Devil in a Kilt (7 page)

Before
he'd cast aside such foolhardy notions.

Unshed
tears clung to her thick lashes, and at the sight of one of them breaking away
to roll down her cheek, the cold knot in his stomach tightened and some
accursed muscle in his jaw began to twitch with a vengeance.

By
Lucifer's knees, surely the prospect of wedding him wasn't
that
unbearable?

He
was
the one getting the lesser end of the bargain, after all, not her. She had much
to gain.

One
look, though, at the way she clasped her hands tightly before her, assured him
she did indeed dread becoming his wife.

Duncan
fought the urge to swear. He was not an ogre, and he had tried to offer her
comfort last night. He couldn't be faulted because she'd sped from the solar
before he'd had the chance.

Many
were the women who would gladly throw themselves at his feet. At least in the
old days before Cassandra's perfidy had ruined his life. And in the years he'd
fought alongside the Bruce, there'd not been a single night during their
forays across the land he'd had to sleep alone ... unless he chose to do so.

His
prowess in bed had been almost as legendary as that of his king's.

‘Twas
grateful the MacDonnell wench should be to become his bride.

Not
that he intended to consummate their marriage.

As
the priest droned on, Duncan's gaze fell upon Linnet's breasts. They rose and
fell with her breathing, and only a blind man would not notice the alluring
curves they made beneath the heavy silk of her gown.

A
loud clearing of someone's throat, and the sharp jab of an elbow in his side
snapped his attention back to the ceremony. By St. Ninian's breath, ‘twas
almost over! He'd scarce been aware of speaking his vows, barely recalled the
blessing and exchanging of rings.

Yet
there the priest stood, holding a rolled parchment and waiting expectantly for
Duncan to take the proffered quill and sign his soul away.

As
if an unseen force guided his hand, Duncan scrawled his name on the document
and handed the quill to his bride. She did the same, then before Duncan realized
what was happening, they'd been ushered into the chapel for mass and holy
communion.

‘Twas
over.

A
few words, a signature, mumbled blessings he'd scarce registered, and he was once
more married. Bound, at least in name, to a new wife who looked at him with
huge brown eyes as if he was about to carry her into the very depths of hell.

And,
he admitted bitterly, mayhap he was.

But
for some reason he could not fathom, he felt an undeniable urge to prove he was
not the demon she apparently thought him to be. For a very brief moment,
Duncan desired to see her gold-flecked eyes shining with joy rather than
staring at him in dread.

‘Twas
a good thing he'd chosen a chamber for her that was as far as possible from his
own. Everyone in his household knew he wanted naught of her. Pride alone would
keep him from crossing the great hall to reach the stairs leading to her
quarters.

If
his men thought he'd changed his convictions and would chase after her like a
rutting stag, they would be sorely disappointed. Let
them
make fools of
themselves, he decided, as they crowded around her the minute they stepped from
the chapel. They were the ones who claimed ‘twas time he sought the love of a
virtuous woman, not he.

Aye,
let them make blithering idiots of themselves if it so pleased them.

Only
Sir Marmaduke had the good grace to remain by his side. Unfortunately, Duncan
suspected the man stayed near only to prevent him from riding off somewhere,
rather than out of any sense of loyalty. Considering the way the Englishman
preened himself in her presence, acting more chivalrous than the most adept
French courtier, Duncan had no doubt but that Marmaduke had appointed himself
Lady Linnet's champion.

Not
that she needed one.

Even
though she'd appeared subdued and unhappy during the wedding ceremony, his new
wife had a mind of her own. She'd proven the strength of her nerve yestereve in
his solar.

Turning,
he fixed his friend with an unflinching glare. "What did you say to get
her down here?"

Sir
Marmaduke folded his arms and had the bad taste to look mightily pleased with
himself.

"Well?"

"Naught
but what I thought the lady wanted to hear."

Duncan
resisted the urge to throttle the Englishman. "Pray enlighten me what that
might have been."

"Simply
that you meant not all you said to her in your solar yestereve, that you spoke
out of consideration for her maidenly state, not wanting to unduly frighten
her."

The
sudden pealing of the kirk's bells and the equally loud cheering of his
clansmen drowned out Duncan's black oath. He frowned as he watched his men
practically tripping over their own clumsy feet as they vied for his bride's
attention.

St.
Columba preserve him, had they forgotten the treachery and intrigues that had
poisoned Eilean Creag the last time a Lady MacKenzie had resided within his
castle?

Deliberately
hanging back, Duncan watched the boisterous crowd of merrymakers surge toward
the hall, his new wife ensconced in their midst. Let them act the fools and
drink themselves senseless at the wedding feast. He, for one, had no desire to
celebrate.

He'd
offered for the MacDonnell wench because she was the seventh daughter of a
seventh daughter and therefore gifted with the sight. All he wanted was the use
of it.

Naught
else, as he'd made clear to her.

He
didn't care how many tall tales Marmaduke had told her. She need only supply
him with the answer he needed, warn him of impending danger to his clan, see to
Robbie, and he would leave her in peace.

‘Twould
be simple enough to avoid her in a castle the size of Eilean Creag.

So
why did he have such a nagging feeling in his gut? Scowling, lest anyone dare
think he was anything other than displeased, Duncan glared across the bailey,
watching the rowdy celebrants file into his keep.

"Are
you ready to join the festivities?" Sir Marmaduke clamped a hand on
Duncan's shoulder, urging him down the chapel steps. "‘Tis no such thing
as a wedding feast without the bridegroom."

"Aye,"
Duncan darkly agreed. "I daresay I canna make myself scarce, can I?"

