The Wedding

  “None of us use saddles.”

  She skirted her way around him and went running to her horse. Her legs screamed with each step she took, and she could only imagine Gilly’s discomfort. She noticed her own saddle was missing, assumed one of his men had removed it for her, and was thankful for that much consideration.

  Connor wouldn’t let her see to Gilly’s comforts. He assigned that duty to Owen, the soldier with the scarred face and a smile she thought was actually quite enchanting. She pestered him with instructions for her mare’s care, thanked him for his help, and then watched like a worried mama while he led Gilly over to a spot where the moonlight wasn’t barred by the trees. Her horse was cooperating, a sure sign she was up to mischief, for several times in the past she’d taken nips out of unsuspecting groomers. Brenna called out a warning and then went in search of her baggage.

  The glen Connor had chosen for their respite was completely surrounded by thick forest. The ground cover and the trees were vibrant with hues of brown and green, and dabbled here and there were purple-tipped flowers just waking from winter’s sleep. A canopy of thick golden green branches arched high above her. Streamers of fading light filtering down through the trees gave sufficient illumination for the short walk to the lake that, Quinlan had explained, cut through the southern tip.

  Brenna was given sufficient privacy to see to her needs. After ten minutes had passed, Connor decided she’d had enough time alone and went to get her. He found her kneeling over her satchel, muttering to herself while she searched through her possessions. Several articles of clothing littered the ground around her.

  She wasn’t really paying attention to what she was doing. Her mind was on the problem of coming up with a plan to get out of this mess. Thankfully, time was on her side, she thought, and surely, once she’d gotten her wits about her, she’d figure something out.

  Connor, towering over her, waited for her to notice him. He gave up after a few minutes and handed her the washcloth he’d picked up hours before.

  “Were you searching for this?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered almost absentmindedly. “I must have dropped it only a moment ago, or I would have noticed. I’m very observant.”

  He didn’t correct her. He didn’t give her the blue ribbon she’d also left by the stream hours ago, either. He decided to keep the thing a little longer, as a reminder that he had indeed taken a wife. He was bound to forget such an insignificant detail.

  “Wash your face, Brenna. Your mouth is covered in paint.”

  She straightened up so quickly, she almost toppled over backward. “I don’t paint my face.” She was horrified by the very idea. Only women on their way to hell would do such a pagan thing.

  “It’s my paint.”

  “How did I get paint . . . ? I remember now. Just after you tricked me into asking you to marry me again, you said you would, and then you kissed me without asking permission.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, just to get her moving. In his opinion, the brief touch of his mouth against hers didn’t qualify as a kiss, it had been a symbolic gesture, nothing more.

  “The priest is waiting for us. Hurry and finish.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She bounded to her feet. “Now? The priest is waiting now? Why is he waiting?”

  Connor was thoroughly puzzled by her behavior. She acted as though she’d just had the wind knocked out of her. “He’s here to get it done,” he explained.

  She demanded specifics. “Get what done?”

  “You couldn’t have forgotten so soon,” he replied in exasperation. “The wedding.”

  “Now?” she cried out again. “You want to marry me now?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, then started wringing her hands together, and, dear God, she knew she was shouting at him, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. Connor was so chillingly calm about it all. He had to be out of his mind if he thought she could possibly marry him right now.

  “What did you expect?”

  She was too stunned to come up with an answer. “What did I expect? I expected time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Time to come up with a way out of this nightmare, she wanted to scream.

  “Time for you to . . . to take me to your home. Yes, that’s what I expected. I need time to plan a proper wedding.”

  “Then I’ve saved you the trouble. You may thank me later.”

  “And time for you to come to your senses,” she blurted out.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  She suddenly felt light-headed and realized that, for the first time in her life, she was about to swoon. She turned around and went to the edge of the lake to sit down. Closing her eyes, she tried to think of a plan while the world spun out of control around her. Yes, she needed a plan. Any plan. She was in such a panic, her mind wouldn’t cooperate. She would greet the priest, yes, of course she would greet him, and she would talk to him, explaining that she would be happy to share her meal with him tonight and let him get a good rest. He could marry her to the bear first thing in the morning. She would strongly suggest, even beg if she had to, that he wait a little longer, a month or two or ten, because the sacrament of marriage was a serious undertaking after all, and then if Connor still didn’t realize his mistake, she’d begin work on her wedding gown.

  Connor was quickly running out of patience. Now what was she doing? Honest to God, a man could take only so much, and her resistance was becoming downright bothersome. He decided to take matters, and Brenna, into his own hands. He took hold of her cloth, dipped it into the water, and squatted down in front of her. Before she could scoot away, he took hold of her chin and scrubbed her face for her.

  He wasn’t gentle. Her face was bright red when he finished, and he didn’t know if he’d been too rough on her delicate skin or if she was blushing.

  “Let’s get it done,” he ordered.

  He lifted her to her feet and literally pulled her along behind him.

