Devil in a Kilt (2 page)

Linnet
kept her chin high as she strode toward them, but beneath the folds of her
woolen cloak, her knees shook. At her approach, Cook stepped forward, a clump
of dark cloth clutched tight in his work-reddened hands. " ‘Tis from us
all," he said, his voice gruff as he thrust the mass of old-smelling wool
into Linnet's hands. "It's been locked away in a chest in your da's
chamber all these years, but he'll ne'er know we took it."

With
trembling fingers, Linnet unfolded the
arisaid
and let Cook adjust its
soft length over her shoulders. As he carefully belted the plaid around her
waist, he said, "My wife made it for the Lady Innes, your mother. She wore
it well, and it is our wish you will, too. ‘Tis a bonnie piece, if a wee bit
worn."

Emotion
formed a hot, choking lump in Linnet's throat as she smoothed her hands over
the
arisaid's
pliant folds. A few moth holes and frayed edges didn't detract
from the plaid's worth. To Linnet, it was beautiful... a treasure she'd cherish
always.

Her
eyes brimming with tears, she threw herself into Cook's strong arms and hugged
him tight. "Thank you," she cried against the scratchy wool of his
own plaid. "Thank you
all!
Saints, but I shall miss you."

"Then
dinna say good-bye, lass," he said, setting her from him. "We shall
see you again, never worry."

As
one, her kinsmen and friends surged forward, each one giving her a fierce hug.
No one spoke and Linnet was grateful, for had they, she would've lost what
meager control she had over herself. Then one voice, the smithy's, cried out
just as her eldest brother Ranald lifted her into a waiting saddle. "Ho,
lass, I've something for you, too," Ian called, pushing his way through
the throng.

When
he reached them, the smithy pulled his own finely honed dirk from its sheath
and handed it to Linnet. "Better protection than that teensy wench's blade
you wear," he said, nodding in satisfaction as Linnet withdrew her own
blade and exchanged it for his.

Ian's
eyes, too, shone with unusual brightness. "May you ne'er have cause to use
it," he said, stepping away from her pony.

"May
the MacKenzie say his prayers if she does," Ranald vowed, then tossed
Linnet her reins. "We're off," he shouted to the rest of them, then
swung up into his own saddle.

Before
Linnet could catch her breath or even thank the smithy, Ranald gave her mount a
sharp slap on its rump and the shaggy beast bolted through the opened gates,
putting Dundonnell Castle forever behind her.

Linnet
choked back a sob, not letting it escape, and stared straight ahead. She
refused .. .
she couldn't
... look back.

Under
other circumstances, she'd be glad to go. Grateful even. But she had the
feeling that she was merely exchanging one hell for another. And, heaven help
her, she'd didn't know which she preferred.

Many
hours and countless leagues later, Ranald MacDonnell signaled the small party
behind him to halt. Linnet's pony snorted in protest, shifting restlessly as
she reined him in. She shared his nervousness, for they'd reached their
destination.

After
a seemingly endless trek through MacKenzie territory, they'd reached the
halfway point where Ranald claimed her husband-to-be would meet them.

Inexplicably
beset by a tide of self-consciousness, Linnet patted the linen veil covering
her hair and adjusted the fall of her mother's worn but precious
arisaid
around
her shoulders. If only she hadn't coiled her long plaits around her ears,
hiding them from view beneath her concealing headgear. Her betrothed thought
her plain, but her tresses were bonnie.

Her
brothers were e'er claiming her hair color rivaled the reds and golds of the
most brilliant flame.

Would
that she'd worn her hair loose. ‘Twas embarrassment enough to meet her new
husband, enemy or nay, garbed in little more than rags. At least her mother's
bonnie plaid lent her a semblance of grace. Even so, she could have kept a wee
bit more dignity by flaunting, not concealing her finest feature.

But
regret served no purpose now, for the forest floor already shook from the
pounding hooves of fast-approaching horses.

"Cuidich'
N' Right"
The MacKenzie battle cry rent the air.
"Save
the king!"

