The Highlander's Accidental Bride (21 page)

Mary steadied the rapid beating of her heart. Even when she’d grown old enough to ask her mother a direct question about her father, the best answer she’d gotten had been a sharp admonition to appreciate her circumstances. The worst answer had been silent tears.

For a long time, Mary had known what
illegitimate
and
bastard
meant. Growing up, her mother’s position as castle chatelaine and Mary’s own place as Lady Miriam’s companion had shielded her from the worst of the children’s taunts. But the words still carried the ability to touch her with shame. She clenched her fists, surprised to feel sticky sweat on her palms.

Then Laird Barde smiled; a narrow-eyed, evil half-lift of his lips that made her shudder and caused her stomach to lurch. “Your lady mother did not like to be reminded of it, but she once was Lady Barde. She and my brother met at court. They married, but it only lasted a few weeks. Colin died in a stupid accident before they could return to Bellecourt Castle.”

Mary bit the inside of her lip, tasting the tang of blood as she steeled herself not to react to Laird Barde’s revelations. She hated to admit she knew nothing of the tale of her mother’s brief marriage, and she feared he would stop, from spite if nothing else, leaving her at some critical point in the story.

“Your mother lived at court for a time after my brother died. King David resided in London at the pleasure of King Edward, while Robert, then Steward of Scotland, occasionally negotiated for King David’s release.” Laird Barde leaned back in his chair, fingering his chin as he regarded Mary. “She remained there for some time and I took my place as Laird Barde. I married her cousin, and soon after Giselle took to bed after Miriam’s birth, your mother arrived with you, here at Bellecourt.”

Mary felt behind her surreptitiously for the door or some solid substance to lean against. Lightheadedness made her vision fade around the edges. Touching the rough wood of the door beneath her hands, she sank against its oaken strength, too overwhelmed to care if Laird Barde noticed.

“‘Twas agreed the two of you could reside here. Eilean proved a great comfort to Giselle, and `twas thought you would make an acceptable companion to the baby. Neither your mother nor Giselle ever revealed where the two of you had been all those months, though I suspect Giselle knew.”

“Am I your brother’s daughter?” Mary ventured hesitantly.

Laird Barde gave a derisive snort. “You think I would have kept you around to usurp my daughter’s position as heiress? There was no chance you were Colin’s brat. It had been nearly three years since my brother died when your mother arrived on my doorstep with you on her hip.” He raked her with an insulting stare. “It appears history does repeat itself.”

Mary’s cheeks flushed hotly and she straightened, pushing away from the door’s support. “I will not accept hospitality from you other than that of a guest. I wished to visit with Miriam, nothing more.” She angled her chin defiantly, staring down at Laird Barde.

He chuckled. “And what of the child you bear?”

“I’m not . . . How . . . how could you . . .” Mary’s hands flew to her stomach before she could stop them. She could detect no difference in herself since last night, so how could he tell?

Laird Barde smiled slowly, bringing Mary’s instincts to full alarm. “I saw you last night after your bath. Before you realized I was there. You obviously believe you could be with child.” He gave her an appraising glance. “I cannot imagine Laird Scott letting a lovely young woman such as yourself live as his wife and not take advantage of the situation. I’m sure he has plowed your belly enough times to ensure himself an heir.”

“What my relationship is with Laird Scott is none of your concern,” Mary flung coldly at him, anger overriding her normal sense of caution. “Things appear to have changed much around here. If you cannot offer a guest more hospitality than this, I will leave.”

She snatched at the front of her skirt, lifting it from the floor as she whirled about. Grabbing the heavy latch, she tugged at the door, feeling it drag against the stone floor. Behind her she heard Laird Barde’s grating laugh.

“And go where, milady?” he mocked. “You have confirmed the Scotts’ opinion. Barde women are a spineless, unworthy lot.” He rose from his chair and strode to her side, leaning over her shoulder to push the oaken panel closed. “Your husband is no longer at Scott Castle. He has gone to visit the king, leaving you to your own ends. His mistress lies dead, and you have run away.”

