When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1) (29 page)

When she was readied, she sat on
the bed, awaiting the supper horn and half hoping Iain might return to the room
before supper to lead her down. But when the horn blew and he didn’t appear,
she supposed he must have been occupied and made her way toward the great hall.

The roar of the hall quickly faded
into silence as she walked into the room. She furrowed her brow as everyone
stared at her, but then she realized it must have been the gown that was
enchanting them so.

To her right, Angus stood, came to
her side, and offered her his arm. “Ye look lovely, lass.”

Uncomfortable with being the center
of the clan’s attention, she gratefully slipped her arm through Angus’s. “Thank
you,” she replied, her voice as shaky as her legs. “Angus, is it my imagination
or do people seem to be staring as if my appearance stuns them?”

He glanced to the left and right as
they walked. “Aye. They do look a bit stunned, but I’m sure it’s because
they’ve never seen a lass as pretty as ye are in a dress quite like this one.
Are things going smoothly for ye?”

She bit the inside of her cheek
against her desire to confide in him and take the comfort he would offer. Angus
would fret and interfere if he knew how much Fiona hated her. She patted his
hand. “It is improving.”

As they neared the dais, Iain,
who’d been in seemingly deep conversation with his brother, turned and looked
at her. He started to smile and then, suddenly, it slid off his face. His lips
parted, and then he pressed them together in a hard flat line. Her stomach
plummeted to the floor. Did he think the gown too immodest? If he did, there
was nothing that could be done about it now.

Angus led her directly to her
husband, who for a long moment said nothing but simply stared at her, his eyes
darkening with what appeared to be fury.

“What game are ye playing, Marion?”
he snapped.

The sharpness of his words pricked
her like a bush of thorns.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she
said stiffly, aware that he’d spoken loud enough that his voice had carried
over the hush that had fallen in the hall.

“Yer gown,” he growled.

Anger surged through her. So he
was
displeased with the gown. She curled her hands into fists, feeling as if she
could turn herself inside out and it would never be enough for him.

“I had to wear something,” she
retorted. “I’ve no gowns of my own, and I cannot borrow Bridgette’s every night
for supper. I am getting more gowns made.”

“Wear the one ye had on earlier. Go
change.” It was a command, and a hard one. His face had closed, and coldness
radiated from him.

She could not believe how
insensible he was being, simply because he thought her gown immodest, but she
was not going to be ordered about. It was as if she was standing in front of
her father again, desperate to please him and failing, and then being treated
cruelly for no reason. She tilted her chin up. “I’ll not change. This gown is
much like I saw the Queen of England wear, and she is a modest woman, if
indecency is your worry.”

He’d already looked down at the
trencher in front of him. His head whipped up, and he speared her with a dark
look that made her shiver. “Marion,” he said, his voice lower but no less
forceful, “if ye dunnae go willingly to change out of that gown, I’ll throw ye
over my shoulder and carry ye up to our bedchamber and change ye myself. And if
I have to do that, ye’ll nae like the consequences.”

She inhaled a sharp breath at the
anger rolling off him. What had happened since she’d seen him earlier today?
This was not the kind man she had come to know, the man who had given her the
special dagger and the bow. “You’d haul me away and shame me over a gown?”

“Ye shame yerself by wearing
Catriona’s wedding gown.”

A wave of shock slammed into
Marion, making her dizzy. She gripped Angus’s arm tight so that she’d not fall.
He looked at her swiftly, worry filling his eyes, but she shook her head at him
and prayed he’d not remark on her sudden swaying.

Iain placed his palms flat on the
table as he stared up at her. “How did ye think I’d respond when ye took the
gown out of her trunk? I am sorry if ye think I’m being harsh, but ye kinnae—”
Pain streaked across his face before a mask of stone descended and she could no
longer read his emotions. “Ye kinnae just wear her gowns,” he finished quietly.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, her
voice cracking as she struggled to hold back the tears clogging her throat and
filling her eyes. Angry with herself for her weakness, she dashed a hand across
her eyes. “I did not take this gown out of her trunk in
your
bedchamber.
It was loaned to me.” Each word trembled as she fought against herself to be
strong, to be cold, not to care. “I would never try to take her place in your
heart,” she choked out, removing her arm from Angus’s grasp. She turned stiffly
and walked through the hall, even as Iain demanded she stop, and proceeded back
out the way she’d come with her head held high.

She met the gaze of each person
staring at her, and fierce determination not to be cowed burned in her veins.
The last gaze she met was Fiona’s, who almost appeared regretful. Marion didn’t
believe that for a moment.

