Highland Warrior (10 page)

He kissed her palm. “Twould nay be just honor. Can ye deny that there would be passion?”

“Nay,” she replied softly, “but ye dinnae want to get married.”

“A mon can change his mind. Am I such a poor choice of husband?”

“Dinnae be an idiot. Tisnae if ye are a good choice or nay, is it, although ye are. Tis whether or not ye truly wish to be chosen.”

“Mayhap I didnae, but I do now. Do ye think your kinsmen will just pat me on the back and say what a braw lad I am when they learn I took your innocence? I need no more enemies.”

Her heart told her that was a poor reason to get married, but good sense silenced it. Connor would soon drag the truth from her once she was back at Deilcladach, and she could not be sure she could talk him out of his anger. The very last thing she wanted was for Connor and Ewan to come to sword-point because of her. Her besotted mind quickly latched on to the thought of how wonderful it would be to gift Ewan with one alliance, and she inwardly cursed. Since it was certain they would be married, she was going to have to stiffen her spine or she could find herself being twisted into painful knots trying to please him.

“And I left my seed inside of you,” he said, encouraged to add more sound reasons for marriage by the way she was thinking over what he had already said. “Ye could, e’en now, be carrying my bairn.”

Fiona pulled her hand free of his grasp and held it up to silence his words. “Enough. Ye dinnae need to bury me in reasoning. In truth, if ye state any more good, practical reasons to marry, I could turn stubbornly contrary.”

Ewan inwardly winced as he sat up. He should have tried to say a few sweet words, but he was unskilled in flattery and wooing. The only clear thought he had in his head at the moment was how badly he wanted to get her back into his bed. Telling her how badly he wanted to be back inside her was probably not something a woman considered proper flattery. He vowed he would think of some sweet words to give her on their wedding night. She deserved some for the pleasure she gave him, and a few flatteries would not make her think him weak and besotted.

“Good. Then we shall marry in two days’ time,” he said.

“Two days?!”

“Aye. That should give ye time to heal and me time to become more steady on my feet.” He grabbed her by the wrist, tugged her close, and gave her a quick but heated kiss. “I will be faithful and I will make ye yell.”

As Fiona hurried out of the room, she wondered if she should see that second promise as more of a threat. Meeting Gregor and Mab in the hall, she grabbed Mab by the hand and dragged the woman off to her bedchamber. She was still blushing from the
intense look Gregor gave her once she got Mab into her room.

“He didnae push ye away this time, did he?” Mab said, grinning widely.

“Nay.” Fiona sighed and sat down on the edge of her bed. “We will be wed in two days’ time.”

“Ye dinnae sound as pleased by that as I thought ye would be.”

“Oh, a part of me is verra pleased indeed, that foolish, ever hopeful part that thinks she can simply make Ewan care for her. The rest of me is a little stung by his lack of any sweet words. Nary a one, nay e’en the smallest, silliest of flatteries.”

Mab sat down next to Fiona and patted her on the back. “They will come. Ye ken that ye have his passion. With many men that doesnae have to mean so verra much, but with our Ewan it means a great deal.”

“I would like to think so.”

“
Do
think so, for ’tis fact. Whate’er ye stir in that young fool, ’tis strong enough to make him forget his own rules, lose his legendary restraint. Tis more than many a wife begins with. Tis up to ye to make it into something deeper and richer, into what ye want and need.”

“Ye are right. I have my chance now for he willnae be able to run away, might no longer see any need to. Tis up to me to make this marriage a good one. I just wish I felt more confident in my ability to do so.”

“Heed a wee bit of advice from a woman who has had a wee bit of experience with men. Aye, Fingal was an error in judgment, but I was married once. It wasnae a love match, few are, but I made it one.”

“There is a secret to it, is there?”

“Aye, although a mon has to have a heart ye can reach. Howbeit, I have known Ewan for years, and trust me in this, the lad has a verra big heart indeed for all he tries to bury it deep inside. In the beginning, ye must learn to nay take everything to heart. E’en a mon who dearly loves the lass he weds is going to speak wrong or step wrong. Men need a wee bit of training, ye ken.”

