The Firebrand (18 page)

And yet, he could not spread a pall over the clan’s merrymaking. Looking around the Great Hall, seeing his father dancing happily within a jostling circle of farmers and fisher folk as the pipes sang out, he pushed back the tumult of feelings racing through him. He had raised far too many goblets of wine with this lively gathering of kinfolk to be showing any ambivalence now. Hell, he would face whatever the future would bring. His course was charted.

He just needed to get through tonight.

Moments later, the women returned and a final cup was raised to the happy couple. Alan formed an escort, the MacLean himself gave a drunken blessing, and a shoving, shouting, laughing throng of Highlanders carried Wyntoun along to his apartment and his new wife. At the massive oak door, the knight turned and faced them, scowling.

“Very well, you blackguards,” he shouted. “This is as far as you all go.”

“Nay, Wyn!” Alan turned to the others. “I say we do not let go of him until he is safe in bed with his bonny wife.” The men gave a loud cheer at the shipmaster’s words, but in an instant Wyntoun had his friend by the shirt.

“Back everyone up, my dear cousin, or blood’ll be shed tonight--your blood!”

Alan’s dark brows arched mockingly above green eyes. “Do as you will. I am too drunk to care. But you, my dear cousin, are as nervous as the night we were fourteen and the smith’s young sister came to meet you at the cairn by the loch.”

“Alan--” Wyntoun growled menacingly, “shut that maw of yours or I’ll ding you so hard--”

“No fear, Wyn. I’ll say no more.” Alan’s hand rested heavily on the knight’s shoulder. “But you are a lucky devil, Wyn. We both know this one could have had the face of a sow, and you still would have taken her as wife.”

“No more, Alan, you bloody fool.”

“But she’s no sow, is she? In fact, this lassie’s more beautiful than any you or I ever--”

“That’s enough,” the Highlander growled, motioning for Coll to come and give him a hand.

“Be good to her.” Alan said quietly. “She deserves better than she’s getting. You might even give her a wee taste of the truth.”

Wyntoun frowned as the shipmaster turned away.

“Very well, lads,” Alan shouted to the others. “I believe there is a wee bit more drinking to be done this night! On, pipers, lead us back to the Great Hall!”

The knight watched for a moment as the boisterous crowd jostled and shoved their way down the corridor, laughing and singing as they went. Once they had disappeared, he turned and stared at the door.

Alan had known the truth from the beginning. Everything. All of his plans. All he would do to preserve the Treasure of Tiberius. The two had grown up together, trained together, sailed together, fought together. There had never been a moment’s disagreement over what path they would take—not one instance of conflict over any decision regarding what they wanted to accomplish.

Be good to her
, he’d said.

Wyntoun pushed open the door to his chambers and stepped inside the well-lit anteroom. He glanced wearily at the extravagant amount of food and drink adorning the table, and barred the door behind him.

Perhaps it was the wine they’d both drunk this night, but for the first time in all their years together, Wyntoun could sense a division between himself and Alan.

He shook his head. He’d be damned if he would let that happen because of a woman.

A beautiful woman, granted. But one who was only at his side for the present. Aye, he reminded himself. Just for the time being, and no more.

***

Pulling his tartan about him, Gillie listened to the pipes and the men moving back toward the Great Hall. Crouched in the shadows of the corridor, he kept up his vigil, his eyes riveted to the doorway where the master had just disappeared.

Tonight was no different from any other night. He’d kept watch over Mistress Adrianne since the night of their arrival at Duart Castle, just as he had kept watch over her on Barra. She was his friend. Even in becoming the wife of his master, she had not forgotten him. This morning before the wedding, Mistress Adrianne had stopped by the stables, looking for him.

If the other stable lads had been curious about the way Sir Wyntoun had shown interest in him, directing the master of the horses as to how Gillie was to be treated, this morning they had all stared—utterly stunned by the lady’s attentions.

“I just wanted to make sure that you were settled,” she had said with that sweet voice of hers, touching his face in the way that she always did. “I wanted to make certain that there were no troubles.”

