The Laird's Captive Wife (12 page)

Then the king moved forward to offer his congratulations, bowing over her hand. Ashlynn lowered her eyes, her face an expressionless mask. Malcolm regarded her keenly for a moment and then looked at Iain.

‘You spoke true, Glengarron. Your lady is most fair. Guard her well.’

‘I intend to, my liege.’

Iain took her hand then and raised it to his lips. For an instant their eyes met but, as so often, his face gave little away. Did he share the resentment she felt? This marriage had been forced upon him too. Given the choice he would never have entered into this bargain. From the outset he had regarded her as an encumbrance. What possible argument could have persuaded him to agree to this? She lowered her gaze quickly, this time to hide her confusion. Then she handed him back the thumb ring.

‘For safe keeping,’ she said. ‘It would be too easily lost.’

He returned her a wry smile and slipped it back on his hand. ‘I promise you a proper wedding ring, lass, as soon as occasion permits.’

They went out to the horses and Iain took leave of his king. As the royal party rode away, he turned back to Ashlynn.

‘Come, my wife.’

The use of that title and all it implied sent another wave of heat the length of her body. Not so long ago the notion of a forced match with Burford had filled her with anger and abhorrence. Now a very different husband claimed her. Soon enough he would take her to his bed and make his possession complete. Powerlessness kept her anger very much alive. Yet in the entire chaotic pantheon of emotions at that moment, abhorrence was conspicuously absent. With an effort she kept her voice level. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Home—to Glengarron.’

* * *

The journey that day was long and cold, but Ashlynn was scarcely aware of physical discomfort. Her thoughts had turned inward, trying to come to terms with what had happened, trying not to contemplate the future too closely. For the most part they rode in silence, the swift pace not being conducive to conversation. However, when they did stop to rest the horses at noon it quickly became apparent that news of the laird’s marriage had spread. Dougal took it upon himself to issue each man with a dram of whisky from the keg on the wagon, and proposed the toast to the newly married couple. A loud cheer rent the air.

Iain looked down at his bride and smiled wryly. ‘It seems they approve, my lady.’

Ashlynn shot him a swift glance but remained silent, not knowing what to say. In truth the press of grinning faces was a little daunting, though oddly she could see none of their former antipathy now. Rather than show any apprehension she forced herself to an outward display of calm.

‘Will ye no kiss the bride, my lord?’ called a wag from the crowd.

A roar of approval greeted this, followed by the chant of
‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’
Iain handed his cup to Dougal. Then he took Ashlynn in his arms, crushing her against him and bringing his mouth down on hers in a searing embrace. Another roar erupted around them. Ashlynn scarcely heard it, aware only of a rush of warmth deep within, like the sudden rekindling of a flame. The flame leapt and became fire. Unable to help herself she yielded to it, her body melting against him, her mouth opening to his.

In that moment of unexpected surrender he felt his own desire quicken and imagination tantalised, offering another glimpse of something he had thought was lost. If they had been alone…The thought stopped him in his tracks: this was a union undertaken out of duress, not love, and they had an audience besides. Ashlynn only kissed him now because she could do no other. Reluctantly he drew back a little, letting the general noise wash over them, his gaze burning into hers.

‘By God, lass,’ he murmured, ‘you play the game well.’

Her cheeks turned pink, much to the delight of the spectators for though they had not heard the words they thought they could guess the import. She took refuge in their noisy enthusiasm, trying to calm her thumping heart, overwhelmed by the sudden knowledge within it. She darted another glance at Iain but the look in his eyes did nothing to restore a tranquil mind. Did he really think this was some game to her?

It was no small relief when the column mounted up again and set off. The pace was steadier now but the cold no less for that. As they rode, the hills closed in around them, a barren snow-clad waste of rock and heath and dead bracken that vanished into mist above. Ashlynn shifted her weight in the saddle, aching with the chill and the long hours spent on horseback and longing for nothing so much as a warm fire and hot food, wherever they might be found. However, not for anything would she have uttered a word of complaint. These men already regarded her as a liability and, although their manner appeared to have softened a little today, she would not give them any cause to despise her further. Nor would she have them think the less of their chief for wedding a soft Sassenach wench. Pride kept her chin up and her tongue silent but, as the afternoon wore on, the effort became greater.