Mary clenched her hands tightly into fists when Laird Barde touched his lips to her hair. He murmured, “Laird Scott did not want you when he married you. You have done him the great service of leaving his household without having to toss you out himself. You are a bastard, Mary Marsh. Your life was ruined the day your mother spread her legs for her lover. A bastard cannot become a lady. But you could have other purposes.”

With a low screech of fury, Mary whirled. Her fisted hand came up, its arc fueled by the force of her turn. Caught off-guard, Laird Barde made no move to evade her and her fist connected with an audible crack against his jaw. Tears sprang to her eyes at the pain shooting through the jarred bones in her hand.

Laird Barde’s face flushed dark with rage and he grabbed her hand before she could pull away. Mary cried out as the grip of his fingers forced the bones in her wrist together and he jerked her arm, dragging her against him.

“If you ever raise a hand to me again, you little bitch, you will wish you had died along with your mother.” Laird Barde rubbed his jaw with his free hand. “I can play as rough as you like.”

“Unhand me,” Mary spat at him, pulling against his grip. “I will not remain here a moment longer.”

Laird Barde sneered at her. “Did you not hear me? You have nowhere else to go. There is a rumor something you possess is wanted by the king. You will stay here until I discover what it is.”

Mary ran upstairs, her feet slipping in her haste as though ice coated the treads. She grabbed at the railing, blinking through tears of anger and fear. Reaching her room, she jerked open the door and stumbled inside, slamming the panel shut behind her. She leaned against the door, breathing erratically, trying to block the sound of Laird Barde’s mocking laughter.

Her hand clutched the empty spot at her breast where her mother’s pendant usually hung. Could the necklace be what Laird Barde meant? She had no other mementos from her mother. Mary’s gaze sought and lingered on each item in the room. Anything belonging to her mother had disappeared long ago, though in truth there hadn’t been much, other than personal items such as her brushes and clothing. Her mother had worn a slender silver wedding band which Mary had insisted she be buried in, but the cross was her only other piece of jewelry.

What does it represent?

Mary walked across the room and opened the chest beneath the window. A heavy velvet cloak lay on the bottom beneath two silk dresses she did not recognize as any her mother had worn. But her own robe, the only outer garment she owned, had been taken to be cleaned and mended, and she had no choice but to use the cloak if she meant to leave tonight. The light-colored gown Agnes had loaned her would mark her beneath the full moon as readily as if she carried a lighted torch.

I will not stay here a moment longer
.

Her hands trembling with emotion, she pulled the cloak from the chest and shook out the folds. The nap rippled, luxuriously thick and rich beneath her fingers. Mary settled the heavy fabric about her shoulders. It quickly caught the warmth of her body and the chill running through her from her encounter with Laird Barde began to fade.

She strode to the bed and sat on the edge, kicking her feet out before her. Where would she go? If she returned to Scott Castle and found her necklace, then what? Was she ready to forgive Eaden? She flinched. Would the image of Isobel ever leave her mind?

There was no reason the king would give her sanctuary because of a jade pendant. More likely he would have her thrown in jail for possessing something of his. How had it come to her mother? Laird Barde said she had gone to court for a time. Had she become entangled in the loss of the necklace? Mary rubbed her aching forehead with trembling fingers. She simply could not see her gentle mother stealing anything. And the stone was of no great worth. At least her mother had said so. But, her mother had apparently kept a good many secrets. Could this be yet another one?

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her if she wanted to slip away this night, she needed not only food to keep up her strength, but enough for the journey as well. She rose to her feet and crossed the room, catching the door handle and slowly releasing the latch, listening intently for the slightest sound of protest. Relieved at the silence, she pulled the door open and stepped to the portal . . .

And reeled backward, gaping at the sight of the well-armed guard looming over her. With a forbidding look on his face, he stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted firmly in her path.

“Who are you?” she managed, her voice squeaky with fright.

“I am Gilbert. You will stay in your room until Laird Barde sends for you.”

