Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 5

“She refuses to come down, sir.” Lachlan joined Duncan near the chapel steps, a decidedly uncomfortable look on his youthful face.

Duncan dragged a hand through his hair, then glanced up at the gray morning sky. It wasn’t a good day for a wedding. A chill wind blew from the north, and if the ominous-looking clouds in the distance were any indication, the light drizzle they’d endured since dawn would soon be a full-fledged downpour.

Nae, this wasn’t a good day to start a marriage.

And now, in addition to her inability to ease his mind about Robbie with the swiftness he’d hoped, his bride-to-be would humiliate him in front of his men as well.

Dressed in their best plaids and armor, his kinsmen and knights stood in a semicircle before the castle steps, waiting to escort their new mistress to his side. Others formed a long line that stretched from the keep to where he stood in front of the small stone chapel.

They’d all been waiting since sunrise.

Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the priest. The holy man stood serene, his hands clasped before him, fair oozing patience. Just beyond him, inside the chapel, dozens of burning candles did nothing to chase the gloom of the dreary morn.

And the clusters of Highland flowers, meant to symbolize fertility and joy, merely emphasized the travesty of what was about to take place.

Only the proximity of the priest kept Duncan from uttering a string of blasphemous oaths.

He glanced at his squire. “Is she dressed?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Duncan turned to Sir Marmaduke. The scarred Sassunach knight lounged against the arched entrance to the chapel, looking for all the world as if he were highly amused by the morning’s unusual turn of events.

“Stop gloating like a dimwitted woman,” Duncan snapped at him. “There’s nothing funny about the lass playing stubborn.”

Marmaduke smiled as best he could. “Do not vent your anger on me. Perhaps you should ask yourself what you did to her to make her choose to stay in her chamber?”

“What I did to her?” Duncan scowled. “I’ve done naught. She should be grateful. I’ve rescued her from a drunken sire and gifted her with chests of finer gowns than she’s likely ever seen, much less possess.”

“Then what happened in your solar yestereve to make her come running down to the hall as if a horde of banshees chased her?”

Duncan forgot the priest and swore.

Marmaduke stepped closer and slapped Duncan on the back. “There is your answer, my friend. Whatever you said was not to her liking. I always told you to use more finesse with the ladies.”

“I said nothing to upset her,” Duncan repeated, glancing up at the tower window he knew to be her chamber. “I simply told her very little would be expected of her.”

“And how did you word that?” Marmaduke pressed.

Duncan blew out a breath. “For the love of St. Mungo, you persistent swine, I only said naught else would be asked of her except the use of her sight and tending to Robbie.”

Marmaduke whistled, then slowly shook his head. “’Tis worse than I feared. How could a man who’s spent so much time in the company of Robert Bruce manage to make a blundering fool of himself with a woman?”

Something that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter came from Lachlan, then rippled through the ranks of his men, earning each a furious glare.

By the gods, they were laughing at him!

“If you think you are such a charmer, English, then why don’t you hie yourself up to her chamber and fetch her down here?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Marmaduke made him a low bow, then headed toward the castle. After ten paces, he stopped and looked back. “Perhaps someday I shall give you lessons in how to treat a lady.”

* * *

To Duncan’s surprise,Marmaduke emerged from the keep a short time later, followed by his bride and her servant. Immediately, his pages blasted their trumpets and his knights fell into place behind the trio as they crossed the cobbled bailey, the lot of them cheering as if they were about to witness a real wedding and not a farce.

The nearer they came, the more Duncan began to regret his decision to make the MacDonnell lass his wife. Aye, he should have kidnapped her, forced her to quell his doubts about Robbie, then send her back to Dundonnell. Instead, he’d soon be burdened by a second wife he did not want.

It was only a small comfort she looked equally unhappy about the situation.

Everyone else seemed determined to make fools of themselves.

His men cavorted about like a group of silly women. Shouting jests and cheering, they behaved as if they were all addlepated. Even his bride’s old servant beamed, blushing at the men’s antics as if she were a young girl of ten-and-four and not a mature woman long past her prime.

“She’s a fetching sight, aye, my lord?” Lachlan nudged him as Marmaduke escorted the two ladies nearer.

Duncan kept silent. He did not want to admit, even to himself, that Linnet MacDonnell did indeed make a bonnie bride.

