The Highlander's Accidental Bride (20 page)

Ranald spied the silhouette of a lone rider racing toward him and reined his horse to the side, in no mood to risk a challenge by a miscreant on the road.

Please don’t let it be Eaden
. He’d ridden hard for more than six hours to make it this far, and he still didn’t know how to tell his brother he’d let Mary go to Bellecourt—or that he’d left her there.

Scott Castle’s rock tower rose above the curtain wall, stark against the mid-afternoon sky. It would be good to be home. He was tired and hungry, the anticipation of a warm bath and dry clothes the only things keeping him on the road.

The rider approached rapidly, his horse beating out a furious tattoo as his great stride devoured the distance between them. Ranald recognized them both.

“Damn.” Ranald swore under his breath and kicked his horse forward to meet his brother.

Eaden jerked Duff to a stop, bringing the horse down on his haunches as he slid to a halt. Mud slinging from beneath his flashing hooves, Duff pranced in a tight circle, champing his bit against the command.

“She was no’ at the abbey, though it took me time enough to get a straight answer,” Eaden growled, reining Duff to a standstill. He eyed Ranald narrowly. “Have ye seen her?”

“Aye.”

“Damn it, Ranald! Where is she?”

“She’s at Bellecourt.”

“You
left
her at Bellecourt?”

Duff tossed his head, sensing his rider’s anger.

“She asked for time to think.” Ranald grimaced at the memory of their conversation. “Well, she dinnae ‘ask’ as much as declare.”

“I told ye to bring her home. Kicking and screaming, as I recall,
was
an option.”

“Eaden, she only asked for a few days . . .”

“I dinnae have a few days! What I
do
have is a nicely worded command from the king to appear at Troon in five days’ time. With my wife.”

Ranald blinked. “Five days? ‘Tis no’ possible.”

“It is. I’ve done it in less.” Eaden sighed and patted his horse’s sweat-soaked neck. “But I’ve pushed Duff hard enough this day and he deserves a good feed and a night’s rest.”

He looked beyond Ranald in the direction of Bellecourt, and following his brother’s gaze, Ranald could easily picture the towers and turrets of their enemy’s keep.

Then Eaden sighed heavily. “We should have left yesterday. ‘Twill be tomorrow before I’ll take Duff out again.” He turned his horse back toward Scott Castle. Ranald followed, his hands jerking on the reins as he heard Eaden’s muttered words.

“God save the king.”

Mary’s emotional strength faded as she entered the massive front doors of Bellecourt Castle. The anger fueling her drive to break from Eaden had spent itself, leaving her exhausted and curiously hollow. She had told the castle warden she’d returned home, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. She trembled as she approached the portal. The sights and scents of her childhood rushed over her, overwhelming the memory of her time at Scott Castle.

Sunlight from the bailey splashed into the room as the heavy wooden panels swung outward, casting her shadow across the stone floor. Rushes lay scattered around, and the familiar scent of rosemary drifted in the air. The shuffle of slippers on stone sounded to Mary’s right and she turned in response. Recognition flooded her as Agnes’ round form bustled into the hall.

“Heavens, lass!” A gasp of dismay burst from the woman’s lips as she caught sight of Mary. Her hand flew to her breast in a dramatic gesture, pale and plump against the coarse black silk of her gown. Mary hid her own grubby hands in the tattered folds of her ruined velvet robe, wincing in embarrassment at her bedraggled state, remembering the rule the woman had wielded over Miriam and herself since her mother’s death three years earlier.

“Mary, what has happened to ye?”

Blinking back sudden tears, Mary staggered beneath the agonies of the past two days. Agnes hurried to her, hands outstretched to cup Mary’s cheeks between the warmth of her palms. She turned Mary’s pale face from side to side, assessing the exhaustion tracing dark lines across her skin.

“Ye must have a hot bath and clean clothes,” she announced. “Whatever were those men thinking?” She grasped Mary’s hand, dragging her along in her wake. “Men are barbarians—simply barbarians! To see what they’ve done to our little Mary. Makes a body wonder, it does!”

Bemused with the unprecedented attention, Mary allowed herself to be hauled to the kitchen. The warmth of the enormous hearth slipped beneath the clinging wetness of her robe to her skin, producing a belated shiver she had been too tired and cold to generate before.

Agnes guided her toward the small storeroom next to the kitchen. Adjacent to the massive fireplace that framed the kitchen’s main cooking source, the constant fire in its stones made this room warm and cozy. The herbs drying in bound clusters hanging from the rafters lent their mingled scents to the dry air. Mary stood watching with detachment as Agnes bustled about, ordering a bath to be readied.

