The Laird by Sandy Blair Read Free Book Online Page B

black.
    “She has swooned,” Father Given sputtered as if everyone in the hall were blind. “We must stop the ceremony.”
    Duncan, his right arm fully occupied with his faint bride, reached out with his left arm and grabbed the priest’s frock. He hissed feeling the stitches in his wounded shoulder tear open. “Priest, we will continue. She consented, said ‘Aye Katherine LeBeau’ before swooning and I’ve witnesses aplenty who’ll willingly attest to it.” He glanced over his shoulder to his clansmen standing around the room. To the man they all nodded. Duncan again faced the priest. “I dinna rescue her just an hour ago--killing seven men in the doing--to have ye now deny her wish to wed. ‘Tis not her fault the poor wee lass was attacked by the Bruce’s men.” He leveled a glare at the priest then shook him for good measure. “Continue!”
    Duncan had to make Katherine LeBeau Demont his bride before sunset. He had no choice.
    Their regent, the Duke of Albany, was determined to control Katherine’s dowered lands through Duncan’s loyalty. The man had made it abundantly clear this distant niece of his was to be Duncan’s bride by this date or Duncan would lose all his holdings, no doubt, to the Bruce.
    Just the thought of his clan—-ever loyal to him--being turned out upon this brutal land without food or shelter, without his strong arm to protect them, was intolerable. He shook the priest again. “Do we ken one another?”
    The priest reluctantly nodded and raced through the remainder of the ceremony. When the priest finally mumbled “Amen”, Duncan uttered a satisfied grunt.
    At his side, Angus slapped him on the back in congratulations causing Duncan to growl, “Damn, man!”
    “Augh, Duncan, I’m sorry. I forgot.”
    “If ‘twas yer bloody back, I doubt ye would.”
    His last wife Eleanor had done her evil well. She’d been dead a fortnight and his shoulder was still a ragged, inflamed mess after her assault. Had he not been made wary by finding her traitorous missive to her lover, she might well have succeeded in killing him. When she fell on her own blade during their struggle and died, she’d done him a favor. He’d never liked her, but having to kill her--a woman—wouldn’t have set well on his conscience.
    He’d sworn then never to marry again. Having pledged his fidelity thrice to keep his clan secure and suffered the consequences, one would have thought thrice enough to please God and king. But nay. Before Eleanor’s grave had had a chance to sprout grass or his shoulder to heal, Albany’s edict--King’s seal and all--had arrived.
    He looked down at the drenched bride in his arms. Her eyes were ringed with soot and her cheeks streaked black and bloody. A mottled bruise the size of a goose egg marred her high forehead. No wonder the woman had fainted.
    He looked at his friend. “While I carry her to the solar, order the food served.”
    “I’ll take her,” Angus offered.
    “Nay. She’s mine now, for better or worse.”
     
    ~#~
     
    Beth opened her eyes to find familiar bedposts and an equally familiar board and beamed ceiling. She was in her bed, in Blackstone’s solar. She sighed. It had all been a dreadful dream. Thank heaven.
    She stretched and nearly screamed. Good Lord, what had happened to her legs and back?
    The storm. She remembered struggling to get onto the capsized boat. She must have wrenched a muscle or three. Cautiously, she rolled onto her side and saw heavy drapes hanging where only her sparkling mullion windows should be. Her brain then filled with flashes of being trapped in a box with two dead women, of Duncan, of severed limbs and bleeding men, and then the priest.
    Her gaze flew around the room. Oh, God! The tapestries, the gilt mirror, the brass and-irons in the fireplace were all gone. Seeing that the dresser with her prized make-up collection had also disappeared while she slept brought her straight to her feet. The room spun and she reached for a