The Laird (6 page)

The roof of her prison sprang open before her scream’s echo stopped. A heavily muscled arm reached for her. Grasping the man’s hand, Beth stared, mouth agape, into the steel blue eyes of her rescuer.

“Duncan?”

The Laird of Blackstone looked about the confines of the fractured coach. Seeing only one woman alive, one who looked nothing like the bride he’d been told to expect, he cursed. He shoved the dead women aside and pulled up on the crying woman’s hand. The Bruce would pay with his life for this.

As he lifted her through the door, lightening flashed. Its light bounced off the rubies in the ring she wore on her left hand. Sudden, overwhelming relief flooded him. It was his betrothal ring. Thank God! ‘Twas of no account that the abbess had gilded the lily—-hell, the woman was apparently blind--for his bride lived.

Before he could set her on the ground, her hands flew to his face. Her cold fingers fluttered across his cheeks for an instant before her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Oh, Duncan! I’ve never...” She stopped and he followed her gaze. Her eyes grew wide as they took in the carnage he and his men had wrought.

“Duncan...?”

What followed, he could only guess at. Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she turned ashen and promptly fainted.

“Well, ye did it again. Will ye never learn?” Angus, his second in command, asked as he peered over his shoulder. “One look at ye and yer softer-than-puddin’ bride faints.” His best friend’s gaze shifted, as did his own, from the woman’s face to her outlandish clothing. “And what on earth is she wearing?”

Duncan had no idea, but she’d been living on the continent and their ways were strange. Perhaps his intended had dressed as a man thinking it safer. Her odd leggings would make for an easier, faster ride home, in any event. She could ride astride on the way to their wedding.

~#~

Beth opened her eyes, this time in Blackstone’s great hall, standing in Duncan’s fierce embrace. Without a word, he spun her toward the small man with his back to the fire. Fire? Why was there a fire? She’d yet to have the flues cleaned.

She blinked, trying to understand why the fat little man in brown was in her home and what he now mumbled about. He said something to Duncan in Gael, and her ghost growled something in return. Head still spinning, she pushed on Duncan’s arm, but his grip only tightened.

She ran a dry tongue over her chapped lips and again tasted salt. “Please let go.”

Duncan responded by issuing another order to the concerned looking man before her. The room continued to list so she tried focusing on the large wooden crucifix on the little man’s chest.

What in hell is going on?

Frowning, the brown-cloaked man continued mumbling and Duncan answered. Pity clouded the little man’s eyes when he placed her hand in Duncan’s. He finally addressed her. When he asked, “Doth thou pledge thy troth?” Beth’s heart tripped with understanding.

Stunned, she tried to pull her hand from her ghost’s grasp. She slurred, “I can’t think, let alone...” and the world went black.

“She has swooned,” Father Given sputtered as if everyone in the hall were blind. “We must stop the ceremony.”

Duncan, his right arm fully occupied with his faint bride, reached out with his left arm and grabbed the priest’s frock. He hissed feeling the stitches in his wounded shoulder tear open. “Priest, we will continue. She consented, said ‘Aye Katherine LeBeau’ before swooning and I’ve witnesses aplenty who’ll willingly attest to it.” He glanced over his shoulder to his clansmen standing around the room. To the man they all nodded. Duncan again faced the priest. “I dinna rescue her just an hour ago--killing seven men in the doing--to have ye now deny her wish to wed. ‘Tis not her fault the poor wee lass was attacked by the Bruce’s men.” He leveled a glare at the priest then shook him for good measure. “Continue!”

Duncan had to make Katherine LeBeau Demont his bride before sunset. He had no choice.

Their regent, the Duke of Albany, was determined to control Katherine’s dowered lands through Duncan’s loyalty. The man had made it abundantly clear this distant niece of his was to be Duncan’s bride by this date or Duncan would lose all his holdings, no doubt, to the Bruce.

Just the
thought
of his clan—-ever loyal to him--being turned out upon this brutal land without food or shelter, without his strong arm to protect them, was intolerable. He shook the priest again. “Do we ken one another?”

The priest reluctantly nodded and raced through the remainder of the ceremony. When the priest finally mumbled “Amen”, Duncan uttered a satisfied grunt.