Fiona grinned and nodded. “Our Gilly had to train my brother. He had some verra strange, but firmly set, ideas about ladies and wives.”

“As most men do. From what ye have told me of those two, I think it would serve ye weel to think on all your Gilly did to make her marriage a good one. My feeling is that truth and trust are essential. And by truth I mean ye must say what ye think and feel. Tis the only way the fool can come to ken ye as more than a body in his bed. A mon cannae care about a lass he doesnae ken weel or understand, can he?”

“Nay. Twill be easier after Ewan and I are wed, too, for I willnae have to weigh my every word.” She grimaced. “I just hope he doesnae have any enemies amongst my kinsmen, the ones of blood or marriage.”

“Just who
are
ye?” Mab placed her hand over her heart. “I swear I shall tell no one and let it be your truth to tell.”

“I am Fiona MacEnroy of Deilcladach. My brother is the laird. He married Gillyanne Murray, the daughter of Sir Eric Murray of Dubhlinn, the niece of Lady Maldie Murray of Donncoill, and the foster sister of James Drummond, laird of Dunncraig. My brother Diarmot is laird of Clachthrom and recently married Ilsa Cameron, only sister of Sigimor Cameron, laird of Dubheidland. And by the look upon your face, Mab, I think I have already found a problem.”

“Nay. Weel, mayhap. Still, so many strong alliances may ease the way, soften the blow. Aye, and those Drummonds are kin to my late husband’s clan. Ah, but ’tis the Camerons, m’dear.”

“They are enemies of the MacFingals?”

“Nay—kinsmen.”

“Oh, nay, dinnae say ’tis
those
kinsmen, the ones Sir Fingal hates.”

“Weel, it may nay be the same ones. There are many different Cameron families. Sigimor may be a common name.”

“Nay, it isnae, and weel ye ken it. A Sigimor who is laird of Dubheidland is e’en more rare. A big mon, red hair, odd humor? Has thirteen brothers? All red-haired?”

“Oh, dear. Tis him. Fingal’s nephew. The son of the woman Fingal feels was stolen from him. Weel, ’tis no matter. Ewan holds no grudge, has simply left it in his father’s hands. In truth, I think the lads have begun to think it all verra silly when they are in such desperate need of allies. And most of the ones Fingal argued with are dead now. His brother, the woman, and both their fathers. So, it isnae as if he will have to deal with the ones he thought wronged him. If Ewan had been here, oh, three years past, when Sigimor stopped by, I suspect he would have welcomed the mon.”

“I pray ye are right, Mab. E’en if those Camerons are only kin to me through marriage, they are still kin and I should hate to find myself caught between them and my husband.” Fiona sighed and shook her head. “And here I had convinced myself that Ewan would be pleasantly surprised by who I am and all of my connections.”

“Weel, he will most certainly be surprised.”

“I cannae believe ye havenae demanded that she tell ye who she is,” said Gregor as he helped Ewan into a heavily embroidered black and silver doublet. “Ye will be marrying her in but an hour.”

“She will tell me when we marry. I think she is a wee bit afraid that I might change my mind and try to ransom her if I ken who she is ere we say the vows.”

There was no chance of that happening, Ewan thought. He had made no effort to convince Fiona of that, however. To do so would have required the type of soft words he had no skill with, and for all his effort over the last two days, he had not thought of any. He had also feared that any attempt to get her to trust him with the truth might have him stumbling into confessions of feelings he did not want her to know about.

Passion was safe. Passion was something he could give her in abundance, knowing she would see no more in that than a man’s natural lust. All other feeling he would keep to himself. Helena had taught him the danger of giving heart and soul to a woman. It might be unfair to treat Fiona as if she were yet another like Helena, especially when there had been no indication that she was, but he could not help but be wary. He might desire Fiona, but he did not really know her well. Helena’s betrayal had left him hurt and cautious. A betrayal at Fiona’s hands would devastate him. Ewan was not sure how he knew that, and he did not wish to peer too closely into his heart to learn why it would be so.