She wore a heavy silk tunic of deep blue, fastened at her waist by an intricate girdle of gold. A full-length cloak of the same blue protected her from the rain and a jewel-encrusted circlet held a long golden head-veil in place. She’d kept her hair unbound, letting it spill from beneath her veil to flow in a shining curtain of bronze waves to her waist.

Duncan uttered a silent oath, angry at himself that, even for a split second, he’d wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through such tresses.

By the saints, ‘twas like spun gold!

Ne’er had he suspected she would have such glorious hair. Why, she’d tempt St. Columba himself.

Thunder of heaven, he’d have an explanation for this. He’d been assured the lass was plain, as unappealing as a sow’s hindquarters.

He didn’t want a comely wife.

Never again.

Not after Cassandra and the suffering she’d wrought with her evil ways.

Nae, it wasn’t a fetching wench he’d wanted, but it appeared he’d gotten one despite his wishes to the contrary.

Ignoring the way her hair flowed over obviously full breasts which he’d not truly appreciated earlier because of the ill-fitting garments she’d worn on the journey, Duncan set his face in what he hoped to be a stony mask as Marmaduke guided her up the chapel steps.

He would force himself to see her as she’d appeared the day before – plain and garbed in rags.

Aye, he would concentrate on that image and not look at her hair. In fact, he’d insist she wear her red-gold tresses braided and wrapped around her head, and hidden beneath a veil at all times.

As for her breasts…

He’d simply pretend they weren’t there.

He only hoped his men did not insist on a bedding ceremony. They knew full well why he was marrying the lass. He’d made no secret of the matter. Indeed, the subject had been much discussed of late. If they’d conveniently forgotten his reasons and expected him to perform the role of besotted and eager groom, he’d personally challenge each of them to a round of swordplay in the lists and cheerfully carve them to ribbons!

“’Tis time, my lord.” Marmaduke propelled his bride toward him. “Do you want to escort your lady up the chapel steps?”

Nae, Duncan almost snarled.

Instead, he glowered, not bothering to hide his displeasure. The only place he wanted to escort Linnet MacDonnell was back to her father’s miserable keep. But he offered her his arm and took small satisfaction in the fear he read in her large brown eyes.

If she feared him, she wouldn’t regret his absence from her bed.

Unfortunately, he’d noticed more than the expression in her eyes. He’d also noted they were flecked with gold and would likely be most appealing were they lit by a smile rather than dulled by resignation.

Then his men pressed forward, giving him no alternative but to guide his unwanted wife-to-be up the few stone steps to where the priest waited before the opened chapel door.

As if the holy father knew Duncan would flee if given the slightest chance, he immediately began the ceremony that would bind the MacDonnell wench to Duncan for the rest of his days, God willing.

Sheer curiosity, nothing more, made Duncan steal a glance at his bride during the opening prayer. Sooty lashes rested on her cheeks – cheeks that, if possible, had grown even more pale since the priest had begun his sacred monologue.

Her lips moved in silent prayer, and, saints preserve him, he couldn’t help notice how full they were. Luscious and supple-looking, she had lips he would’ve claimed in a swift and possessive kiss in earlier years.

Before he’d cast aside such foolhardy notions.

Unshed tears clung to her thick lashes, and at the sight of one of them breaking away to roll down her cheek, the cold knot in his stomach tightened and some accursed muscle in his jaw began to twitch with a vengeance.

By Lucifer’s knees, surely the prospect of wedding him wasn’t that unbearable?

She had much to gain, after all.

One look, though, at the way she clasped her hands tightly before her, assured him she did indeed dread becoming his wife.

Duncan fought the urge to swear. He was not an ogre, and he had tried to offer her comfort last night. He couldn’t be faulted because she’d sped from the solar before he’d had the chance.

Many were the women who would gladly throw themselves at his feet. At least in the old days before Cassandra’s perfidy had ruined his life. In the years he’d fought alongside the Bruce, there’d not been a single night during their forays across the land he’d had to sleep alone – unless he chose to do so.

His prowess in bed had been almost as legendary as that of his king’s.

The MacDonnell lass should be glad to become his bride.

Not that he intended to consummate their marriage.

