Highland Groom Read online

  WEDDING NIGHT

  “What are ye doing here?” Ilsa asked.

  “I have come to join my wife in the marital bed,” Diarmot replied.

  “Ye dinnae think I am your wife.”

  “Nay? Mayhap I doubt your tale of what occurred between us a year ago, but I dinnae doubt that ye are now my wife.” He started to move toward her. “We did kneel before a priest mere hours ago and say our vows.”

  “And ye expect me to play the dutiful wife to a mon who thinks me a liar?”

  “Since when does what a mon think or feel about his wife keep her from giving him his husbandly rights?”

  “Ye have a true skill at wooing a lass, dinnae ye.”

  “I dinnae need to woo ye. Ye took vows afore a priest. Those vows say ye will share my bed when I wish it.”

  “Ye simply mean to use me as ye would some whore,” she protested, placing her hands upon his chest in a vain attempt to push him back at least a step or two.

  “As my lawful wife. There is a difference.”

  She suddenly realized that he had partly unlaced the front of her shift. It was time for her to accept her responsibilities as his wife. She just hoped he did not use her desire and willingness to prove herself against her.

  “Fine, Sir Diarmot. I will do my duty.”

  Ilsa nearly groaned when he cast off his robe, revealing that he was, indeed, naked beneath it. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to give him only duty if he was going to flaunt himself like that….

  HIGHLAND GROOM

  Hannah Howell

  Copyright © 2003 by Hannah Howell

  Published by E-Reads in cooperation with Zebra Books. All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0-7592-8791-0

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7592-8791-4

  Contents

  WEDDING NIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scotland, Spring 1471

  Ilsa groaned as eight of her fourteen brothers crowded into her small cottage. They looked around, each wearing an identical scowl of disapproval. None of them liked or tolerated her decision to move out of the keep. Unfortunately, not one of them understood that their often overbearing protectiveness had been smothering her, either. Even though one or more of them stopped by several times a day, she was enjoying her newfound freedom. That, she feared, was about to end.

  “It has been nearly a year,” announced Sigimor, her eldest brother, as he and his twin Somerled crouched by the cradles of their nephews. “In a fortnight the year and the day come to an end.”

  “I ken it.”

  Ilsa put two heavy jugs of ale on the huge table that occupied almost half of her main room. She had realized that she would never be able to stop her brothers from coming round as the mood struck them so had arranged her living area accordingly. The huge table, sturdy benches, and extra seats, hung upon the wall until needed, had all been made specifically for her brothers. She had arranged a small sitting area more to her liking on the other end of the great hall which made up most of her bottom floor. A low, somewhat rough addition to the back of her home held the kitchen, a tiny pantry, a bathing room, and a small bedchamber for her companion. The high loft which served as the upper part of her home was where she had done things to please herself alone. She had the sinking feeling her brothers were going to force her to leave her little cottage just as she had gotten herself comfortably settled.

  “The lads need their father,” Sigimor said as he let his nephew Finlay clasp his finger.

  “Fourteen uncles arenae enough?” she drawled, setting eight tankards on the table.

  “Nay. Their father is a laird, has land and coin. They deserve a part of that.”

  “It would appear that their father isnae of a like mind.” It hurt to say those words, but Ilsa fought to hide her pain. “Ye want me to go crawling to a mon who has deserted me?”

  Sigimor sighed and moved to join his brothers at the table as Ilsa set out bread, cheese, and oatcakes. “Nay, I want ye to confront him, to demand what is rightfully due your sons, his sons.”

  Ilsa also sighed as she sat down next to her twin brother Tait. She had hoped her brothers would not use her sons’s rights or welfare to sway her, but suspected she had been foolish to do so. They might be rough, loud, overbearing, and far too protective, but they were not stupid. Her weak point was her sons and only an idiot would not realize it.

  “Mayhap another week,” she began and groaned when her brothers all shook their heads.

  “That would be cutting it too close to the bone. We will leave on the morrow.”

  “But…”

  “Nay. I will admit that I am fair disappointed in the lad…”

  “He is of an age with ye,” muttered Ilsa.

  Sigimor ignored her and continued, “For I believed all his talk of needing to clear away some threat and prepare his keep for a wife. Tis why I settled for a handfast marriage. I felt a wee bit uncomfortable insisting upon witnessed documents, but now I am glad that I did. He cannae deny ye or the lads. We can make him honor the vows he made.” He studied Ilsa closely for a moment. “I thought ye cared for the mon. Ye wanted him bad enough.”

  “And I thought he cared for me,” she snapped. “That was obviously utter foolishness. For just a moment I forgot that I am too poor, too thin, and too red. The mon was just willing to play a more devious game than usual to tumble a maid.”

  “That makes no sense, Ilsa,” argued Tait. “He let us ken where he lives.”

  “Are ye sure of that?” She nodded when her brothers looked briefly stunned. “We just have his word on that and I think we can assume that his word isnae worth verra much.”