Moments later, Mary slipped from the ruined remnants of her clothes and into the warm water that rocked gently against her clammy skin. The cloying scent of roses wafted in the steam. Slipping deep into the sheltering warmth, she drifted into a state of dreamy exhaustion, left in a young maid’s watchful care.

The room shimmered around her and sound echoed eerily in her head. Groggy from her short nap, Mary struggled to awaken, aware hands pulled at her, the water she sat in no longer the warm haven she’d originally entered.

“Come, Mary. We’ve a room prepared for ye and fresh clothes. Come out where ye can dry and dress.”

Leaning heavily on Agnes’ stout arm, she dragged herself from the tub and stood passively for a moment while Agnes patted her skin dry. Yawning, Mary reached for the linen in Agnes’ hands. “Thank you. I can finish.” Her words were soft but firm.

After giving her an assessing look, Agnes relinquished the drying cloth. “There is a new gown and robe for ye.” She pointed to the clothing draped across a nearby chair. “When ye finish, come into the kitchen and someone will see ye to your room.”

“I know where my room is . . .”

Agnes harrumphed and frowned as she pursed her lips. “‘Tis not there I’ve been told to put ye. Ye are to have your mother’s room.”

Mary stared in shock as the door closed behind Agnes. Why would she be put there? Surely her old room would be adequate.

With no answers readily available for her questions, Mary wiped the remaining moisture from her body and draped the damp fabric over the lip of the tub. Reaching for the gown left for her, she missed the familiar swing of her pendant against her skin. Her hand flew to her chest where the chain normally lay. Memory washed over her as she realized she had left it on her dressing table the day before.

Mary sighed dejectedly. Though the necklace was safe and not lying on the bottom of the river, it was, nonetheless, lost to her.

Would she ever return to Scott Castle, to Eaden? Her heart still ached at the memory of seeing him in bed with Isobel. She might never again hear his voice or feel his kisses raining across her skin.

Mary’s eyes pooled with tears and she blinked irritably at her weakness. Pressing a hand to her stomach to quell its flutters, she paused, uncertain. Had there always been that slight mound, low in her abdomen?

Her hand rested against her belly, fingers tracing the tiny curve. Her mind replayed the past few days and nights with Eaden and the frequency of their intimacy. If one such occurrence could produce a child as she’d been warned, then there was a more than excellent chance . . .

She snatched her hand away. It wasn’t possible to know this soon. Certainly there would not be a noticeable change in herself in only a few days. How could she be certain? She touched her belly again, allowing herself to wonder.

What good could come of it? Abruptly Mary turned from her musings, anger replacing the curiosity. Difficulties of unimagined proportions would result from such a thing and she dared not dwell further on it. To be saddled with an unwanted marriage was bad enough. The reality of a child born into such a union seemed unthinkable. She grabbed the shift and dragged it over her head.

The scrape of a booted foot alerted her she was not alone, and she whirled, not knowing who intruded.

“Laird Barde!” she gasped, recognizing the red-headed man who stood inside the doorway. Dark eyes met hers and Mary’s skin crawled as his gaze roamed slowly over her; she had no idea how long he’d been there, watching her.

“‘Tis good to have ye back, Mary. Ye look well.” He brought his gaze back to hers, the gleam in his eyes showing obvious interest.

Mary shuddered. How could he look at her so? He was Miriam’s
father
. She took a step back, her legs bumping against the chair, until she could retreat no further. “Please leave me.”

Laird Barde gave her a brittle smile. “Ye ask for the hospitality of my house. I would like to know what has driven ye back to my doors.”

Mary swallowed convulsively. Laird Barde had always been a source of undefined terror for her. Stern and quick to anger, his mere presence had been enough to keep her quiet and obedient as a child. Had she not known Miriam was again living at Bellecourt Castle, Mary would have thought twice about seeking refuge here.

“Miriam wrote me, explaining about her marriage, and told me she and her husband lived here. She also told me I could return here if I ever needed to.”

“And why would
Lady Sco
tt need to find succor at Bellecourt Castle?”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “I wish to visit Miriam and seek peace in my childhood home.”

Laird Barde gave a bark of laughter. “I heard of yer Scott escort to my doors. ‘Twas not yer husband who brought you here. Tell me,
Lady Scott
, is yer man so cruel to drive ye away? Is he so foolish, to allow another to escort his wife, alone over the night, and not think of the stain on her reputation?”

