoyable.” He leered at Dearshul. “Am I not right, Dearshul?”

  A great roar of rage like that of a wounded beast burst from Lachlann. Raising his dirk, he charged Cormag. Cormag turned, but Lachlann plunged his knife into his cousin’s chest before he could lift his heavy sword. Grimacing, Lachlann held Cormag close, as if they were in an embrace, and shoved the dirk deeper still.

  Hanging on to Lachlann, Cormag stared up at him in silent, horrified disbelief.

  “Dinna fear, cousin,” Lachlann said as the man’s eyes clouded. “We’ll see each other again soon—in hell.”

  Then Cormag’s hold loosened and he slipped to the floor, leaving a trail of blood down Lachlann’s soiled shirt and feileadh.

  Sobbing, Dearshul ran to Lachlann and, regardless of the blood, held him tightly. “Oh, Lachlann, he could have killed you!”

  He gently pushed her away and looked down at her tear-streaked face. “I’m so sorry, Dearshul. I’ve been so blind. So selfish. So stupid. I should have known I could never control Cormag and the others. I should have…” He managed a small smile and cupped her chin. “There is so much I should have done.”

  He caressed her damp cheek. “Goodbye, Dearshul,” he said as he started for the door.

  Barely able to see him through her tears, she ran after him. “Where are you going?”

  “To meet my brother. He’s come back to claim what is his by right.”

  “But he’ll kill you!”

  “I expect so.”

  She ran back to Cormag and frantically started to tug the knife from his body. “Wait! You have no sword, nor knife.”

  “I won’t have need of them,” he answered without looking back at the woman who loved him as he went to meet his brother.

  And the fate he deserved.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NEAS SHIFTED NERVOUSLY as he and Adair waited with the armed men on the hill overlooking Lochbarr. Around him mounted Norman soldiers, as well as several on foot, were taking their positions along with his clansmen, many of whom were muttering darkly in a way that boded ill for the traitors. The village had obviously been despoiled and pillaged, too, like most of the farms they’d passed along the way. Cormag and his band were worse than the Normans, worse even than the Vikings, and these were their own people they’d robbed.

  Adair could guess what assumptions Nicholas and his men were making about the Scots.

  He glanced at his powerful brother-in-law, seated on his huge warhorse. Nicholas’s chain mail and helmet gleamed in the sun. His raised visor revealed his stoic, battle-hardened face that betrayed nothing of what he felt.

  Adair had been surprised that Nicholas had so swiftly and easily deferred to him when it came to planning the attack, until Marianne pointed out that should things go awry, Nicholas would be able to blame his sister’s husband.

  In spite of that, Adair was grateful for his brother-in-law’s aid, and pleased to think that the breach between Marianne and her brother might be mended.

  As his horse shifted again, Adair scratched his naked knee. He’d refused Nicholas’s offer of Norman armor. He was used to fighting in his feileadh and a padded leather jerkin, and mail was heavy.

  “Marianne should be able to see everything from that vantage point, since she insisted on being here,” Nicholas noted, nodding at the crest of a hill to the west covered with pine, not hiding his disapproval that Marianne had been so stubborn on that point. “She should be safe there. And I’ve got Herman guarding her. He’s not a clever fellow, but he’ll obey my orders without question.”

  Adair’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, guarding?”

  Nicholas’s stony visage cracked with a little smile. “I mean preventing her from charging into battle herself. Trust me, Scot, she’ll be returned to you after we win.”

  “Oddly enough, I do trust you,” Adair replied.

  Nicholas’s smile became a wry smirk. “Good, since we’re neighbors and related by marriage.” He looked at the hill again. “Still, I’d rather she’d stayed in Beauxville until it was over.”

  “The name of the place is Dunkeathe.”

  Nicholas regarded his brother-in-law thoughtfully. “That has a certain ring to it. I’ve been thinking Beauxville sounds more…flowery…than I would like.”

  Adair barked a laugh. “Then change it, man, back to what it was. The people hereabouts will think you’ve learned some wisdom. As for Marianne, I wish she’d stayed behind, too, but she refused and I decided it wasn’t worth an argument.”

  “My sister can be very stubborn.”

  “Aye,” Adair agreed. “She’s brave and clever, too. I’m a lucky man to love her.”

