Page 105 of The Scottish Bride
“We remember. Ow, watch those antlers, Green Man,” said the nun.
She knew everybit of Dalrinnie in darkness and daylight, yet she stumbled repeatedly in the stairwell as Sir Malise pulled her upthe stone steps. Missing her footing again, she fell, banged her knee, cried out. He hauled her to her feet, her heels teetering on the inner corner of the wedge-shaped step.
“Come up,” Malise Comyn said. “I have no time for this!”
“Wait! You are pulling me so fast, I cannot get my balance. Let me climb by myself.” She tried to shake him off but he kept a fierce grip on her arm. The stairs, each step narrowing to rotate around the central pillar, were steep and could be treacherous, though a thick rope ran along one side. But she could not grasp it as Malise, strong and sure on the steps, dragged her upward.
Below, he had ordered Sir David and Sir Patrick—who vehemently protested when Malise brought her inside—to go to the gate because revelers were fast approaching the castle. He promised to shut the lady in a room and deal with her later. Then he had pulled her up the steps so roughly that her cloak caught and her brooch tore away. She had lost a shoe as well.
“Where are we going?” She knew this way led to bedchambers on three floors, and to the battlement at the top level. Malise stopped on the stone platform, his grip so tight that she could feel bruises forming on her arm. His breath heaved.
“Here,” he growled, and yanked her along as he opened a heavy wood door on the narrow landing. He all but tossed her inside and she fell to her knees with the push. Standing, she recognized one of the bedchambers, a small room kept for guests. Apparently, Malise used it now, for she saw things tossed about—boots, a draped black tunic, documents scattered on a table, a jug and goblets. It was surprisingly untidy, she thought, for such a demanding man. Lady Edith, taking care of the castle in Tamsin’s place, must not be pleased, if she or a servant was even allowed inside now.
Where was Lady Edith, she thought suddenly, and a frisson of worry ran through her, a thread of guilt that she had leftthe woman here, albeit under Sir Davey’s protection. Where was Oonagh? She felt sure Sir Davey would watch after both.
Malise kicked the door shut behind him. “You were to be my wife,” he said. “We had an agreement.”
“I never promised that.” She turned to face him, backing away.
“The king ordered it. Yet you married Seton—I saw the banns. This is a legal matter now. The king will want to know that you disobeyed his order. You will have to annul. Our betrothal takes precedence.”
“We had no agreement!” A marriage that was fully consummated could not be easily annulled, nor would she reveal that the union was a handfasting. “I have no intention, now or ever, of ending my marriage.”
“You have been cajoled. Fooled. He does not want you,” he said, taking a step forward. “He wants this Dalrinnie. But I have them by royal orders, and I was to be your husband. I want what was promised me by the king—and you.”
“I promised you nothing, and you know it!”
“The book!” he barked. “King Edward expects it. Give it to me. Or did you give that to Seton too, along with your body?” He moved forward again, looking down at her breasts, where her quickened breath rose and fell. “That body belongs to me. I have watched you since you were John Witton’s bride, and hardly touched. That body will bear my sons. It will please me. And I you.”
He reached out. She stepped back. “Get away from me. A widow has the right to decide who touches her.”
“Until betrothal. Then the man has the right.”
She angled to avoid his reach, but he grabbed her and pulled her hard to him.
“You seem more wench than widow to me,” he said, grabbing her hips, pressing her against him, so that she gasped andpushed and thanked heaven for a good layer of chain mail between them. “I could claim my rights as your betrothed right now, and any magistrate would decide in my favor over the man who abducted you from me.”
“Abducted!” She pushed, but could not free herself. “I left of my own accord.”
“That is not what Lady Edith said. Not the girl’s fault, she said. Must have been taken from us. Where is that damned book? Edward is sending a messenger to fetch it from me.”
For a moment she breathed out in relief—Malise had not mentioned finding her copies of Thomas’s prophecies at Dalrinnie, which she had locked away in a chest. Thanks all the saints for that. “The book is in a safe place. And it is not what you think it is. Ow,” she gasped, as his hand bruised her arm and his chain mail bit into her abdomen.
“What! You lie about that book.”
“I never lie.” She shoved, breaking away when his grip shifted. “The Rhymer was a poet. He wrote songs, verses, tales.”
“He made predictions about Scotland! Edward wants to know all of them.”
“He did not write a book of predictions. The king is a fool to think so.” Breathing hard, she circled away, edging toward the door, putting the heavy table between them. He rounded on her, came closer. “He was a harper and carper, a bard.”
“Harper! I will kill your harper for taking my woman. He had no right.”
“I gave him the right,” she said fiercely.
“But I have the order. He does not.”
Something occurred to her then. Both Liam and Malise had orders. “Show me the document. Is this it?” She grabbed up parchments, crumpling them. “Or this?”
