Page 7 of Highlanders for the Holidays
No?l’s bride lowered her head then. But it wasn’t in submission. Her eyes were darting about madly, as if she were trying to come up with a clever ploy.
“My lady?” No?l said softly in French. “Is this not your wish?”
She lifted her eyes. They possessed all the colors of a winter sky, shifting from ominous pewter to stormy gray to serene silver. How pleasing it would be to look into those eyes every day for the rest of his life, watching their changing hues and moods.
Then she looked back at her father, who still had a possessive grip on Caimbeul.
“Da, please. Don’t—”
“Ye’ll do as I say, lass,” the laird scolded. “Ye know your place. We all make sacrifices. Look at poor Ysenda here. Even if the unsightly wench somehow manages to snag a husband…” He paused, his eyes twinkling, and No?l was certain the laird must be jesting. The lass was almost as beautiful as her sister—even when she frowned, as she did now. “’Twill probably be no better than a Highland sheepherder. But ye… Ye’ll be the wife of a Norman lord. Ye’ll be Lady Cathalin de Ware.”
No?l’s bride clenched her hand atop his now, digging in to the muscle of his forearm. “But Da, the king will—”
“Hush! I’ll hear no more!” her father interrupted as he tightened his grasp on the man, hugging him closer. “Ye should be more like Caimbeul. He knows when to hold his tongue. Don’t ye, lad?”
Caimbeul lowered his eyes in anger and shame. The hand atop No?l’s arm clenched even tighter.
No?l wasn’t sure what was going on. Did Caimbeul object to the marriage? The man had been seated beside his bride. Was it possible he had feelings for her? And did she return those feelings? Perhaps she preferred the sweet-faced Scottish lad, despite his crooked body.
Surprised by the pang of jealousy that shot through him, No?l suddenly longed to whisk his bride away from this place. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else desiring his wife.
He didn’t like Laird Gille either. Didn’t like the fact he seemed to be irresponsibly drunk. Didn’t like the way he kept cutting his daughter off. Or how he was manhandling Caimbeul. In fact, until the laird died and surrendered his keep, No?l would just as soon remain as far away from the Highland holding as possible.
But to his own amazement, more than anything, he wanted to please his bride.
He spoke for her ears alone. “My lady, is somethin’ amiss? Do ye find marriage to me repulsive? Are ye afraid o’ me? I won’t beat ye, I promise.” Then he thought of something else. “Are ye afraid o’ the marriage bed? Is that it?”
He saw that calculation in her eyes again, as if she were winnowing wheat from chaff. She turned to him with new determination.
“Aye,” she decided. “That’s it. I’m afraid o’ the marriage bed.” There was an eager light in her eyes now as she clutched his sleeve in both hands. “So if ye vow not to bed me tonight, I’ll go through with the handfastin’.”
She was up to something. He could see that. He doubted the intrepid lass was afraid ofanything. But though her notion didn’t please him—already his body stirred with desire for her—if it was what she wanted, he supposed he could wait another day.
“As ye wish,” he said.
* * *
Ysenda sighed in relief. She’d bought herself a day. No handfasting was official until it was consummated. Hopefully, in the morn, when her father was sober, he’d realize what a grave mistake he’d made and correct it. Their sham of a marriage would be nullified, and Cathalin, therealCathalin, would take her place as No?l’s bride.
Part of her was not happy about that. Already she could tell that Sir No?l was too good for her sister. Cathalin was selfish and spoiled, accustomed to getting her way. No?l was considerate, noble, and polite. He’d likely try to accommodate her, and she’d end up running him ragged.
Cathalin would never appreciate his gentlemanliness. She was used to forceful Highlanders who took what they wanted. She would probably mistake No?l’s kindness for weakness and belittle him at every turn.
It was a pity really. But Ysenda could say nothing about it. She was the youngest daughter, without power and without a voice.
Her father still had a dagger at Caimbeul’s throat. He obviously didn’t expect Ysenda to go through with the ceremony willingly.
But now that she had the Norman’s promise—and she trusted the word of a noble knight—she knew she was safe, at least for tonight. So she’d oblige her father and recite the damned handfasting vows.
The ceremony would be brief, doubtless briefer than the lavish weddings of France. Highlanders had little use for religion and no patience for church approval when it came to unions. Matrimony was achieved simply by mutual consent.
Sir No?l’s men made a formidable appearance as they gathered round him. They were large and powerfully built. Their manner was grave and guarded. Ysenda thought they looked ready to unsheathe and do battle if anyone so much as cocked an eye at them.
She wasn’t sure why, but that gave her strange comfort.
Sir No?l had brought the marriage agreement with him. One of his men unfurled it across the table between the roast venison and the smoked mutton, along with a quill and ink. Sir No?l penned his mark on the document, as did Laird Gille.
Ysenda swallowed hard. The heavy black scrawls on the parchment made the marriage seem all too real…and permanent.
