The Highlander's Accidental Bride Page 2

  Curious in spite of herself, she asked, “And what do you normally use to get a woman in your bed?”

  Eaden bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “My winsome smile.”

  With an uncertain look at her new husband, Miriam took the goblet and sniffed the contents suspiciously.

  “‘Tis no’ poison, and if it were, I’d no’ make the mistake of showing ye the where of it.” He motioned for her to drink. “‘Twill warm ye and calm yer nerves.”

  Miriam took a hesitant sip and gasped as the liquid ignited a fiery path to her stomach. She thought Eaden’s lips twitched, perhaps almost smiled, but her eyes swam with tears and she quickly discarded the absurd idea.

  “Finished?”

  Considering the alternative, she ventured another delicate sip, desperately needing more time to compose herself. Combined with the wine she’d drunk earlier, the whisky made pleasant headway toward slowing her wildly beating heart.

  Eaden took the cup from her and drained the rest of the contents in a single gulp. “Take it off.” He motioned at her dress with the empty goblet as he raked her from head to toe with an unreadable look.

  Woodenly, she reached to undo the laces of her dress, her fingers clumsy with lingering fright and the unaccustomed alcohol blooming warmly in her veins. Her tingling fingers could not manage the task and she only created knots in the fine, silken threads.

  With a curse, Eaden grabbed her shoulders and hauled her around. She felt his hands at her back and she jerked at his touch as he tugged at the offending laces.

  “Damn.” With no care to the costliness of the fabric, he grasped the dress at the nape. With one violent wrench of his hands, he tore the gown and her chemise free to her waist. Released from their gossamer threads, pearls and beads tinkled across the bare wooden floor, loud in the charged silence of the room.

  Miriam gasped and grabbed frantically at the front of her gown as it sagged forward. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the look on Eaden’s face.

  “Do ye want to take it from here, or do ye still require assistance?”

  Her jaw clenched in rebellion, but she dared not risk further help from him. His help had already cost her much, leaving her with no kin present to see her honorably wed.

  She fought her tears as the last of the bejeweled fabric and silken chemise fell around her feet, leaving her naked before him. A small, gold filigree cross set with green stones lay cold against her skin. Her fingers lifted in an automatic gesture to cover the jewel as Eaden’s gaze roamed over her.

  His hands faltered in the midst of releasing his own clothing. Miriam thought his features softened, but the look fled before she could be sure.

  Recovering quickly from whatever his thoughts had been, he finished removing his clothes and motioned her toward the bed, quirking an eyebrow as she hesitated to do his bidding.

  Swallowing her fear, she slid backward onto the bed, unwilling to turn her back on him. Eaden followed, stretching out beside her on the mattress, and she felt the heat of him burn against her skin. He reached to touch her hair and she closed her eyes, intending to blot out whatever came next. Her scalp tingled as he ran his fingers through the tangled strands of her hair.

  “I dinnae want ye as a wife. I told ye I dinnae care if you hated me or no’. But there still is time to make a marriage of this.”

  For a moment she softened at his words. Sounds of drunken laughter surged through the closed door and hands drummed an uneven tattoo on the wooden boards. Sudden humiliation rushed over her and she stiffened to remember she was the unwilling captive of her father’s enemy.

  “Be done with it,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.

  Eaden made no reply as he rose over her.

  Eaden rolled to his feet beside the bed. Miriam lay silent, eyes closed tight, determined he would not see her cry. The sounds as he dressed were loud in the still room.

  “‘Tis done. Ye need not fear me again.” His voice was flat, emotionless.

  His booted feet thudded dully on the wooden floor and the snick of sound reached Miriam’s ears as the bedroom door opened and closed. Tears seeped from beneath her lashes and she released the sobs of despair erupting from her soul. She’d not wanted her wedding night to be like this. But she hadn’t wanted to be married to Earl Scott, either. Silently she cursed her father as well as the king and the man they’d forced her to wed.