Iain, riding alongside, saw her pallor with concern and could well understand the cause. The journey was hard enough, never mind all that had gone before. Had it been any other woman he would have expected tears at least by this, but then, he acknowledged, Ashlynn wasn’t just any woman. Experience had shown him her courage; he could only guess at the will-power that kept her going when others would have cracked. By rights she should have after all that she had endured of late. Her silence touched him more than any words could have done and seeing her composure now he felt the first stirrings of pride.

* * *

The afternoon was wearing on when they came at last to the head of a narrow valley. Seeing the sudden lightening of spirit in the faces of the men nearby, Ashlynn glanced at Iain. Interpreting that look aright he nodded.

‘This is Glengarron.’

She should have felt relief to hear those words but now her stomach knotted instead. This was the lion’s den, the place from which there was no escape. The cavalcade rode into the misty glen in single file for the way was narrow with trees on one side and the peaty waters of a racing burn on the other. On either side the hills rose into the low cloud and marked their passing with the muffled echo of the horses’ hooves. After about half a mile the glen widened out and through the snow the muted outlines of houses were just visible in the distance. However, it was not the houses that held Ashlynn’s attention for there, dead ahead, a great granite outcrop thrust up from the ground and, brooding over the whole scene, a fortress that might have grown from the rock itself.

The horsemen made straight for it and then she discerned a huge wooden gate, studded and banded with iron and seeming to lead straight into the hillside. Someone called a cheery greeting which was returned and the gate swung open to reveal a narrow defile between sheer walls of rock. Wide enough to take two horsemen abreast, it wound upwards to another gate. This too swung open and they emerged into a large walled courtyard with various buildings along its sides, all overshadowed by a great tower of wood and stone. Iain glanced at his wife.

‘Welcome to Dark Mount, lass.’

Ashlynn said nothing, being temporarily incapable of speech and fighting to control a rising sense of dread. Iain dismounted. Seeing there was nothing else to be done, Ashlynn slid reluctantly from Steorra’s saddle. Standing there among the throng of horses and men she felt suddenly very small, and the feeling of isolation and vulnerability increased. Then she became aware that Iain was watching her. Not for a bag of gold would she have displayed the fear that gripped her now and so she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable.

‘Come.’

He guided her towards a great iron-clamped door. The space beyond was subdivided and, as her eyes adjusted to the relative dimness she had an impression of storerooms and pantries. The smell of food suggested the presence of kitchens. They bore left towards a stout oaken staircase. It led up to the great hall. Glancing round apprehensively she had an impression of a large, stonewalled chamber with high and narrow windows. However, most of the light came from the wall brackets and the candles set on huge circular iron chandeliers. Greasy trestle tables, littered with the stale remains of a meal, ran along three sides of the room. Its wooden floor was begrimed with mud and strewn with old straw whose musty smell mingled with ancient food odours and burning tallow. Shields and weapons adorned the walls along with huge and dusty racks of antlers. Wolf and fox masks snarled from among thick cobwebs. One wall was dominated by a great stone hearth where several big logs blazed, the sole source of comfort in the place.

As Ashlynn surveyed the scene cold dread settled like a lump in her stomach. Was this gloomy lair to be her home from now on? It hardly deserved to be dignified with the word home. Prison seemed more accurate somehow. Unwilling to contemplate it longer she turned away towards the fire.

Though she had spoken no word her expression was more eloquent and Iain frowned. As a stronghold Dark Mount had served him well but, he admitted, it could not pretend to cosiness or comfort. It had lacked a ruling female presence for too long. His mother was the last woman to leave her stamp upon the place, a stamp that time and absence had almost obliterated. He shot a sideways glance at Ashlynn. Her courage was not in doubt, but whether she had the skills to follow in his mother’s footsteps remained to be seen. The memory brought back others far more bitter, memories better left buried. To banish them he summoned a servant and rattled off a string of orders. The man hurried off and presently several others could be seen scurrying about. One brought food and hot possets. Others hastened to the stairs carrying brooms and logs and other items less obvious to the casual glance.