As
they crossed the bailey, the cause of his foul temper became more clear with
every step he took. He feared Linnet MacDonnell would prove more than he'd
bargained for.

Much
more.

And
that was a notion he did not care for at all.

"Out
of our way, make way for the lady," Lachlan shouted, forcing a path
through the knot of merrymakers blocking the entrance to the castle. Once
inside, he tried to propel Linnet forward, but she stopped him by digging her
heels into the rushes spread upon the floor.

"Is
aught amiss, milady?"

"That
is what I would know." Linnet raised her voice to be heard above the din
in the great hall. "I dinna see Robbie in the crowd nor in the
chapel."

"Nay,
you wouldn't have," the squire said, raising his voice as well.

"Why
not? Surely he should have been—"

Lachlan
suddenly grabbed her arms and lifted her out of the way as two wrestling
Highlanders lurched past them. "Here is not the best place to stand,
milady. Please allow me to escort you away from the door, then I'll explain
about Robbie."

Without
further explanation, the squire ushered her toward the raised dais at the far
end of the hall. While crowded upon her arrival the night before, the great
vaulted chamber was now fair bursting with revelers. Ne'er had she seen aught
to compare with such an elaborate celebration.

Someone
had even strewn the floor rushes with fragrant meadowsweet, rose petals, and
thyme. ‘Twas a grand spectacle that made her father's feasts at Dundonnell seem
paltry.

A
score of trumpeters, high above in the musicians' gallery, competed with the
gay shouts and laughter that filled the vast room and a trio of minstrels
paraded among the celebrants, loudly singing bawdy songs.

Trenchers
of bread and numerous silver jugs of ale and wine already stood upon the
trestle tables while an endless stream of servants carried in platters of every
imaginable delicacy from the kitchens.

But
Linnet wouldn't let the finery or tempting array of festive dishes sway her
purpose. When they reached the high table, and Lachlan pulled back an
elaborately carved high-backed chair, she remained standing.

"Where
is Robbie?"

"In
his bed, milady," the squire told her. " ‘Tis sick he is."

"What
ails him?" she asked. "Do you know?"

"Aye,
it's his stomach. Cook allowed him to eat too many custard pasties."

"Then
I shall go to him," Linnet stated, stepping back from the table.

Her
intention appeared to make Lachlan nervous, for he shot a quick glance across
the hall toward the entrance they'd just left. "Sir Duncan willna be
pleased if you're not at your place when he enters the hall."

"And
I could not partake of a single morsel of food if I dinna look in on the lad.
Do you know if your liege laird has sent anyone to see to him?"

"Cook
sent one o' the laundresses up to his chamber earlier, but Sir Duncan willna
ken the lad's abed." Once again, Lachlan glanced at the far door. "He
angers easily, so we try not to bother him overmuch about Robbie."

"Bother
him?"
Linnet eyed the squire sternly, the self-pity that had
overcome her in the chapel now replaced by anger. "I'd say ‘tis the wee
lad who's bothered if his belly is hurting him."

Lachlan
nodded but said nothing.

"I
would ask a favor if I may?"

"You
have only to state your request." He bowed low. " ‘Tis pleased I am
to serve you."

"Do
you remember where my chamber is?"

"Of
course, milady."

"Then
please fetch my leather satchel. When you return, I should like to be escorted
to the kitchens." At the look of bewilderment on the squire's face, she
explained, "It contains my medicinal herbs. I want to brew a
tisane
of
watermint for Robbie. The concoction will ease his stomach pains."

Lachlan
nodded, but a look of discomfort crossed his features. He made no move to
leave.

"Is
my request too difficult?"

"Nay."
A pink tinge stained his cheeks. " ‘Tis only that my lord will expect your
presence at the high table."

"Then
make haste on your errand, and I shall have no need to tarry." Linnet
arched a brow at the squire, amazed at her own nerve. "The sooner Robbie
can drink the
tisane,
the sooner he and I can take our places at your
master's table."

Lachlan's
jaw dropped, and his eyes grew round, but he bowed again and hurried away.

A
short time later, after he'd returned with her herbal pouch and escorted her to
the kitchens, Linnet made her way to Robbie's dismal tower chamber with a
steaming beaker of watermint. Lachlan followed silently behind her, lighting
the way with a rush torch.

Preferring
to be alone with the boy, Linnet entered the room and closed the door, leaving
the squire to wait in the corridor. Robbie slumbered peacefully, so she took a
moment to glance around the chamber. She found it sorely lacking in warmth and
almost as bleak as her new husband's solar. Mayhap more so because no
tapestries graced the walls.

Only
the embroidered bedcurtains gave the stark room a semblance of color. A
child-sized ladderback chair stood near the hearth, and a small table of dark
oak had been placed next to the bed. A clump of wilted wildflowers lay upon
the tabletop, and the ancient-looking mongrel slept curled at the foot of the
child's bed.

As
before, the dog opened one eye, looked at her, and went back to sleep.
Satisfied the enormous beast posed no threat, she crossed the room and gazed
down at the sleeping child.

Her
new stepson.

A
child apparently as shunned by his father as she had been by hers ... albeit
for very different reasons.

Her
heart ached at the small boy's plight. Unable to help herself, she reached out
and stroked his hair.

Immediately,
he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, staring up at her with dark blue
eyes so like his father's her breath caught in her throat. Except her husband's
eyes held such a perpetually dark expression she'd initially mistaken their
color for black.

Linnet
let out her breath on a gentle sigh and gave the lad a tender smile. She
couldn't yet speak, could only stare in wonderment at the sheer perfection of
the boy's face. In truth, Robbie MacKenzie looked so much like her husband she
broke out in gooseflesh.