By the time she reached Iain’s
bedchamber, she was shaking. All she knew was that she had to get out of this
castle. She yanked off Catriona’s gown and hastily put on Bridgette’s. There
would never be a place in Iain’s heart for her. She’d been foolish to hope for
it. If he wanted only memories of Catriona, then that’s what she’d leave for
him. With her heart racing and her hands trembling, she carefully took
Catriona’s gowns out of the trunk and laid them on the bed. She swiped at the
tears filling her eyes and then quickly made her way out of the castle and to
the water. She needed fresh air and wanted to be alone.

It was much easier to slip out than
she had presumed. No guards stood at the doors, for they were all in the great
hall with their laird. Moonlight filled the night while white mist swirled in
the damp, cold air. Marion shivered as she climbed down the seagate stairs, her
arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The wind blew hard against her tingling
cheeks, making her eyes burn and her lips sting.

When she reached the shoreline, she
took in short tiny gasps of air from the long descent. In the watchtower on the
ramparts, she could see light flickering, so she stayed in the shadows as much
as possible. She moved toward the water, feeling almost beckoned by the distant
hiss of the waves in the air. She wanted to be numb, to think of nothing. She
kicked off her shoes and stood where the water just caressed her toes. Closing
her eyes, she breathed deeply and searched for a peace she wondered if she
would ever find.

“Did you discover a way into the
castle where we’ll not be seen?” a deep voice demanded.

Marion’s eyes flew open as her
pulse increased. She twisted around to see two men coming from the left, where
Iain had been training with his men that morning. Ignoring her racing heart,
she dropped to the ground and began crawling over the rough land toward the
cave where she and Iain had spoken. As she crawled, the hair comb that Fiona
had given her slipped from her hair, her long blond tresses falling over the
right side of her face. She could hear the men approaching from behind her as
she reached the tall grass and dove behind it.

“Froste said it needs to be a route
by which at least twenty men could enter before the MacLeods know they are
inside,” the man added.

“Why can’t we simply strike from
the outside?” asked another man. “Why must we try to enter the castle?”

Marion crouched in the tall grass,
the roar of her blood filling her ears.

The deep voice spoke again. “Froste
says the MacLeod must die, and we must seize Lady Marion.”

Bile filled Marion’s throat. Froste
had sent men to find a way into the castle so he could kill Iain! It would
clearly pave the way to marrying her and getting the land and title he so
coveted, especially if her father became king.

The men paused very near her. “Do
you not think it’s strange that Froste thinks he needs twenty men to kill one?”

The other man chuckled low. “No.
Have you seen the MacLeod?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. I saw him in a
tournament in England. He’s not human. He fights with the power of a god and
the heart of the devil.”

“Well, then I’ll enjoy killing
him,” the other man replied as they started to move away.

She waited until she felt they were
far enough away that they’d not see her, and then she stood and started to run
for the stairs. But when her slipper caught on a rock, she went down hard,
slamming her head against a large stone as she fell.

Iain sat, ignoring the frenzy that had erupted the
moment Marion had departed. His anger quickly gave way to guilt. He’d
overreacted. There was no way Marion could have known she’d put on Catriona’s
wedding gown, yet his reason had been subdued by his emotions. Emotions he’d
been able to keep tightly locked down until now.

“Are ye nae going te go after her?”
Angus demanded in harsh, angry undertones.

Iain stared at the archway through
which Marion had fled. He was going after her without a doubt, but he’d drawn
enough attention to their argument, fool that he was. He’d let the attention of
his clan turn back to their meals, and then he’d slip out.

He clenched his fists. He never
lost his temper—before Marion came into his life, that was. She made him feel
everything, every damned thing a thousandfold. She was the spark that brought
him to life, but she was also the very thing that threatened to wipe away his
memories of Catriona.

“Did ye hear me?” Angus growled,
coming much too close to defiance, which Iain could not allow from any of his
clansmen, even though he understood Angus’s ire and fully agreed that he
deserved it.

“I heard ye. Now find a seat. I ken
how I acted is unforgivable.”

“Aye,” Angus grumbled. “Ye dunnae
deserve her.”

“I ken,” Iain replied. “But she’s
my wife now, whether I deserve her or nae.”

“Aye, she is yer wife,” Angus
snapped. “Ye’d be well served te remember that. She’s nae accountable for yer
pain, but she could heal it.”

“Ye overstep, Angus. Go sit down
with the others.”

The old stubborn Scot looked as if
he might continue to argue, and Iain admired and appreciated how much Angus
cared for Marion and how he was willing to bring trouble on himself in her
name. But Iain could not tolerate it. His position as laird was finite; his
order must be followed.

Angus’s mouth drew into a thin
line, but he jerked his head in a nod and turned away. Before Iain could take a
deep breath and get his emotions under control, Lachlan gripped his shoulder.
“What’s the matter with ye?” he demanded in a low voice.