  Her sobs eased and she slipped from the bed, moving gingerly to the wooden chest against the wall. Lifting the lid, she reached for her nightshift. The fine fabric grated like the coarsest wool on her sensitive skin and she shuddered as it settled over her body. Noise from the guests drifted from below, but Miriam had no intention of rejoining them. Let the laird entertain them.

  She faltered, remembering the way he’d dragged her through the throng of gathered clansmen. They’d already been entertained.

  Crossing back to the bed, she stripped away the bloodstained coverlet and climbed onto the soft mattress. She burrowed beneath the sheets and thin blanket, shedding more hot tears of humiliation. He’d said she need not fear him again. Did he mean to leave her alone? Miriam glanced at the door and pulled the blanket tighter around her.

  Or would he be back?

  Eaden stormed into the upstairs hall, hardly sparing his brother a glance. Ranald shrugged and pushed away from his position against the wall.

  “Thought ye’d be longer than this,” he said to Eaden’s back. “Of course, ‘twas the shortest wedding in history,” he added reprovingly.

  Eaden did not respond, rounding the corner and hurrying down the back stairwell.

  “Now ye’ve wedded and bedded the lass, ye’re free to enjoy the rest of the evening.” Ranald’s voice mocked as he followed close on Eaden’s heels.

  Eaden whirled on him with a snarl. “Do ye have anythin’ to say that doesnae involve my bride?”

  Ranald pulled up short and gave him a wary look. “Nay.”

  Eaden grunted and turned away, taking the rest of the stairs in three bounding strides as he continued out to the stables.

  “So, ye’ll no’ spend the night with her?” Ranald leaned over the edge of the horse stall and petted the head of Eaden’s deerhound who’d been confined to the stable for the evening.

  Eaden scowled. “The subject is closed.” He finished saddling his horse and tossed the reins over the stallion’s neck. Grasping the plaited leather just below the shanks of the bit, he led Duff through the door. Duff, not at all inclined to leave his warm stall, stretched his neck reluctantly before he finally picked up his hooves and lurched forward. Ranald followed Eaden out into the night, the deerhound, Sorcha, tagging along behind.

  “I’ll be back.” Eaden mounted the stallion, leaning forward to check the fastenings of his saddle.

  Ranald’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of six other riders fanned out in the edge of the lantern light spilling from the stables. Slouched only a little in their saddles, they’d apparently not had time to partake fully of the wedding feast.

  Ranald gave a short cry of protest. “Ye’ve guests and a new bride.”

  Eaden threw him a hooded look as he urged Duff forward. “Ye can handle things here. I’ve other men watching Barde. They’ll alert us if he tries to raise an army or march in our direction.”

  “Where are ye going?”

  “Troon.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve married the wench. Now I want my land back from the king.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Morning sunlight fell in a brilliant puddle through the glass-paned window, painting the wooden floor with greenish-golden warmth. Groaning with reluctance to face the day, Miriam rolled over, shielding her eyes against the bright light. Unwelcome memories of the previous day flashed through her mind, and
she winced against the harsh reality of marriage to the laird.

  Then with a sudden, startled cry, she sat bolt upright in bed, her hand barely stifling the scream on her lips.

  “My name isn’t Miriam!”

  She leapt out of bed, stumbling as her feet tangled in the thin blanket. Stomping the fabric into submission, she glanced wildly about the room, looking for the man who had dragged her into this nightmare.

  Spying the door across the room, she rushed to the thick-hewn portal. After a moment of panic when the bolt resisted her efforts, she managed to drag the heavy door open. She ran into the hallway and stopped, unsure how to proceed. Voices rose from the great hall below, but she could not tell if her husband’s was among them.

  My husband! The words shot through her like a bolt of lightning, white-hot and frightening. Fresh panic sent her fleeing down the narrow hall, overwhelmed with the need to find some safe place. Catching the sound of footsteps coming up the back stairs, she whirled with the blind fear of a hunted rabbit, and ran hard against a solid wall of linen-covered flesh and muscle.

  Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the tall, dark-haired man looming over her. Eaden? She blinked. No, not Eaden, but his brother, Ranald, though the two were nearly alike enough to be twins.

  “Easy, lass.” His big hands grasped her upper arms, steadying her as she rocked back on her heels.

  Her husband and Ranald were less alike than she’d thought. Eaden hadn’t said a single kind word to her since he’d dragged her here, and his grip on her arm the night before had been angry and impersonal. Punishing.

  Ranald’s steadying hands and gentle words struck through the horror awakened in her only moments ago, and she blurted the terrifying words. “My name isn’t Miriam!”

  Ranald gave Eaden’s new bride a puzzled look, noting the wildness in her eyes, tears sparkling in their emerald depths. “What?”

  She blinked again, unshed tears magnifying her eyes, intensifying their color until he became mesmerized, wanting to protect her from whatever frightened her.

  “My name is Mary.” Her voice was an anguished whisper, the look on her face begging him to understand.

  “Mary, Miriam.” He shrugged, breaking free of his trance. “Whatever milady wishes.”

  The young woman stomped her foot impatiently. “No! You’re not listening. My name is not Lady Miriam Barde. I am Mary Marsh, her companion.”

  Ranald’s eyes widened as his breath left him in a loud whoosh of sound. It was no secret Laird Barde’s daughter had haughtily scorned marriage to her father’s enemy. Now the marriage was done, how far would she go to be free? Perhaps she teetered on the verge of hysteria. But was she lying?

  He motioned for her to return to her room. Whatever she was up to, it wouldn’t do for the servants to overhear their conversation. She turned with obvious reluctance and did as he asked. Following her, he closed the door softly behind them.

  She crossed the room and stood by the window, staring out at the late spring day. The morning light silhouetted her slender body through the thin night shift she wore. Ranald pulled himself together with a jerk, hoping she hadn’t noticed his gaze. Turning away, he sought something suitable to wrap her in.

  He spied the rumpled coverlet on the floor and picked it up with relief. He shook it out, noticed the bloodstains on the silken surface, and halted mid-action. Wincing at the reminder the lass was now his brother’s wife, he dropped the ruined coverlet back to the floor and crossed the room.

  Disentangling the thin blanket from the sheets beside the bed, he draped the soft silk over her shoulders. “Here. `Twill keep ye warm.”

  She absently accepted the fabric, cinching it tight around her, as though protecting herself from something. From him? He frowned and discarded the thought. More likely his angry brother, who had spent less than two minutes wooing his young bride the night before. Perhaps it would ease her mind to know Eaden was no longer at Scott Castle.

  “Ye can rest easy, milady.” Ranald took up his position beside the door. “Eaden left last night for Dundonald Castle, Troon.”

  The girl turned to glance at him over her shoulder. “Why would he go there?”

  “To tell the king ye’re married,” Ranald replied matter-of-factly.

  She blanched and faced him, wide-eyed. “But we can’t be. I’m not who he thinks I am.”

  Ranald sighed. “Perhaps ye’d better tell me what’s going on, lass. I was with him when he, er, fetched ye from Bellecourt Castle. We watched yer father step inside the room to check on ye that night. We were no’ wrong.”

  She slumped onto the lid of the chest beneath the window. “You had the right room. Just the wrong girl.” She looked at him, pleading in her eyes. “You must believe me!”

  “I dinnae know what to believe, lass, `tis the truth. Eaden had seen ye a year or more ago at court. Do ye no’ remember?”

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t remember anything until I woke this morning.”

  “Aye, and ye hit yer head hard when Eaden and I, er, woke ye.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Ye were a bit fashed to find two strange men in yer bedroom.”

  Mary glared at Ranald as she rubbed the back of her head. “When I woke at Scott Castle yesterday morning, I had no memory before that moment. I did not know my name. Everyone told me I was Laird Barde’s rebellious daughter. Why would I doubt them?”

  Ranald stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But Eaden was satisfied ye were Lady Miriam.”