  “We will still go,” said Sigimor. “If we discover it was all a lie, a trick, then we will ken that we have us a mon to hunt down.” He nodded when his brothers all muttered an agreement. “So, Somerled will stay here, as will Alexander whose wife is soon to bear him his first child. They can watch the young ones. I, Gilbert, Ranulph, Elyas, Tait, Tamhas, Brice, and Bronan will ride with ye. A few of our men and a couple of our cousins, too, I am thinking.”

  “Tis nearly an army,” protested Ilsa.

  “Enough to put weight behind our words, but nay enough to be too threatening.”

  Ilsa tried to talk them out of their plans, but failed. The moment her brothers left, Ilsa buried her face in her hands and fought the urge to weep. She had done enough of that. A soft touch upon her shoulder drew her out of her despondency and she looked at Gay, her companion and the wet nurse who helped her sate the greed of her sons. Brutally raped, cast off by her family, and then suffering the loss of her child had left young Gay terrified of men, a near-silent ghost of a girl who still feared far too many things and grieved for all her losses. Gay always hid away when Ilsa’s brothers stomped in for a visit.

  “Ye must go,” Gay said in her whispery voice.

  “I ken it,” Ilsa replied. “Yet, when he didnae return for me, didnae e’en send a letter or gift, I realized I had been played for a fool and did my grieving then. I buried all of
that verra deep inside of me. I dinnae want it all dug up again.”

  Gay picked up a fretting Finlay, handed him to Ilsa, then collected Cearnach. For a few moments, Ilsa savored the gentle peace as she and Gay fed the babies. Looking at her sons, however, at their big, beautiful blue eyes, she was sharply reminded of the man whose seed had created them. The pain was still there, deep, and, she suspected, incurable.

  For a few brief, heady weeks she had felt loved, desired, even beautiful. At twenty years of age, an age when most considered her a spinster, she had finally caught the eye of a man. And such a handsome one, she mused, and sighed. That should have warned her. Handsome men did not pursue women like her. In truth, no man had ever pursued her. She had let loneliness, passion, and a craving for love steal away all of her wits. Going to the man as her brothers wished her to would only remind her too sharply of her own idiocy. Not that she ever completely forgot it, she muttered to herself.

  “It must be done for the laddies,” Gay said as she rested Cearnach against her thin shoulder and rubbed his back.

  “I ken that, too,” Ilsa said as she did the same to Finlay. “Tis their birthright and I cannae allow it to be stolen from them. Weel, if there even is a birthright and we dinnae discover that the mon told us naught but lies. Ye will have to come with us.”

  Gay nodded. “I will be fine. I hide from your brothers because they are so big, nay because I fear them. They fill the room and I find that hard to bear. I will find other places to slip away to when we get where we are going.” She frowned. “I just cannae abide being inside a place when so many men are about. I ken your brothers willnae hurt me, but that knowledge isnae yet enough to banish all my blind fears.”

  “Quite understandable.”

  “Do ye still love this mon?”

  “I think I might, which would be a great folly. But, tis time to stop hiding for fear I will be hurt. I must needs seek out this bastard for the sake of the laddies, but I begin to think I need to do it for myself, too. I need to look the devil in the eye, find out just how big a fool I was, and deal with it all. Of course, if he is there, was just hoping I would fade away into the mists, tis best to confront him with his reponsibilities. And then I can do my best to make him utterly miserable.”

  When Gay laughed briefly and softly, Ilsa felt her spirits rise. Gay was healing. It was slow and there would always be scars, but soon Gay would recover from the hurts done to her. It made Ilsa a little ashamed of her own cowardice. If, after all she had suffered, little Gay could heal, then so could she. And, if she did meet her lover again, she would be a lot wiser and a lot stronger. She would not fall victim to any more foolish dreams.

  “My children need a mother.”

  “Och, he is back to talking to himself again.”

  Sir Diarmot MacEnroy smiled at his brother Angus who sat on his right. On his left was his brother Antony, or Nanty as he was often called. They had come to attend his wedding and he was heartily glad of their company. The brother he really wished to talk to was his eldest brother Connor, however, but that man had only just arrived with his pregnant wife Gillyanne. Ignoring Gilly’s protests, Connor had immediately insisted that she rest for a while and had dragged her up to the bedchamber they would share. It would be a long while before he saw either of them again. Diarmot just hoped there would be some time before his wedding in which he could speak privately with the man.

  “Just uneasy about the wedding,” Diarmot said.

  “Thought ye wanted to marry this lass.”

  “I do. I just need to remind myself of why now and again.”

  “She is a pretty wee lass,” said Nanty. “Quiet.”

  “Verra quiet,” agreed Diarmot. “Sweet. Biddable. Chaste.”

  “Completely different from your first wife,” murmured Angus.

  “Just as I wanted her to be. Anabelle was a blight. Margaret will be a blessing.” A boring one, he mused, and probably cold as well, then hastily shook aside those thoughts. “Good dowry and a fine piece of land.”

  “Does she ken about the children?” Angus asked.

  “Aye,” replied Diarmot. “I introduced her. She seems at ease with the matter. Her father wasnae too happy at first, nay until he realized the only legitimate one was wee Alice. Once assured that any son his daughter bears me will be my heir, he calmed down.”

  “There willnae be what Connor and Gilly have, will there?” Nanty asked, his tone of voice indicating that he already knew the answer to the question.