At his side, Angus slapped him on the back in congratulations causing Duncan to growl, “Damn, man!”

“Augh, Duncan, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“If ‘twas yer bloody back, I doubt ye would.”

His last wife Eleanor had done her evil well. She’d been dead a fortnight and his shoulder was still a ragged, inflamed mess after her assault. Had he not been made wary by finding her traitorous missive to her lover, she might well have succeeded in killing him. When she fell on her own blade during their struggle and died, she’d done him a favor. He’d never liked her, but having to kill her--a woman—wouldn’t have set well on his conscience.

He’d sworn then never to marry again. Having pledged his fidelity thrice to keep his clan secure and suffered the consequences, one would have thought thrice enough to please God and king. But nay. Before Eleanor’s grave had had a chance to sprout grass or his shoulder to heal, Albany’s edict--King’s seal and all--had arrived.

He looked down at the drenched bride in his arms. Her eyes were ringed with soot and her cheeks streaked black and bloody. A mottled bruise the size of a goose egg marred her high forehead. No wonder the woman had fainted.

He looked at his friend. “While I carry her to the solar, order the food served.”

“I’ll take her,” Angus offered.

“Nay. She’s mine now, for better or worse.”

~#~

Beth opened her eyes to find familiar bedposts and an equally familiar board and beamed ceiling. She was in her bed, in Blackstone’s solar. She sighed. It had all been a dreadful dream. Thank heaven.

She stretched and nearly screamed. Good Lord, what had happened to her legs and back?

The storm. She remembered struggling to get onto the capsized boat. She must have wrenched a muscle or three. Cautiously, she rolled onto her side and saw heavy drapes hanging where only her sparkling mullion windows should be. Her brain then filled with flashes of being trapped in a box with two dead women, of Duncan, of severed limbs and bleeding men, and then the priest.

Her gaze flew around the room. Oh, God! The tapestries, the gilt mirror, the brass and-irons in the fireplace were all gone. Seeing that the dresser with her prized make-up collection had also disappeared while she slept brought her straight to her feet. The room spun and she reached for a bed poster. She was still trapped in her nightmare. She took several deep breaths and pinched her wrist. Hard. Nothing changed.

“Just calm down, Beth. This is only a dream. A bad dream, but nothing more. Just wash your face and you’ll see.” Head aching and heart pounding, she walked into the bathroom.

She stifled a scream with her hands.

Where her tub should have been hung odd, long-sleeved gowns. Where her sink should have been sat large chests. Where the toilet should have been sat nothing. She felt an overwhelming urge to scream yet again.

“This can’t be happening.” She spun and raced to the east facing windows and threw back a covering. Her beautiful mullion windows were gone. Only soft lavender light and a gentle sea breeze greeted her.

It was dawn; the sun was just starting to gild the hills across the bay. She couldn’t have lost a whole day, could she? Panicked, she searched the shore for the familiar, white stucco buildings of Drasmoor, for the church steeple and flower-lined streets. She found only fine spirals of smoke rising from a myriad of squat thatched buildings scattered near the beach and into the hills. The boats lining the beach were small with reefed sails. There wasn’t an outboard motor in sight.

“Where the hell am I?” She pushed an agitated hand through her hair, winced then tentatively explored the lump on her forehead.

Had she washed-up on some distant beach where there just happened to be another castle? Given the ferocity of the storm, it was altogether possible. Yes, that’s what happened. She hadn’t lost her mind. The rest was simply a nightmare.

She heaved a sigh and wondered where her rescuer hid. Probably still asleep given the hour. When her stomach growled, she muttered, “No wonder you have a headache.” She’d missed two meals on top of being knocked unconscious. But more pressing than hunger was her need to find a bathroom.

Since she couldn’t wander the halls in the tissue thin nightgown someone--she hoped it had been a woman--put on her, she looked for her clothes. Not finding her jeans or sweater, she donned a green silk sleeveless cloak.

She peeked into the hall and heard someone stirring below.

Her unease only grew as she reached the third level. The floor plan of this keep was identical to hers, but the décor wasn’t.

This castle hadn’t been modernized. Oil sconces lined the walls and brittle rushes crunched under foot. The owner had to be a purest. Wondering if the owner had opened his home to tourists—-which would explain why the place looked like an armory—-she turned a corner and collided with a small, dark-haired woman of about thirty years dressed in a period costume.

