My Highland Bride (29 page)

“Don’t give me that attitude. You know I can ‘outstubborn’ you in a heartbeat. Now, what’s going on?” Trulie shook her finger irritatingly close to the tip of Kenna’s nose as she settled down on the edge of the mattress. Her scowl softened to a look of concern and her voice lowered to an ominous hiss. “You can tell us, Kenna—everything.”

Kenna massaged her knuckles against her temples. The dull throbbing pain had returned. Why had she ever opened her eyes? She should’ve known better. “Ronan did not force himself on me.” Kenna stared wistfully at the tub across the room. She should’ve stayed motionless in the bed and played possum until they all went away. She knew their interrogation was inevitable, but she had really hoped to postpone it a bit longer.

“Then why are you claiming to be his wife?” Granny glared down at Kenna like a sharp-eyed hawk about to pounce on its prey. “Out with it, Kenna. Now.”

“And why did you say it publicly?” Trulie chimed in without taking her gaze from Kenna’s face. Kenna could tell by Trulie’s narrowing eyes that oldest sister had kicked into scheming mode and was about to come up with the miserable truth. “You know when you say it publicly, it’s…” Trulie waved a hand as though shooing away a fly. “…it’s binding. Everyone considers you man and wife.”

“I’ve heard of such things.” Coira bobbed her head in agreement as she refolded a square of linen for the tenth time. “I’ve e’en heard tell the woman doesna have to say a word. I’ve heard ’tis just as legal if only the man claims it so.”

“Yes…well, it sticks better if they both say it.” Granny leaned forward and propped her elbows on the edge of the bed. “But the question remains, why did Kenna say it too? We all heard her in the bailey.”

“Because it was best for all concerned. It’s done. Ronan is my husband.” Kenna drew her knees up against her chest and backed tighter against the headboard. She shrugged a shoulder, doing her best to adopt a disinterested attitude. Maybe then they’d leave her alone in her personally built little corner of hell. “There’s really nothing else to say.”

Granny rose and paced to the end of the bed. “I don’t know how the man blackmailed you into it, but you don’t have to become his wife. This might be thirteenth-century Scotland, but we don’t exactly have to play by all its rules.”

Dammit
.
Why can’t they just let it go? It’s freakin’ over
. “He did not blackmail me.” Kenna held up her left hand and placed her right hand over her heart. “He’s been nothing but kind, so stop pulling shit out of thin air to explain this situation.” Kenna slid off the bed, steadied herself until the dizziness passed, then stomped across the room. “I admit he kidnapped me and chained me to a tree, but other than that, the man has behaved quite honorably.” And he had. Now it was up to her to keep her word and behave honorably as well.

Trulie hopped up and rushed forward like a coonhound on the scent. “Then why are you saying you’re his wife? All you have to do is tell the truth. Good Lord, Kenna. We’ll just have the verbal agreement annulled.” Trulie halted mid-step and pointed toward the door. “And did you say that son of a bitch chained you to a tree? Why are we even having this conversation? I’ll order him hung by his testicles from the southern tower right this very minute. We’ll even use chains, since he apparently prefers that over ropes.”

“You can’t kill him and I forbid you to torture him. I am his wife because he helped me save Colum. I gave him my word, and now I’m damn well going to keep it. You know we don’t break our word—not ever.” Kenna clamped her mouth shut.
Well, dammit.
Why did words always explode out of her mouth of their own free will? She’d never meant to say them aloud. How could anyone ever understand how she’d felt she had to bargain to save Colum’s life? Kenna slowly lowered herself to the floor beside the warm bleached stones of the hearth and rested her aching head in her hands. She swallowed hard against the sickly dryness of her mouth. Maybe if she repeated the words often enough, they would stop making her feel like throwing up every time she said them. Despondent anger swelled in her chest and closed off her throat.
Damn it all. Damn it all to hell.

Kenna looked up from her trembling hands. The cold numbness was coming back. Thank goodness—she couldn’t handle any more emotions. Not now. Kenna wet her lips and pointed first at Granny and then at Trulie. “Swear you will never repeat what I just said. I made the choice.” She fixed each of them with her unblinking gaze. “You know the code—we don’t break our word…
ever.”

