Midnight s Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  “I may truly have a kitten?” She fought to keep the pleading note from her voice.

  “Ye may. But it must stay with Mither until strong enough to live apart. Ye should oft check its feeding so it does not get pushed from its food. I keep the basket in the kitchens so the young ones will be warm.”

  “I will do everything you tell me to do, and take very good care of it.” A happy grin spread across her face. How strange to feel so. Elise tugged lightly at Netta’s sleeve, but before she could respond, Connor interrupted.

  “I suppose you want a bairn also, Elise?” He sighed and draped an arm around her shoulders. “If you ask nicely, I may beg Mereck to part with another of his prized younglings. A most difficult task, for he is selfish with Mither’s charges.”

  Elise peered up at him, frowning worriedly as she tried to pull away. When she turned to plead with Mereck, Connor made a face at him and grinned.

  “Well now, I am right possessive of the kits.” Mereck gazed at her and rubbed his jaw.

  Elise swallowed and looked undecided whether to duck from under Connor’s arm or stay put. She stayed put.

  “Do you think you can ask him to let me have a kitten, sir?” she whispered to Connor. “I will take very good care of it. I won’t let anything hurt it or take it away. Not even the wolf.” She shuddered and squared her shoulders.

  “If you gave me a wee kiss, mayhap I could brave coaxing Mereck into partin’ with another wee bairn.” He sighed.

  Meghan thumped him on his back. He lurched forward.

  “Stop teasin’ the lassie. Ye have no need to ask me brither, Elise. Mereck will gladly give ye a little beastie.”

  “Stop baitin’ the lassies and seat yourselves,” Lord Douglas commanded. “Brianna has arrived and canna linger all evenin’.”

  Damron sat at the head of the table, Brianna on his right, his grandfather and Lady Phillipa on his left. They all took seats, including several women whom Meghan introduced as widows of knights killed during clan raids.

  A table along the right side of the hall served the castle knights and their wives, and on the opposite side of the huge area was a long table for the unmarried knights and women of the castle. Men-at-arms and other warriors, who made up the defense of the castle, sat at lower tables. All wore a variety of clothing and hair styles that puzzled Netta.

  “The long-haired warriors are Saxons who came with Brianna,” Mereck explained softly. “The men who wear their hair cropped short were with Damron in Normandy. They insisted on staying with him when he returned to Scotland. Of course, Scots make up the greatest number of warriors.”

  Damron rose and lifted his hand to quiet the room.

  “Elise of Ridley, cousin to Brianna, has become my ward. As ye know, England lacks eligible men from whom to select a husband for her. I have promised her father I will take the utmost care in choosing her mate.”

  “Damron, for God’s love, you are not auctioning the prettiest mare at a village fair,” Brianna scolded. “Don’t you think they would have figured it out for themselves without you announcing her eligibility?”

  “Well, now, it isnae like I am tryin’ to sell the lassie,” Damron blustered. “They canna ken she is more than a visitor if I dinna tell them.” He turned back to the room. “Come forward and speak yer names, for I would know who is interested.”

  He ignored Brianna as she sighed and threw up her hands. Pandemonium broke out in the room as men jostled each other.

  “Halt yer blather,” Damron bellowed. “Stand quiet, and I will call each man in turn.” He beckoned to the first man.

  “Oh, Netta, they are much like Galan’s friends told us when we were little,” Elise whispered, then groaned. “Mayhap these are the ones who stole English girls and fed them to wolves.”

  A huge man swaggered up to the table. Every bit as tall as the three Morgan men, his hair was long and wild. A black beard and bushy eyebrows framed a face twice the size of Netta’s own. His ham-like fists rested on his hips. His gaze raked over Elise. When he met her eyes, he licked his lips, exaggerating the gesture. A rumble of satisfaction welled from his chest. Grasping the staff Damron handed him, he raised it knee-high then slammed the end on the floor with a loud thunk.

  “Ye be a most tempting morsel, Saxon, sweet to the taste. Yer hair is the color of blackberries.” Elise gasped when a beefy fist grasped a black lock to slide through his fingers. “Yer eyes like blueberries, and a mouth plump and sweet lookin’ as the softest cherry.” He turned his gaze to glare at Connor and bellow, “Ha’e ye sampled this little dessert, laddie?”

