Devil in a Kilt (6 page)

At
her boldness, Duncan's fingers tightened around his chalice. "You are not
here to question my motives."

"I
would only know why you need me? A nursemaid could do the same. Or you could
foster him to a trusted ally."

"Do
not speak of that which you know naught."

She
raised her chin at him. "Of loving children, I know much, milord."

Love
for a child was something he, too, knew about, but his feelings were no concern
of hers. Fighting the anger she stirred within him, Duncan set down his wine
and folded his arms.

"So
tell me what you saw. Is the lad mine?"

Looking
suddenly nervous, she wet her lips before she spoke. "I canna say. Mayhap
I need time to know him before my gift will show me."

Not
wanting her to see his searing disappointment upon hearing her words, Duncan
returned to the fireplace and kept his back to her until he was certain his
face bore no emotion.

Finally,
he turned around. "How much time?"

"I
canna say," she repeated.

Fury,
ominous and chilling like a dark wind, consumed him but he said naught. He
needed her, for her abilities were genuine. His spies had sworn it. If he must,
he'd wait to learn the truth.

But
it was nowhere writ he must be pleased at the prospect.

By
Saint Peter of Rome, he'd wanted the answer this night.

"When
you know, you are to inform me immediately," he said, his tone clipped.
"Your duties are to look after Robbie and warn me of any treachery you may
foresee. Naught else shall be expected of you."

"Naught
else?"

Duncan
shot a glance at her. He'd thought she'd be relieved, but she gaped at him as
if he'd grown horns and a tail. Then she lowered her head and began poking at
the floor rushes with the toe of her new boot.

"I
see," she said in a small voice. "You dinna want me as a true
consort."

Thunder
of heaven! Surely she wasn't upset because he didn't mean to seek her bed?

"Pray
do not be offended, lady. It has naught to do with you." He crossed the
room and took her chin in his hand, lifting her head so she had to look at him.
"I swore upon the death of my first wife ne'er to wed again. By keeping
you chaste, I shall not completely break that vow."

Her
lower lip began to tremble, but she met his gaze. "As you wish."

"
‘Twill not be an unpleasant arrangement," Duncan assured her. "You
shall have your own chamber, the leisure to do as you please, and my
protection. Mayhap you'll come to enjoy living at Eilean Creag. It canna be as
bad as what you've left behind."

"Aye,
‘tis grateful I am to be out of my father's hall."

"Good,
‘tis settled then." Letting go of her chin,

Duncan
stepped away from her and went to the door, opening it. "Can you find your
way to the hall? Lachlan should be waiting there to escort you to your
quarters. Rest well this night, for tomorrow shall be a long day."

Although
he held the door wide, she didn't move. She stood staring at him with the
queerest look on her face he'd e'er seen. When a single tear rolled down her
cheek, Duncan silently cursed himself and stepped forward, intending to
comfort her as best he could, to explain he didn't mean to reject her
personally.

He
didn't want
any
wife.

A
score of dancing sirens, all naked and one more desirable than the next,
wouldn't persuade him otherwise.

But
before he could tell her aught, she dashed past him and fled down the
passageway. Duncan waited until the sound of her running footsteps grew faint
before he shut the door and slammed his fist against its cold oaken panels.

Again,
he swore.

She'd
run as if the hounds of hell and the devil himself chased after her.

Duncan
pressed his lips together in a grim line.

Mayhap
he
was
the devil.

At
the moment, he certainly felt like it.

"She
refuses to come down, sir." Lachlan joined Duncan near the chapel steps, a
decidedly uncomfortable look on his youthful face.

Duncan
dragged a hand through his hair, then glanced up at the gray morning sky. ‘Twas
not a good day for a wedding. A chill wind blew from the north, and if the
ominous-looking clouds in the distance were any indication, the light drizzle
they'd endured since dawn would soon be a full-fledged downpour.

Nay,
‘twas not a good day to start a marriage.

And
now, in addition to her inability to ease his mind about Robbie with the
swiftness he'd hoped, his bride-to-be would humiliate him in front of his men
as well.

Dressed
in their best plaids and armor, his kinsmen and knights stood in a semicircle
before the castle steps, waiting to escort their new mistress to his side.
Others formed a long line that stretched from the keep to where he stood in
front of the small stone oratory.

They'd
all been waiting since dawn.

Duncan
glanced over his shoulder at the priest. The holy man stood serene, his hands
clasped before him, his whole countenance fair oozing patience. Just beyond
him, inside the chapel, dozens of burning candles did naught to dispel the
gloom of the dreary morn.

And
the clusters of Highland flowers, meant to symbolize fertility and joy, merely
emphasized the travesty of what was about to take place.

Only
the proximity of the priest prevented Duncan from uttering a string of
blasphemous oaths.

"Is
she dressed?" he finally asked his squire.

"Aye,
milord."

Duncan
turned to Sir Marmaduke. The disfigured Sassunach knight lounged against the
arched entrance to the chapel, looking for all the world as if he were highly
amused by the morning's unusual turn of events.

"Cease
gloating like a dim-witted woman," Duncan snapped at him. "‘Tis
naught funny about the wench playing stubborn."

Marmaduke
smiled as best he could. "Do not vent your anger on me. Mayhap you should
ask yourself what you did to her to make her choose to stay in her chamber this
morn?"

"What
I did to her?" Duncan scowled. "I've done naught. ‘Tis grateful she
should be. I've rescued her from a drunken sire and gifted her with chests of
finer gowns than she's likely ever seen, much less possess."

"Then
what transpired in your solar yestereve to make her come running down to the
hall as if a horde of banshees pursued her?"

