The Highlander Takes a Bride (4 page)

Easing Fenella away, Saidh raised a finger to her lips and slipped quickly back to the door to ease it open. When a quick glance in both directions along the hall showed it to be empty, she let her breath out on a little hiss of relief and eased the door closed again.

Chapter 2

“B
loody hell,” Greer muttered as he rode through the castle gates and saw the horses and men filling his bailey. There were a good thirty or forty soldiers that he could see, and English soldiers at that. It looked like a bloody invasion party, he thought, and then recognized the banner they rode under and grimaced with disgust. Montrose Danvries had returned, he realized. No doubt the man was on his return journey from collecting his sister. He probably hoped to spend another night at MacDonnell, eating his food and sleeping in one of the guest rooms. Greer just hoped it would only be one night this time. He didn’t like the man.

Bringing his horse to a halt just inside the gates, he caught his arm around Milly’s waist and lifted her off his mount, leaning to the side to set her down.

“Enter around the back o’ the castle,” he instructed. “I would ha’e a word with these men and I think it best they not see ye.”

Milly nodded quickly and moved along the castle wall toward the cover of the stables. Greer waited until he saw her disappear behind the building unmolested, then straightened and urged his mount forward. He had nearly reached the back of the widespread group of men and horses when he spotted Alpin and the stable master at the front of the group, talking with one of the Englishmen. There was no sign of his first, Bowie, though.

“Alpin,” he barked.

The squire glanced around, then beamed with relief and rushed to his side as he dismounted.

“What the devil are all these Englishmen doing cluttering me bailey? And where is Bowie?”

“Bowie is inside with yer aunt and Lord Danvries, and these are Lord Danvries’ men, me laird,” Alpin said, and then allowing some exasperation to show through, added, “I did try to tell ye that we had company approaching the castle. The men on the wall saw them some distance off and when they heard Lady Fenella had sent me to look fer ye, told me to tell ye about them as well . . . but ye would no’ let me.”

Greer considered reminding the lad, yet again, on how he was to speak to his betters, but then decided he couldn’t be bothered just then. There were other issues of more import. “Do no’ tell me that Lady MacDonnell has invited that blasted man to stop o’er again?”

“All right. I’ll no’ tell ye that,” Alpin said with a shrug, and then added with some satisfaction, “But she did. Which ye might ha’e prevented had ye troubled yerself to return to the castle with me rather than throwing up Millie’s skirts like ye were still a warrior fer hire and no’ a laird now.”

“Ye go too far, lad,” Greer growled. “And one o’ these days ye’ll be sorry fer it.”

Alpin did not look the least concerned. He merely shrugged and turned to walk back toward the stable, but Greer collared the boy and dragged him back. “Tell the stable master to do the best he can by the horses. Then ha’e Bowie settle as many men as he can in the barracks with our men. Send the rest into the keep. They can sleep in the great hall as they did last time. But tell Bowie to post more guards. I do no’ trust Danvries.”

“Aye,” Alpin said with distaste. “The man’s a skeevy whoreson.”

Greer scowled at the lad with surprise. “Where the devil did ye learn to talk like that?”

“From you,” Alpin said dryly and then turned and moved back toward the stable master and Bowie, who Greer saw was now there as well.

Shaking his head, Greer led his horse to the stables himself to tend the beast. The stable master would have enough on his plate trying to find places to put the English horses without having to tend his horse. Besides, Greer had no great desire to see Danvries again. In fact, he was wishing that he’d stayed in the woods for the rest of the day and night. Or that he’d returned earlier and had the gate closed on Danvries and his men ere they’d reached it.

“I'm sorry,” Fenella breathed. Fresh tears were pooling in her eyes and she was wringing her hands miserably as she shook her head. “I am no’ thinking straight. I ha’e no’ done so since Allen’s death. He was such a wonderful man, Saidh. Ye would ha’e liked him. He was so kind, and gentle and sensitive. He had the servants cut flowers fer me every other day and place them in me room.”

She turned to gesture to several arrangements of dry and dead flowers along one wall of the room. Saidh supposed she’d had them brought from the master chamber when she’d been moved here.

“And he bought me the most expensive fabrics and lovely jewels,” Fenella continued, turning back to her. “But best of all, he was just so sweet. He could tell I was terrified on our wedding night, and rather than force me to endure the consummation, he gentled me and told me it was all right, he would no’ trouble me for his rights, ever. That I was free of them altogether if I wished. But if I came to desire to have children, I need only let him ken and we would do whatever I wished to accomplish it.”