  Elise looked ready to faint. Connor put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side. He glared at the man.

  “Lady Elise, this is Uncle Angus MacLaren of Argyll. Uncle, dinna scare the wee Mousie. She thinks we are wild men and fears she will flavor someone’s stew. She heard tales that we Scotsmen are savages and not the timid, civilized people she sees today.” His lips twitched.

  “Enough, the two of you,” Lord Douglas scolded them. “You have the lassie proper affrighted. Is this how Lady Phillipa trained you to treat such gentle women?”

  Now that he had intervened, Elise shoved Connor to loosen his grip. She lifted her chin.

  “I am no one’s dessert, sir. If any man tried to eat me, I am certain he would find himself poisoned from the taste.”

  When the waiting males roared with laughter and licked their lips, her eyes widened. Connor glared at them to hold their pestering.

  Damron called one warrior after another to come to the table. Each picked up the staff and thudded it on the floor until the room echoed with the sound. He then announced his name and family, and whether or not he had bairns in need of mothering.

  All shapes and sizes of men begged introductions. More than a few would interest a young woman. Connor scowled at these men, keeping hold of Elise’s hand all the while.

  Netta noted he did not spare his cousin from his distemper either. Each time Damron motioned another person forward, Connor glared all the harder until his eyes were mere slits conveying his displeasure. After Damron had introduced everyone and sent them back to their tables, Netta sighed with relief.

  Brianna signaled for the cook’s helpers to bring in the food. The aroma drifting from large platters of lamb, trout, baked fowl and grouse made Netta’s mouth water. Bowls of steaming vegetables came next, then tempting hot breads.

  Mereck selected bits of each offering onto the trencher they were to share. Netta’s favorite carrots and peas were among the vegetables he loaded beside the poultry and mutton.

  Mereck raised a succulent morsel of chicken to her lips. She hesitated. A shudder rippled through her. Since her disgusting fiasco with a former suitor and his filthy fingers, she had been leery of sharing a trencher with anyone other than her family. Mereck watched her, waiting.

  She shook herself and stared at his strong fingers. They were scrupulously clean. Her heart thumped, as it often did whenever she saw his hands. Daintily, she took the food with her lips and sighed with relief.

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly. She enjoyed the lively conversations between the family. Mereck listened, but did not join in the teasing between Meghan and Connor. Soon they served everyone fruit and candied sweets.

  It would not be so hard to fit in, Netta decided. Several men seemed the pleasant sort. Not hard on the eye, either. Mayhap, when she knew them better, she would accept an offer from one of them. As she thought that, a man stood and cleared his throat until he had Damron’s attention.

  “Laird, ye ha’e introduced yer lovely ward, but there’s another lassie sittin’ at yer table. I see no ring o’ possession on her finger.”

  “Lucifer’s spawn!” Mereck snarled, the sound bestial. He exploded to his feet.

  Chapter 11

  Sparks of tension radiated from Mereck like miniature lightning strikes. The room fell still.

  “The lady is my betrothed. The ring will band her finger directly a
fter Laird Damron grants leave for the ceremony.” Mereck’s voice, soft as a kitten’s purr, belied a menacing smile and eyes colder than a loch on All Soul’s Day.

  Defying him, Netta wriggled from beneath his hand clamped on her shoulder to keep her seated. Though instinct told her to heed him, she swallowed and stood on shaking legs. Dwarfed by his imposing height, she stiffened her spine and strove to give the illusion of height and fearless determination.

  “Laird Damron, Father signed the contract without my consent. I would choose mine own husband.” Well, rats and fleas. Her knees quaked. She grasped hold of the table to steady herself and groaned. Where had she come up with such foolish nerve? From too much watered wine, that’s where. Only a dolt would believe any man would allow her such freedom.

  “Oh? The way ye chose a mate from the many who courted ye?” Mereck bristled with irritation. “Baron Wycliffe spoke of yer plots to dissuade suitors. I signed the contract after I allowed ye to flee to Ridley. Had ye not acted as a headstrong lass, yer signature would have been on it.”

  “Your father gave you no choice in a husband, Lynette?” Sympathy flashed in Brianna’s eyes.