“He is neither cruel nor foolish, m’laird,” Mary retorted, lifting her chin defensively. “‘Tis no concern of yours if I travel with or without an escort.”

“And what of yer reputation, my sweet?”

Revulsion at his endearment sent a shudder over her skin. “My reputation is my own concern,” she whispered past the fear tightening her throat.

“Then have a care, Mary. That brat ye think ye carry may need his father—whoever he is.”

Dundonald Castle, Troon

Eaden entered the main hall, his eyes fixed on the king seated on his throne. The scent of candles hung heavy, thickening in his throat. Fabric whispered as people moved abaout the room, the sound mingling with the murmurs of speculation only partly hidden behind sheltering hands. Deep inside, Eaden’s instincts shivered in alert response, sharpening his senses like those of a hart pinned beneath the steady eye of the huntsman.

His eyes locked on those of his king, though whether he’d found friend or foe remained to be seen. The enmity in the room left a silvery taste of threat in his mouth.

Eaden stopped before the dais, head bowed, though he peered upwards through his lowered lashes. King Robert’s frown covered his face from his down-turned lips to his gathered brow, wrinkling his aged skin into further lines of displeasure.

Minutes stretched endlessly and a muscle in Eaden’s jaw twitched in response to his rising temper. Stretching his jaw as unobtrusively as possible, he loosened the tight muscles and schooled his expression into one of acceptance. Subservience was, at this moment, clouded by his anger at being so summoned, and completely out of the question.

Finally, King Robert shifted in his chair, though he continued to favor Eaden with a look bordering on anger. “Where is yer wife, Scott?”

Eaden’s eyes narrowed at the growl in the king’s voice and the implication he was unable to produce his wife when bidden. “My wife has returned to Bellecourt Castle.”

The king’s face paled, taking Eaden aback. “Could ye no’ keep her in yer bed?”

Eaden’s pulse raced as he battled his ire at the king’s words. “‘Tis
my
wife, Sire . . .”

The king exploded to his feet, slapping his palms against the wooden arms of his throne. “‘Tis
my
daughter!”

Eaden’s breathless
whoosh
of surprise sounded loud in the resulting, shocked silence.

King Robert glared around the room and the courtiers instantly averted their faces, though the speculative sound of their voices rose in the hall like the hum of angry bees. With a jerk of his head, the king motioned for Eaden to follow him, and they retired to a chamber beyond the hall.

The king pointed toward the door. “Close it.”

Eaden did so, still reeling from the king’s words a moment before. King Robert seated himself behind a massive desk on the far side of the room. Then, restless, he regained his feet and paced across the floor to stand before Eaden.

“Is she well?”

“In truth, Sire, I last saw her several days ago, but she appeared in a fine mettle.”

“Why did she no’ come with you? My men reported she had fled the castle.”

Eaden gritted his teeth, condemning the gossiping fools to a painful existence. “There was a misunderstanding and she asked for time to herself. She looked forward to visiting here, but it apparently slipped her mind at the last.”

“Have ye no’ resolved yer differences? I thought ye would have convinced her to see reason long ago.”

“Ye give me too much credit, Sire,” Eaden replied, gesturing in emphasis. “We had reached an arrangement of sorts. There was a problem we had yet to work out. I will see it resolved as soon as I return to Craigievar.”

“I want to meet her, Scott.”

“Why do ye think she is yer daughter?”

“Do ye remember the necklace ye asked me about when we met last?” the king asked.

Eaden’s hand went automatically to his chest. Entering his room at Scott Castle, he had noticed the pendant lying on the dressing table. Drawn by a need to have something of hers next to him, he had slung the length of chain over his head, hiding the pendant beneath his shirt. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew it from his neck and offered it to his liege.

King Robert’s lips parted in surprise at the sight of the pendant, and he stared intently at the green stones. Gold filigree curved possessively around the jade, lending a mysterious glow to the opaque gems. His eyes clouded as he cupped the pendant in one large palm, his attention seemingly focused on some memory too precious to share.

At last the king spoke, his fingers closing gently around the cross. “I met her mother eighteen years ago. She was newly widowed and my wife was unwell and could not tolerate the cold winter air in Edinburgh. I was negotiating the release of David from the English and there was much strife in the court. I often slipped away, seeking my own counsel, and one night I met Eilean in the snow-covered garden at Edinburgh Castle.”

King Robert’s mouth turned up gently at the corners. “We each had our own challenges, and we found our company to be compatible.” His smile deepened. “Very compatible."