  “I finally understand. I’m dead, aren’t I? I died of fright when I first saw you, and now I’m suffering for my sins. God, I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

  Connor pretended to ignore her rantings, and it took all he had to hide his smile. Lord, she was emotional. She wasn’t crying, though. The priest would believe she’d been coerced into the marriage if she wept throughout the ceremony. Granted, she had been coerced, but he didn’t want Father Sinclair to know it. There was also the fact that Connor didn’t particularly like to be around women who wept all the time. They made him nervous, and given his choice, he’d take an angry wife over a weeping one any day of the week.

  Brenna wasn’t in the mood to cry. She felt like killing someone, and Connor was her first choice. And what kind of sinful attitude was that for her to take to her wedding? She was about to enter into holy matrimony, for the love of God.

  Her wedding. It wasn’t going to be at all like the wedding she’d planned in her daydreams during sewing lessons. She’d expected to be married in her father’s chapel, surrounded by family and friends. What she was getting was a group of ill-mannered warriors and a priest who didn’t look old enought to have finished his training.

  Pride kept her from making a scene. Because everyone was watching her approach, she moved forward to walk by Connor’s side, and as soon as she reached the priest, she lifted the hem of her skirts and made a formal curtsy.

  “Shall we begin?” the priest said after casting a worried glance up at Connor’s face.

  “Now?” she cried out.

  Connor let out a loud sigh. “Will you stop saying that?”

  “Is something wrong with now?” the priest asked, his confusion obvious. He addressed his question to Connor and dared to frown up at him. “I must tell you, Laird, it displeases me to see you come to this sacrament dressed in war paint. I’ll have to give my accounting to my superiors as well as Alec Kincaid. What will I say to them?”

  “Say whatever you want to say,
Father. My brother, at least, will understand.”

  The priest nodded. “Very well. Mi’lady, do you come here of your own free will? Do you agree to marry Laird Connor MacAlister?”

  Everyone stared at her while she contemplated her answer. She had given her word, God help her, and her father’s soldiers had all been breathing when they’d left her, which meant Connor had kept his part of the bargain. It was now her turn.

  The priest wasn’t at all concerned about the bride’s confusion. He was used to nervous brides, of course, for he had already married a fair number of couples in his short while as an ordained priest and had learned to expect just about anything.

  “The priest is waiting for your answer, Brenna,” Connor reminded her in a voice that held a threatening tone.

  “Aye, he’s waiting, lass,” Quinlan blurted out, though he deliberately kept his voice soothing in the hope of calming her down.

  She finally gave in to the inevitable. “Yes, Father, of course, but . . .”

  “You must say the words, mi’lady. The church requires that I hear you acknowledge that you marry Connor MacAlister of your own free will.”

  “Now?”

  “Brenna, I swear to you that if I hear that word again . . .” Connor began.

  Frantic, Brenna finally remembered the pitiful little plan she’d come up with.

  “Father, we haven’t been properly introduced. I don’t even know your name. I should, shouldn’t I? I thought we would share our evening meal together, and you and I could get to know each other, and then you could get a long rest, and tomorrow we would go to your chapel, and if you don’t have a chapel, then we could keep on going until we found one, and you would instruct me so that I would be prepared for this joyful sacrament, and I . . .”

  She suddenly went completely still. “War paint, Father? Did you say war paint? Connor MacAlister’s wearing war paint to my wedding?”

  She didn’t mean to shout at the priest, but honest to God, her endurance was gone. She simply couldn’t take anything more. She didn’t care who lived and who died, even if she were the one slain. Only one thing mattered to her now. The war paint.

  She turned her wrath on Connor. She was so furious with him, tears filled her eyes. “I won’t have it.”

  The priest’s mouth dropped open. He’d never heard anyone speak to Laird MacAlister in such a manner, except Alec Kincaid, of course—but he could speak to him any way he chose—and for a slip of a woman to show such open hostility was both astonishing and courageous. If he lived through this ordeal, he must remember every word he had just heard so he could repeat the tale to his friends.

  Connor intended to put the fear of God into her to get her to calm down, but the tears swayed him. Why the war paint upset her was beyond his understanding, but upset she was, and he knew he wouldn’t get the ceremony over and done with until he found a way to make her cooperate.

  Lord, she was a nuisance.

  “Brenna, you will not raise your voice to me.” He deliberately tried to sound reasonable. Mean, but reasonable too.

  “You will not wear war paint to our wedding.”

  Honest to God, she sounded as mean as he did. He couldn’t help but be impressed. “I want to get this done.”

  She let go of his arm and crossed her arms in front of her. “We’ll wait.”

  “If you think . . .”

  “I won’t ever ask anything more of you.”

  Damn it all, she looked as if she was about to start wailing. Didn’t she realize she was about to become his wife? It was an honor, not a death sentence.

  His bride didn’t seem to understand, however. One of them was going to have to be reasonable, and he guessed it would have to be his duty.

  “This really matters to you?”

  She couldn’t believe he needed to ask such a ridiculous question. The sacrament of matrimony was a blessed event, everyone knew that, and coming to a priest dressed for war insulted God, the church, the priest and her.

  “It’s very important to me.”

  “All right then, but this is the last time I’ll ever concede to your demands.”