  “Nay,” Diarmot replied quietly. “I thought I had found that with Anabelle, but twas naught but a curse. Nay every mon can be blessed with what Connor has, but then no mon deserves it more.” Both his brothers grunted in agreement. “I now seek peace, contentment.”

  He ignored the looks his brothers exchanged which carried a strong hint of pity. Since he was occasionally prone to feeling the pinch of it for himself, he did not really need theirs. It was time, however, to set his life back on course. He had drifted for too long after the debacle of his marriage to Anabelle, descending into debauchery and drunkeness which had left him with a houseful of children, only one of whom was legitimate by law even if he was not certain that little Alice was truly his child. Then, as he had finally begun to come to his senses, he had been attacked and left for dead. The months needed to heal had given him far too much time to think. That had led to the coming marriage to sweet, shy, biddable Margaret Campbell. It was the right step to take, he told himself firmly.

  It was late before he got a chance to talk privately with Connor. Diarmot had almost avoided the meeting he had craved earlier, for the looks Connor and Gilly had exchanged while dining with Margaret and her family had not been encouraging. It was possible Connor might try to talk him out of the marriage and Diarmot feared he was too uncertain of himself to resist such persuasion. As they settled in chairs set before the fireplace in his bedchamber, Diarmot eyed his elder brother warily as they sipped their wine.

  “Are ye certain about this, Diarmot?” Connor finally asked. “There doesnae seem to be much to the lass.”

  “Nay, there isnae,” Diarmot agreed, “but that is what I want now.”

  “Are ye being prompted by your injuries, by that loss of memory?”

  “My injuries are mostly healed. And, aye, my memories are still sadly rattled with a few unsettling blank spots remaining from just before and just after the attack upon me. But, those things have naught to do with this.” He sighed and sipped his wine. “Not every mon has the luck ye have had in finding Gillyanne. I tried and I failed, dramatically and miserably. Now I seek peace, a woman to care for my home, my bairns, and to share my bed when I am in the mood. Nay more.”

  “Then why did ye wish to speak to me?”

  “Weel, I havenae seen ye for months,” Diarmot began, then grimaced when Connor just stared at him with wry amuement. “I think, like some foolish boy, I wanted ye to say this is right, to give your approval.”

  Connor nodded. “But ye arenae a small boy any longer. Ye are the only one who can say if this is right or not.”

  “Ye arenae going to give me your opinion, are ye.”

  “I am nay sure ye want to hear it,” Connor drawled. “Also nay sure what ye want my opinion on. By all the rules, ye have arranged yourself a good marriage, gaining land, coin, and a sweet, virginal bride. By all the rules, ye should be congratulated by most everyone.”

  “But not by ye or Gilly.”

  “I cannae see into your heart, Diarmot. I cannae be sure what ye want, what ye seek. To be blunt, I look at that sweet, shy, biddable bride ye have chosen and wonder how long it will take ere ye have to be reminded that ye e’en have a wife.”

  Diarmot laughed and groaned. “About a month. I can see the same ye do, but tis what I think I need. Yet, something keeps nagging at me, weakening my resolve. One of those lost memories trying to break through the mists in my mind. The closer the time to say my vows draws near, the sharper the nagging. I have more and more dreams,
strange dreams, but I cannae grasp the meaning of them.”

  “What is in these dreams?”

  “Nonsense.” Diarmot sighed. “Last night I dreamed of a scarlet elf poking at me, cursing me, and telling me to clear the cursed mist from my puny brain ere I do something stupid. Then there were some angry fiery demons, near a dozen of them, bellowing that I had best step right or they will be cutting me off at the knees. Then, for a brief moment, all seems weel, until the first blow is struck. Tis the beating, I think, for I wake up all asweat, the fear of death putting a sharp taste in my mouth.”

  “The last I can understand,” Connor said. “Ye were helpless. No mon wants to die, but to be set upon in the dark by men ye cannae recognize, who beat ye near to death for reasons ye dinnae ken, would stir a fear in any mon.”

  Diarmot nodded. “I can understand that part. I just wish that, upon waking with that fear, I would also hold the memory of the who and the why.”

  “Twill come. Now, elves and fiery demons? Nay, I dinnae understand that. Gilly might. Could just be some trickery of your mind which is struggling to remember.” He shrugged. “That would explain all that talk of clearing the mists and the like. Mayhap ye should postpone the wedding.”

  “And what reason could I give? Dreams of scarlet elves?”

  “Weel, that could do it,” drawled Connor, but his obvious amusement quickly fled. “The return of your memory. Just tell Sir Campbell ye sense a danger behind what happened to ye and, since the memories are struggling to return, it might be best to wait and see if ye finally recall what that danger is.”

  For several moments Diarmot sat sipping his wine, staring into the fire, and considering Connor’s advice. It was good advice. The increasingly strange dreams he was having could indeed mean he was beginning to remember the attack upon him. Then he shook his head. It did not really matter when his memory returned, whether it was before or after his marriage. He might not recall what the danger was, but he was absolutely sure it was his danger alone. If it started to reach out to others, it would reach for his betrothed as swiftly as it did for his wife.