Heart Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “You're wearing a circlet with the veil, yes?” Alina asked tranquilly. Having raised the subject of Amabel's feelings for Broderick, she now coolly ignored them.

  “Yes.” Amabel ran her fingers down her white velvety-soft skirts. She glanced at herself in the mirror, admiring her dress.

  She was wearing a long tunic of finest white linen, belted with a kirtle of cloth-of-gold over her narrow hips. She would wear a veil of finest lace, held in place with a silver circlet over her red hair. It was along the design of that her mother had worn, but with minor variations to make it more fashionable. Her wedding would be attended by all the local lords, and a lady of Lochlann must always lead the fashions.

  Alina was frowning as she reached for the gauzy veil. “Then, since the circlet will go on top, I'll leave some room for it here, and put more flowers in the front.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Alina.”

  Alina smiled again. “It's the least I can do, sister.”

  Amabel bit her lip. She knew that this was the last night she would spend here in Castle Lochlann – unless, that was, her great-uncle chose to keep Broderick for a raid or two. She almost hoped that would happen. She did not want to lose her sister. Not so soon. Thinking about it made her want to cry.

  “You'll visit me?” she asked, hearing her voice wobble.

  Her sister reached across and wordlessly squeezed her fingers. Amabel gripped fiercely back, feeling the threat of tears trembling on her lashes.

  “Of course.” Her voice was raw, and Amabel could see the tears glinting in her eyes. Amabel cuffed away her own tears, feeling wretched.

  “I'll look a right mess if I keep this up,” she said roughly. “And then what'll happen?”

  Alina smiled. “My sister, I think absolutely nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I think your betrothed is quite enamored, sister, in a way a few tear stains won't change. The bedding ceremony will be the most enthusiastic we have seen in Castle Lochlann in a while.”

  Amabel stared at her. “Sister?” She gave incredulous laugh, covered her mouth with her hands. “How can you say such a thing?” Warmth filled her body, rising and filling her from her head to her toes. It was a delicious feeling. The thought of the bedding made her heart thump.

  “Well, quite easily. As easy as it is to say anything, sister.”

  They both laughed.

  Amabel wished that this moment would last forever. She and her sister, dressing for the wedding – friends and confidantes. But all too soon she heard the tread of feet on the stairs outside the bedchamber. Heavy and firm, with a slight limp, there was no mistaking the footfall: Uncle Brien.

  Amabel and Alina glanced at each other, and Amabel stood. Alina frowned.

  “It is well, Alina,” Amabel whispered. She tried to smile, but she could feel a tear wobbling on the edge of her eyelid. “I am ready.”

  She turned to glance at herself. A column of pale linen, the kirtle emphasized her slender form and the wide, oval neckline skimmed her pale breasts. She wore her hair loose, a symbol of purity, and it hung to her waist, shining like polished copper. Her oval face was serene, if a little sad, the alabaster skin flushed with red. Her sister stood behind her, clad in blue and silver.

  “Here's the veil,” her sister whispered. She reached up and dropped the circle of silver into place. Amabel felt her vision blur, then clear as her sister folded back the veil.

  She leaned in and hugged her and Amabel held her fiercely to her chest, feeling her sister's heartbeat against her own.

  “Luck and love, sister,” Alina whispered. She was crying, now, and not hiding the tears.

  “Love and blessing.”

  They held hands and then parted. Amabel sniffed ferociously, stopping her tears harshly. Then she turned and opened the door. Slipping her arm into her Uncle Brien's, she followed him on the long walk down the steps and to the chapel that would change her destiny.

  The chapel was dark, a single light falling through the high, roundel window above the altar.

  Amabel's eyes were drawn at once through the gloom to the straight back of the man at the altar.

  All that was real in the whole world was that figure, tall and dark, standing before her. That muscled back, that upright head. That resolute form. She walked up the cold aisle, feeling cool air and smelling incense and felt as if she was floating.