Ewan ruefully admitted that he did not fully trust the passion Fiona revealed in his arms. Women rarely felt passion for him. Helena’s had been a lie. The whores in the village simply did what they were paid to do. The few maids about Scarglas who tried to flirt with him were stirred by his position as laird, tempted by what that might gain them. Over the past two days he had constantly thought about the lovemaking he had shared with Fiona, recalling her every sound, every touch, every movement. He could not detect any falsity in her passion, but since he loathed the mere thought that her sighs and kisses had been lies, he could not really trust his own judgment.

“Ye dinnae look too happy,” murmured Gregor. “Ye are wedding a bonnie lass. I would think ye would at least smile o’er the knowledge that she will soon be in your bed every night.”

“Aye, I should be,” replied Ewan, “and I am a wee bit, inside. Yet, weel, she is verra beautiful.”

Gregor cursed and shook his head. “And so ye wonder why she wants you. Ye are hardly an ogre, Ewan. Aye, your face has been scarred and knocked about, but ’tisnae one to give the bairns nightmares. Tis clear to see that Fiona comes from a place that has kenned its share of strife and war. I suspicion she isnae troubled by a scar or two. And she has her own, doesnae she?”

“Wee ones. Barely noticeable. Mine are nay so neat and small.” He looked down at the finery he wore. “This is much akin to gilding a nettle and trying to convince everyone ’tis a rose.”

“Curse it, Ewan, is this the legacy that bitch Helena left behind?”

“She was beautiful and she claimed a passion for me, but ’twas only a trap. A lie. She made that most clear when she handed me over to Hugh Gray. Her true feelings were revealed then, in word and deed.”

“And ye believed her, believed a woman who would go to a mon’s bed one night
and lead him to the slaughter on the next? Ewan, ye were but one-and-twenty. Aye, a mon, but due to your own somewhat monkish resolve, nay verra experienced with women. S’truth, none of us would have fared any better. The rest of us were e’en younger, and although we had more experience in bedding the lasses, we had none in how to deal with a woman like Helena. The lasses about here are simple and direct. Some say aye and some say nay. E’en the whores in the village are without deceit. Ye give them a coin and they let ye take your ease. Oh, some of them may groan or cry out or flatter a mon as he ruts on her, but ’tis a harmless deceit, meant to keep the one paying the coin happy. But Helena was a whore steeped in treachery and weel practiced in the sort of deceit that can cost a mon dearly. None of us were ready for her.”

“I have always wondered why she didnae pursue our father, who was the laird.”

“Because she recognized that he had the same lack of a heart she did. He would have bedded her, but she wouldnae have gained anything from it. He couldnae be wooed. The rest of us were too young, nay the heirs, and had little to do with training the men or all of the rest of the work here. Our father held the title, but e’en back then, ye held the reins.” Gregor poured them each a goblet of wine and handed Ewan one.

“And ye dinnae think Fiona is any more than what she seems—a wee bonnie lass who got lost?”

“Nay, I dinnae. She has been here for a fortnight yet has done naught that would make me think her anything other than what she says she is. She doesnae ask suspicious questions or roam about the keep studying everything. Nor does she flirt with any of us. I can see it will take ye a while to believe that, however.”

Ewan thought over all Gregor had said as he drank his wine. There was a lot of truth to his brother’s words. It was also true that it would take him a while to accept them.

Shaking his head clear of all his confusing thoughts, he finished his drink and said to Gregor, “Best we wander down to the great hall. I hope Nathan has kept a close guard on that priest. I want him sober.”

“He will be,” Gregor assured him as they started out of the room. “I think e’en our father will see to it.”

“The old mon is still boasting that this is the result of his clever planning, is he?”

“Och, aye. The way he tells it, ye would think he himself had set the lass down in your path that day.” Gregor watched Ewan carefully. “He does grow humble in confessing that his choice for ye might nay be the best, that a lass with more meat on her bones and no scars would have been better.”

A soft growl escaped Ewan. “The fool. He best guard his tongue before Fiona. He best nay insult her.”

“True. She might hurt him.” Gregor grinned when Ewan briefly chuckled.