Kenna pulled herself up from the floor and stumbled to the low bench beside the tub of steaming water. She stared down at her pale reflection, then tapped a fingertip against the water’s surface to dispel her scowling image. “I couldn’t stand the pain of living in this world without Colum in it. If we hadn’t gotten him back here in time to be healed…” Kenna’s voice broke. She closed her eyes and shied away from the very thought of what would’ve happened.

“And now?” The weight of Trulie’s hand rested gently atop Kenna’s shoulder.

“I haven’t figured ‘now’ out just yet. All I know is I have to learn to live without Colum. But at least I’ll be able to do it knowing he’s alive.”

Chapter 33

Colum leaned heavily against the creaking staff and hitched slowly down the hall. The stone slabs of the flooring radiating the cold and dampness up through his bones darkened his mood even further. How the hell would he get two full skins of whisky back to his rooms if he couldna even make it to the larder without this damn crutch?

Lady Trulie had said he’d no’ completely healed because of the thoughts in his head and the darkness in his heart.
“Your heart and mind don’t want to be healed,” she’d said. “You fought me at death’s door. The Fates allow me to heal flesh, but you’re the only one able to heal your soul.”
Damn the Fates—and damn the bastard who had bargained away his Kenna, the only part of his heart and soul worth a whit.

Colum halted, glared down at the staff, then flung it to the floor. The bouncing clatter echoed down the long hallway as the stick rolled away into the shadows. If he fell, he fell. He’d just drink more whisky to numb any bit of pain added by crashing to the floor.

The dips and dimples of the rough stone floor threatened to throw him with every dragging step. Damn the stonecutter who’d failed to properly smooth the surface. This deep in the bowels of the keep, flickering torchlight did little to light the way. Colum ignored the nagging pain burning in his hip as he stumbled forward. He yanked the last lit torch in the main passage free of its sconce and slowly made his way down the narrow offshoot leading to the underground storeroom.

Torch held high, Colum peered through the shadows, straining to see in the darkness. Lore, he’d ne’er realized the whisky larder was so deep in the bowels of the keep. No wonder Cook always sent the kitchen lads in pairs to fetch whate’er she needed.

The yellow glow finally reflected on the short squat door he sought. The torch waiting beside the door burst into blue-yellow flames as soon as Colum ignited the pitch. He wedged the other torch just above the door in the iron ring imbedded in the stone wall. Bending to clear the short portal, Colum pushed the door open wide so the torchlight from the hall would guide him to the thick candles waiting on the ledge. Colum held the candle tin up to the torch until the wick of the short fat candle sputtered with flame.

At last.
Colum huffed out a determined breath and lifted the candle higher. On to the chore of finding the dark barrels holding the drink that promised to drown his memories. Colum wrinkled his nose as the candlelight flickered across the stacked barrels housing the mead and ale. The weak-flavored honey wine would no’ come close t’numbing his heart of its pain. He needed strength. He needed bite. He needed
uisge beatha
, the blessed water of life. Colum shielded the flame with one hand as he limped along and moved deeper into the room.

A dark shadow scurried past him with an impatient
prrrupp.
Colum huffed out an irritated growl and shook himself free of the eerie sensation that the darkness held more than the contents of the larder.
Damn Mother Sinclair’s cat. I’ve ne’er liked that lurking black demon.

“Kismet. Off wi’ ye.” If he didna ensure the worrisome cat was out of the room before he bolted the door, there’d surely be hell to pay when Mother Sinclair found out. Colum feared verra few things in this life, but Mother Sinclair had earned his respect from very early on. God help any poor bastard foolish enough to stir her ire.

Kismet responded with another nonchalant
twrpp
and leapt atop the stack of elusive whisky barrels Colum sought.

Well now, perhaps the feline wasna so bad after all. “I thank ye, Kismet, for showing me what I seek.” Colum balanced the candle tin on a nearby ledge and yanked free one of the empty whisky skins from his belt.

Kismet’s round golden eyes glowed in the candlelight, seeming to float just above the whisky barrels. Her inky black fur perfectly melted into the murky darkness of the shadows. As Colum reached for the tap, Kismet’s glowing eyes narrowed and seemed to float toward him. A high-pitched growl followed by a hiss echoed through the darkness.

“Off wi’ ye now.” Colum flapped the empty skin toward the cat and reached for the tap again.

Kismet’s battle yowl whined through the darkness as her claws raked across the back of Colum’s hand.