“I’m so sorry.” Beth steadied the startled woman carrying a mountain of cloth. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“Um..., “ The woman, her dark eyes growing round, looked about helplessly.

Beth, deciding the woman had to be new here as well, gave the petite woman’s arm a pat. “Never mind. I’ll find it myself.” As she turned to go, the woman tugged Beth’s sleeve and pointed in the direction she’d just come from. Great. She’d managed to pass the bathroom.

Following the woman, Beth wondered how far from home she’d landed. Would someone be available to give her a lift back to Drasmoor right away? The Silversteins were probably having a fit thinking she’d drowned. She needed to call them. Surely her host had a phone for emergencies, if nothing else.

Arriving back in the solar, Beth groaned. If she didn’t find the bathroom soon, she’d explode.

The woman, murmuring in French, held out the bundle of clothing. Beth smiled as best she could. “Miss, I need to find a bathroom. Now.” She placed a hand on her lower belly and started to jig. The woman’s face lit with understanding.

The lady laughed. “
Ah, oui, oui, madame
.”

“Yes, I have to wee wee, as soon as humanely possible, if you don’t mind.”

To Beth’s astonishment, the woman reached under the bed and pulled out a chamber pot.

“Ah.” Apparently, her host not only turned his back on electricity but on indoor plumbing, as well. Perhaps this castle was a museum. There were a plethora of them listed on maps and in tourist guidebooks. She took the crazed pot from her hostess’s hand. When in Rome…

~#~

Duncan, having no appetite, pushed his still full trencher away. He’d not slept, being sore and fevered, and now felt far worse. Adding to his misery, he’d peaked into the solar late last night to be sure his bride still breathed and been shocked by her state. Not only was the woman bruised and battered, she was as plain as porridge. How he would garner the enthusiasm to bed the woman was beyond knowing. But it had to be done--and soon--if he wanted to keep all he’d slaved over.

“Duncan, why so glum?”

He looked up to find Flora Campbell, his first wife’s sister, at his elbow. As usual she looked the vision of womanhood draped in a vivid blue damask cotehardie that enhanced the tone of her milk white skin. Her deep chestnut eyes laughed at him--danced above a perfectly bowed grin. “Where is thy fair new lady?”

Flora had no doubt heard all that had transpired last night, right down to the finest details about his new wife’s appearance. Having little patience for Flora’s taunting humor on the best of days, he felt the sudden urge to wipe the smug expression from her face with the back of his hand.  “Good morn, Flora.”

“Can I offer ye something else?” She leaned forward--giving him a clear view down her décolleté--and tipped his trencher. “Ye apparently have no appetite for what ye’ve been given.”

As always, Flora wielded her tongue like a double-edged claymore. If ye took offense, she’d claim ye’d misconstrued her meaning. And if a willing man waylaid her after she’d flirted outrageously, she acted the wounded party. Lord knew he’d broken up many a fight after a night’s mead had loosened his men’s inhibitions--and her tongue--to pay any heed to her beauty. Which, according to Angus, was reason enough for her taunting him.

Duncan had put forth five good men--not close friends--in the hopes of marrying her off, but to no avail. Regrettably, Flora was not a
domina
--a wealthy widow entitled to one third of her husband’s estate, so he’d not been able tempt a greedy man with land. Nor was she religious enough to become a voweress, one of those mature women who chose to devote their lives to God in some distant nunnery. Flora was only a beautiful, poorly dowered woman who chose remain unmarried just to annoy him.

About to tell her to leave him in peace, a murmur rose in the hall. He looked up to find his bruised bride standing in the doorway beside his advisor’s wife, Rachael. Studying his ladywife, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done that she should be foisted upon him. He shrugged. It didn’t matter at present, for his new ladywife appeared more than a wee bit frightened as her gaze swept the crowded hall.

He made his way toward her. When her gaze made contact with his, she blanched then swayed. He was nay the bonniest of men to be sure, but that was ridiculous, definitely not a good sign that she was again ready to faint at the mere sight of him before one and all.

“My lady.” He took her cold hand in his to steady her.