Iain stared at Lachlan, who would
never be able to understand what was wrong with him. Iain had been so happy to
see Marion when she’d first entered the hall that his blood had leaped at the
sight of her. And then when he’d realized she was wearing Catriona’s wedding
gown and his first thought had been how stunning she looked in it, he’d quickly
tried to conjure an image of Catriona on their wedding day. But he could not.
All he could see was Marion, her hair flowing and shining like the moon. He
could not see beyond her luminous emerald eyes or the way their color perfectly
matched the silk gown to even recall how Catriona’s eyes had looked in it. His
dead wife’s wedding dress hugged his new wife’s gentle curving hips, tiny
waist, and voluptuous breasts, and he heated with desire like he’d never known
before her. His body hummed with the memory of how Marion tasted, felt, and
smelled, and in that moment, his heart ached with feelings he’d not wanted but
could not deny. She was inside of him and he was happy.

But what he was doing was unforgivable.
He’d sworn never to forget Catriona, and now it seemed he was failing in
another vow. He didn’t think he could stop what was happening, though.

“Iain,” Lachlan snapped, his tone
annoyed. “Did ye hear my question?”

Iain looked at his brother, leaning
toward him so no one would overhear. “Aye. I’m my own problem. I must find a
way to reconcile what I vowed to Catriona with what I want.”

“What do ye want?” Lachlan asked.

“I want Marion.”

“Ye already have her.”

Iain rubbed his knuckles across his
chin. “I want to take all she wants to give me.”

“Then take it, brother, but ye must
return it, as well—and quickly, afore ye hurt her so greatly she nae wishes to offer
it to ye anymore.”

Iain glanced sharply at Lachlan.
“Ye almost sound as if ye speak from experience, but I ken that kinnae be.”

“Nay, it kinnae.” A dark look swept
over Lachlan’s face, but he said no more.

Frowning, Iain followed the
direction of Lachlan’s stare to the table where Bridgette sat with Graham and
Elspeth. Graham put his arm around Bridgette’s shoulders and whispered in her
ear, and Iain felt Lachlan stiffen beside him. He studied the subtle flare of
Lachlan’s nostrils and the tick in his jaw.

“Do ye care for Bridgette?”

“Nay.” Lachlan had replied so
quickly that Iain knew it was a lie.

But Iain also understood his
brother did not want to discuss it. And he thought he knew why. “That’s good,”
he hedged, “because I think Graham cares for her.”

Lachlan nodded. “Aye, he does verra
much. I’m glad it appears she is finally seeing him as a man.”

Lachlan sounded anything but glad,
but Iain didn’t comment further.

He turned his attention to Fiona
and Elspeth, who appeared to be arguing. He thought about Marion and what she’d
said about borrowing the gown. He watched Fiona as she violently shook her head
at something Elspeth had said, and then suddenly both women looked at him.
Elspeth stood up, but Fiona grabbed at her sister, and he understood his error,
then. Fiona must have tricked Marion to humiliate her, and Iain had
inadvertently helped her.

Ferocious anger overcame him as he
slid out of his seat, descended the dais, and strode to the table where Fiona
and Elspeth sat warily watching his approach. He stopped in front of the two
sisters, a familiar pain moving through him for Catriona, but something now
burned more fiercely in him: longing. He wanted desperately not to be miserable
anymore.

He looked from one sister to the
other. “Who gave Catriona’s wedding gown to Marion?”

“She did,” Elspeth blurted,
pointing at her sister.

The blood drained from Fiona’s
face, so Iain knew it to be true. “I want ye ready to leave my land tomorrow.
Pack a trunk.”

Fiona scrambled out of her chair
and grabbed his arm. “Iain, it’s nae as it seems!”

He scoffed. “Is it nae?”

A look of horror swept over Fiona’s
face. “Nay, ye dunnae understand!”

Iain clenched his teeth to stifle
the desire to shake the woman. “Did ye or did ye nae give Catriona’s gown to
Marion, knowing it would make me angry?”

“I did, but—”

He took a firm hold of Fiona’s
elbow and led her out of the great hall so the rest of their conversation would
not be overheard. “Ye let Marion wear that gown in here nae knowing what she
wore. I’ll nae have someone treat my wife that way.”

Fiona scowled. “And why nae? Ye
dunnae love her.”

“Ye dunnae ken a thing about how I
feel for her,” he ground out. “Listen carefully to me, Fiona. Even if I had
never married Marion, I would nae have married ye. I did nae wish to marry
again at all,
until her
. Now, go fetch yer sister and get her to help ye
pack. John MacDonald has asked to marry ye, and I’m going to let him.”