Ewan paused just before stepping in front of the entrance to the great halls, avoiding the wide-open doors. “I may nay ken exactly who Fiona is, but I am verra sure she could do better than me. Mayhap…” he began.

Gregor shoved him in front of the open doors, and several men called out a greeting to Ewan. “Nurse your doubts all ye wish, but ye willnae shame the lass by abandoning her at the altar.”

Although the ferocity of Gregor’s tone surprised Ewan, he nodded. His brother was right. Ewan presumed that many of the people of Scarglas either knew or suspected he had taken Fiona’s innocence. He had not even thought of hiding that fact until the maids
had changed the linen on his bed and he had caught a glimpse of the small blood-stain on the sheet. Since the maids had arrived but moments after Fiona had left, he also suspected even the dullest amongst them had guessed what had happened. A suspicion given more weight by the announcement that he would marry Fiona in two days. Giving in to his cowardice now not only would be dishonorable, but would indeed shame Fiona before everyone. It troubled him a little that the latter bothered him far more than the former, but he shook aside that problem and stepped into the great hall to accept congratulations he did not feel he really deserved.

“Fiona, stop your wriggling,” said Mab, “or Bonnie will be pinning those flowers on your left ear.”

After a brief grin at the giggling Bonnie, Fiona stood very still. “Ye are getting verra bossy, Mab.”

“Aye. After today ye will be the lady of Scarglas so I thought I best get it all out of my blood right now.” Mab laughed along with the other women. “Twill be nice to have a lady of the keep again. It has been a long time. In truth, I am nay sure we ever really had one.”

“Sir Fingal has had five wives, Mab.”

“That he did, but do ye see their mark anywhere save for the lads cluttering up the keep?”

Fiona looked around the bedchamber she had been given. It was comfortable, surprisingly free of drafts, and rather plain. It was clean, as was the rest of the keep, but Fiona knew that was Clare’s doing. The gardens and the herb shed were Mab’s doing. The great hall was very fine, but that was mostly the work of the previous laird. Thinking of the things Gilly and Ilsa had done when they had moved in with her brothers, Fiona realized Mab was right. Sir Fingal’s wives had left little mark behind save for their sons.

“How odd,” she murmured. “Not e’en Annie Logan?”

“Nay,” replied Bonnie. “My mother said the woman was run ragged trying to keep her husband out of the arms of other lasses. The other wives didnae last as long. Died, save for the last one, who ran away.”

“Weel, at least that last one put an end to Sir Fingal marrying again,” said Fiona. “Cannae find himself a new wife when he is still wed to the one who ran away, can he.”

“Nay so sure that would stop him,” said Mab. “I think ’tis that he doesnae go anywhere now, ne’er leaves Scarglas, so cannae find a woman who doesnae ken the truth about him. Fool has eleven legitimate sons and near to two score of bastards. Tis time and past someone tied a knot in it.” Mab blushed, but smiled when Fiona and Bonnie giggled.

“Ah, m’lady, ye do look fine,” Bonnie said as she stood back to look Fiona over carefully. “Such pretty hair.”

Fiona touched her thick hair, which had been left to hang loose in long, rippling waves past her hips. “Thank ye, although I am nay sure I ought to be attired as if I am a maiden bride.”

“Near a one as the laird will find about this place,” Mab said as she gave a last brush to the skirts of Fiona’s deep blue gown. “There, ye are ready.”

“I will go to tell the others,” Bonnie said even as she hurried out of the room.

“Ah, Mab, I do worry about this. I surely do,” whispered Fiona, frowning after Bonnie.

“Weel, cease your fretting,” ordered Mab. “Do ye think all Ewan’s brothers would be so pleased if they saw aught wrong with this? Every one of them, legitimate and bastard, is fiercely loyal and protective of Ewan, though I am nay sure he is fully aware of it. If any of them feared ye would harm Ewan, in body or heart, they would try to stop this.”

“They might if they kenned there was a plot to get Ewan to the altar.”