As the priest droned on, Duncan’s gaze fell upon Linnet’s breasts. They rose and fell with her breathing, and only a blind man would not notice the alluring curves they made beneath the silk of her gown.

A loud clearing of someone’s throat, and the sharp jab of an elbow in his side snapped his attention back to the ceremony. By St. Ninian’s breath, it was almost over. He’d scarce been aware of speaking his vows, barely recalled the blessing and exchanging of rings.

Yet there the priest stood, holding a rolled parchment and waiting expectantly for Duncan to take the proffered quill and sign his soul away.

As if an unseen force guided his hand, Duncan scrawled his name on the document and handed the quill to his bride. She did the same, then before he realized what was happening, they’d been ushered inside the chapel for mass and holy communion.

It was over.

* * *

A few words,a signature, mumbled blessings he’d scarce registered, and he was once more married. Bound, at least in name, to a new wife who looked at him with huge eyes as if he was about to carry her into the very depths of hell.

And, he admitted bitterly, perhaps he was.

But for some reason he could not explain, he felt an undeniable urge to prove he was not the demon she apparently thought him to be. For a brief moment, Duncan desired to see her gold-flecked eyes shining with joy rather than staring at him in dread.

It was a good thing he’d chosen a chamber for her that was as far as possible from his own. Everyone in his household knew he wanted naught of her. Pride alone would keep him from crossing the great hall to reach the stairs leading to her quarters.

If his men thought he’d changed his mind and would chase after her like a rutting stag, they would be sorely disappointed. Let them make fools of themselves, he decided, as they crowded around her the minute they stepped from the chapel. They were the ones who claimed it was time he sought the love of a virtuous woman, not he.

Aye, let them make blithering idiots of themselves if it so pleased them.

Only Sir Marmaduke had the good grace to remain by his side. Unfortunately, Duncan suspected the man stayed near only to prevent him from riding off somewhere, rather than out of any sense of loyalty. Considering the way the Englishman preened himself in her presence, acting more chivalrous than the most adept French courtier, Duncan had no doubt that Marmaduke had appointed himself Lady Linnet’s champion.

Not that she needed one.

Even though she’d appeared subdued and unhappy during the wedding ceremony, his new wife had a strong will. She’d proven her daring yestereve in his solar.

Turning, he fixed his friend with a hard glare. “What did you say to get her down here?”

Sir Marmaduke folded his arms and had the bad taste to look mightily pleased with himself.

“Well?”

“Naught but what I thought the lady wanted to hear.”

Duncan resisted the urge to throttle the Englishman. “And what might that have been?”

“Simply that you didn’t mean everything you said to her in your solar last night. That you spoke out of consideration for her maidenly state, not wanting to unduly frighten her.”

The sudden pealing of the kirk’s bells and the equally loud cheering of his clansmen drowned out Duncan’s black oath. He frowned as he watched his men practically tripping over their own clumsy feet as they vied for his bride’s attention.

St. Columba and all the old gods preserve him, had they forgotten the treachery and intrigues that had poisoned Eilean Creag the last time a Lady MacKenzie had resided within his castle?

Deliberately hanging back, Duncan watched the rowdy crowd of merrymakers surge toward the hall, his new wife swept along in their midst. His scowl deepened. Let them act the fools and drink themselves senseless at the wedding feast. He, for one, had no desire to celebrate.

He’d offered for the MacDonnell lass because she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and therefore gifted with the sight. All he wanted was the use of it.

Naught else, as he’d made clear to her.

He didn’t care how many tall tales Marmaduke had told her. She need only supply him with the answer he needed, warn him of impending danger to his clan, see to Robbie, and he would leave her in peace.

It would be simple enough to avoid her in a castle the size of Eilean Donan.

So why did he have such a nagging feeling in his gut? Scowling, lest anyone dare think he was anything other than displeased, Duncan glared across the bailey, watching the noisy celebrants push into his keep.

“Are you ready to join the festivities?” Sir Marmaduke clamped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, urging him down the chapel steps. “There’s no such thing as a wedding feast without the bridegroom.”

“Aye,” Duncan darkly agreed. “I daresay I cannae make myself scarce, can I?”

As they crossed the bailey, the cause of his foul temper became more clear with every step he took. He feared Linnet MacDonnell would prove more than he’d bargained for.

Much more.

And that was a notion he did not care for at all.