Ninian's breath, ‘twas
almost over! He'd scarce been aware of speaking his vows, barely recalled the
blessing and exchanging of rings.
Yet
there the priest stood, holding a rolled parchment and waiting expectantly for
Duncan to take the proffered quill and sign his soul away.
As
if an unseen force guided his hand, Duncan scrawled his name on the document
and handed the quill to his bride. She did the same, then before Duncan realized
what was happening, they'd been ushered into the chapel for mass and holy
communion.
‘Twas
over.
A
few words, a signature, mumbled blessings he'd scarce registered, and he was once
more married. Bound, at least in name, to a new wife who looked at him with
huge brown eyes as if he was about to carry her into the very depths of hell.
And,
he admitted bitterly, mayhap he was.
But
for some reason he could not fathom, he felt an undeniable urge to prove he was
not the demon she apparently thought him to be. For a very brief moment,
Duncan desired to see her gold-flecked eyes shining with joy rather than
staring at him in dread.
‘Twas
a good thing he'd chosen a chamber for her that was as far as possible from his
own. Everyone in his household knew he wanted naught of her. Pride alone would
keep him from crossing the great hall to reach the stairs leading to her
quarters.
If
his men thought he'd changed his convictions and would chase after her like a
rutting stag, they would be sorely disappointed. Let them make fools of
themselves, he decided, as they crowded around her the minute they stepped from
the chapel. They were the ones who claimed ‘twas time he sought the love of a
virtuous woman, not he.
Aye,
let them make blithering idiots of themselves if it so pleased them.
Only
Sir Marmaduke had the good grace to remain by his side. Unfortunately, Duncan
suspected the man stayed near only to prevent him from riding off somewhere,
rather than out of any sense of loyalty. Considering the way the Englishman
preened himself in her presence, acting more chivalrous than the most adept
French courtier, Duncan had no doubt but that Marmaduke had appointed himself
Lady Linnet's champion.
Not
that she needed one.
Even
though she'd appeared subdued and unhappy during the wedding ceremony, his new
wife had a mind of her own. She'd proven the strength of her nerve yestereve in
his solar.
Turning,
he fixed his friend with an unflinching glare. "What did you say to get
her down here?"
Sir
Marmaduke folded his arms and had the bad taste to look mightily pleased with
himself.
"Well?"
"Naught
but what I thought the lady wanted to hear."
Duncan
resisted the urge to throttle the Englishman. "Pray enlighten me what that
might have been."
"Simply
that you meant not all you said to her in your solar yestereve, that you spoke
out of consideration for her maidenly state, not wanting to unduly frighten
her."
The
sudden pealing of the kirk's bells and the equally loud cheering of his
clansmen drowned out Duncan's black oath. He frowned as he watched his men
practically tripping over their own clumsy feet as they vied for his bride's
attention.
St.
Columba preserve him, had they forgotten the treachery and intrigues that had
poisoned Eilean Creag the last time a Lady MacKenzie had resided within his
castle?
Deliberately
hanging back, Duncan watched the boisterous crowd of merrymakers surge toward
the hall, his new wife ensconced in their midst. Let them act the fools and
drink themselves senseless at the wedding feast. He, for one, had no desire to
celebrate.
He'd
offered for the MacDonnell wench because she was the seventh daughter of a
seventh daughter and therefore gifted with the sight. All he wanted was the use
of it.
Naught
else, as he'd made clear to her.
He
didn't care how many tall tales Marmaduke had told her. She need only supply
him with the answer he needed, warn him of impending danger to his clan, see to
Robbie, and he would leave her in peace.
‘Twould
be simple enough to avoid
almost over! He'd scarce been aware of speaking his vows, barely recalled the
blessing and exchanging of rings.
Yet
there the priest stood, holding a rolled parchment and waiting expectantly for
Duncan to take the proffered quill and sign his soul away.
As
if an unseen force guided his hand, Duncan scrawled his name on the document
and handed the quill to his bride. She did the same, then before Duncan realized
what was happening, they'd been ushered into the chapel for mass and holy
communion.
‘Twas
over.
A
few words, a signature, mumbled blessings he'd scarce registered, and he was once
more married. Bound, at least in name, to a new wife who looked at him with
huge brown eyes as if he was about to carry her into the very depths of hell.
And,
he admitted bitterly, mayhap he was.
But
for some reason he could not fathom, he felt an undeniable urge to prove he was
not the demon she apparently thought him to be. For a very brief moment,
Duncan desired to see her gold-flecked eyes shining with joy rather than
staring at him in dread.
‘Twas
a good thing he'd chosen a chamber for her that was as far as possible from his
own. Everyone in his household knew he wanted naught of her. Pride alone would
keep him from crossing the great hall to reach the stairs leading to her
quarters.
If
his men thought he'd changed his convictions and would chase after her like a
rutting stag, they would be sorely disappointed. Let them make fools of
themselves, he decided, as they crowded around her the minute they stepped from
the chapel. They were the ones who claimed ‘twas time he sought the love of a
virtuous woman, not he.
Aye,
let them make blithering idiots of themselves if it so pleased them.
Only
Sir Marmaduke had the good grace to remain by his side. Unfortunately, Duncan
suspected the man stayed near only to prevent him from riding off somewhere,
rather than out of any sense of loyalty. Considering the way the Englishman
preened himself in her presence, acting more chivalrous than the most adept
French courtier, Duncan had no doubt but that Marmaduke had appointed himself
Lady Linnet's champion.
Not
that she needed one.
Even
though she'd appeared subdued and unhappy during the wedding ceremony, his new
wife had a mind of her own. She'd proven the strength of her nerve yestereve in
his solar.
Turning,
he fixed his friend with an unflinching glare. "What did you say to get
her down here?"
Sir
Marmaduke folded his arms and had the bad taste to look mightily pleased with
himself.
"Well?"
"Naught
but what I thought the lady wanted to hear."
Duncan
resisted the urge to throttle the Englishman. "Pray enlighten me what that
might have been."
"Simply
that you meant not all you said to her in your solar yestereve, that you spoke
out of consideration for her maidenly state, not wanting to unduly frighten
her."
The
sudden pealing of the kirk's bells and the equally loud cheering of his
clansmen drowned out Duncan's black oath. He frowned as he watched his men
practically tripping over their own clumsy feet as they vied for his bride's
attention.
St.
Columba preserve him, had they forgotten the treachery and intrigues that had
poisoned Eilean Creag the last time a Lady MacKenzie had resided within his
castle?
Deliberately
hanging back, Duncan watched the boisterous crowd of merrymakers surge toward
the hall, his new wife ensconced in their midst. Let them act the fools and
drink themselves senseless at the wedding feast. He, for one, had no desire to
celebrate.
He'd
offered for the MacDonnell wench because she was the seventh daughter of a
seventh daughter and therefore gifted with the sight. All he wanted was the use
of it.
Naught
else, as he'd made clear to her.
He
didn't care how many tall tales Marmaduke had told her. She need only supply
him with the answer he needed, warn him of impending danger to his clan, see to
Robbie, and he would leave her in peace.
‘Twould
be simple enough to avoid
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