He stirred from his introspection and glanced at Eaden. “We both knew there could be no future for us, but for a while we found each other a comfort. When time came for me to hand control of Scotland to David, Eilean and I parted as I was no longer welcome at court. I gave her a green jade pendant. The color matched her eyes and I was pleased to gift it to her. I believed she traveled to the Highlands where her father’s people were, to live with a cousin. She never told me she was with child.”

“Perhaps she dinnae know at the time.”

King Robert nodded slowly. “Perhaps.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Ye know I have many children. They are a weakness of mine.” He emitted a gusty sigh. “Legitimate or no’ I want the best for each of them.”

Eaden managed to keep his expression bland. The king’s marital arrangements had led to much conflict after the validity of his first marriage had been brought into question years ago. It wasn’t the lack of an heir posing the problem. ‘Twas the existence of too many.

“I well remember Eilean. I would like to know her daughter.” The king moved to the hearth and plucked a slender length of kindling from the box near the fire. Lighting the end, he placed it against the wicks of the candles on the table, bringing a hint of warmth to the room.

Satisfied, he tossed the flaming remnant into the fireplace and leaned his hip against the edge of the desk. “Ye said she went to Bellecourt Castle. Do ye expect her to return to ye?”

Eaden’s brow creased in an uncertain frown. From the grim look on the king’s face, if Mary was kept from him or harmed in any way, there would be more than mere boundary lines in contention along the Scott and Barde border.

Mary slept fitfully, tossing and turning in her unfamiliar surroundings. She had expected to feel comforted to be in her mother’s old room, but many guests had stayed in the room over the years and nothing remained to remind Mary of her. The heavy bed, the chest beneath the window, the dressing table where her jars and brushes and mirror once resided, all were there, but her mother’s essence had long dissipated.

Scurrying sounds in the corner brought a shiver of distaste, raising goose bumps on her skin. She clutched the blanket around her and resolved to rethink her problems on the morrow. Learning Miriam and her husband had departed for the Melville estate several days earlier for a visit, Mary’s enthusiasm to tarry for a while at Bellecourt Castle had taken a severe blow. Agnes seemed happy enough to have Mary around, and willing to settle back into the relationship they’d shared only a few weeks back. Mary smiled fondly as she drifted back to sleep.
Bossy old woman
.

Later, Mary slipped silently into the hall. With deliberation she’d waited in her room until she was sure most of the castle folk had finished breaking their fast before she ventured downstairs. Servants moved a few of the long tables against the wall, clearing space for the activities of the day. Dinner would be the main meal, taken at noon, and Mary hoped to miss that particular gathering as well. She craved anonymity, not a chance to be on display for all to see. She’d eat scraps from the kitchen if necessary to avoid being held up for speculative scrutiny.

“I trust ye are well-rested?”

Mary jerked at the sound of Laird Barde’s voice. She faced him, assessing his scornful gaze, giving him a carefully blank stare of her own. Not only would she refuse to answer the smoothly mocking question, but she found his intense regard too unsettling to form a coherent response.

Laird Barde beckoned to her, and years of conditioning did not allow her to disobey. With wooden feet, Mary moved to precede him to a private chamber a few feet down the hall. Prodded further into the room, Mary flinched to hear the snug snick of the door as it latched behind her.

She forced herself to look around the room, trying to steady her nerves but remembering all too readily the fear Miriam’s father had always inspired in her. She pinned her gaze on the scarred wooden desk, piled high with parchments and bound ledgers. A flask held place of honor in the middle of the desk, and Mary’s unease grew when she detected the scent of well-aged whisky drifting from the mug beside it.

Her eyes flickered over him. “Are you ill, m’laird?” she asked, some of her spunk returning. If her presence in the castle had driven Laird Barde to drink this early in the day, perhaps he would state his piece and allow her to retire without further comment.

With a trace of guilt on his face, Laird Barde released the mug he’d been about to drink from, and it settled with a thump on the stained desk blotter. He stomped around the desk and yanked his chair out with a grinding scrape of wood against stone.

Seating himself, he stared at Mary over the top of his steepled hands. “Ye do favor your mother,” he murmured.

“Sir?” Mary lifted a brow.
What do my looks have to do with anything?

“She and my late wife were cousins, ye know,” he commented, ignoring Mary’s query. “She never told ye who yer father was, did she?”

Mary blinked, confused. His words were coming too fast. She reeled from his abrupt change of subject, to the known, but never talked about, relationship to Miriam’s mother.

And to the biggest question of all . . .
Who is my father? And what does Laird Barde know?