  She slipped into her place beside him and felt his hand twitch out of her way. She felt a slight disappointment at that tiny act of deference. She would almost have preferred him to leave his hand there, to let its warmth seep through to her and quell the numb unreality of the morning. She realized she was nervous, though had no idea why. Then the ceremony began.

  “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti...”

  The priest spoke in Latin, which Amabel fortunately understood. She cast a covert glance at the man beside her as the ceremony continued.

  Broderick stood resolutely beside her, eyes to the front. He was wearing a pale linen tunic, not unlike hers, and dark green trousers beneath it. He was watching the priest fixedly, a slight sheen on his lip. He is handsome. Amabel studied the chiseled profile, the molded lips, the high brow. He looked rather scared.

  Probably doesn't understand Latin. That would explain his fixation.

  She tried to concentrate on the ceremony, just in case he faltered. But her mind kept drifting as she did so.

  The bedding ceremony.

  She wondered what her sister meant about Broderick and bedding. She knew a little about bedding and what it entailed, but most of it was couched in baffling terms that seemed to have no bearing on what she had seen. She thought through memories.

  I saw Blaire's little son, once. And once some of the youngest stable hands, wrestling naked in the courtyard. Since both samples of manhood had been less than the age of ten, she had to assume that things changed when they matured. The descriptions and accounts she had heard made no sense. Thinking about this as a theory was completely different to putting it in practice. And with Broderick MacConnaway. A strange heat flowed through her body, and she was probably blushing. She bit her lip. She could not afford to get faint or stop listening.

  Look ahead, Amabel. Watch Father Padriag. Do not think about Broderick.

  She tried valiantly.

  Beside her, Broderick was staring at the priest. He did not want to look aside. He did not want to risk seeing his bride. He would be able to think of nothing else if he did, and none of his thoughts, he was sure, would be suitable when standing before a priest.

  He risked a sidelong glance. She was a lovely form, the veil draping her body in a way that revealed the traces of her while concealing her face. The wispy fabric hung down her back and sides, softening the contours of her from view. Still, he could see outlines of her long, firm leg, her slim shoulder, her shapely hands beside his own. Her hair was pale fire, glowing below gauze. And he just knew that her breasts pressed out the lace, her heart beating beneath the marble flesh...

  Control yourself!

  He clenched his hand, letting the stab of pain from his wounding revive him. He would not think about her. Would not think about later. Would not...

  “...vis accípere Amabel du Mas, hic præséntem, in tram legítimam uxórem, juxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclésiæ?”

  “Uh?” Amabel stiffened.

  “Oh. Volo,” he replied quickly. I do. Amabel looked up at him and then the moment passed.

  The priest turned his gaze to Amabel, clearing his throat. “...Amabel du Mas, vis accípere Broderick MacConnaway, hic præséntern in tuum legítimum marítum juxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclésiæ?”

  “Volo.”

  Her voice, clear and certain, rocked through Broderick's soul.

  The words echoed round and round his head. This was not the first time he was standing here. Not the first time he was saying these words, with a woman beside him, pledging his life for hers, for all eternity. But it felt like it. Deep in his hear
t, it felt like it.

  Broderick was not sure whether he was pleased for that, or whether he loathed himself for what he did to the memory of Aisling. But all he knew was that he would do no different again.

  Then the priest was blessing them and he was turning to Amabel, fingers like ice as he raised his hands.

  He lifted her veil.

  Her gray eyes stared into his, level and true.

  Then, very gently, he laid his lips on those dark, damp lips of hers and kissed her.

  The incense and the scent of orange-water mingled in his nose as he held her. But they were not what made the kiss a sacred vow. That, strangely, was his heart. And he made the vow freely and without a thought of vengeance in his mind.

  He was married now, to Amabel du Mas. And he would try to keep her safe. Always.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WEDDING NIGHT

  WEDDING NIGHT

  The congregation followed them to the banqueting hall, shouting congratulations, laughing and chattering among themselves. A colorful gathering, they would be joined in the hall by the servants and soldiers of Lochlann. Everyone would celebrate together the new alliance.

