Highland Promise (26 page)

        "You will know soon enough."

        "I want to know now."

        "It will not hurt you to want."

        "You are a perverse man and deliberately try my patience. How soon will we reach this holding?"

        "Before the hour is out."

        She gasped and twisted back around to face him. "Truly?"

        "Must you question everything I say?" He gave her a stern frown. "I grow weary of repeating myself."

        "We must stop now," she ordered.

        "You can wait."

        "I cannot. I need to fix my plaid before anyone sees me." She began gathering the fallen folds into her arms. "I swear this infernal garment was invented by a man. A woman would have had enough sense to stitch a few tucks so the pleats would not fall out."

        "You are the only person I have met who could not keep one on."

        "I would not have this problem if your hands did not keep wandering."

        He blew in her ear. "You are welcome."

        She shivered from the provocation and leaned forward to distance herself from his desire-invoking breath. "I mean it, Brendan. I want to be presentable when we meet these friends of yours."

        "You are a fasheous lass." Despite the insult and his grumpy tone, Brendan released a shrill whistle and halted near the forest edge.

        She wanted Brendan to be proud of her and meant to look her best when they met his friends. She knew she should ask for help with her pleats, but she needed to be away from him for a few moments to get her erratic emotions under control. She slipped into the woods and tried her hardest to get her pleats just right. Several futile attempts later, she blew an errant tress from her face and shook her head. She was going to have to ask him to help her. The plaid was a confounded nuisance in her opinion.

        Twigs crunched to her left. She smiled at three gangly warriors approaching her. She didn't recognize their plaids, but they returned her smile and seemed friendly enough. Mayhap she could get them to help her with her pleats so she could baffle her contrary husband.

        Just as she was about to call out a greeting, stark terror crossed their features. Without a word, they spun about and vanished into the woods.

        "Michael, Cleit, find them," Brendan ordered from behind her in the most menacing tone she had ever heard.

        Michael and Cleit took off after the trio. Faith turned and faced her husband. She was surprised to see the scar on his cheek had turned white with anger. He looked mean. Pure predator. "Is there a reason you do not like those men?"

        "They are damn Gilmores." Luthias spit on the ground after that pronouncement as if he had just uttered the vilest of curses.

        Faith remembered Brendan had told her the Gilmores had stolen his sister, Heather. 'Twas why he worried himself sick with headaches.

        "I hate the Gilmores too," Faith exclaimed. Just so they would know she meant her words, she spit. Unfortunately, a breeze whipped around and tossed it back in her face. She pulled the linen square from her sleeve and wiped her cheek.

        Mirth twinkled in Brendan's eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest in a relaxed pose. "Why do you hate them?"

        "Because of Heather. Only a vile monster would try to harm an innocent child. And of course, because they are your enemies."

        He arched brow. "Do you intend to hate all my enemies?"

        Faith sighed and replaced the linen in her sleeve. "I suppose it is my duty to hate all of them if you do, because you are my husband. It is not a very Christian thing to do though. Do we have many enemies?"

        "The MacInneses, Gordans, and Mactavishes," Luthias volunteered, his roguish dark features alight with humor.

        "There are also the Sinclairs and Roses," Jamie added as a smile scrunched the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

        "Do not leave out the Macleods, Lindseys, Farquars, and Dunbars," Roland said.

        "And the Macleans." Tormey's winning smile beamed.

        "Do not leave out the Lowlands either," Brendan added. "I do not like anyone in the Lowlands."

        "You truly hate all those people?" Faith asked appalled.

        He nodded.

        "Why do you hate them?"

        He shrugged. "They deserve it."

        Faith raised her arms in an exasperated gesture, then dropped them to her sides. "Well, no wonder we have not seen anyone since we arrived in Scotland. They are all probably afraid you will provoke a fight."

        "They know we will provoke a fight," Tormey said.

        "Aye," Jamie agreed. "The main word is afraid."

