The Highlander's Accidental Bride by Cathy MacRae Page B

his leave and settled at the table with his men as dinner concluded in a leisurely fashion, but Mary’s hands trembled as she set her goblet down, her appetite a thing of the past. Her eyes met the steady gaze of her husband, wondering how this would end. She had news of her own she’d yet to share with him, and she quaked with anticipation.
    “Take my hand.” He spoke quietly as he rose to his feet. Caught unawares, Mary lifted her hand, but stopped, afraid to touch him, remembering only too clearly how she’d succumbed to his kiss just days before. Noticing her hesitation, Eaden smoothly covered her lapse by catching her fingers and bringing them to his lips before tucking her cold hand into the bend of his elbow. He laid one of his own hands over hers, trapping it firmly when she would have pulled away.
    With a hooded look he urged, “Please, come with me.” He stepped away, all but pulling Mary to her feet. Aghast to realize she’d almost refused his politely worded invitation in front of everyone in the room, Mary stood and meekly followed him to a small room upstairs with Ranald and Ian close on their heels.
    The men entered the room, Mary in their midst. Ranald closed the door behind them with a soft snick of the latch. With exaggerated politeness, Eaden motioned for his wife to be seated in one of the chairs. He took his place next to the window, his face in shadows, his expression carefully blank.
    He wondered what Mary would say about Ian’s information. Since she’d first denied being Lady Miriam, she’d surprised him with the strength she’d shown these past few days. He doubted a lady’s companion had much reason to use her brain or backbone, and even less opportunity to form her own opinions.
    He’d been fully prepared for a fight and tearful accusations from Lady Miriam. Marriage to a lady’s companion didn’t appeal to him, either, for he couldn’t imagine himself bound for life with such a mousy creature. But Mary’s bouts of spirit intrigued and pleased him. He almost looked forward to this.
    As the silence lengthened, Mary glanced at each of his men in turn, but he knew they waited for him to speak. He observed how his wife studiously avoided his eyes, her bottom perched on the edge of the chair as if ready to flee.
    “So.” Eaden spoke conversationally, noting the way Mary jumped at the sound of his voice. “Miriam Barde has married du Melville’s youngest son.” He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “What do ye suppose her da thinks of the union?”
    “I’m guessing he’d rather she’d married ye,” Ranald offered. The men in the room nodded, knowing only too well what the prospects were for du Melville’s fourth son. The boy and his lavishly spoiled new wife would be hard-pressed for money unless Barde took pity on them and offered his home or at least a generous dowry for his daughter.
    Eaden shot his brother a quelling glare. “How do ye think Lady Miriam managed to marry a penniless younger son?” He turned back to his wife, noting her pale face. Her green eyes shone with apprehension, and he almost reached to smooth the worry lines from her forehead, stopping himself just in time.
    “I would suppose,” Mary began, taking a deep breath. “I would suppose she met him about six months ago when she and Laird Barde visited with the king at Edinburgh. I did not attend, so I cannot be sure.”
    “Ye cannae be sure?” Eaden mocked. Mary scowled and he quickly hid a grin at her show of temper.
    “Several months ago Miriam and her father attended King Robert at Edinburgh.” Mary’s words slowed as realization dawned. Her mouth opened in an ‘O’ of surprise before she caught herself. Eaden tore his gaze from his wife’s soft lips and spotted the look of astonishment on Ian’s face.
    “And when you kidnapped me from Miriam’s bed—she must have planned to run away with him that night! There is the proof you require, am I correct?”
    “ If Lady Miriam is