Page 4 of The Handfasting
To his satisfaction, she understood him perfectly. But she still stubbornly answered him in Gaelic. “Have ye? Well, ye didn’t answer my first question. Who are ye?”
He smiled. Beautiful, mischievous,andclever. He was beginning to like the prospect of being wed to such a spirited lass. Indeed, he was tempted to lean down and steal a kiss from her clever mouth.
But he was no fool. He’d been put off already several times. It would be no easy task to get the lass and her father to agree to the marriage. No?l would have to be careful about how he proceeded. So for now, he would defer to her and speak in Gaelic.
“I’d prefer to answer to the laird.”
She raised fine, smug brows. “Indeed? And what makes ye so certain he wishes to speak with ye?”
“By my reckonin’, he does not,” he admitted.
She frowned up at him. Even that expression looked adorable, like the scowling face of a wee hawk.
He gave her a wink and confided, “But I’m goin’ to speak with him anyway.” Now that his men were dispersed throughout the crowd, he cleared his throat to address the gathering. “May I have your attention, please?”
The musicians ceased playing, and the hall quieted. All eyes went to him. Laird Gille frowned from his seat, looking very much like the wee hawk, before he slammed his cup on the table and rose to his feet.
“Who are ye, and what is the meanin’ o’ this?”
No?l eyed his men, whose hands rested upon the hafts of their sheathed daggers. Then he gave the laird a respectful bow.
“My laird, I apologize for interruptin’ your revels,” he said. “I am Sir No?l de Ware. I’ve come to claim the bride I was promised by King William o’ Scotland and King Philip o’ France.” He smiled and set a subtly possessive hand upon the shoulder of the lovely lass beside him. “I couldn’t stay away a moment longer. I hoped my arrival would be a welcome Yuletide surprise for Lady Cathalin.”
Ysenda stiffened. Cathalin? He thought she was Cathalin? How could anyone have mistaken her for her beautiful sister?
From the great table, Cathalin—the real Cathalin—gasped.
Ysenda had heard gossip about Sir No?l de Ware, her older sister’s betrothed, for some time now. He was a noble French warrior. He meant to take her sister to France to live with him at his castle. Upon Laird Gille’s death, Cathalin would return to Scotland with Lord de Ware to inhabit the keep and rule the clan.
For weeks, neither her father nor Cathalin had been happy about the arrangement. True, there was an alliance between Scotland and France. But Laird Gille didn’t trust Lowlanders, let alone Normans. He wanted a Highlander to inherit his land and title. And so he’d ignored the king’s command. He’d plotted to hastily marry Cathalin to a Highland laird before her Norman bridegroom arrived.
But the Highlander hadn’t yet come.
And the Norman had.
And now he’d mistaken Ysenda for his bride.
Upon hearing Cathalin’s gasp, Sir No?l hastened to reassure her. “There’s no cause for alarm, my lady. I will take good care o’ your sister, I swear.” He glanced down at Ysenda with fondness. “I will honor Lady Cathalin and guard her with my life.”
There was an uncertain silence in the hall.
Ysenda pulled away from the knight. This wasn’t right. Her sister and her father might not want a wedding between Cathalin and Sir No?l. But it was what two kings had decreed. Ysenda would not be a party to such deception, a deception which amounted to treason.
“I’m afraid ye’ve made a mistake,” she told the Norman. “I’m not—”
“Daughter!” her father called out.
For the first time in his life, Laird Gille had wrapped a companionable arm around Caimbeul’s shoulders. Caimbeul had a look of confused hope on his face, as if his father had suddenly realized he had a son whom he loved very much.
Only Ysenda noticed the eating dagger that dangled casually from the laird’s fingers, an inch from Caimbeul’s throat. And there was no mistaking the threat glittering in her father’s eyes.
“Cathalin, darlin’,” he said, addressing Ysenda. No one in the hall corrected him. Not even Cathalin herself. She only bit her lip and stared intently into her ale. “’Tis no mistake. ’Tis the king’s decree. And how fortunate ye are to have your betrothed arrive at Yuletide. The two o’ ye shall have a weddin’ feast fit for a king.”
Ysenda blinked in disbelief. Did her father really believe he could pass her off as Cathalin? Couldn’t the Norman see that her sister was the bonnie one? She waited for someone to speak up, to say it was all a jest.
But no one did. No one wanted to contradict the laird. Caimbeul was aware now that his father held a knife to his throat. They both knew if he uttered a word, the laird wouldn’t hesitate to make it his last.
Finally, her sister stood and raised her cup, saying pointedly, “Congratulations, Cathalin, dear sister. No one is more deservin’ o’ this great honor than ye. And no one could be happier for ye than I am.”