  Nicholas didn’t reply before he rose in his stirrups and twisted in his saddle, surveying the assembled men. “We’re ready. Let’s go get your fortress back.”

  Adair drew his claimh mor as Nicholas raised his hand, prepared to signal his mounted troops to advance.

  Then the gates of Lochbarr slowly swung open and a lone man appeared—Lachlann, his arms spread wide as if in surrender.

  “Wait!” Adair ordered, lowering his sword. “That’s my brother.”

  “The traitor?” Nicholas asked.

  “Aye, and he’s alone,” Adair replied, mystified, as he nudged Neas forward.

  “Perhaps the other rebels are lying in wait in the village, or in the fortress,” Nicholas said, following him. “This could be a trap.”

  “Or else they’re surrendering,” Adair said, his gaze still on his brother.

  “I find that hard to believe,” the Norman said.

  “I find it hard to believe myself,” Adair murmured.

  He continued forward, his grip on his sword still tight, uneasily wondering if this was another betrayal. Nevertheless, he hoped he was right and he could regain Lochbarr without a battle, and more death.

  “The others have run,” Lachlann shouted, his voice carrying on the wind. “Fled. Scattered. Lochbarr is yours again, Adair. There’s no need to attack.”

  “I still think this could be a trap and he’s the lure,” Nicholas said.

  Adair studied his brother, then the fortress beyond. He saw no sign of men or arms. Only Lachlann, alone, his shoulders slumped with despair. “It’s not a trick.”

  He kicked his heels against Neas’s sides. They cantered down the hill and through the village toward the fortress, with Nicholas and his mounted men following behind. After them came the clansmen, their swords at the ready.

  The faces of some of the people who remained in the village appeared at their windows, silently watching as Adair and Sir Nicholas reached the fortress, and Lachlann.

  Still holding his arms open, Lachlann fell to his knees on the muddy road. “Lochbarr is yours, Adair, and so I am, to do with as you will.”

  “Why are you still here?” Nicholas demanded.

  “Where would I go that Adair wouldn’t find me?” Lachlann answered. “Where could I hide from his just wrath and my lawful punishment? Where could I flee from the shame of what I’ve done?”

  His heart aching anew, Adair dismounted. He walked up to his younger brother, who was disheveled and dirty, his shirt stained with blood, his eyes haunted with remorse. “Are you hurt?”

  Lachlann shook his head.

  “Stand up.”

  Lachlann obeyed.

  Adair knew he should summon his men to take Lachlann prisoner, and then pass swift judgment on him. Yet in spite of that, and in spite of all that Lach
lann had done, Adair could only think that this was his little brother, the same Lachlann who used to tag along after him when they were children. Who used to regard him with such awe.

  “Why did you do it, Lachlann?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why did you betray me?”

  “Didn’t your wife tell you?” Lachlann replied quietly. “Ambition. Jealousy. Greed. And I honestly thought I’d be a better chieftain than you, Adair. But your wife was right about that, too. There’s more to being a chieftain than cleverness, and I couldn’t control the others.”

  Nicholas dismounted and approached. “He’s giving up?”

  “Aye, he’s giving up,” Adair answered in French, not taking his gaze from his brother.

  “And the others?” Nicholas demanded.

  “Gone. Scattered,” Adair replied. “We’ll have to track them down.”

  “What do you intend to do with the traitor? Take him to the king for trial?”

  Before Adair could speak, Lachlann looked at the Norman and answered. “There’s no need to take me to the king. As thane, Adair has the right to pass judgment on me. And the punishment for what I’ve done is death.”

  Death. To kill Lachlann, his brother.

  Who’d tried to kill him, then spared his life. And Marianne’s, too.

  “Very well,” Nicholas said, drawing his sword. “Let’s do it and be done.”

  “No!” Adair commanded, holding out his hand to stop him. “It’s my place to decide when and where my brother’s punished for what he’s done, not yours.”

  Adair spotted Roban among the men who’d followed him down the hill and called him over. “Cormag and the others have escaped. Take our men and find them. I want them brought back here, especially Cormag.”

  “Cormag is dead,” Lachlann announced. He spoke dully, as if what energy he’d possessed moments before had drained from him. “I killed him. I wish I’d done it days ago.”

  Adair gave Roban a look, and Roban went back to the other Scots. He quietly began issuing orders.