  Alina came to join Amabel almost at once. Amabel was grateful for her company. Even so, she felt cold and numb. She held her sister's hand, talking and laughing enthusiastically, but she felt as if her life had been drawn out of her with that kiss. Her body warmth had fled, leaving every inch of her focused on the man who walked beside her, strangely quiet and remote. Her thoughts were fixed on him.

  What is he thinking? She tried to guess, but could not. Does he think of me? Or is he preoccupied with some grand strategy?

  It was so difficult to tell. She glanced sideways at that tall, handsome form. He walked silently beside her, giving a thin smile to his friends who walked alongside him. A younger man with golden-brown hair had joined them almost as soon as they left the chapel. He was sufficiently similar to Broderick for her to guess he was the brother, newly arrived the day before.

  “Broderick,” the young man said.

  “Duncan.”

  They shook hands then gripped each other in a firm embrace. Amabel smiled at Duncan, and he inclined his head, blushing deeply. Then he looked at Alina and his eyes did not move. Amabel bit back a grin.

  If that look is anything to go on, we shall be tied to the MacConnaways by more than one alliance soon.

  They reached the banqueting hall. The hall was decked with green ribbon and flowers and leaves. The floor was strewn with rushes and a blaze roared in the hearth. The servants had polished the rows of tables and benches and the fine oak table was laid on the dais. That was where the bride's family would sit with the bride and groom.

  Amabel walked up the steps of the dais woodenly, feeling suddenly nervous. Her husband reached out a hand to grip her fingers. Amabel stiffened. His touch ran up her arm like fire and thrilled through her heart. She bit her lip, feeling a strange flare deep in her abdomen.

  What is happening to me?

  She was not sure. All she knew was that the feeling was not unpleasant. Far from it.

  “My lady?”

  “I nearly fell. Sorry.” Amabel laughed hesitantly and then bit her lip. He will think you a fool! She hesitated, then looked up at him.

  His dark eyes were smiling at her.

  “My lord?”

  “Forgive me,” he coughed. “I was... distracted. Sorry.”

  They climbed the stairs and reached the table. Amabel blushed furiously, then took her seat beside Broderick. She looked around the table. Her uncle was there, and a tall, gaunt man who had been introduced as Broderick's father. Heath and Chrissie were seated further along the table, and Chrissie grinned at her, cheeks flushed pink.

  “My lady?”

  Amabel stiffened as Broderick lightly touched her wrist.

  “Yes?”

  “May I pour some claret?”

  Amabel bit her lip. “Thank you. Yes.”

  As she watched his strong hands raise the silvered vessel, she felt a sudden rush of feeling. She knew that, soon, she would be bedding this man. She had some idea of what that meant, but most of it was a strange, alluring blank. All she knew was that the thought of it kindled strange feelings inside her, not unlike the feelings she had when they kissed.

  “Amabel!” Alina smiled, sitting down opposite her. “Congratulations!”

  Amabel nodded. “Thank you.”

  The man who’d walked with them sat beside Alina. Amabel noticed, once again, that he sneaked covert glances in her sister’s direction whenever he thought no one would see. She smiled.

  “My lady?”

  “Mm?” She turned to Broderick and blushed. She had been thinking of his warmth next to her, the way his hand rested on his leg, just inches from her hand... Imagine what anyone would think if they read my thoughts!

  “Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Duncan.” Broderick indicated the golden-brown haired, friendly-faced man from earlier, who smiled and bowed his head.

  “A pleasure, my lord.” Amabel inclined her head to him.

  “It is my pleasure, my lady.”

  Amabel noticed Alina had gone very quiet. She glanced at the way she sat beside Duncan and guessed why.

  “And may I introduce you to my sister, Lady Alina?” Amabel replied evenly.

  Alina's eyes flew open, and Amabel had the rare delight of seeing her blush.

