True Love Brides 02 - The Highlander’s Curse

by Claire Delacroix

  Murdoch glanced up when Annelise raced around the corner and came to a sudden halt. A smile touched his lips and Annelise knew she must look disheveled. Two men stood before him, both in chain mail, and an unfamiliar squire was leading a large bay destrier into the stable. The shorter man still held the reins of his destrier. The third horse, a palfrey, drank from the barrel of water kept for the horses while its reins dangled loose.

  But this was all wrong. Annelise halted in confusion.

  These men were knights.

  Her hunter had worn a kilt. He was no knight, though his valor was not in question.

  More than that, her hunter had been taller than either of these men, and broader of shoulder. His hair had been dark blond and his skin tanned, while these men both had dark hair. The taller one, who seemed more senior, had chestnut hair, while the shorter had hair as black as ebony. Annelise clutched the wolf pelt in her uncertainty.

  Where was her hunter? Knights did not run errands for woodsmen.

  How had these men gotten the pelt?

  And why had they brought it to her?

  The two knights turned to face her, the taller one bowing deeply. “Fair Annelise. How enchanting to meet you.” He stepped forward and claimed her hand, bestowing a kiss upon its back as Annelise watched in silence. He was handsome enough, but there was something about him that Annelise intuitively disliked. He smiled at her with a confidence in his own allure that made her eyes narrow. “I trust you like my gift.”

  She frowned, pretending to be confused. “Gift?”

  He looked pointedly at the pelt. “Which you have received.”

  “You brought this?”

  “Of course. A tribute to your beauty, a wolf slaughtered by my own hand.” He arched a brow, even as anger rose within Annelise. “It is evidence of both my valor and my intentions.” He bowed again. “We battled three such fearsome creatures, Andrew and I…”

  Annelise took a step back, fighting to keep her tone polite. “But I do not know you.”

  The knight chuckled, even though she had interrupted his tale. “Not so well as you will, my fair maiden, that much is certain.” He reached for her hand again. Annelise locked her fingers in the pelt, evading his touch, and saw the flash of irritation in his eyes. Then he smiled, as if all was well, but Annelise noted the tightness around the corners of his mouth. Here was a man accustomed to winning his way, one who did not like to be declined.

  Yet she, meek Annelise, would defy him until her dying breath.

  He bowed deeply. “Orson Douglas at your service, my lady.”

  Annelise indicated the pelt. “Where did you get this?” she asked, knowing she was being rude but needing to hear the fullness of this rogue’s lie.

  “I have told you already.”

  “Tell me again, if you please.” Annelise was aware that both Murdoch and the other knight were watching her closely, but she did not care.

  Orson straightened and his smile turned chilly. “I scraped it from the hide of the monster himself, of course. After I killed him.”

  Annelise was outraged. This knight lied! He stood in Murdoch’s courtyard, a guest of the holding, and lied to her very face. It was a violation of his vows, of Murdoch’s hospitality, and of every trait that made a suitor desirable. It was audacious and appalling—and disgusted Annelise.

  She knew who had killed this wolf. She would wager that she knew who had cured the hide. The pelt had been stolen from her hunter.

  Maybe he had been killed for it. Annelise would not put such an act beyond the abilities of this knight. She took a step back and saw again the anger light in his gaze. She would die alone before she accepted the offer of a man like this.

  But Annelise doubted that Orson would readily accept her refusal.

  “I do not believe it,” she said, lifting her chin.

  The knight inhaled sharply at the implication. His squire developed a fascination with the tending of the horses and the other knight watched Annelise closely.

  “Orson has ridden far to court you, Annelise,” Murdoch said, a warning in his tone.

  “How very kind,” Annelise said, lifting her chin. “I am sorry, but I am not convinced of your tale. I saw this wolf killed and I know you did not do the deed.”

  Color rose on Orson’s neck. “And who did strike the blow, my lady Annelise?”

  “I do not know his name. A hunter.”

  “A nameless hunter.” Orson chuckled, his disbelief in her word vexing Annelise. “And where might I meet this mysterious man?”

  Annelise found herself flushing. “I have not seen him again.”

  “And perhaps never will,” Murdoch interrupted smoothly. “Perhaps you should forget this hunter who no one has seen but you, Annelise, and thank Orson for his gift.”

  Isabella had confided in Annelise that Murdoch thought the hunter a fiction, but Annelise had never expected him to challenge her on it. “He is real!” she insisted, but Murdoch only smiled tightly.

  “And Orson is here.”

  Annelise looked between the intent knight and her host, and knew she was not believed. “I fear I am not well, sir,” she said to Orson. “If you will excuse me.”

  Orson looked as if he might not do so. Annelise did not wait to hear his protest, but marched into the hall, hearing Murdoch make apologies for her behavior. The knights laughed, as if much amused by the folly of women, and Annelise’s anger grew yet more. How could any soul believe she could wed a man who lied to her and discredited her own word so readily? She took the stairs two at a time, showing unladylike haste, then retreated to her chamber. She slammed the door behind herself and locked it, her heart thundering at her boldness.

  Of course, her sister followed her.

