The Warrior Bride

In the year of our Lord 1535

Though the great hall of Evermyst rang with laughter, Lachlan MacGowan stood in silence amidst the merriment. Aye, friends and kinsmen had journeyed long and far to view the wedding of his brother Gilmour to Isobel of the Frasers. Forbes and MacKinnons and Setons were there. The chief of the fierce Munros, Laird Innes himself, had arrived with his own handsome bride, and stood head and shoulders Above the crowd. Even his sisters had joined the throng. Quite bonny they were, at least by the neighboring Munros’ standards. The warlike clan was not known for its fair looks, after all, but for its prowess in battle. Still, a truce of sorts had been crafted between the Frasers and the Munros. And now all were eager to catch a glimpse of the maid who had captured the heart of the rogue of the rogues, but Lachlan was far more interested in another.

From a distant corner of the high-beamed hall, a woman’s laughter could be heard above the melee. Ale flowed in abundance. Upon the high table, grape-stuffed partridges jostled pureed quince and pies of Paris. Guests talked and teased and riddled, but Lachlan remained apart as he searched for the one called the warrior. The one to whom he owed his life.

But try as he might, he saw no trace of the other; thus his gaze drifted to the two young women who stood upon the dais not far away. Isobel and Anora, the Fraser sisters. His brothers’ brides. Twins. They stood together, fair and bonny and bright as a promise. Almost identical, they were, fairylike in their beauty, delicate of face and form. As he watched, they leaned close together, speaking softly. Anora stroked Isobel’s hair, and they shared a smile. It was a simple gesture, and yet it stirred something deep inside him, for it spoke of tenderness and femininity, and a dozen other traits far beyond his grasp. But he knew the truth; they were not gentle maids.

Nay, he did not envy either Gilmour or Ramsay.

Hardly that, for these maids would not make their lives the simpler. His brothers had battled for the right to these women. Indeed, Lachlan himself had joined in the fray. Mayhap he would have lost his very life if it had not been for the intervention of the warrior called Hunter.

For a moment he scanned the hall again, but the warrior was nowhere to be seen. An enigma he was, wont to appear during times of battle, and with his brothers’ wives about, there would be many confrontations, for despite their bonny features and willowy forms, they were not the kind to bend easily. They were made of stuff stem enough to wither the stoutest knight. Both brothers bore scars from their delicate hands. Nay, he did not envy his brothers’ fate, for he was Lachlan MacGowan, the rogue fox, and far above battling with a woman. When he wed, it would be to a lass whose hands were as gentle as her countenance.

But then he heard again the sisters’ laughter. His gaze was drawn to them, pulled inexorably across the hall. Each bride wore a delicate chain of silver about her neck, but upon their hips, they wore small daggers and in their eyes was the gleam of trouble. Aye, they were not what he sought in a wife, but God’s mercy, they were beautiful beyond-

“Mooning, Lachlan?”

He refused to jump when startled from his reverie, but turned slowly to find two of his brothers beside him.

“If I did not know better, Quil,” said Ramsay, not glancing at their younger brother, “I would think we had caught the fox daydreaming.”

“Aye,” Torquil agreed, and grinned. The expression was almost as irritating as Gilmour’s. Their mother should have known far better than to birth such a riotous passel of sons. Five of them there were, and each more troublesome than the last. “And daydreaming whilst he stares at your lady, Ram.”

Lachlan kept his own expression carefully stoic. ‘Twas never wise to encourage his brothers when they were in “playful” spirits. “I was not daydreaming,” he corrected, “merely contemplating.”

“Then perhaps you should wipe away your spittle and turn your attention elsewhere,” suggested Torquil. Although he would never achieve Lachlan ‘s musculature, he rarely felt the need to keep his tiresome wit to himself.

Ramsay chuckled. Jealousy, it seemed, was not his weakness. Though Lachlan wondered if he would say the same if he himself had found a Fraser bride, he kept his notorious temper in careful check. Their mother would be unhappy indeed if he initiated a brawl at his brother’s wedding. Past experience assured him of that, so he nodded sagely and relaxed the muscles that bunched like sailors’ knots in his tightening shoulders. “At least I have no scars to show for the attention I’ve showered on her,” Lachlan said.

Ramsay smiled. The expression was serene, natural, ultimately content, and it made Lachlan ’s stomach churn, for he himself was less than composed. Indeed, ever since talking to Gilmour some moments before, he felt as fidgety as a baited cat. He turned his attention aside again, searching the crowd. Where was that damned warrior?

“‘Tis a small price to pay,” said Ramsay, and glanced once toward his wife. She yet stood with her sister, but Gilmour had joined them on the dais.

“What’s that?” asked Lachlan, turning back.

”The scars,” Ramsay said, and drew his gaze from Anora with an obvious effort. “‘Tis a small price to pay to have her by me side.”

“Indeed. She could stab me in the eye with a quarryman’s wedge,” sighed Torquil. “So long as she shared me bed, I’d have no complaints.”