  “She had many choices. Her father declared she found each man who wooed her had a flaw too vile for her delicate nature.”

  “Delicate nature?” Netta’s voice spluttered. “Do you think a suitor older than mine own sire should have caused me to leap for joy? Or do you refer to the man who came afore him? He was not old, but his great weight forced us to provide a special, sturdy stool to sit upon. No castle bench could hold him.”

  “Granted they were not suitable for a dainty flower like yerself, lady.” Mereck’s lips curled in a snarl. “What did ye find distasteful about Sir Cecil, Sir Kenneth or Sir Robert? All young and worthy knights? Yer father listed at least ten and two ye scorned.”

  “Oh, oh!” Coherent thought flew from Netta’s mind. She spied the soggy trencher beside her hand and thought to drape it across his head. She hesitated. He was too tall. Instead, she reached for the goblet of watered wine. Her hand never grasped it. He captured it in his own.

  “Enough. Both of ye,” Damron ordered. “This is not the place fer this discussion. Ye will come to me after we break our fast on the morrow.”

  Mereck jerked his head in agreement. Netta did not respond until he squeezed her hand.

  “Aye, my lord.” It sounded weak to her ears. To make up for it, she held her head high.

  Something tugged hard at her skirt and caused her to lose her balance. She grabbed Mereck’s arm to steady herself. The wolf Guardian wished her attention; his patience seemed at an end. He looked up at her eyes, uttered a soft growl, then turned toward the fireplace. The kittens’ basket was in danger of toppling. Servants bustled about, too busy to note they had bumped it very near the flames when they tended the tables.

  Netta dashed toward it. The basket overturned and kittens spilled out onto the stone. The smallest landed a hands width from the hot coals. Guardian streaked past her, his great jaws agape.

  “Eewww. He will eat the babe. Quick, give him a bone.” Elise grabbed Connor’s shirt and yanked on it.

  “Me? Give that great beast a bone? If he decides my arm to be a choicer morsel, lady, will you wed me?” His face looked comically hopeful as he blinked down at Elise.

  “Leave off yer teasin’, brither.” Meghan patted Elise’s shoulder. “He is not goin’ to eat the babes, Elise. He but plans to keep the little ones from the fire,”

  Guardian stood waiting, his jaws grasping a creature by the scruff of its neck. When Netta held out her palm, he placed the wee kitten in it then licked it from head to tail, before sinking back on his haunches.

  “What a great father you would be. What a shame you have no babes of your own.” Netta ruffled the fur behind his ears.

  “Babes? Of his own? A litter of wolves? Oh, Netta, do not give the beast such thoughts. They will soon overrun the castle. We will have to stay abed with our doors barred.”

  Connor tickled the hair on Elise’s nape and chuckled when she jumped. “An excellent idea, Elise. Surely you will wish me there to defend you. I must needs seek a good breeding mate for Guardian.”

  Elise’s lips rounded in alarm. Finally, she and Netta gathered the kittens and returned them to the basket.

  “God’s teeth, Brianna. I told ye all yer lovin’ on Guardian would ruin him.” Damron snorted with disgust. He slapped his hand on the table. “Look at the great beastie. Not e’en a mark on the wee un. Some protection he has been. He hasna e’en bit the pants off a man fer days.”

  “I have not ruined him, husband. He’s but gentled about the edges.” Brianna huffed. “Guardian will still tear a man to shreds if he threatens one of us.” She patted Damron’s arm. “A little love will ruin neither man nor beast.”

  “Where is that foolish Mither?” Netta scolded the absent cat. “She should not have left them alone.”

  “I suspect she had to tend her own needs, or else soil the beddin’.” Mereck reached around her and took the heavy basket. “Come, I’ll show ye where they spend their time in the kitchen. If ye would keep it, it is there ye will see yer kit properly nurses. Elise, ye may choose your babe.”

  Meghan went with them to the kitchens, and they sat on a rug close to the cooking hearth, the basket of kits in front of them. Mereck left to return to Damron, and Netta seized the opportunity to question Meghan.

  “Meghan, why do your men change their way of speaking?”