Flustered to find her way barred, Mary grasped for the first excuse that came to her mind. “But I wish to go downstairs to eat.”

“Someone will bring you a tray.”

Her face heated and she huffed, “I want to eat now. Move out of my way.”

The guard’s expression did not change. Neither did his stance. Mary tossed her head and took one step toward him, intending to slip through the tiny space between his side and the door frame. Gilbert unfolded his arms and grabbed her by the neck of her cloak, lifting her off her feet. He turned her around and, with a slight push, propelled her back inside the room. She struggled to keep her feet, coming to a halt as she landed against the bed.

She whirled, furious, but the door closed with a firm snick of the latch. She slumped against the soft mattress and slid down its side, landing with a soft thump of her fanny on the floor. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she stared at the closed door.

Now what was she to do?

The tray of food sat untouched on the chest beneath the window. Mary had automatically taken it when thrust at her, peering around Gilbert’s huge body to see if anyone lingered in the hall behind him that she could enlist to her aid. Scarcely had the food left his hands, Gilbert slammed the door shut again.

It had taken all of her control not to hurl the tray at the closed portal. She knew she needed the nourishment, but her stomach churned in queer butterfly motions, and the smell of the roasted meat on the platter made her set it aside.

Damn him!

Mary sat, hunched on the bed, the hem of her cloak tucked about her feet. Her borrowed slippers, noticeably too big for her, lay piled together on the floor. The single candle in its sconce by the bed flickered close to guttering, and she stared into its dancing flame, trying to keep from succumbing to dismay.

She must have dozed, for the next time she opened her eyes, the room was dark and the candle cold. Her stomach rumbled and she rose groggily to her feet. Padding across to the chest, she lifted the linen napkin covering the tray and studied its contents of grouse, bread and something that appeared stewed
.
She poked the bread and found it somewhat dry. The grouse, however, did not seem affected by its entombment beneath the napkin, and she bit into it hungrily.

The grouse vanished forthwith, and Mary decided the bread wasn’t so bad after all. She turned to the pitcher on the washstand and lifted it to her nose, testing the quality of its contents. Smelling nothing but stale water, she drank, washing down her meager meal.

Wiping her fingers on the scrap of linen, she walked to the window. Ranald’s words whispered through her mind as she gazed at the ground three stories below. How could Isobel have jumped? A chill ran down her spine, raising goose bumps in its path.

The moonlight filling the bailey gave her no answer and Mary turned back to the room. Shedding her cloak with a weary shrug, she slid beneath the coverlet on the bed and slept.

Two more days passed, repeating the same pattern. Anxious to be away, Mary spent much of her time pacing the room, replaying her conversation with Ranald the day she left Scott Castle. Remembering the plan to visit King Robert, she slowed her step and sank absently to the top of the wooden chest beneath the window. Was there something to Laird Barde’s story? Had King Robert asked for her, specifically? Or had he just politely mentioned meeting Laird Scott’s new wife?

A noise beyond the door broke her concentration. Leaping from her seat, Mary ran to the portal. Voices sounded on the other side, and her heart quickened as she recognized the high-pitched, demanding tone.

“Miriam!” The pitch of the voice grew, accompanied by the low rumble of a man’s voice. Laird Barde had chosen her guard well. Apparently, Gilbert remained unaffected by Miriam’s imperious demands.

“Miriam!” She beat on the door, bruising her fists as she fought to make herself heard. Pausing, she pressed her ear to the wooden panel, straining to make sense of the sounds beyond her room. She heard nothing. The hallway was quiet as the grave.

“Argh!” Giving the door a final fierce thump, she flung herself back into the room. Her gaze darted around, coming to rest on the window. Its frame was narrow, but not impassable. Mary ran to the bed and flung the coverlet to the floor. She grabbed the sheet and stripped it from the bed, running its length through her hands until she encountered an edge. With quick jerks of her hands, she rent the fabric into narrow strips, then tying the strips together.

Gathering the newly made rope, she attached one end to the leg of the bed and let the other end fall from the window. Steeling herself, she leaned out the window and stared dizzily to the ground below, watching the makeshift rope swing gently against the side of the castle.