Linnet's
pony tossed its head, then skittered sideways in panic. As she struggled to
calm him, a double line of warrior-knights thundered into view. They came
straight toward her party, forming two columns at the last possible moment,
then galloping past Linnet and her small escort, enclosing them in an unbroken
circle of mailed and heavily-armed MacKenzies.

"Dinna
you fret, lass," Ranald called to her over his shoulder. "We willna
let aught befall you." Turning in his saddle, he shouted something at her
other brothers but the loud cries of the MacKenzies swallowed Ranald's words.

"Cuidich'
N' Righ!"

Their
bold shouts echoed the MacKenzie motto. The proud words were emblazoned beneath
a stag's antlers on banners held by mounted standard-bearers. Unlike the
warriors who'd charged forward, the young men held their mounts in check a
short distance away. Four abreast, their standards high, they made an
impressive sight.

But
naught near as imposing as the dark knight who so self-assuredly broke their
ranks.

Clad
in a shirt of black mail, broad sword at his side and two daggers thrust
beneath the fine leather belt slung low around his hips, he rode a huge
warhorse as black as his armor.

Linnet
swallowed hard. This intimidating giant of a man could only be Duncan
MacKenzie, the MacKenzie of Kintail, her betrothed.

She
didn't need to see the green-and-blue plaid fastened over his hauberk to know
his identity.

Nor
did it matter that the helm he wore cast his face in shadow, almost hiding it
from view. His arrogance came at her in waves as his assessing gaze scorched
its way from the top of her head to the scuffed brogans on her feet.

Aye,
she
knew.
‘Twas he.

She
also knew the fierce warrior-laird was displeased with what he saw.

More
than displeased ... he looked outraged. Anger emanated from beneath his armor,
his gaze traveling over her critically. She didn't need her gift to know his
eye color. A man such as he could have naught but eyes as dark as his soul.

Her
finely tuned senses told all. He'd taken a
good
look at her . . . and
found her lacking.

Sweet
Virgin, if only she'd heeded Elspeth's advice and let the old woman dress and
scent her hair. ‘Twould have been much easier to raise her chin against his
bold appraisal did a veil not hide her tresses.

When
he rode forward, making straight for her, Linnet fought the urge to flee. Not
that she stood a chance of breaking through the tight circle of stone-faced
MacKenzie guardsmen. Nor could she get past her brothers... at the dark
knight's approach, they'd urged their horses closer to hers. Their expressions
grim, their hands hovering near the hilts of their swords, they warily allowed
her betrothed's advance.

Nay,
escape was not an option.

But
pride was. Hoping he couldn't detect her wildly fluttering heart, Linnet sat
straighter in her saddle and forced herself to match the glare he aimed at her
from beneath his helm.

‘Twould
serve him well to know she found the situation displeasing. And ‘twas
undoubtedly wise to show she wouldn't cower before him

Duncan
raised a brow at his bride's unexpected display of backbone. Rage had fair
consumed him when he'd seen her threadbare cloak and worn shoes. Even the
fine-looking
arisaid
she wore bore holes! All the Highlands knew her
sire was a drunken worm of a man, but ne'er had he dreamed the lout would shame
his daughter by sending her to meet her new liege laird and husband dressed
shabbier than the poorest villein.

Leaning
forward in his saddle, Duncan peered at her, glad for the shadows cast by the
rim of his helm, thankful she couldn't see his face clearly. She'd no doubt
think he'd found fault with
her
rather than guess it was her sire's blatant
disregard that stirred his ire.

Aye,
her raised chin and defiant glare pleased him. The lass wasn't meek. Most
gentleborn females would hang their heads in self-pity and embarrassment ‘twere
they caught dressed in rags. Yet she'd met his perusal with a show of courage
and spirit.

Slowly,
Duncan's frown softened and, to his amazement, the corners of his mouth rose
in the beginnings of a rare smile. He caught it, though, clamping his lips together
before the smile could spread. He'd not taken the lass to wed so he could find
favor with her.