  “Ye mean the brogue, do ye not?” At Netta’s nod, she continued. “We all speak Norman French, Gaelic, Saxon English and other languages. Damron converses in at least six, German bein’ his favorite for singin’ to his Brianna. If upset, angry or amorous, they revert to their Scots brogue. ’Tis the language we started with as babes and springs most readily to our tongues.”

  “You do it too,” Elise exclaimed.

  “Aye. I prefer the brogue. I use the others if I wish to ‘put off’ a man who seeks to become too familiar. It makes them verra uneasy.” She laughed. “Now. I’ll show ye how to assure yer little one gets her fill.”

  “How do you know a girl from a boy?” How could Meghan tell the differences in them? Netta had seen their little furry undersides when she played with them, and they all looked alike to her. She turned the littlest on its back and stared at it.

  “Alike? Nay, can ye not see the difference?” Meghan plucked the precious little runt from her hands, along with another kitten, and held them both upside down.

  “They look alike. Are they not both girls?” She and Elise brought their heads closer to the kittens until their three heads near banged together.

  “Are ye searchin’ fer fleas, ladies?” Connor’s curious voice rumbled through the room.

  Netta jerked back; her face heated.

  “Dratted man. Do you never announce yourself afore you burst into a room?” Elise’s face wrinkled as she glared up at him.

  “In the kitchen? Ye want me to declare myself? As you wish, milady.” Stepping back until he was in the doorway, he drew himself up to all of his formidable height.

  “’Tis I, Sir Connor of Blackthorn. I am about to enter this room and wish all within to know of my august presence.” He grinned at their laughing faces. “Be that better?”

  “Ye are a great pain in the arse, brother, and well ye know it.” Meghan smiled, shooing him away with her hand. “Begone. Ye scare these little kits with yer noisy presence.”

  Meghan watched to make sure he had gone, then showed them the differences in the sexes. Netta also learned how to place the runt on Mither’s fullest teat, and to protect it from being forced off by a more aggressive kitten. When the babes had all been fed properly, the women made their way to Meghan’s room. They undressed and were asleep as soon as they climbed into bed.

  Cloud Dancer, perched on the arm of Bleddyn’s chair, chirped. Bleddyn obligingly stroked the eagle’s regal head while he explained life at Wycliffe to Mereck and Damron.


  “Baron Wycliffe married the widow Barkly and started a new family. His wife used Lynette as her girls’ companion and maid. When they were full grown, she could not wait to rid herself of Netta. It was she who urged the baron to accept Hexham, Mortain, and later Durham, as a husband for Netta.”

  “Hmm.” Damron’s fingertips drummed on the table. “I ken Welsh raiders met Hexham. They say the leader rode a giant of a horse, and he struck so swiftly Hexham’s men bolted.” He stared first at Mereck and then Bleddyn. Both rode giant destriers. “Mereck, ye were in the area reinforcing Brianna’s Stonecrest Castle.”

  “I didna do the deed. Not that I wouldna. At the time, Lynette of Wycliffe was naught but a name Bleddyn mentioned when he spoke of Caer Cad-well.”

  Damron’s gaze probed the mystic’s face. Bleddyn smiled without comment. They knew. He had seen to freeing Netta.

  “I examined the betrothal contract with care. All is in order. When do ye wish the ceremony?” Damron leaned forward to refill their goblets with ale cooled in the well. He awaited an answer.

  “Netta plans to enlist your aid.” Mereck braced his arms on his knees. “She will entreat you to compel her father to overset the betrothal contract. Father Matthew will soon return from the MacLaren’s. We’ll wed then. I dinna feel it wise to give her many days to dwell on it.”

  For the first time since he had come to grips with his Baresark legacy, Mereck felt unsure. Vulnerable. He hesitated a moment. “Do you approve of me as Netta’s husband?”

  Bleddyn quirked his scarred brow at him. “If I did not, would I have sent you to Wycliffe, knowing what you would find there? Netta lived her life under the harsh control of a man who despises her. When he sought a husband for her, she knew she would go from one ruthless, restraining hand to another. She needs a breath of freedom.”

  “Aye, a breath. But not o’ermuch. As my wife, she’ll have the liberty she can handle—appropriate for her own protection, but not so much she will cause herself or others harm.”