The rope was too short.

By Saint Andrew’s teeth!
She clenched her hands in frustration. A glance around the room for a way to lengthen the rope yielded nothing. The coverlet was too heavy, and without a knife or scissors, she could not use it as she had the sheet. Several feet of her makeshift rope stretched from the window to the bed. Surely, if she could push the bed to the window, the added length might bring the rope closer to the ground.

She grasped the bed by a corner post and planted her feet. It moved. An inch. The accompanying screech of a heavy object dragging across the wooden floor made her glance up nervously. She held her breath for a moment, watching the door latch, half-expecting someone to have seen the rope and alerted the guard, or worse, Gilbert had heard the bed move. Seeing nothing of alarm, she released her breath and closed her eyes in relief. She braced herself again to pull against the bed, and heard the soft whoosh of a well-oiled door.

Jerking upright, Mary stared over her left shoulder. Miriam stood against the far wall, her hand against the edge of a door so cleverly hewn into the wall that she’d had no idea of its existence.

“Miriam?”

“Shh!” Miriam motioned frantically for Mary to be silent. She spied the rope trailing through the window and gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Escaping.”

“I can see that. You’ll break your neck trying to climb down from this height!” Miriam ran to the window and began hauling the rope upwards.

“Stop!” Mary was at Miriam’s side in an instant, batting at her hands as they reeled in the rope.

“Do you want someone to see?”

“I want to leave here.”

Miriam eyed Mary with sadness and laid a hand on her arm. “I know, Mary. I know. But not this way.”

Mary nodded at the hidden door. “Can you get me out through here?”

Miriam finished pulling the rope in, dropping it to the floor as she closed the window. “I could, but where will you run to?”

“I don’t know.”

Miriam kicked the knotted length of sheet beneath the bed and smoothed the coverlet across the mattress. She patted the bed beside her. “Come, sit beside me and tell me everything.”

Mary tossed her a wry look. “The last time I climbed into a bed at your bidding, I found myself married to the Scott laird.”

Miriam’s eyes danced with sudden humor. “Oh, Mary, can you ever forgive me?”

Mary sighed. “If you help me get home, I will forgive you anything.”

“So, Craigievar is now your home?”

Mary lowered her gaze, her fingers nervously pleating the fabric of her gown. After a moment, she shook her head and looked at her friend. “No,” she whispered. “Eaden is.”

Silence filled the room. Mary gestured toward the secret door. “How did you know about this?”

“I discovered it by accident, really. This has been used as a guest room since . . .”

Mary nodded. “Since my mother died.”

“Well, yes. A few weeks ago I searched for my father and could not find him.” Miriam shrugged. “I heard a noise in this room and thought perhaps a servant was cleaning in here and might have seen him. I’d observed him not long before, climbing the stairs, to retire for the night, or so I thought.” She stopped, a pained look on her face.

“Yes?”

“He was in here, all right. With a servant girl. The secret door stood ajar.” Miriam pursed her lips in disapproval. “They did not notice me.”

“You think he used the door to meet women secretly in here?”

Miriam nodded. “I came back the next day and figured out how to open the door. I followed the hallway behind the wall.”

“Well? Where does it lead?”

“To his bedroom.”

Mary’s eyes grew wide with dismay.

“I don’t dare lead you through until I know for certain he is not there.”

Mary walked slowly to the bed and sank beside Miriam. “We can do this.”

“Of course we can.” Miriam patted Mary’s leg comfortingly. “I just have to be sure.”

“How long do you think it will take? Surely he doesn’t sit in his room all day?”

“No, but he has given orders you are to not leave the castle. We can only do this at night, and only when he is not there.” Miriam turned to Mary. “I know you want to leave. I know what my father is capable of. But if you escape and he captures you again, he will lock you in a cell beneath the castle. And I do not know if I can release you from there.”