“No troubles,” were the only words he’d been able to say, since she had looked so beautiful that he’d been ready to swallow his tongue.

Gillie glanced down the corridor to where the sound of merrymaking could be heard coming from the Great Hall. He was happy that Mistress Adrianne had decided to marry Sir Wyntoun. She would be good for him. Gillie had never thought his master to be very happy before—not the way that Ian, the old blind netmaker on Barra was happy—and he knew that his mistress would fix that.

And the master would be good for her, too, Gillie thought. Aye, Mistress Adrianne had a way of getting into mischief. But maybe now—being the master’s wife—nobody would dare put her in a cage and hang her from some tower as punishment.

Deciding that they must be settled for the night, Gillie stretched his legs out before him and tucked his arms into his tartan. This was a new place for him, a good place. From now on he would be guarding the master’s chambers. With Mistress Adrianne there—he curled himself into a tight ball—now he had the two of them to watch over.

He couldn’t be happier.

***

Adrianne heard the outer door to the anteroom open and close and she hurriedly finished the last of her preparations. Standing back and giving her handiwork a final inspection, she hid her smile of satisfaction and waited expectantly for Wyntoun to enter the bedchamber.

The door to the chamber opened, and the tall figure of her husband filled the doorway. There was a deadly pause.

“By the devil! Whatever has happened here?”

She came around the bed and tried to look past him into the work room. “Are you alone?”

“By the…of course, I’m alone!”

As he entered, Adrianne quickly moved past him, glancing into the antechamber for herself before shutting the door. She came in and stood beside him. He was staring about the chamber in disbelief, and suddenly she was uncertain about some of the things that she’d done.

“Do you believe I have gone too far?”

He gave her a side glance that showed his agitation. “You mean you are responsible for this?”

She hesitantly nodded and watched him as he made his way to the hearth. He picked up the empty pitcher of wine.

“Did you drink all of it?” he asked, holding it upside down. A drop of wine fell to the mat of woven rushes on the floor.

Her temper flared in an instant. “Now, do I look like a person who could drink all of that wine and still be able to act as rationally as I have been?”

“Rationally?” he exploded, pointing at the mess around him. “You call breaking fine crystal fit for a king’s table ‘rational’? Do you call the act of tearing up good clothing, throwing food about, and upending furniture ‘acting rationally’?”

“There is no reason for you to get upset,” she scolded. “Everything I did here had a purpose and, after you give me a chance to explain it all, you’ll see yourself that the...uh, damage...is completely justified...and well planned, if I do say so myself.”

A loud snort escaped him, and he picked up a broken shard of wine crystal at his feet.

She stared at the broken pieces of the crystal. True, she
did
regret destroying certain items. Things as valuable as crystal, for instance. And having lived in the western isles for so many months, she was well aware of the scarcity of such luxuries.

“I had reason for breaking that,” she said quickly, trying to fight back a sudden pang of guilt. “Will you listen to what I have to say?”

She saw him pick up a torn—and very sheer—nightgown. He held it up to the light and glanced back at her. “Very well, and perhaps you might explain this, as well.”

Adrianne stepped toward him and snatched the transparent garment away. Bess had sewn this especially for Adrianne, and she was regretful of going so far as tearing it. Still, there was no point in letting
him
know of her regrets. “I will only explain if you agree to hear me out…from the beginning.”

He glanced at her left hand, staring at the piece of linen she had wrapped around it. “And what did you do to your hand?”

“Only from the beginning,” she repeated, placing the torn nightgown on a nearby chair and walking past him toward the hearth. She turned apprehensively and faced him.

“Begin, then.”

“Will you please sit?”

“I prefer to stand.”

She met his glare unflinchingly.

“I’ll not have you towering over me.” She motioned toward the chair again. “Will you be kind enough to sit?”
Adrianne breathed a silent sigh of relief when he finally did as she asked. She wiped one damp palm on the fabric of her blue dress and hid the linen-wrapped one behind her.

“Mara and her women had a talk with me tonight.”

“Do not tell me you are planning to blame her for this madness!”