        "You believe they are all afraid of you?" she scoffed.

        "Damn right, they are," Roland said, a hard glint in his hazel eyes.

        Faith shook her head. She could understand why people would fear these giant warriors, considering how ferocious they appeared. "We need to work on your facial expressions so you will not look so mean. Try smiling more. Then mayhap we shall get along with a few of our neighbors. 'Tis the Christian thing to do."

        Brendan rolled his eyes. "Come here and let me fix your plaid. I do not know why you have so much trouble with the garment."

        She crossed over and stopped in front of him. "'Tis a contrary garment," she grumbled as he deftly draped and pleated her plaid. "I shall fix it with my needle when we reach your home."

        "You will do no such thing." He nudged up her chin and caught her gaze. "It is not broken so it does not need fixing. You will learn the way of it soon enough. Now, go get on my horse while I go after Michael and Cleit."

        Her heart skipped a beat. She gripped his forearm. "I cannot get on your horse."

        He glowered down at her. "You will obey me."

        "I do not wish to disobey you, but you are not on the beast. I am not going near that stallion without you." She couldn't stop the trembling that seized her. His men surely thought her a coward, but she was too afraid of going near the black monster alone to care. If Brendan didn't give in and let her await him, she didn't know what she would do.

        His expression gentled and he caressed her cheek. "I thought you were over your fear."

        She gulped and met his gaze. "I have tried, but I do not think I shall ever be over it. Please let me wait for you."

        Michael and Cleit returned. Brendan raised a brow toward the pair in askance.

        "The Ranalds are handling the situation," Michael said.

        "Was Duncan with them?" Brendan asked.

        "Nay, 'twas Geddes and a few warriors." Michael's gray eyes glittered with humor. "He said Duncan will not leave his wife for fear she will get into mischief and lose the bairn before the birthing."

        Brendan returned the grin and shook his head.

        "Why does this Duncan fear his wife will get into mischief?" Faith asked.

        "'Tis what she does best," Brendan replied.

        Michael snorted. "Probably because she is English."

        Faith settled her hands on her hips and scowled. "Your dislike of my people is wearing out my patience."

        "The English are not your people," Brendan said sharply. "I claimed you."

        That was such a ridiculous assertion that Faith had to keep her mouth from hanging open. "What is that supposed to mean?"

        "You are now a Highlander," he decreed in a tone that told her the subject wasn't open to debate.

        "For heaven's sake, you cannot change my birth."

        "Nay, but I can try to forget it." He turned away from her.

        She grasped his arm and tugged until he looked at her again. "I like being English."

        He narrowed his eyes.

        "Does this Duncan think his wife is English or Scot?" she asked.

        He placed his fists on his hips.

        She matched his stance, waiting for an answer.

        After a moment of meeting stare for stare, he shrugged. "By birth she is both, and she will not let him forget the English half."

        "Well, I shall not let—"

        "I have spoken. You will obey me."

        "So, because you say I am Highlander, that makes me a Highlander?"

        "Do you make me repeat myself?" he gritted out.

        "Nay, I wish to understand. If Michael claims his bride, will she be English or Highlander?"

        "'Tis up to him to decide."

        "Then why does he not—"

        "Because he doesn't want to," Michael gritted out before she could finish.

        "Come, wife. Let's ride." Brendan tugged her over to his mount, grasped her waist, and tossed her astride.

        "What if I do not wish to be a Highlander?" she grumbled just to irritate him as she arranged her plaid and kirtle skirt over her legs for modesty's sake. "'Tis my birthday. Mayhap you should allow me to claim my heritage for the occasion."

        "I have a surprise for your birthday." He mounted behind her. "And you should know by now that you do not always get what you wish, or I would be calling you Sister Faith and not wife."

        "Nay, Brendan. I got my wish." She patted his arm and settled against him. "Being a nun was for penance. I just wish being your wife did not mean I shall have to suffer eternal fire."