The elder brothers turned in tandem toward Quil.

Ramsay’s face, Lachlan noted, was emphatically expressionless. Emphatic expressionlessness was never a good sign in a MacGowan.

Quil tripped his gaze to his eldest brother, cleared his throat, and tried a lopsided grin. “Did I say that aloud?” he asked.

“Aye, wee brother,” said Ramsay quietly. “It seems your mouth outpaces your good sense yet again.”

Quil’s smile widened. “I only meant to say… you are a lucky man, Ram.”

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed dryly, “and you will be lucky to remain unscathed if you do not keep a rein on your tongue, lad.”

“‘Tis true,” agreed Lachlan. Good sense had rarely stopped the brother rogues from throwing themselves into a fray when the opportunity presented itself, and Lachlan was hardly the exception. “You’d best be careful what you say, Quil, or Anora may yet become vexed and challenge you to a duel.”

Torquil chuckled happily. “Surely you are not saying that Ramsay here allows his wee bonny bride to fight his battles for him.”

Lachlan grunted as he skimmed the crowds again.

“Ask him about the scar on his scalp sometime.”

Ramsay said naught, so Lachlan continued. Despite his vow to keep out of trouble’s ubiquitous path, there was a demon gnawing at his guts. “The scar she gave him when she struck him with a bedpost in an attempt to keep him from battle.”

“A bedpost?”

“Aye,” agreed Ram amicably. “It seems me wife was concerned for me welfare even then, but fear not, Lachlan, there is someone just as worried about you-the warrior.” He cast his gaze sideways. “I believe he calls himself Hunter.”

“Ho!” crowed Torquil in a burst of unleashed delight.

“A warrior! Interested in the rogue fox?”

“‘Tis true,” said Gilmour. Lachlan turned to watch his third brother enter the fracas. God have mercy, Mour sounded just as ecstatic as Quit. “During the battle of Evermyst, Lachlan was rendered unconscious. But the warrior appeared in the darkness.” Mour had been “gifted” with a flair for drama and put his hand to his hip as if grasping an unseen sword. “Like an angel of mercy he appeared and fought off all corners, then, lifting our brother lovingly in his arms, he cradled him against his bosom all the long way to Evermyst.”

Torquil couldn’t have looked happier if he’d been declared the king of bean. “Truly?”

“Aye,” said Gilmour. “Every word. I believe this brawny Hunter fellow has deep feelings for our brother. Indeed, I think he is not-”

“Mour,” Lachlan interrupted quietly. “I’ve no wish to wound you during these festivities.”

Gilmour laughed, looking not the least bit concerned.

It was, perhaps, the quality Lachlan hated most about his brothers; they consistently failed to realize their physical inferiority. “Ah, but if you wound me on me own wedding night, me bride will be much displeased, and you’ll be left to explain the reasons.”

“What reasons?” Quil asked, all but breathless with anticipation.

Gilmour motioned for his younger brother to lean close.

Lachlan tensed, but just then he caught a glimpse of the warrior through the crowd and rushed into the mob, leaving his brothers to their gossip. Devil take it! He’d stop these damned rumors here and now!

Concealed in the shadows near Evermyst’s great, arched door, Hunter watched the revelers in silence. He was dressed in dark leather, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat, his hands gloved, his feet shod in black boots that reached just above his knees. He was a warrior, dour and watchful, with few acquaintances and fewer friends.

The Munro was here. Hunter heard his voice boom in the noisy hall, but did not turn. Innis Munro no longer threatened Evermyst. Nay, since he’d lost the battle for Lady Anora’s hand, there had been a truce of sorts between Evermyst and Windermoore, and though that truce did not, in any way include Hunter, he ignored the giant chieftain for a moment.

Laughter echoed to the high beams of the festive hall and Hunter shifted his gaze to find the source. ‘Twas Gilmour who laughed. Gilmour of the MacGowans, the bridegroom, the rogue of the rogues. But why would he not be merry? The earth’s treasures were his. Wealth, power, and now this maiden bride at his side. Hunter didn’t glance at her, for he knew exactly how she would appear-just like her sister-fair-haired and bonny and far beyond the likes of him. He tightened one fist and turned to watch Ramsay make his way through the crowd toward Lachlan. Aye, he knew the brother rogues, if not by acquaintance, at least by reputation. Ramsay was the intellect, Gilmour was the charmer, and Lachlan… Hunter narrowed his eyes. Lachlan was not a pretty lad. Indeed, by the look of him, his nose had been broken on more than one occasion. He was shaped like a wedge, his shoulders broadly muscled, his hips lean and sculpted. Although all those about him had donned bright ceremonial garb, he wore naught but a free-fitting tunic, open at the neck and tucked into the MacGowans’ traditional tartan. Deep greens and blues, to blend like magic into heather and heath. His plaid was belted by a broad band of leather and held in place by a silver buckle fashioned in the shape of a wild cat’s snarling face.