  Connor paused to glare at his followers when he noticed they were all nodding agreement. Then he turned back to his reluctant bride. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “You have, and I am most appreciative.”

  She suddenly felt like smiling, but she maintained her somber expression until Connor walked away from her. He let out a sigh that sounded like a deep growl. She did smile then; she couldn’t help herself. For the first time in a long, long while, she didn’t feel afraid of her future, but then her mind had already snapped, she reminded herself, and she couldn’t be reasonable about anything now. Connor was cooperating, which meant he wasn’t a complete barbarian. It wasn’t much to base a marriage on, but she was going to be stuck with the man for the rest of her life, and she was a desperate woman, after all. She would take what she could get, even if it was just a single thread of hope.

  She kept on smiling until she remembered the blue-faced pagans who rode with the groom.

  She was frowning with indignation by the time she turned to them. “Were you expecting to attend the wedding?”

  She didn’t have to say anything more. Quinlan and the others bowed to her before hurrying to catch up with their laird.

  They didn’t balk the way Connor had. Several, in fact, glanced back to smile. They seemed to want to accommodate her. She didn’t dare trust any of them, of course, and she decided to follow along, just to make certain they didn’t change their minds at the last minute. She believed they’d done just that when they all lined up along the edge of the bank and stood there procrastinating while they talked to one another.

  Because she’d been so concerned about important matters, it hadn’t occurred to her that the men would have to remove their clothes before entering the water. Admittedly, she’d been too occupied gloating over her insignificant little victory to think about anything else.

  Their belts fell to the ground first. She came to a dead stop and closed her eyes. She still wasn’t fast enough, for she saw every one of their naked backsides before they disappeared into the lake below.

  Their laughter followed. She didn’t mind, even though she was certain they had known all the while that she was there and were now laughing at her.

  The priest came up behind her. “We haven’t been introduced, mi’lady. My name is Father Kevin Sinclair, son of Angus Sinclair of the Neatherhills.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father. My name is Brenna. My father is Baron Haynesworth, though I doubt you’ve ever heard of him. I come from England.”

  “I had already surmised as much.”

  “My clothing and my speech are both sure indications, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are,” he agreed with a smile she thought was as charming as his brogue.

  The priest radiated warmth and kindness, and for the first time in a long while, she began to relax.

  “I must compliment you, Lady Brenna. Your command of our language is quite remarkable for a beginner.”

  “But, Father, I’ve been studying Gaelic for years.”

  Horrified, he stammered out a hasty apology. “Do forgive me. I meant to praise you, not insult you.”

  “I wasn’t offended, just surprised,” she assured him.

  His smile returned. “Did you know you alternate between both languages when you’re angry?”

  “No, I didn’t know. When did you notice this peculiar behavior?”

  “When the war paint irritated you. I was also irritated, but not for long. The way you stood up to Connor impressed me . . . and him, I would wager. I don’t believe anyone has ever spoken to him before with such passion and fury. It was something to see, all right.”

  “I shouldn’t have been difficult. It wasn’t ladylike, and I do know better. My temper got the best of me and is a fault I must try to overcome. If there were time, I would beg you to hear my confession before
I married.”

  “I would be happy to make the time, mi’lady.”

  “Then there is a chapel close-by?”

  “We have few chapels here, but as long as we don’t face each other while you confess, the rules of the church will be guarded.”

  The priest was already wearing the stole he used to hear confessions. The tasseled strip of material was draped around his shoulders. As soon as they reached the clearing, he pulled the ends loose from the rope belt he wore around the waist of his brown robe and turned to find a suitable spot.

  He finally settled on a tree stump, sat down, and then instructed Brenna to kneel on the ground beside him.

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. He stared across the clearing, made the sign of the cross with a wide sweep of his hand, and told her to begin.

  She quickly listed her transgressions, and when she was finished, she began to ask him questions in an attempt to stall the inevitable.

  “Is it sinful for me to fear my future? I don’t know Connor very well. He frightens me, Father. Am I being foolish?”

  The priest wasn’t about to admit that Connor terrified him. He wasn’t ashamed of his reaction, as everyone he knew felt much the same way. Still, he was supposed to offer solace, and telling her the truth would only make her more fearful.

  “I don’t know him very well either, but I have heard enough about his background to understand why he’s such a hard man. His father died when he was very young, and he was then raised by Alec Kincaid, who finished what his father had begun. The two men consider themselves to be brothers.”

  “I’m certain I shall like his brother,” she whispered, hoping to God she was right.

  The priest was just as certain she’d be terrified of him. Lord knew, he was, though he didn’t think it would do her any good to hear him admit it. “I have never felt the need to guard my words in his presence or walk twenty paces behind him. Age has taught Kincaid to listen before he retaliates—at least, that is what I’ve been told—and for that reason he doesn’t intimidate me the way . . .”

  “The way Connor does?”

  “Now, lass, don’t try to guess what I’m going to say. The way the men I was with reacted to Connor made me . . . catch their caution. Try to remember that God will look after you. His plans are often too complicated for us to understand.”