~ * ~

        Brendan didn't trust himself to speak. The fact that she had wished to wed him lifted his heart, but her expectation that hell would be her reward for their marriage plagued him like an elusive foe.

        He forgot to get the blanket from her bundle, and her body pressed against his in a most provocative manner. Raw desire twisted in his gut. If he didn't know any better, he would swear she was trying to seduce him with her squirms.

        The gray stones of Laidirkin finally came into view. The formidable structure rose halfway up the side of the mountain. Brendan ignored the greetings called to him by Ranald clansmen and the stunned looks on his men's faces. He rode straight to the kirk attached to the west end of the edifice. The quicker he got his wife to the priest, the quicker her thinking could be fixed.

        "Where are we going, Brendan?" Faith glanced about in all directions like an excited child trying to take in everything at once. "Should we not give our greetings to your friend?"

       "We shall greet him soon enough."

       "Where are we going?"

       "To the kirk."

       "What is a kirk?"

       "A church."

       "But why go there first?"

        He didn't answer. Instead, he halted his mount in front of the chapel. A short, wiry priest exited the sanctuary. After dismounting, Brendan grasped Faith by her waist and lifted her to the ground. He faced the cleric and gave her a push in the priest's direction.

        "Father Cunningham, this is Lady Sutherland. Her thinking is faulty. Fix it."

        Without waiting for a reply, he remounted his steed and headed for the stables.

        "Brendan, my thinking is not broken, thus does not need fixing," she bellowed after him.

        He goaded his stallion into a canter and rounded the building. After he tended his horse, he would seek out his friend, Duncan, and ask him a few questions about how to mold an insubordinate wife into the perfect handmaid.

~ * ~

        Faith stared after her retreating husband through narrowed eyes. Boiling in oil was too good for the brute. Aye, first he should be skewered and roasted a while over red-hot coals. Then his skin could be covered with honey—lots of honey. Then he could be staked out to bake in the sun near an ant mound. Mayhap after the honey was gone and he was covered with ant bites, he—

        A throat cleared behind her. Faith turned and managed a ladylike curtsy for the cleric while wishing she could control the burn seeping through her flesh. He pulled a cloth from a pocket hidden in his frock and mopped the top of his shiny head. He appeared as embarrassed by Brendan's rudeness as she.

        She met his gaze with a bit of defiance. "I am pleased to meet you, Father Cunningham, but my thinking does not need fixing."

        He returned the cloth to his pocket and linked his arms over his chest. His hands disappeared into the opposite frock sleeves. "On what point does your husband disagree with you, child?"

        "'Tis the truth, I am not sure of what he speaks. He disagrees with me on most matters." Faith tucked a stray lock behind her ear and sighed. "I should probably make my confession though. I am guilty of contemplating extreme tortures for my husband."

        A smile beamed from Father's face as bright as the sunlight reflecting from his bald head. "Do you have these contemplations often?"

        "I have them when he embarrasses me, which is often enough. But you are busy, Father. I can return later, and—"

        "Nay, milady. I but sought a few moments of fresh air. I have time for you."

        She glanced away from his shrewd gaze and cleared her throat. "I suppose I should confess my biggest sin no matter how much I would like to put off the telling."

        "Waiting will only make the telling harder," he advised kindly.

        "Aye, and 'twill be difficult enough." Faith took a deep breath and blurted out, "I defied Almighty God by marrying my husband. I know this is a grave transgression, and probably one you cannot forgive."

        A baffled frown gathered his brows. "How was your marriage a defiance?"

        "I cannot do my penance now. Ignoring penance from one of God's priests is surely an unforgivable sin."

        "Come sit with me." Father Cunningham guided Faith to a long plank bench situated against the kirk wall to the side of the entrance. Once they were seated, he said, "Now tell me about the sin that caused the penance and the penance itself so I can better understand this matter."

        "I am the Devil's handmaiden." Her cheeks burned as hot as she thought Hell's fire must be.