Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 9

“Aye, make her a MacKenzie!”

Throughout the great hall, men shouted the chant. Ribald laughter rose to the vaulted ceiling, and the floor shook from a furious chorus of foot stomping. And, try as he might to ignore the bad memories, the joyous ruckus reminded Duncan of another wedding feast long past and best forgotten.

A time when he’d been young and thought himself in love.

Nae, besotted.

And the worthless marriage stone ceremony had failed to spare him grief.

Saints, he’d been so thoroughly beguiled by his first wife’s beauty and grace, he’d never have believed her perfidious nature had Saint Peter himself warned him.

Pushing all thoughts of Cassandra from his mind, he dutifully offered his new wife the heavy wedding chalice. “Drink so we can have done with this foolishness,” he said, his tone more harsh than he’d intended.

“I don’t care much for spirits, sir,” she said, taking the great chalice with both hands but making no move to drink.

A dark oath almost passed Duncan’s lips before he remembered she was the daughter of a drunkard. “You must not drink much, only a sip,” he told her, surprised at the protectiveness he felt toward her upon recalling her lout of a father. “I shall drink the rest.”

He watched closely as she raised the chalice and drank. He doubted she’d taken more than a wee sip, but the potent wine left her lips looking soft and red.

Sweet.

Not enticing as another woman’s lips had looked on another wedding day, but sweet – innocent.”

And more tempting than those of any practiced siren he’d ever had the misfortune to meet.

For truth, she tempted him beyond all reason.

Even though, by all rights, he should be angry, and was, over her parading the lad under his nose. Tearing his gaze from her, Duncan gave in to the urge and swore.

Perhaps he should have sought a wife at court, an accomplished and cultivated beauty whose polished charms would have reminded him so thoroughly of his first wife, he wouldn’t have had difficulty ignoring her.

Instead, he’d burdened himself with a bonnie Highland lass whose freshness and spirit intrigued him.

“I cannot drink more, sir,” she said then, setting down the chalice, the honeyed softness of her voice fair unmanning him.

Fighting to quell the desire she so unwittingly unleashed in him, Duncan snatched the chalice off the table and downed its contents in one hefty swig. A roar of approval went up from his men when he plunked down the empty chalice.

Despite the look of alarm on her face, he refilled the large drinking vessel and emptied it again before Fergus could launch into the marriage stone ceremony. As if the disobedient lout had read Duncan’s mind, his seneschal grasped the curved horn he wore around his neck, brought it to his lips, and gave a sharp blast.

At once, the feasters fell silent. Those who sat, leaned forward, and those who stood, inched closer. “The tale, Fergus,” someone yelled from the back of the hall, “tell us the legend!”

Lachlan handed Fergus a cittern, and as he strummed a few chords to test it, Duncan overhead the Sassunach whispering to Linnet.

“Fergus acts as the clan filidh, or fili,” Marmaduke told her. “He never studied the bardic arts, so can’t claim the true title, but he is a born storyteller and deserves respect. At every MacKenzie wedding, he tells the legend of the marriage stone.”

Duncan glared at his friend. “Aye, and dinnae forget that is all it is – a legend. Naught but words.”

“Then you cannot be harmed it, can you, my lord?” his lady said, displaying another glimpse of the fire he’d admired on the journey from Dundonnell.

“I do not fear the stone or its silly legend,” Duncan snapped.

“I am glad to hear it.” Marmaduke reached for a chunk of cheese, a mischievous gleam in his good eye. “Then you have no reason to deny us the pleasure of watching you and your fair lady wife perform the ceremony.”

Another blast from Fergus’s horn silenced those still speaking and spared Duncan from responding to Marmaduke’s cheek.

“’Twas long ago,” Fergus began his tale, his gnarled fingers strumming the cittern. “Old gods still ruled and their ways were yet respected. A proud Celtic king lived not far from where we sit this night. He was a powerful man, and none dared defy him. He feared no man or creature, and some say neither did he fear the gods.”

Fergus paused to sip from a brimming cup of ale. “This king had four daughters, and being as wise as they were beautiful, they, too, feared him. All save his youngest daughter – his favorite.”

As Fergus recited the legend, Duncan leaned back and folded his arms. Folded his arms and closed his ears. He knew the foolish prattle by heart, and the most annoying part was almost upon him.

“… So certain was the fair maid of her father’s love, she saw no reason to be secretive about having lost her heart to a young man she knew would not meet her father’s approval. Though a braw and bonnie lad, strong of muscle and good of heart, he was also without means or prospects. The proud king became outraged upon learning his favorite daughter desired a man so unworthy.”

The words flowed over Duncan, seeping into his ears despite his best efforts to ignore them. Saints, he wished the old fool would finish so they could have done with the rest of the ceremony.

The part he dreaded – the hand-holding and kissing part.

“Aware her father would never allow the marriage,” Fergus went on, “but unable to deny her heart, the lass and her true love ran away to the marriage stone. A swearing stone, ancient even then. Its magic was strong and true.” Fergus paused and took another sip of ale. “But the father was warned, and he caught up with them just as they thrust their hands through the opening in the stone’s middle.”

Pausing again, Fergus looked around the hall, his sharp eyes wise and knowing. Duncan closed his own eyes before the wretched graybeard’s piercing gaze could reach him.