  “My lord,” Alina said hesitantly. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  “Lady Alina.” He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. Amabel bit back a grin.

  That serves Alina right for guessing about me! She was sure her sister fancied the tall, clever-faced young brother of her husband. And she had already noticed at their first meeting that he was completely smitten with her younger sister.

  She turned to her bridegroom. He was smiling hesitantly.

  “My lady?”

  “Mm?” She found her throat was dry and coughed.

  “To our wedding.”

  Amabel swallowed and raised her glass.

  “To our wedding.”

  Her voice was raw and squeaky and she hated herself for it. But he did not seem to notice. All he did was look at her with those deep brown eyes. The gaze made her belly throb in a way she had never felt.

  Uncle Brien had stood. He raised his arms to the assembled household.

  “Friends! Soldiers! Allies. Welcome all of you! We are here to celebrate the joining of our houses: Lochlann to MacConnaway. Now, since this is a time of great rejoicing, let us wait no longer! Musicians, give us a measure!”

  The room filled with the sweet, lyrical music of drums and fifes.

  As Lord Brien clapped his hands again, the servants arrived. Moving discreetly from one table to another, they produced the first courses. The ale flowed freely. The hall smelled of cooking and spices and the sweet scent of clean rushes on the floor. Amabel found her throat was too tight for eating. She noticed Alina was not eating much either, and her eyes met the dark ones of her sister. She could sympathize. She could not eat a bite.

  The bedding ceremony. The bedding ceremony is next.

  The dinner was a long list of courses – fish, stew, game, partridges, ham. Quails, oatcakes and leeks and, finally, the marzipan and honey-cakes and the last of the season's apples. The noise in the hall rose with each course. With all the household within, the room was warm and close. Amabel looked out over the hall, a soft smile on her face. She wondered if the banquet would ever end. As she did so, she saw her uncle stand.

  Amabel felt her whole body go rigid. When the lord left, that was the sign the banquet ended. And the bedding ceremony came next.

  She watched, feeling a numb unreality, as her uncle turned to the crowds, smiling blandly at them.

  “I shall retire now,” he announced loudly. “Older bones and wiser heads crave rest. I leave the floor to the young ones.”

  Amabel sat where she was, watching. It was as if he
r whole world had suddenly stopped making sense. Everything moved slowly, as if laboring through snow. Her mind was slower, too, failing to make sense of what it was seeing.

  “Lass?”

  Amabel's eyes widened as she whirled round. Her husband had put a gentle hand on her shoulder. He barely touched her, but she could feel the pressure of each finger as if he gripped her. Her husband...

  “Mm?”

  “They're about to start singing and being bawdy. They'll want to escort us. Should we leave now?”

  “What?” she said, feeling stupid. “Oh!”

  It was tradition for the guests and household guard and servants to put the bridal pair to bed. It was usually a rowdy event and could often become crass and crude. Amabel was touched he thought to spare her. She stood hesitantly and was surprised to feel him stand beside her, offering a hand when she stumbled, her dress twisting round her foot.

  He waited for her to reach the stairs then followed behind her carefully. She was grateful for his tall, firm body behind hers, steadying her. She felt weak.

  Someone shouted out,

  “You are eager, Lord Broderick!”

  Someone hooted and the whole hall laughed.

  Amabel felt her face flush with chagrin and she felt Broderick stiffen. He had gone white and she realized he, too, was insulted. She watched him straighten up and smile.

  “Aye, and you whether I am or not, 'tis not yer business, Keith Lennox.”

  The whole hall laughed again, but this time they were laughing at the insolent man. Amabel saw him flush and felt a fierce pleasure to see that man forced to eat his words.

  She looked up at her bride groom, surprised. He was looking ahead again, false smile gone. He looked, if anything, as nervous as she did.

  The musicians were playing, and the guests were dancing. Broderick reached down and, with a gesture of breathtaking sweetness, he laced his fingers through hers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.