He
only wanted her to put an end to his doubts about Robbie, to care for the lad,
and keep him from his sight should his suspicions prove true. Her character
scarce mattered beyond her suitability as a new mother for Robbie. But it
pleased him to see steel in her blood.

She'd
need it to be his wife.

Ignoring
the glares of her escort, Duncan urged his steed forward. He reined in mere
inches from her scrawny pony.

Linnet
squared her shoulders at his approach, refusing to show the awe she felt for
his magnificent warhorse. Ne'er had she seen such an animal. The beast fair
towered over her shaggy Highland pony.

She
hoped her awe of the man was well hidden, too.

"Can
you ride farther?" The dark knight's deep voice came from beneath his
steel helm.

"Should
you not be a-kissing her hand and asking if she isna weary from riding afore
you ask if she can go on?" Jamie, Linnet's favorite brother, challenged
the MacKenzie. Her other brothers echoed Jamie's sentiments, but Linnet's own
bravura faltered when instead of answering Jamie, her betrothed swept them all
with a dark glare of his own.

Did
he not think enough of her to give her a proper greeting? Was she so low in his
esteem he'd forgotten the rules of chivalry?

Still,
she kept her shoulders back and her chin up, angry at his lack of courtesy.

"
‘Tis Linnet of Dundonnell I be." She lifted her chin a notch higher.
"And who be
you,
milord?"

"Now
is not the time for pleasantries. I would that we make haste from here if you
are not too weary."

She
was
bone weary,
but she would rather perish afore she'd admit weakness.

Linnet
glanced at her pony. His coat was slick with sweat, and heavy breathing bespoke
the toll the long day's exertion had cost the animal. "I am not weary, Sir
Duncan,
but my mount canna continue. Can we not make camp here and
journey onward on the morrow?"

"Marmaduke!"
The MacKenzie shouted rather than answered her. "Hie yourself over
here!"

All
the proud resolve she'd mustered fled when the object of his bellowing rode
forward. The knight with the harmless-sounding name was the ugliest and most
formidable man she'd ever seen. Marmaduke wore the MacKenzie plaid over his
hauberk, and, like the other guardsmen, his only headpiece was a mail coif. But
in
his
case, Linnet wished he'd donned a concealing helm like her
betrothed.

His
disfigured face presented a visage so terrifying, her toes curled within her
brogans. An ugly scar made a wide slash across his face, beginning at his left
temple and ending at the right corner of his mouth, pulling his lips into a
permanent downward sneer. Worse, where his left eye should have been, ‘twas a
frightful mound of puckered pink flesh!

Linnet
knew she should feel naught but pity for the brawny warrior, but the fierce
expression in his good eye, which was disconcertingly focused on her, only
filled her with terror.

Fear
sent her blood rushing so loudly through her ears that she did not hear what
Sir Duncan told the man, but she knew it concerned her, for the one-eyed
Marmaduke kept his feral gaze trained on her, nodding once, before he turned
his horse and galloped off into the woods.

Her
relief at his abrupt departure escaped in one quick breath. If the saints were
with her, he wouldn't return.

Unfortunately,
her relief was short-lived for Duncan MacKenzie shot out one arm, scooped her
off her pony, and plunked her down in front of him on his great charger. With
his free hand, he snatched her mount's reins. She could barely breathe, so
firmly did his arm hold her in place.

A
great roar of protest rose up from her brothers, Ranald's voice a shade louder
than the rest, "Handle our sister so roughly again, MacKenzie, and you'll
be dead before you can draw your blade!"

In a
heartbeat, her betrothed wheeled his mount toward her eldest brother.
"Cool your temper, MacDonnell, lest I forget this was meant to be a
friendly assignation."

"I
will not tolerate anyone manhandling my sister," Ranald warned.
"Especially you."

"Be
you Ranald?" The MacKenzie asked, boldly ignoring Ranald's ire. At her
brother's curt nod, he continued, "The kinsmen you seek are in the woods
beyond my standard-bearers. They've been assured any further raids onto my land
will be punished with a worse fate than being held hostage. The cattle your
sire awaits are in your men's care. I have kept my word. We shall leave you
here."