“… The king’s fury gave him more strength than a mortal man should have and he ran at them, tore the stone from its base and cast it into the sea, the young man with it.” The seneschal’s voice rose as he neared the legend’s climax. “Shocked, for he hadn’t meant to kill the lad, the king fell to his knees and begged his daughter’s forgiveness. But her loss was too great. Without even glancing at her father, she walked off the cliff, joining in death the love she was denied in life.

“… So angered were the old gods by the king’s disrespect for the stone’s sanctity, they repaid him in kind, destroying his stronghold so thoroughly, none can say where his court truly stood.”

Duncan opened his eyes as the seneschal paused before finishing the tale. He tried not to see the rapt expressions on his men’s faces, the misted eyes, and how they all hung on Fergus’s every word. For sure, he would not glance at his bride.

“But all was not lost,” Fergus’s voice rang out in closing. “Many years later, the marriage stone washed ashore on our fair isle and has been at Eilean Creag ever since. Its power is stronger now, and all newly married MacKenzies who grasp hands through the stone’s opening and share a kiss afterward, are blessed by a powerful bond no man can destroy, for the old gods themselves shall favor and watch o’er them.”

The hushed silence seemed to deepen, broken only by a sniffle or two from the few womenfolk present. Then deafening applause erupted, soon joined by the inevitable chant: “Bring on the stone! Bring on the stone!”

Fergus’s chosen buffoons paraded the stone three times around the high table, finally stopping behind Duncan’s great chair. Other clansmen, grinning like dimwits, yanked Duncan and Linnet from their seats and pushed them before the stone.

“Take her hand!” a voice rose above the din. Others quickly joined in. “Aye, take her hand!”

Duncan blew out a furious breath and thrust his hand through the hole in the stone. Such was his duty, he supposed, and not a soul present would cease to bedevil him until he’d done his part. But then his wife placed her hand in his and Duncan no longer heard his men’s fool prattle.

Her hand was surprisingly warm and strong, yet her touch unsettled him. By the hounds, but her warmth stole into him. It sprang from where their clasped hands touched, making its way brazenly up his arm to flow through him like warmed mead.

Before she could bewitch him further, Duncan shouted the words he must, “See, all here present, we are joined! Honor to the old gods, may they bless our union!”

To end this part of the ceremony, he laced his fingers with hers and gave her hand a light squeeze. She gasped, a tiny breathy sound, but he heard it. Even above the hoots and foot stomping of his men. Following his lead, she tightened her fingers over his and Duncan’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“The kiss! The kiss!” his men roared.

Spurred on by his wish to have done with this spectacle and an overwhelming desire to do just what the men urged him to do, Duncan released her hand but grasped her arm and drew her close. “We must kiss,” he told her, taking hold of both of her arms. “Afterward we shall have our peace.”

Something indefinable sparked in her eyes, but she lifted her chin to await his kiss. With a low groan that couldn’t possibly have come from him, Duncan caught her hard against him and pressed his mouth against hers in the most possessive kiss he’d given a woman in years.

When, in her innocence, she parted her lips and the tip of her tongue fleetingly touched his, a burst of raw desire flared in Duncan, and his loins tightened with pure, heated need.

The sort of need he did not want to be burdened with.

At once, he broke the kiss and set her from him. “’Tis done,” he vowed. Lifting his arms above his head, he turned in a circle and raised his voice so all could hear him. “Let no man claim we have not asked the old ones’ blessing.”

“May they e’er watch over you!” his men answered the ritual chant. Still hooting and full of themselves, those who’d crowded round made their way back to their places, while those still seated reached for jugs of ale or wine and refilled their drinking cups. At last, the clamor died down as the celebrants turned to the more serious amusements of supping and downing spirits.

* * *

Back in his own seat,Duncan purposely turned his attention to the delicacies and great platters of succulent meat spread upon the table. He didn’t trust himself to even glance at his bride, for his body was still uncomfortably aroused. Saints, just the soft sound of her breathing and her fresh, feminine scent were enough to keep him stirred.

Nae, it was wiser to concentrate on the feast before him. Fergus had outdone himself, bringing forth a wealth of finer victuals than Duncan had seen in longer than he cared to remember. The old seneschal had set a table good enough for the Bruce himself.

Duncan reached for the hippocras. Perhaps if he knocked back enough of the potent brew and ate his fill, a sound sleep would help him forget he’d bound himself to another wife this day.

A wife whose purpose was not to quicken his loins.

“Make haste and eat, will you? You’ve not touched a morsel.” He nodded to the choice pieces of roasted stag he’d carefully selected for her. “The sooner we’ve had done with our meal, the sooner we can be gone from this table.”

“I am not hungry, my lord.”

“Then I shall eat for you,” Duncan said irritably, lifting a piece of meat off their shared trencher and popping it into his mouth.

Anything to take his mind off the conflicting emotions whirling through him, driving him near mad.

Anything to steer his thoughts away from his manhood, still fully charged and pressing hard against the confines of his hose.

He’d wanted nothing more than a docile and plain bride who would but answer the question that burned in his mind. Instead, he’d wed a maid who fired his blood without trying and who’d defy every rule he’d laid down in his household.

A lass whose sight was likely little more than Highland gossip, a bard’s exaggeration.

And he’d fallen for it.

A bride whose purity his clansmen roared, at this very moment, for him to take.

And, by St. Columba’s holy bones, he burned to do so.

But he’d learned a burning in the loins is fast quenched and forgotten while a searing of one’s soul lasts an eternity.

And so…

Once more, he refilled the enormous wedding chalice and downed its contents in one long gulp.

If his men insisted on a bedding, they could have one.

But without him.

He intended to sleep through it.