The tears in her eyes spilled over now, rushing down her cheeks in rivulets. “There can no’ be another man as sweet and good as Allen in all of Scotland and England combined. And now he is gone.” The last word was a long mournful cry and Fenella threw herself against Saidh to burst into another round of heart-wrenching sobs.

Saidh stood still for a moment, but then raised her hands to awkwardly pat her cousin’s back. The woman had taken her completely by surprise. She had come here suspecting her of having turned into some sort of madwoman, bent on killing her husbands. Instead, she found a woman who truly seemed to be in deep mourning for a husband she appeared to have loved a great deal. Saidh didn’t think anyone could be such a good actress to feign this distress.

Saidh remained standing there, rubbing Fenella’s back until the woman’s sobs gentled to soft sighs and hiccups, then urged her to sit on the side of the bed with her and took her hands in her own.

“What happened?” she asked quietly. “Until the other day I had no idea ye’d e’en married again, and then I learned ye’ve remarried three times since Kennedy, and each has died. What happened?”

Fenella blinked at her through red-rimmed eyes. “How could ye no’ ken? I invited ye to each wedding.”

“Did ye?” Saidh asked and frowned, realizing that she had probably hit the nail on the head when she’d suggested that Aulay may have received invitations and simply sent his regrets without mentioning it to her or her other brothers. She would have to have a talk with her brother about that when she returned to Buchanan. She understood that he disliked public affairs, but that did not mean she would not have wanted to attend. Okay, so she probably wouldn’t have wanted to attend. Saidh hated feasts and weddings almost as much as Aulay, but still, it would have been nice to know her cousin was marrying . . . again and again.

“Aulay,” Fenella said suddenly on a sigh, her thoughts obviously having run along the same lines as Saidh’s. “I should ha’e realized he no’ only would no’ attend, but would no’ bother to mention the events to the rest o’ ye. Is he still so very self-conscious about his scars?”

“Aye,” Saidh admitted quietly. Aulay had always been a bright and happy lad, and had grown into a brave and handsome warrior the women had all fawned over . . . until the battle that had killed their father. Aulay had returned from the battlefield scarred in spirit and body, his handsome face halved by a sword blow that had nearly killed him. While his wounds had healed, he had yet to recover his outgoing and easy personality and Saidh began to fear he never would. Shaking away her worries about that, she squeezed Fenella’s hands. “Tell me. I hear ye married Laird MacIver after Kennedy. How did that come to pass?”

“The king,” Fenella said unhappily. “Old MacIver was a friend o’ his and wanted me to wife so the king ordered it six months after I was widowed.” She grimaced with distaste and said, “I did no’ want to marry again after what Kennedy did to me, but I had no choice. Me best hope at the time was that the MacIver was so old he could no’ manage his husbandly duties.”

“And was he?” Saidh asked, watching her face.

Fenella grimaced. “He tried. He huffed and grunted on top o’ me fer a bit, trying to manage the deed, but then rolled off with a sigh and went to sleep. At least I thought he was sleeping and I went to sleep too. It was no’ til morn that I realized aught was amiss. He was gray and cold and I realized I’d been sleeping with a corpse.”

Saidh bit her lip to keep from saying “Ewwww.” She was trying to work out what to ask next, when Fenella continued.

“Of course, then the king decided I should marry MacIver’s nephew. It seemed a shame, he said, to let a pretty young lass like me whither away fer want o’ a husband. But the truth was, the nephew was leering at me all through the wedding feast and I suspect the king saw it and decided to pass me down to the nephew along with the keep and lands,” she said bitterly.

“The king attended yer wedding?” Saidh asked to change the subject.

“He attended both weddings. MacIvers have always been supporters of his and he wanted to keep it that way,” she said grimly.

“So ye married the younger MacIver,” Saidh prompted.

“Aye.”

When she didn’t continue, Saidh prompted, “And how was he to husband? Was he kind?”

Fenella sighed and shrugged miserably. “He was all right. At least he was young and healthy and did no’ stink like his uncle. But he was nothing like Allen. He did want his husbandly rights,” she said unhappily, and then glanced up and confessed, “I fear after Kennedy, I was afraid o’ the marital bed. The older MacIver did no’ seem to notice, and I was so scared I just lay still and waited fer the pain and humiliation to start so was surprised when it was so clumsy and . . .” She shrugged helplessly, as if unsure how to phrase it and finally said, “Limp.”