“I must get word to Eaden. He is in Troon, but will return home shortly. I told his brother I was coming here, er, to think. He waits for me to send a missive when I wish to leave. I do not want them riding here, expecting to rescue me.” Mary swallowed her fear. “I must let him know I am all right.”

Miriam nodded. “Of course.”

“I can write a letter.”

“Two letters,” Miriam replied firmly.

“But, I only need to write one.”

Miriam smiled serenely at Mary. “You write two. One saying you are being held prisoner and need his help. That’s the one you give to Gilbert to send to Laird Scott. The other one, saying you love him and will be home soon, you give to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

This time Miriam laughed. “Trust me. Gilbert will not send the letter you give him—he’ll bring it to my father. He’ll think he’s intercepted your letter, thus allaying his suspicions. The second letter will slip past him, unnoticed.”

“However did you think of this?”

“Oh, Mary. How do you think I managed to steal away and marry Bennett?”

Mary kept vigil by the window. Had she been able to condense the past few momentous weeks of her life into the passage of an hour’s conversation? She wasn’t sure.

She regarded her hands, two fingers on her right stained with smudges of ink. Rubbing them against her skirt, she glanced at the writing desk where a folded piece of parchment lay. With Miriam’s help, she’d written a letter to Eaden, imploring him to rescue her, afraid of Laird Barde and his intentions. She prayed it would convince Laird Barde it was the only letter.

A rap sounded against her door and she moved away from the window. Knowing the single knock was the only warning she would receive, she didn’t bother opening the door or responding. Gilbert pushed the panel open, her evening meal tray in his hands.

Her mouth quirked in a cautious smile. “Gilbert.” He looked at her with suspicion and she quickly turned aside so he wouldn’t see the trepidation on her face. She strode to the desk and stopped, staring at the letter resting there. Stretching her hand out, she let it hover above the parchment as though hesitant how to proceed.

Just before she reckoned Gilbert’s patience would run out, she snatched the letter and spun around, clutching it to her breast. She raised her eyes slowly to meet his gaze, chewing her lip as though in indecision.

“I really shouldn’t ask you this,” she began, letting her voice trail off. Silence ensued as she waited for Gilbert to make the next obvious move. His narrow look of suspicion turned into a scowl of impatience.

“Ask me what, milady?”

“I wrote a letter to . . . to my husband.” She swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. “Laird Barde is holding me here against my will. I do believe he will release me when he has learned what he wishes to know. However . . .” Mary raised her face to Gilbert, this time allowing trepidation to show. “I do not wish my husband to come looking for me. I fear he will take this amiss.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not want bloodshed.”

“What is it you wish me to do?”

As though suddenly convinced of the rightness of her actions, Mary rushed to Gilbert’s side. “I want you to take this letter and see it gets to him. I cannot pay you now, but I swear to you, I will see you amply recompensed for your trouble as soon as I am released.” She rested a hand on his arm, holding the letter out for him. Feeling the twitch of his arm at her touch, Mary swallowed another smile.

Gilbert made a show of settling the tray on the desk. He took his time, obviously marshalling his thoughts. Finally he turned back to her. “I must ask you what is in this letter, milady.”

Mary’s hands flew to her breast, clutching the parchment to her again. “It is my most urgent request he remain at Scott Castle whilst he awaits my return. Must you know the exact contents?”

Gilbert’s skin flushed and he ducked his head. “You swear there is nothing in this missive harmful to the people of Bellecourt?”

The parchment crinkled audibly as Mary grasped the letter in fervent appeal. “You have my word, Gilbert. I wish none of you harm.”

Reluctantly, Gilbert nodded his head and held out his hand for the letter. Looking down to inspect the seal, Mary gave it to him with a beaming smile of gratitude on her face. The formalities satisfied on both sides, Mary hummed to herself as she turned to the food tray.

Canting a look over her shoulder, she watched Gilbert stow the missive within his shirt, a smirk of triumph spreading across his face, erasing the earlier wide-eyed look of sympathetic virtue.

Mary nodded. The letter was certainly on its way to Laird Barde without delay. She prayed Miriam was right.