“Wheesht, do ye think they dinnae ken? Gregor did. S’truth, how do ye think I was able to be lost that day? I was only in the herb shed, but e’en the youngest of them was suddenly too blind to see me.” Mab hooked her arm through Fiona’s and started to lead her out of the room. “In fact, the lads have chosen ye for their laird so cease your frowning. There will be problems aplenty in the days ahead so why dinnae ye just enjoy yourself today?”

“I will try, Mab. Twill be easier once the revelation of who I am is done and whate’er stir that news causes has passed.”

“Twill be fine,” Mab reassured Fiona, but could see that the younger woman did not believe it any more than she did.

“Fiona-of-the-ten-knives?” Ewan said, interrupting the priest to scowl at Fiona. “Ye cannae use that name in the vows. Ye have to use your real one.”

“Nay, I dinnae,” Fiona argued, wondering how the man could still look so big when he was kneeling at her side. “The priest said that as long as I sign my proper name to the papers, it doesnae matter.”

“That is silly. Use your real name.”

“Nay, not until we sign the papers and ye will sign them first.”

“Ye are my wife. Tis your duty to obey me.”

“Aye, lad, ye tell her how it is,” said Fingal, only to back up a few steps when both Fiona and Ewan briefly glared at him.

“Now, tell the priest your real name,” Ewan ordered Fiona and almost grinned at her dark scowl.

“Ye arenae my husband yet, and if ye expect blind obedience once the vows are done, mayhap we best pause to have us a wee talk.”

“Och, nay. Considering how stubborn ye are, we could still be arguing o’er the matter whilst ye are birthing the bairn I have probably set to growing in ye.” He nodded when she gasped and blushed. “We will discuss it later.” He scowled at the priest. “Weel? Get on with it.”

Since she had gotten her way, Fiona did not argue and dutifully repeated her vows. The kiss Ewan gave her while his brothers cheered and hooted left her breathless and dazed, but she quickly regained her senses when the quill was set in her hand. She could feel the others crowding in behind her and Ewan as she stared down at the document she was supposed to sign. Ewan had already scrawled his name there in bold letters. She took a deep breath and added her own.

“MacEnroy?” Ewan asked, ignoring the muttering of his family behind him. “Of Deilcladach?”

“Aye, I am the only sister of the laird, Connor MacEnroy,” she replied.

“Lass, they are nearly four days’ ride from here. Ye cannae be a MacEnroy.”

“Four days?” she whispered in shock. “God’s tears, how long was that cursed
horse toting me about? I had thought myself only dazed, but I must have fallen unconcious. But I
am
a MacEnroy.” She pulled her ornate silver eating knife free of its sheath at her waist and handed it to Ewan. “Read what is etched upon the hilt. Connor gave me that upon my sixteenth birthday. He said that I deserved such a fine gift now that we had coin to spare because I was a good wee lass who had the grace to survive whilst under his care.” She smiled faintly at the memory.

“
To wee Fiona, a MacEnroy to the bone. Connor
,” read Ewan, then stared at Fiona as he handed the knife back to her. “Who is this Gilly ye keep talking of? His wife, aye?”

“Aye. Gillyanne Murray, daughter of Sir Eric Murray of Dubhlinn, niece of Lady Maldie Murray of Donncoill, and foster sister to James Drummond, laird of Dunncraig. We MacEnroys are allied with the Dalglish clan of Dunspier and the Goudies of Aberwellen. My brother Antony holds Ald-dab-hach to the south of us.” The muttering amongst the others in the great hall grew louder, but Fiona kept her gaze fixed upon Ewan. He appeared increasingly stunned. “My other brother, Diarmot, is laird of Clachthrom. He was recently wed”—she took a deep breath to steady herself—“to Ilsa Cameron, only sister to Sigimor Cameron of Dubheidland.” The loud gasp of those around them was followed by such a complete silence that Fiona briefly wondered if anyone had remembered to breathe out. “Through Gilly’s kin, the Murrays, there are ties to the MacAlpins of Cairnmoor, the Armstrongs of Aigballa, the MacMillans of Bealachan, the Drummonds of Dunnbea, the Kirkcaldys, the Kinloches, the Lucettes of France—” She stuttered to a halt when Ewan pressed faintly trembling fingers over her mouth.