Page 2 of The Handfasting
Ysenda couldn’t help but grin back. How anyone could overlook the gentle humor in Caimbeul’s soft brown eyes—his kindness, his loyalty, his sweet nature—she didn’t know. She supposed most people never saw past his crippled frame.
Calling him Caimbeul, which meant crooked mouth, had been polite. To be honest, it seemed there wasn’t a bone in his body that was straight. His back was hunched. His spine was shaped like a slithering snake. His hips were twisted. And one shoulder was higher than the other. With each passing year, his deformity had gotten worse, as if the cruel claws of a dragon slowly closed around him, leaving his body more warped and useless.
Most people assumed his brain was likewise twisted. But Ysenda knew better. He might suffer from neglect. But he was bright, and he possessed a wry wit.
Sadly, their father had deemed it a waste to teach him anything. He said the lad would die young anyway, so an education was pointless.
To make matters worse, when Caimbeul was twelve years of age, their warring mother was killed, mortally wounded by a sword. While she lay dying, she made Ysenda swear to look after her older brother. It was no small task for a wee lass of nine. But Ysenda promised she would.
Once their mother was buried, however, things changed. The laird, ashamed of his son’s infirmity, banished the lad from the keep. He was sent to live in a wee thatch-roofed cottage in the farthest corner of the bailey.
Looking back, Ysenda had to admit that had probably been for the best. For when the laird was in his cups and Caimbeul was underfoot, their father tended to use his fists, taking out his frustration and rage on the lad.
At the time, however, Ysenda had felt her brother’s exile was unfair. And since she’d made that promise to her mother, she couldn’t let him go alone. So, heartbroken at the thought of losing both her mother and the older brother she adored, Ysenda stubbornly packed up her things, left the keep, and moved in with Caimbeul.
Her father scarcely noticed her leaving. His attention was fixed on Cathalin, the one daughter who offered him hope. Cathalin was his middle child, the bonnie one, the one who would marry and inherit the lairdship.
Ysenda had done everything she could for Caimbeul. She’d taught him what she knew of reading, writing, and keeping accounts. She’d challenged him to learn about the running of the household and every man’s part in it. She’d bribed visiting scholars to tutor him in history and philosophy.
Caimbeul may not have been blessed with a powerful body. But there was much power in knowledge.
And on those occasions when he needed physical defending, it was Ysenda who came to his rescue. She used the fighting skills her mother had taught her. Many a young lad earned a black eye or a bruised shin from daring to mock Ysenda’s beloved brother. A few even learned their lesson at the point of her sword.
Caimbeul nudged her with his bony elbow as she slipped him another slice of stolen meat. “Hey.” He nodded toward the door with a broad grin. “I think ye’ve got an admirer.”
Ysenda glanced up. A tall, dark, handsome man was staring at her. He wasn’t dressed like a Highlander. Instead of a leine and brat, he wore a long surcoat of deep blue covered by a brown tabard that was belted at the hips. By his brown hooded cloak, he appeared to have just come in from the cold. Snowflakes dusted his broad shoulders and his hood.
A hint of a smile touched the man’s lips, alarming her. But that wasn’t what made her most uneasy.
The truth was she’d never seen him before.
Ysenda was certain she knew every lad, lass, and bairn in the clan, as well as most of the neighboring clans. She would have remembered this one’s face. He was striking, built like a warrior. His hair was the color of coal. His gaze was intense and steady enough to pierce iron.
What was a stranger doing inside the keep?
He lowered his gaze then, and she scanned the room.
He wasn’t alone. Half a dozen unfamiliar men were scattered around the hall.
Who were they? And how the devil had they gotten in?
Sir No?l de Ware loved Yuletide.
It wasn’t only because the holiday happened to mark hisownbirth as well as the Christ child’s. He loved everything about the season. He loved the crèches in the church and the caroles in the hall. He loved feasting on roast goose and drinking spiced wine. Most of all, he loved snuggling up in the wintry weather with a warm woman by a crackling fire.
Which was why he was unhappy.
Instead of enjoying the holiday season in France, he was stuck here in the frozen Highlands, tracking down a reluctant bride.
King Philip had promised him a wife—the most beautiful lass in Scotland, if rumor was to be believed. Descended from the magnificent Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, she was the heir to a fine Scots holding.
But she’d been delaying him with letters and excuses for weeks now.
She was ill.
She was visiting kin.
The mountain was impassable.