‘The servants will prepare a chamber, lass. In the meantime come and take some food.’

She followed him to the table and sat in the chair he indicated though in truth nerves had driven her appetite away. Unwilling to let him see it she forced herself to eat some bread and a little salted beef and then drank the posset. Its fragrant spicy warmth put some heart into her. Iain leaned back in his chair, surveying her shrewdly, sensing the tension and the fear beneath that outward calm. The thought recurred that most women in her situation would have gone to pieces by now. The lass had courage all right.

* * *

A little later the servant returned to say that the room was prepared. She saw her husband rise and hold out a hand to her. For a second she hesitated but common sense decreed there was no other choice than to go with him. Reluctantly she accompanied him to the stairs. There proved to be another two floors above the hall, variously divided into living quarters. On the topmost of these he stopped before a stout wooden door and, pushing it open, stood aside for her to pass. Beyond it was a moderate-sized room. Its stone walls were stark and free of ornament but the bare floor was clean enough. The sole furnishings were a small table and two chairs and, on the far side, a bed strewn with furs. A fire burned in the hearth but, being only recently lit, had not yet taken the chill off the air or dispelled the faint odour of mustiness and damp. On the table an oil lamp was burning for the window was shuttered fast against the cold. Ashlynn shivered inwardly.

‘If you need anything Morag here will attend you,’ he said.

The serving woman, buxom in thick homespun, might have been any age between forty and sixty. Her grey eyes regarded Ashlynn with frank curiosity. However, their expression was not unkind and when Ashlynn smiled it was returned. Iain glanced at the servant and jerked his head towards the door.

‘Wait outside.’

The woman bobbed a curtsy and withdrew. For a moment husband and wife faced each other. In spite of the chill Ashlynn felt sweat start on her palms for she was keenly aware that the servant’s restraining presence was gone and there was a large bed just across the room. Not only that, her husband was a head and shoulders taller than she, weighed roughly eighty pounds more, and was much too close for comfort. The dark eyes held a disquieting expression and were focused on her face. In confusion she looked away. In fact he guessed her thoughts with shrewd accuracy but just then had no intention of following up his advantage.

‘The accommodation is rough and ready at present,’ he observed, ‘but no doubt you’ll amend it to your liking in due course.’

Not knowing quite what to say Ashlynn remained silent.

‘Is there anything more you require just now?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing more.’

He moved towards the door. ‘Until later then, Ashlynn.’

Weak-kneed with relief she watched the door close behind him, then sank down on one of the chairs. It took her a moment or two to recover her self-possession. She was recalled by Morag’s return.

‘Do you require anything, my lady?’

‘Yes. I would wash after my journey. I would also like a change of clothes if that can somehow be arranged.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

When Morag had left, Ashlynn took another glance round the room and shivered, instinctively moving closer to the fire, seeking some comfort from its warmth. However, it did little to dispel the sensation of sick dread that sat like lead in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

Some time later the woman returned with a jug of hot water, soap, towels and a comb. Over her arm she carried a clean shift and a gown of brown woollen cloth. With them were woollen stockings and a pair of sturdy leather shoes.

‘These are as near to your size as I could guess, my lady.’

Ashlynn thanked her. Then, as the servant poured water into the basin and laid the towels ready, she unfastened her cloak and tossed it on to the bed before divesting herself of belt and tunic. Since the cold did not encourage her to strip off she contented herself with bathing her hands and face. With Morag’s help she combed and braided her hair and then pulled on the clean shift, stockings and gown. The latter was too big but not unduly so, and they contrived to disguise the fact with the aid of a girdle. Ashlynn glanced down at herself, smoothing the skirt with her hand. The cloth was warm and serviceable, the colour practical, but the garments had no pretensions to beauty or elegance. They could hardly have been more different from the ones she had worn hitherto. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Morag handed her the cloak and she put it on, glad of the additional layer.