  Annelise closed her eyes and did not answer Isabella’s knock. She buried her nose in the soft pelt, easily imagining her hunter cleaning the hide. He wielded a knife with grace and power. He would have worked slowly and methodically, making each gesture count. He would not compromise. He would not hasten a job.

  He would perform any task with the same attention to detail that he gave to a kiss.

  She felt uncommonly warm at the recollection of his touch, yet this incident made her fear for him. He could not have given away the pelt, not after doing the labor to see it cured. She had to somehow verify that he was well. She had to know the truth of his intentions toward her, however unappealing that truth might be.

  “Annelise?” Isabella asked from the corridor when there was no reply. “Is something amiss?” She knocked louder. “Annelise! Let me in!”

  Annelise spun around to stare at the door, knowing that she could not admit her sister. Isabella was far too perceptive, and Annelise herself could not risk honesty with her sister. It would be unfair to expect Isabella to deceive Murdoch for her, or even to put the couple at odds. Aye, something was amiss, but Annelise had to resolve it herself.

  She had need of that boldness, once again.

  “I feel unwell,” she lied. She closed her eyes, certain her inexperience with telling anything other than the truth could not have been more clear. Every syllable resonated as a falsehood, at least to her own ears.

  She had to do better.

  Isabella jiggled the door latch. “Well, I am the healer here. Let me help you.”

  Annelise summoned her most confident tone. “I would not trouble you with such a trifle. I had a restless night and simply need to sleep.” She spoke firmly, backing away from the door, as if distance would make her lie more plausible. “I will see you at the midday meal, I am certain.”

  Annelise did not need to open the door to be aware of her sister’s disapproval, much less to feel compelled to make amends for her own words.

  “Let me see you,” Isabella insisted.

  “I will not concern you with something so minor when you have guests newly arrived.” Annelise dropped her voice to a confidential tone, having thought of the perfect distraction. “Murdoch does not have noblemen visit Seton Manor ofte
n and I fear I may have given offense. Should you not ensure that all is well?”

  Isabella exhaled. “I did not realize they were knights.”

  “Most affluent ones, I believe.”

  “Yet you are hiding from them.”

  “I am not!” Annelise coughed. “I am unwell.”

  Isabella muttered a curse that was not entirely suitable for a woman of her station, then her footsteps hastily retreated. Annelise heard her sister descend the stairs, calling for the servants. She turned her back on the door and considered the wolf pelt.

  Her hunter would not have given it away.

  He would not have sold it.

  That knight, though, could have stolen it. Such a feat would be in his nature. He was the manner of man to see what he desired and take it, regardless of who might stand in his way.

  How vigorously would her hunter have clung to his prize? Was he injured? Had he been abandoned in the forest, wounded and left to die?

  Or had he been killed outright, defending what was his own?

  That thought was enough to encourage Annelise to search for him immediately. If he were injured, she might find him in time to be of aid. She seized her cloak and shoved on her boots. She held fast to the pelt, determined to keep this token at all costs. She listened at the door, but she could hear louder voices from below. They had come into the hall, then, and Murdoch would call for refreshment for his guests.

  Seton Manor was a small hall of simple construction. One staircase led to the second floor of chambers, and one entrance graced the hall. Annelise could not descend the stairs and leave the manor without everyone in the great hall seeing her pass that way.

  She was quite certain she would be compelled to join them.

  The very notion annoyed her.

  It also filled her with uncharacteristic purpose. Annelise went to the single window in her room, unfastened the shutters and pushed them open. The window was large and there was a roof below it, one that sheltered the kitchens. The forest pressed against this back side of the manor and Annelise could hear the goats bleating in their enclosure, which was out of sight.

  It was a long way down. Annelise swallowed. Years at her embroidery had not prepared her for such a leap, but there was no time to lose. She eyed the drop from the edge of that roof, recalled her resolve, then swung her legs over the sill.

  Her heart insisted that the hunter had need of her.

  *

  The pelt had cured so perfectly that Garrett had known this must be the day he sought out his maiden. Somehow he had to manage this feat, for it was clear she would not come again to him. He had gone down to the river to shave and wash. The day before, he had washed his clothing and polished his boots. He was nervous and uncertain, but he had to go to the hall.

  He felt stronger since meeting the maiden. He had a curious sense that all turned in his direction, after opposing him for so long. Garrett felt an uncharacteristic sense of promise.

  Perhaps he would find the maiden alone, in a garden or outside of the manor. Perhaps he could speak to her and give her the gift before he was overwhelmed by the voices.

  Perhaps having her beside him would help. He thought of her stillness and his sense of peace in her presence. He had to trust in his instincts, take a chance and secure his own salvation.

  As prepared as he could be, Garrett returned to the tree where he had left the pelt, filled with purpose.

  The pelt was gone.

  Garrett could not believe it. How could this be? No animal would take it, not after it was cured, and Garrett was alone in the woods.

  Or so he had believed when he went to wash. He looked again and noted the broken undergrowth and snapped twigs, the path of careless passage. He followed it with care, not surprised that it led to the road. It was a sign of a person’s passing, someone who weighed much the same as his lady, he would wager. For a moment, his heart skipped in anticipation.