  Mary leaned her head tiredly against the windowsill. “Miriam and I look a lot alike. We have the same color hair and are about the same height. But I’m not Miriam. And I cannot be married to Laird Scott!”

  Crossing his arms, Ranald sighed mightily. In Eaden’s defense, he’d tried to arrange the wedding the proper way, but Laird Barde and his arrogant daughter had shown little interest in obeying their king’s command. Not wanting the marriage any more than they did, it had taken the threat of the loss of his title and lands to force Eaden to act. In his haste to seal the marriage, he’d kidnapped his bride, married her, and consummated the marriage in less than a day’s time.

  His headstrong brother, who often served as herald to their king, and known as a shrewdly intelligent man, had quite possibly made a serious blunder. Ranald cringed to think he’d have to be the one to tell him.

  At Dundonald Castle, Eaden stood before his king, head bowed, teeth clenched as he waited for permission to state his case. Guards lined the walls and colorful courtiers gathered in the corners of the room, eyeing him with interest. A buzz of conversation reached Eaden’s ears, but he ignored it, awaiting the king’s word. After several moments of silence, he lifted his gaze.

  With a languid wave of his arm, King Robert indicated the chair next to him, inviting Eaden to sit.

  “What brings ye to Troon this day, Scott?” Formality between them was usually reserved for matters of the crown. The two men, though separated by age and their respective ranks, had long ago become friends as time and again Eaden proved his loyalty to his king. Whenever the two were not discussing the affairs of state, both were relieved to let down their guard.

  This was not one of those times. Eaden shook his head and remained standing before the throne, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet planted firmly on the stone floor.

  “The marriage is done, Sire,” he said formally.

  King Robert sighed. “And I suppose ye want yer lands back.”

  Eaden inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  The frown on the king’s face showed annoyance for the tactics employed to maintain peace in the Highlands. “Eaden, ye have yer lands and yer title. And now ye have a bride to bind together two prominent clans. ‘Twas a simple solution to the interminable feud.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Come, sit ye here and t
ell me about the wedding. And tell that dog of yers to stand down. She’s bristling at me as though she’d like to take a bite out of me and I cannae help think she but reflects her master’s thoughts.”

  Eaden sighed, his anger at last beginning to dissipate. He strode to the ample chair at the king’s side and flopped tiredly onto its tufted cushions, motioning with a flick of his wrist for Sorcha to settle on the floor beside him.

  “I will say ye managed to carry out our wishes rather quickly in the end,” King Robert mused.

  Eaden gave the king a lopsided grin. “Ye might no’ like the way of it, but ye must admit the necessity demanded prompt action.”

  “Well, tell me the details,” the king urged. “How did ye get Laird Barde to agree?”

  “‘Tis well known Barde and his daughter fought the marriage. I, myself, was no’ in favor of it, either,” Eaden pointed out, but King Robert merely nodded. Like it or not, Eaden knew marriages among nobles were things to be used for gain, not pleasure. He was not the first to marry thusly, nor would he be the last.

  “`Twas one of the reasons I raised ye to the rank of earl,” King Robert retorted.

  Eaden shot him a dark look, knowing full well the rank had come with a price. “When ye declared my lands forfeit unless I came to heel and did as I was told, I decided no’ to leave my fate in the hands of the bastard, Barde.”

  King Robert frowned fiercely. “What have ye done?” he asked, his voice hard.

  “I’d tried speaking to Barde and doing things the traditional way. He was less than enthusiastic and mentioned hell freezing over as the only possible wedding date. His daughter was equally certain she’d no’ marry into the Scott clan.” Eaden shrugged. The feud between their families was generations old. He hadn’t wanted a Barde bride, either. “So I kidnapped her, carried her back to Scott Castle, and we married the same day.”

  King Robert jerked upright in his chair, shocked surprise clear on his slack-jawed face. “Ye kidnapped her?” He wheezed, unable to inhale a proper breath, and pointed an accusatory finger at Eaden. “Ye actually forced her to marry ye?”