“Anyway,” she muttered, her cheeks now flushed with a bright blush. “The younger MacIver did no’ ha’e the same issue. He tried to go gently and slow, but he did insist on his marital rights. And he was nothing like Allen.”

“Ye said that,” Saidh murmured quietly.

“Well, ’tis true. Gordon MacIver was kind enough, but he was no’ nearly as thoughtful and sweet as Allen. And the man was horse crazy. He was always off riding on that stallion o’ his. I was no’ surprised when he fell off the stupid beast and broke his neck. And I did no’ grieve overly much,” she confessed almost apologetically. “At least no’ at first. But then when the king sent his men to investigate and I realized that they thought I had something to do with his death . . .”

“I am sure he did no’ really think that,” Saidh said quickly. “No doubt he was just making certain no one could raise questions later.”

“Aye, mayhap,” Fenella said dubiously and then shrugged. “Anyway, I was widowed again and stuck at MacIver. Gordon had died without an heir, but the king waited to see if I carried one. However, when my woman’s time came and I told him that I was definitely not with child, he passed the title and estate to a second cousin of Gordon’s or some such thing.”

“And then the king arranged fer yer marriage to Allen?” Saidh asked.

Fenella shook her head. “No’ at first. Fer a while I was allowed to return home to Fraser. I think he hoped people would forget about me first three husbands’ dying,” she admitted with a grimace. “But then Allen asked Father fer me hand in marriage, and he was all too eager to hand me o’er.”

She sighed, and slipped her hand from Saidh’s to fret at the fur on the bed. “At first, I was furious. I really did no’ want to marry again,” she admitted sadly. “I did no’ ken Allen and how kind he was, and Mother pretty much had to drag me down fer the wedding ceremony. But in the end . . . he was the most wonderful man.” She smiled gently, and then her smile faded and a new bout of tears welled up in her eyes. “But now he’s dead too, and everyone is sure I somehow did it, when I was nowhere near the loch. I can no’ swim, Saidh, ye ken that. I ne’er went near the loch. And I loved him, I would ne’er ha’e killed him. God is surely punishing me fer what I did. He gave me Allen just to take him away as punishment fer killing Hammish.”

“Hush,” Saidh hissed, glancing fretfully toward the door. Her cousin was going to get herself hanged for murder at this rate. Standing up, she urged Fenella to lift her legs onto the bed, saying, “Here. Why do ye no’ rest fer a bit, hmmm? We can talk later.”

Fenella sniffled and nodded and curled up on the bed, but when Saidh straightened to move away, she caught her hand, her eyes almost feverish with panic. “Ye’ll be here when I wake up, will ye no’? Ye’ll no’ leave me?”

Saidh hesitated. Now that she was sure that Fenella had not killed her husbands, and she was sure, she would have rather gone on home than stay. But she couldn’t say that to Fenella. The woman was obviously desperate for a friendly face. Besides, if she didn’t stay to see her through this, the woman was likely to blurt her confessions about Hammish to someone else. Fenella needed her here.

“Aye. I’ll be below stairs when ye wake. I’ll no’ leave MacDonnell,” she assured her solemnly.

“Thank ye, Saidh. Ye ha’e always been there when I needed ye,” Fenella said huskily.

Saidh merely nodded and then slipped free of her grip and headed for the door, murmuring, “Sleep well.”

“Of course, we shall leave in the morn. Howbeit, ’tis up to ye as to whether Saidh leaves with us. It would be little trouble to escort her home to Buchanan if ye wish her gone, Lady MacDonnell. It is not far out of our way and ’tis the least we can do when you were kind enough to put us up on our way to collect Murine and now on our way back.”

Greer just managed not to roll his eyes at Danvries’s words. As far as he could tell, the man had left Tilda little choice but to put him and his men up either time. On his way north, the man had stopped, claiming he’d heard the news of Allen’s death on his journey and had felt compelled to stop and offer his condolences since he had suffered a loss as well.

Of course, Tilda had been touched and sympathetic to the loss of Laird Carmichael. Misery loves company, after all. But once the lady had retired and Montrose Danvries had been in his cups, he’d shown that he had little love for his stepfather and held nothing but bitterness and resentment for the man. Mostly, it seemed because the Laird had not left Carmichael along with all its riches to him. Instead, the title of laird and the castle and land had gone to an actual Carmichael and a Scot.