Iain departed without a backward glance
and raced to his bedchamber. All he wanted was to see Marion and beg her to
forgive him, but when he burst through the bedroom door, he realized the
chamber was empty—of Marion. The room itself was most assuredly full—of
Catriona’s things. Her wedding gown lay on the bed along with the more
serviceable gowns she had worn. They covered the bed fully, and Iain’s pulse
ticked rapidly in his temples as understanding filled him. Marion thought there
was no space for her in his life or his heart. He hastily stuffed the gowns
into Catriona’s trunk and then dragged the trunk to Marion’s bedchamber, which
was still unfinished. It didn’t matter because she was never going to sleep in
there.

With the task he should have done
the day they arrived at Dunvegan finally completed, he pondered where Marion
might have gone. She was likely wandering about somewhere, possibly down below
or even out on the rampart. Iain would start in the kitchen, where he knew she
felt comfortable.

Kyla greeted him with wide eyes and
a quick curtsy when he appeared in the kitchen entry. “Laird?”

“I’m looking for Marion,” he
explained.

Neil’s wife furrowed her brow.
“She’s nae here. I would think she’d be in the great hall with ye.”

Iain nodded. “She was, but I’m a
fool.”

Kyla’s gaze widened further. “Maybe
check the tower, if she thought to be alone.”

He nodded and strode out the door
to the tower. He took the stairs three at a time, sure he’d find her there, but
when he didn’t, he cursed, his anger at himself growing stronger. Next he
checked the stables, where he found Angus, who must have slipped out of supper.

“Have ye seen Marion?” Iain called,
breathless.

Angus shook his head, his brow
wrinkling. “She is nae with ye?”

“Nay. I dunnae where she went.”

“I’ll help ye search,” the older
Scot said, rushing Iain out of the stables.

Together they checked the herb
garden and vegetable garden where there were places to sit in seclusion, but
they still did not find her. Worry obliterated his guilt for the moment. “Where
could she be? Surely, she would nae go down to the water alone?”

Angus scowled at Iain. “Ye do nae
ken her very well if ye dunnae understand she’d do such a thing. Her emotions
triumph over her good senses sometimes, ye ken.”

“I ken,” Iain responded, his
concern growing. What if she was so angry that she’d left the castle grounds
for the woods? The idea of her wandering alone out there at night where wild
animals were, or worse… His heart stuttered. His lands were well guarded, but
what if Froste or de Lacy had sent someone to fetch her again?

Without a word of explanation, Iain
stormed toward the great hall and burst through the door. The chatter in the
room died instantly. “I want every man outside now to help me search for
Marion.”

Before anyone could respond, the
warning horn from the watchtower blew in five short bursts, signaling an enemy
ship was near. Iain’s chest felt as if it were about to explode as men charged
toward him.

“Arm yerselves for war,” he roared
as he headed toward the wall where he always kept his sword. The clank of
weapons being readied joined the hum of men talking, and soon Iain strode into
the courtyard. His men poured out behind him, armed with swords, bows, and
arrows. Iain, flanked by his brothers, Rory Mac, and Angus, led the charge down
the seagate stairs, expecting to see the enemy rushing off a ship ready to
attack. But when they reached the shore, a ship with a large banner depicting a
swirling snake was sailing away under the bright moonlight.

Iain stuttered to a halt, momentarily
confused. It was certainly Froste’s ship, so why was it leaving before seeing
battle?

“Did they decide nae to strike?”
Rory Mac asked, sounding just as bewildered as Iain.

At that moment, the man who ran the
watchtower, Roland, stumbled across the ground. He fell at Iain’s knees.
“Laird,” he rasped. “I’m sorry. I-I fell asleep. When I awoke, I saw the ship
and sounded the horn.”

Iain’s heart tightened, each beat
excruciatingly painful as he stared, frozen in shock, out beyond the loch to the
distant sea.
Why would they leave?
he wondered. The possibility that
they’d come for Marion and had found her out here, alone, angry, and hurt made
fear and anger pulse within him.

“But why?” Lachlan asked,
continuing Rory Mac’s line of questioning. “Why come here at all?”

Iain’s gaze locked on Angus. The
old man had bent down to pick something up, and when he rose, he clutched a
hair comb in his large hand. Iain stared at it as the image of Marion entering
the great hall flashed in mind. Her hair had been pulled up at one side, and
this comb… This comb had been Catriona’s.

“Marion!” Iain roared, reason
fleeing him as he charged into the icy black water. Before he could dive under,
hands grabbed onto him and tugged him back.

Lachlan clasped his shoulders.
“Ye’ll nae rescue her that way.”

Coldness seeped through Iain, but
it had nothing to do with the freezing temperature of the water. Fear ebbed in
the back of his mind, but he shoved it away. There was no time for fear. No
time for hesitation. No time for anything but to rescue Marion. He could not
lose her. And when he reached Froste, or whoever of Froste’s or de Lacy’s
knights had dared to take his wife, he was going to kill every last one of the
men.