Devil in a Kilt (8 page)

How
could the man doubt the lad was his own flesh and blood? ‘Twas impossible not
to see the resemblance.

Robbie
was a miniature version of his handsome father. But where the father's beauty
was marred by grimness and distrust, the son had the face of an angel.

Trusting,
good, and pure.

An
incredible feeling of compassion welled up in Linnet, filling her with warmth
and a fierce desire to protect the child from harm.

And
from unhappiness.

Especially
from unhappiness.

All
of a sudden she was very glad she'd come to Eilean Creag. No matter what Duncan
MacKenzie thought of her... whether he found her too homely to bed or not, his
child needed her and she would do her best to assure Robbie received the love
and happiness he deserved.

As
she gazed down at him, very close to tears, so overwhelmed by emotion was she,
the boy pushed himself up on his elbows. "Are you my new mother?" he
asked. "Cook said you were coming."

"Aye,
Robbie, I suppose I am. Your father and I were wed this morn." Linnet took
a seat on the edge of the bed. "Would you like me to be your new
mother?"

He
regarded her solemnly for a moment before answering. "Aye, I would. You
have the bonniest hair I've e'er seen."

Linnet's
heart swelled, and heat stung the backs of her eyes. None save her brothers had
e'er paid her compliments and even those were few and far between. She didn't
know what to say to Robbie, and even if she did, she doubted she could speak
past the thick lump that had lodged in her throat.

Robbie
glanced at the table and frowned. "I gathered flowers for you, but got
sick before I could give them to you. I'm sorry they're not pretty
anymore." He picked up the wilted bouquet and placed it on her lap.

"Oh,
nay, Robbie lad, ‘tis lovely flowers they are. The most beautiful I've ever
seen." Linnet's voice trembled as she held up the bouquet and admired it.
She knew her tears were spilling unchecked down her cheeks. It was the first
bouquet she'd ever received.

"You're
crying," he said, concern clouding his eyes. "Did I do something
wrong?"

Reaching
out, Linnet gently smoothed the back of her hand down his cheek. "Nay,
child, you've done naught to displease me. ‘Tis happy I am. You're a most
gallant lad, and I thank you for the flowers."

"You
willna go away, will you?" he asked, his brow still creased with worry.

Linnet's
heart twisted. "Nay, I shall not e'er leave you. ‘Tis here to stay I
am," she promised. Without taking her gaze off him, she reached for the
mug of watermint she'd placed on the small table beside the bed. "I've
brought something to soothe the ache in your belly."

Later,
as Linnet followed Lachlan down the stairs, Robbie's little hand held tightly
in her own, the squire's most recent warning about her new husband's temper
went round and round in her mind.
'Sir Duncan willna like you bringing Robbie
to his table,'
he'd cautioned her in a low voice so the boy wouldn't hear.
'He's
mighty fearsome when angered,'
he'd added just before they'd begun their
descent back to the hall.

'Is
there aught what doesna rile him?'
Linnet had asked, hoping her
voice didn't reveal her fear of vexing her formidable husband. But her own
anxiety was of little importance compared to the need of the child who'd
slipped his hand into hers so trustingly. For his sake, she had no choice but
to be bold.

"I
hope you've thought this through, milady," the squire said, stopping so
abruptly at the bottom of the stairs Linnet fair collided with his back.

"I
have, Lachlan, dinna worry," she said with more conviction than she felt.

Her
fingers clenched around the bundle of limp flowers she held in her free hand.
Aye, she'd thought her actions through and knew what she was doing.

Unfortunately,
she also knew she was about to unleash the wrath of the devil.

"Have
you seen her hair?" Duncan leaned back in his canopied seat at the high
table and aimed a pointed glare at Sir Marmaduke.

To
his irritation, the Sassunach either ignored, or didn't hear, his question.
Instead, his most stalwart knight appeared completely engrossed in watching
Eilean Creag's craggy old seneschal, Fergus, order about his troupe of
servitors as they filed through the crowded hall.

Each
one shouldered a great platter of some kind of elaborately dressed game bird or
a sizable haunch of roasted meat, all prepared with special care for the wedding
feast.

Perturbed,
Duncan reached across the conspicuously empty seat to his left and gave his
friend a sharp jab in the ribs. Raising his voice above the ruckus, he tried
again, "I said, have you seen her hair?"

"Hare?"
Marmaduke fixed him with the most innocent look possible considering his
disfigurement. " ‘Tis certain Fergus will have ordered a goodly number. If
we're lucky, mayhap he's prepared them with his special onion-and-saffron
gravy."

"
‘Tis
her
hair I speak of, you conniving fox," Duncan fair roared,
not caring if all at the high table and beyond heard him. "I'll have an
explanation, Strongbow.
Now
before her ladyship sees fit to join
us."

"Explanation?"
The eyebrow above Marmaduke's good eye rose a notch.

"Dinna
repeat my words like a blithering fool or I'll have you replace the jester
Fergus hired to entertain us this afternoon."

Marmaduke
lowered his brow immediately. "What troubles you, my friend?"

""‘Tis
plain she be, as unappealing as a sow's behind,' " Duncan quoted, his
wrath at being misled sorely testing his temper. "Would you deny those
words?"

"Nay,"
Marmaduke stated with great calm, offering his chalice to a young squire who
promptly refilled it with spiced wine. "And ‘twas true enough of her
appearance the day I called at Dundonnell. She'd been in the bailey, teaching
a small lad how to brandish his wooden sword when I arrived. Rain had turned
the ground to a sea of mud. Both she and the lad were covered with it, but she
did not seem to mind. I had the impression the boy's squeals of laughter mattered
more to her than a bit of mud on her gown."