Duncan
forgot the priest and swore.

Marmaduke
walked over to Duncan and slapped him on the back. "There is your answer,
my friend. Whatever you said was not to her liking. I always told you to use
more finesse with the ladies."

"I
said naught to upset her," Duncan repeated, glancing up at the tower
window he knew to be her chamber. "I simply told her very little would be
expected of her."

"And
how did you word that?" Marmaduke pressed further.

Duncan
blew out a breath. "For the love of St. Mungo, you persistent swine, I
only said naught else would be asked of her except the use of her sight and
tending to Robbie."

Marmaduke
whistled, then slowly shook his head. "‘Tis worse than I feared. How could
a man who's spent so much time in the company of Robert Bruce manage to make a
blundering fool of himself with a woman?"

Something
that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter came from Lachlan, then
rippled through the ranks of his men, earning them each a furious glare.

By
the heavens, they were laughing at him!

"If
you think you are such a charmer, English, then why don't
you
hie
yourself up to her chamber and fetch her down here?"

"
‘Twould be my pleasure." Marmaduke made him a low bow, then headed toward
the castle. After ten paces, he stopped and looked back. "Mayhap someday I
shall give you lessons in how to treat a lady."

To
Duncan's surprise, Marmaduke emerged from the keep a short time later, followed
by his bride and her servant. Immediately, his pages blasted their trumpets and
his knights fell into place behind the trio as they crossed the cobbled bailey,
the lot of them cheering as if they were about to witness a real wedding and
not a farce.

The
nearer they came, the more Duncan began to regret his decision to make the
MacDonnell lass his wife. Aye, he should have kidnapped her, forced her to
quell his doubts about Robbie, then sent her back to Dundonnell. Instead, he'd
soon be burdened by a second wife he did not want.

‘Twas
only a small comfort she looked equally unhappy about the situation.

Everyone
else present seemed determined to make fools of themselves.

His
men cavorted about like a group of silly women. Shouting jests and cheering,
they behaved as if they were all simpleminded.. Even his bride's old servant
beamed, blushing at his men's antics as if she were a young girl of
ten-and-four and not a mature woman long past her prime.

"She's
a fetching sight, aye, milord?" Lachlan commented, as Marmaduke escorted
the two ladies nearer.

Duncan
kept silent. He did not want to admit, even to himself, that Linnet MacDonnell
did indeed make a lovely bride.

She
wore a heavy silk tunic of deep blue, fastened at her waist by an intricate
girdle of gold. A full-length cloak of the same blue protected her from the
rain and a jewel-encrusted circlet held a long golden head-veil inplace. She'd
kept her hair unbound, letting it spill from beneath her veil to flow in
a shining curtain of bronze waves to her waist.

Duncan
uttered a silent oath, angry at himself that, even for a split second, he'd
wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through such tresses.

By
the saints, ‘twas like spun gold!

Ne'er
had he suspected she would have such glorious hair. Why, ‘twould tempt St.
Columba himself!

Thunder
of heaven, he'd have an explanation for this. He'd been assured the lass was
plain, as unappealing as a sow's hindquarters.

He
didn't want a comely wife.

Never
again.

Not
after Cassandra and the suffering she'd wrought with her evil ways.

Nay,
‘twas not a fetching wench he'd wanted, but it appeared he'd gotten one despite
his wishes to the contrary.

Ignoring
the way her hair flowed over obviously full breasts which he'd not truly
appreciated earlier because of the ill-fitting garments she'd worn on the
journey, Duncan set his face in what he hoped to be a fierce grimace as
Marmaduke guided her up the chapel steps.

He
would simply force himself to see her as she'd appeared the day before: plain
and garbed in rags.

Aye,
he would concentrate on that image and not look at her hair. In fact, he'd
insist she wear her red-gold tresses braided and wrapped around her head
and
hidden beneath a veil at all times.

As
for her breasts ... he'd simply pretend they weren't there.

He
only hoped his men did not insist on a bedding ceremony. They knew full well
why he was marrying the lass. The subject had been much discussed of late. If
they'd conveniently forgotten his reasons and expected him to perform the role
of besotted and eager groom, he'd personally challenge each of them to a round
of swordplay in the lists and cheerfully carve them to ribbons!

"
‘Tis time, milord." Marmaduke propelled his bride toward him. "Do you
not want to escort your lady up the chapel steps?"

Duncan
glowered, not bothering to hide his displeasure. The only place he wanted to
escort Linnet MacDonnell was back to her father's miserable keep. Instead, he
offered her his arm and took small satisfaction in the fear he read in her
large brown eyes.

If
she feared him, she wouldn't regret his absence from her bed.

Unfortunately,
he'd noticed more than the expression in her eyes. He'd also noted they were
flecked with gold and would likely be most appealing were they lit by a smile
rather than dulled by resignation.

Then
his men pressed forward, giving him no alternative but to guide his unwanted
wife-to-be up the few stones steps to where the priest waited before the opened
chapel door.

As
if the holy father knew Duncan would flee if given the slightest chance, he
immediately began the ceremony that would bind the MacDonnell wench to Duncan
for the rest of his days, God willing.

Sheer
curiosity, nothing more, made Duncan steal a glance at his bride during the
opening prayer. Sooty lashes rested on her cheeks ... cheeks that, if possible,
had grown even more pale since the priest had begun his sacred monologue.

Her
lips moved in silent prayer, and, saints preserve him, he couldn't help notice
how full they were. Luscious and supple-looking, she had lips he would've
claimed in a swift and possessive kiss in earlier years.