  Then Garrett saw the boot print. It was wide, too wide to be that of his delicate maiden. He guessed a young man had stolen his pelt. He spied a tuft of cloth caught on a thorn and fingered it. Linsey-woolsey, dyed dark, woven finer than usual. The cloth of servants, at least in the south. No one wore the blend of linen and wool in these parts and few could afford dark dyes. Homespun wool in the color of the sheep was more common. Garrett reached the edge of the forest, where the undergrowth was thinner, and listened.

  Hoof beats.

  Three horses. Two were much larger. Destriers, perhaps. That would be consistent with arrivals from the south. Few in the Highlands could afford horses, and expensive destriers were ridden by knights. Garrett was generally glad there were few such men in these parts and, on this day, he would have been glad to have these men absent.

  Garrett crept out of the forest enough to see, but still clung to the shadows. He could just barely see the silhouette of a party down the road. Two knights and a squire was his guess. Why were they here?

  That was not much of a mystery, when he considered it. They were riding toward Seton Manor, the sole destination they could reach before nightfall. His maiden was a noblewoman, with no ring on her finger.

  Worse, these knights carried the pelt he had intended to give to her.

  Garrett could guess what they would say about it. An uncommon fury lit within him at the prospect. He was on the road, striding toward Seton Manor with purpose, before he thought twice about his choice.

  He would not be cheated by a nobleman again.

  He might be different from them, but that did not make him less.

  Garrett rounded a bend in the road, as far as he had managed to come that last time, and the assault of voices was like a slap inside his mind. He clenched his fists and forced himself to continue onward, narrowing his eyes against the chaotic din. He had only taken half a dozen steps before his own thoughts began to sink beneath the flood of others. His familiar panic began to rise, but he pushed himself onward.

  This was not like the other time. All was at stake, but his maiden could aid him. He had to reach her and to win her—before the knights stole her away.

  And that meant he dared not stop.

  He felt the clouding of his thoughts and cursed his legacy. He concentrated on putting one foot before the other, fighting to fill his mind with the memory of his maiden. He tried to keep the cacophony of intruding ideas and feelings, of voices screaming for attention, at bay. He felt the sweat bead his brow, felt his grip on sanity begin to loosen. Garrett marched on, staggering slightly in the road, but determined to reach her.

  A sudden stillness startled him to a halt. He could feel a tide of serenity drawing close, ever closer, and barely dared to believe she came to him. Garrett opened his eyes and looked down the road, squinting against the restless din.

  Hoping.

  His heart was clenched so tightly that he could not breathe.

  Then joy lifted his heart. His maiden was running toward him, her auburn tresses flowing like a glorious banner behind her. The majesty of her hair fairly took his breath away, for it had been braided tightly when he had met her. Now he saw that it would fall easily to her waist, a cascade of deepest copper. Her eyes were wide with concern and her ripe lips parted. She was every bit as beautiful as he recalled. She clutched the wolf pelt to her chest, as if it was the most precious gift in all the world. Garrett could have stared at her for days.

  “You are not dead!” she cried when she was a dozen steps away, and he realized that her concern was for him alone. His heart pounded with fervor.

  “Not yet!” Garrett impulsively opened his arms and, to his delight, his maiden leapt into his embrace. He caught her close and folded her against his chest. He bent and touched his forehead to hers, breathing in deeply of her sweet scent and savoring the gift of tranquility she brought. Her thoughts were like a cool balm to him, soothing and welcoming at the same time.

  And when she touched her lips shyly to his once again, a tide of sweetness surged through him. The voices were quieted, t
he maiden’s serenity pushing into his own thoughts, soothing his mind like an herbalist’s balm. He kissed her back, wanting her with all his heart and soul. He wanted to lose himself in her and the solace she offered, even with the small encouragement of this kiss. He wanted to prove himself worthy of not just the gift she brought him but of the lady herself.

  Having her in his arms prompted a most earthy response from his body, one that was not appropriate for a maiden to know. With great reluctance, he broke their kiss but he could not bring himself to release her. Her lips were swollen a little from his kiss and she smiled at him with sparkling eyes, looking so beguiling that Garrett was sorely tempted to take more.

  He moved to put a little distance between them, but she slid one arm around his neck. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and when she lifted her head, he could see the creamy skin of her throat. The sight sent a hot jolt of desire through him.

  The marvel was that he felt stronger and bolder, more in control of his own mind. He could still hear the voices of others but they were muffled, at a volume he could tolerate.

  She brought him this gift.

  It was just as Mhairi had vowed.

  The maiden’s gaze searched his, and he feared she had noticed his body’s reaction to the sweet press of her against him. If so, there was no accusation in her expression, but rather a welcome. Her eyes were a magnificent green, her concern for him clear. The tranquility of her presence filled him and soothed him.

  She raised a fingertip to his temple, touching the dampness there with tenderness. “But you are ill,” she whispered.

  Garrett nodded, for he would not deceive her. He could not tell her everything, not with the price such telling would bear, but he would confess what he could. “I have not been well. That was why I did not come. I intended to come today, to bring your gift to you.”