Duncan
swallowed the angry words he wanted to fling at his friend. The even-tempered
Englishman was the only man alive who managed to make him feel guilty, even
when he was in the right.

Like
now.

‘Twas
he
who'd been culled, made the fool.

He
whose
world had tilted at the sight of her unbound hair this morn.

A
wife with such glorious tresses spelled trouble, despite Marmaduke's chivalrous
attempts to paint her as a half saint, fawning over children and ignorant of
the effect her hair would have on any mortal man beneath the age of eighty and
mayhap a few beyond.

But
rather than embarrass himself further by commenting on Marmaduke's pretty
speech, undoubtedly designed to emphasize his new bride's goodness of
character, he clamped his lips together in a grimace. He'd content himself with
giving the Sassunach knight another cold, hard glare.

"If
I recall, you questioned me about how she'd appeared that day, and I told you
true," Marmaduke continued, obviously taking great delight in Duncan's
displeasure. "Had you inquired if I thought she'd wash up well, my answer
would've been much different."

That
did it. Duncan curled his fingers tightly around the armrests of his chair. If
anyone else had dared taunt him so, he'd have grasped the sharp blade resting
on the table before him and cut out the offender's tongue.

Better
yet, he'd use a
dull
blade.

"Whose
side are you on, English?" he finally asked, his hands still gripping the
chair as if he sought to snap the sturdy oaken armrests in twain.

"Why,
yours, milord," Marmaduke gallantly replied, lifting his chalice in a
silent toast. "As ever, your well-being is my most steadfast desire."

Duncan
snatched his own drinking vessel, an intricate silver chalice fashioned like a
sea dragon and encrusted with precious gemstones, and took a long draught of
hippocras, a heady mixture of red wine and spices Cook had concocted especially
for the wedding feast.

After
a goodly amount flowed past his lips, he slammed down the goblet. The specially
prepared treat tasted as sour as his mood, its delicate combination of flavors
lost on him.

Fouled
by his own malcontent.

"Is
aught amiss?" Marmaduke asked, his good brow arching upward.

"Nay,"
Duncan snapped, unwilling to voice that
all
was amiss, yet unable to put
his finger on exactly what bothered him the most.

Everything
bothered him.

"You
look ... pained," Marmaduke observed. "Here, have some more
hippocras."

Duncan
held out his chalice while Marmaduke, ever the gallant, refilled it with a
liberal dose of the spiced wine. But Duncan cared naught for drinking and even
less for celebrating.

Truth
be told, he desired only to escape the confines of the festively decorated hall
and retire to a quiet corner of the castle.

Alone.

Without
his new bride.

Without
his cares.

And
without his pack of dunderheaded clansmen and their silly chatter.

A
quick glance around the high table told him no one else shared his displeasure.
Everyone present, from his most trusted friends and kinsmen to the lowliest of
his servitors, all grinned like witless villeins.

Buffoons
every last one of them.

Senseless
fools jesting amongst themselves about the bride's lengthening absence. The
bolder ones, those already deep in their cups, loudly proclaimed she'd no doubt
heard tales of the MacKenzie's legendary prowess in bed and had bolted herself
in her chamber, cowering in fear, yet secretly waiting to be ravished.

As
if he desired the wench! He wanted naught to do with her.

Tresses
of silken flame or nay.

And
not that he cared, but where
was
she anyway?

By
the blessed martyrs, ‘twas time she took her place beside him. But, nay, she
dallied again, leaving him to look the fool even as she had this morn whilst
he'd stood waiting upon the chapel steps.

His
displeasure mounting, Duncan scanned the smoke-hazed hall. Straining his eyes,
he sought to catch a glimpse of her coppery hair, hoping to see her hurrying
toward the high table, looking suitably contrite for her tardiness.

But
she was nowhere to be seen.

And
where was his first squire?

Off
making moon eyes at the new lady of the castle, no doubt. Duncan frowned. If it
weren't for his pride, he'd be tempted to go fetch them hisself.

He
wouldn't demean himself by doing so, though. A laird had a certain dignity to
uphold.

Nay,
he'd deal with his bride in good time, and in private. As for Lachlan, the
youth was too softhearted for his own good. If he'd allowed himself to be
cajoled into helping his wife escape to Dundonnell, he'd have the lad scour the
cesspit till it shined like a bairn's arse!

And
mayhap he'd have his new wife help him!

For
the first time all day, Duncan smiled.

If
he
really
wanted to improve his mood, he'd order Marmaduke to assist
them. ‘Twould serve the lout right for playing him the fool.

Aye,
he'd have words with them all—later. For now, he had little choice but to
suffer through the day's festivities so he could retire to the sanctuary of
his chamber.

And
woe be to any hapless dolt who might try to stop him.

"You
wear an expression darker than the black mail you favor. ‘Tis no wonder the
lady has chosen to linger far from your side." Marmaduke gave him a hefty
thwack on his shoulder. "Come, let us drink to a happy future for you and
your bride."

"A
happy future?"
Duncan narrowed his eyes at his friend. The severe
head blows Marmaduke had once received must've addled his senses. "You
ken better than most why I took her to wed, so cease your dunderheaded banter.
I care naught about a shared future with her, content or otherwise."

Duncan
paused to draw a breath, and the moment he opened his mouth to further rebuke
his friend for such ridiculous sentiments, all present let out a collective
gasp.

Then
the hall went still.

Except
for one foolhardy simpleton who cried out, "Great Caesar's Ghost!"

‘Twas
her.

It
had to be her.

Even
though the smoke from the fires made it difficult to see much farther than
just beyond the high table, he knew.

And
judging from the gaping of his clansmen he
could
see, she'd done
something most displeasing.