“Nay, I am not,” she stated calmly. “All I am saying is that my handiwork here came as a response to what everyone goes through on their wedding night.”

“
Everyone
?”

She wished he didn’t suddenly look so amused.

“Well, it all begins with the wine,” she started quickly, knowing her only salvation lay in getting through this explanation. “Since I am a…well, so inexperienced...you had me...had us...drink some wine.”

He reached for the pitcher and turned it upside down again.

“A great deal of wine,” she corrected, moving quickly to take the pitcher from him and putting it back where it was. “By the way, I poured the wine out the window. So please stop looking at me as if I were some drunken madwoman.”

“A
drunken
madwoman could only accomplish half the damage you have done…but do continue.”

“Very well.”

As his eyes continued to take her in, Adrianne felt that strange heat pooling once again in her belly. The sudden tightening in her chest surprised her, though, and she drew a deep breath, forcing the air into her lungs. But he continued to look at her, his gaze wandering from her feet to the large wart she must have just grown on her forehead. She pushed her loose hair over one shoulder and wished she’d had time to braid it again.

“Well, becoming a wee light-headed after drinking all that wine, we crushed a wine-goblet beneath our feet.”

“Fine crystal?! Crushed on purpose?”

“Aye! ‘Twas my idea. I thought ‘twould be romantic. As the Jews do in Antwerp. My mother told me about it,” she added belatedly. “But I am now truly sorry for breaking it, considering the value…”

She glanced nervously as he tossed the broken crystal into the fire without ever taking his eyes from her. A frown creased his face, but his green eyes showed no great anger about the loss. In fact, he didn’t seem terribly angry, after all.

“Being somewhat...well, drunk...you…you chased me around the room.”

“I
what
?”

“You chased me. And that is the reason for the toppled furniture and the dumping of some of the food on the floor. If you think that’s too much, though, I can pick up the food.”

He said nothing, simply continuing to stare at her in disbelief.

She hurried on. “Then you caught me.” She picked up the torn night dress and walked to a small table upended by the hearth. She held up the gauzy garment. “You...tore this off of me…right here.”

Adrianne could feel the heat in her face. The thought of Wyntoun doing such a thing ignited a scorching hot flame inside of her. She didn’t dare raise her eyes to him, but stood for a moment, frowning. Then she froze, hearing him chuckle under his breath. She dropped the shift back onto the floor and—still not looking at him—walked to the bed.

“‘Tis natural, the women told me, for a man to be restless and throw the coverings off…as you see.”

“And the feathers?”

A shiver coursed through her as she realized he was on his feet, approaching the bed.

“Playfulness?” she croaked, feeling his arm touch her shoulder as he came and stood next to her by the bed. “I...just thought...we...things became a wee bit rough…and the stitching on the pillows came loose.”

“A wee bit rough? And you think that is customary?”

“I don’t know anything about it! But I recall seeing--” She stopped, shooting him a look as she realized he was teasing her.

Taking a deep breath Adrianne pointed to the center of the bed.

“And that...is the proof that we...we consummated our marriage.”

She tried to turn away from the bed, but his grip on her elbow held her in place. She did not look up, but knew he was staring at the stain of blood on the sheet.

“Mara wouldn’t be convinced without it,” she said nervously, too much aware of the heat in his grip. “She specifically told me that there would be blood, and I thought--”

“Let me see your hand.”

“‘Tis nothing. I--”

He quickly pulled the linen from her hand and stood studying the cut on her palm. She could see the concern in his face, though when he raised his head, only a frown was evident.

“I cannot believe you cut yourself.”

“I told you, ‘tis nothing. I have been injured many times…and far more seriously than a simple cut.”

He didn’t seem convinced. But as he wrapped the linen around her palm again, she pulled away as if his touch were more painful than the cut itself.

“And that is all,” she said, turning sharply away from the bed. “I believe we are prepared now.”

“Only by half.” He threw some of the coverings back on the bed.

“What did I forget?” she asked, turning back to him with alarm.

“In the morning, they will expect to find us…you and me…in that bed… together…naked and exhausted after a night of wedded bliss.”