“Dammit, cat! What the hell is wrong wi’ ye? Get off wi’ ye now!” Colum brushed Kismet away from the barrels. Warm wetness seeped across the back of his stinging hand. “Wicked demon. Ye brought blood. Be gone now, vile beastie.”

Colum wiped the back of his hand against his plaid and feigned a lunging hop toward the still hissing cat. “Get now, afore I decide to brave Mother Sinclair’s wrath and skin ye.” Damn animal. Ye’d think the evil thing was hell-bent on keeping him from his drink.

Colum turned back to the kegs, jammed the neck of the skin up onto the tap, and flipped the peg with his thumb. Just as the liquid began to flow free and cool the quickly filling leather in his hand, Kismet exploded with another battle yowl and attached herself to his calf.

“Son of a bitch!” Colum hopped sideways, kicking as best he could to free his bad leg of the cat. The whisky skin plopped to the floor and gurgled out its contents. His shoulder whacked against the still dripping tap and toppled the nearly empty barrel off the back of the stack. Colum hit the puddled alcohol, slid across the wet stones, and crashed to the floor.

“Kismet. Well done. Come now. Time for Colum to gather himself and return to his room.” Mother Sinclair stood in the doorway. A blazing torch flickered in one frail hand held high above her silver head, and she gripped her walking stick in the other.

Kismet immediately retracted teeth and claws, treated Colum’s bleeding leg to a single swipe of her rough tongue, then scampered to the doorway.

Granny smiled and nodded down at the feline before rapping the floor with her cane. “Up now, Colum. ’Tis late and time you sought your rest. A pitcher of mead waits in your room. That is all you need for tonight.” She stamped her staff again. “Self-pity is a useless, crippling emotion. Man up, Colum. Fight for the woman you love.”

“Ye dinna ken a damn thing about this. Stay out of it, old woman.” Colum rolled until he was able to grab onto one of the barrels, then pushed himself up from the floor. He ripped the second skin from his belt and turned back to the barrels. He’d be damned if he’d go to his rooms without the whisky. He wasna some lad to be ordered about, not even by Mother Sinclair.

A deafening crack split the air of the room. The sound reverberated, harsh and bone-shaking like the splitting of a massive stone. The crystal tip of Mother Sinclair’s staff hissed and flickered, then took on an eerie blue-white glow. The raw gemstone of the gnarled cane shone like a star plucked from the sky.

“Do not test me, Colum.” Mother Sinclair’s voice echoed through the shadows like a whisper through a tomb. “I am tired and it’s late. And even worse, my granddaughter is miserable from this mess the two of you have gotten yourselves into. Don’t make me lose my temper. I promise you will not like it.”

A chill stole across Colum’s flesh as the leather flask slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor. He squinted against the painful brightness shining from the tip of Mother Sinclair’s staff. “Ye nay have the right—”

“Enough, I said!” The room shook with the force of Mother Sinclair’s voice. Dust rained down from the rafters after another crackling thump of her cane. “To your rooms. Now.”

Colum’s heart nearly stopped as an unseen icy grasp nearly squeezed the air from his lungs before shoving him toward the door. As the force pushed him past Mother Sinclair, she connected her staff across his buttocks with a sharp upward swing.

Colum stumbled forward. The woman had hit him? She’d brought her stick across his arse as though he were a mere lad? Colum started to turn back, but Mother Sinclair’s next warning changed his mind.

“Don’t think I won’t send you to another patch in time, Colum. Perhaps a visit to Kenna’s future would show you what happens when civilization loses the ability to make good choices. Now, you have a choice. Learn your destiny’s lesson here in this now, or learn it in another time.”

Ta hell wi’ the whisky.
Colum didn’t look back, just hobbled into a hurried hop toward the safety of his room.

Chapter 34

Curls of steam wafted up from the rich brown gravy oozing through the flaky crust of the vegetable pie. Kenna swallowed hard and halfheartedly poked at a golden chunk of carrot. She lifted a corner of the buttery pastry and fished out a plump juicy pea. Kenna inhaled a deep breath and set the fork back on the edge of the platter. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t eat. She stared down at her plate. Cook would be so upset. The grandmotherly woman had fixed her favorite meal and now she couldn’t force down a bite of it.

“Ye must eat.” Ronan leaned forward, steepling his fingers over his own untouched food.