Much Ado About Marriage

  A pair of fascinating dark eyes came into focus and made him momentarily forget his aches and pangs. God’s wounds, she’s lovely. Below an adorable nose, a lush mouth curved in wanton invitation. He smiled in return, his lips stiff. Whatever dream he was having, it would be complete once this angel touched him.

  “Welcome back, Sassenach,” rumbled a hard masculine voice.

  Thomas blinked and turned his head, wincing with the movement. Leaning against the mantel stood a giant. Though Thomas was several inches over six feet, this man would tower over him by a hand’s span. But it was more than his height; it was also his shoulders, which appeared capable of holding up the entire castle.

  The giant grinned, white teeth flashing in a darkly bearded face. “Are you comfortable, my feeble little Englishman?”

  Remembrance hit Thomas like the slam of a fist. The giant was Duncan MacLean, the Earl of Duart, laird of Clan MacLean. And the angel . . . he looked at Fia. The angel was not an angel at all, but MacLean’s woman.

  “Duncan, untie him,” she said softly.

  Thomas looked down at his arms. He was indeed tied.

  “Nay, lass. He’ll stay trussed like a pig until I say so.”

  Fia was on her feet before the giant stopped speaking, marching to stand toe-to-toe with the laird. “Release him! He’s done naught.”

  MacLean glared. “Among his other sins, his hands were on you. ’Tis a wonder he’s even breathing.”

  Fia flushed. “’Twas dark. You don’t know what you saw.”

  The laird quirked a disbelieving brow.

  Fia turned to Thomas, whose hair she softly stroked. “Can you at least loosen his ties? Just until we have settled this?”

  “He’s not a guest but a prisoner. And that’s that.”

  Fia’s full lips pressed into a straight, unhappy line.

  Thomas disliked that Fia was pleading for his life with a man who was obviously her lover. The idea soured his stomach and he sent her a hard glare. “I can speak for myself.”

  Fia shook her head. “Duncan, he looks fevered. If he falls ill, ’twill be your fault.”

  Duncan’s brow lowered, though his gaze took on a considering air. “I suppose it would look bad if one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorites were to die in my care.”

  “I’m not going to die,” Thomas snapped.

  Fia stroked his arm in a way that made him think of the way she’d petted her damned rabbit. “Duncan, ’twould be a most generous gesture if you were to send a hale, hearty Lord Rotherwood back to the queen.”

  Duncan’s black gaze hardened. “No. I cannot forget that he touched you.”

  “Just look at the poor man. He’s already been punished. Your men beat him, I took his purse, poor Thunder fell upon him after Zeus chased off his horse, and then we’d no food and he was nigh starving to death while—”

  MacLean burst into deep, roiling laughter. “Poor Sassenach! I had no idea your beast of a horse had already been at him. And you took his silver, eh?” Still chuckling, he shook his head. “The luckiest man in England, eh?”

  Thomas fought to keep from glaring at them all.

  “Which,” Fia added, “is why we should take care of the poor man and not treat him ill. He’s been through enough as ’tis.”

  “Whilst I feel pity for the man, he’s no innocent puppy needing your tender care.”

  “Duncan, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. You were woefully unfair.”

  “If you took more care, cousin, I would not have had to act at all.”

  Cousin? This wasn’t the laird’s wench but his cousin. Thomas had been caught fondling a lady.

  He closed his eyes, his irritation growing by leaps and bounds. Of course the damned wench hadn’t seen fit to mention that. Not that he’d have believed her, seeing as how she was dressed in the veriest rags and carrying a sack of stolen silver.

  Fia shook her head sadly. “Duncan, I vow on my mother’s grave that the Sassenach’s been nothing but fine and honorable.”

  “Is it fine and honorable to take advantage of an innocent lass?” MacLean demanded.

  “Is it honorable to attack an unarmed man?” She crossed her arms and frowned fiercely. “You owe him an apology. The man did naught to merit such treatment.”

  “Apology?” The laird looked at Thomas with an incredulous gaze. “You can’t expect me to do such a fool thing!”

  “Pray, do,” Thomas said, forcing his split lips into a grin. “I need a good laugh.”

  Two pairs of wrathful eyes pinned him to his chair, but Thomas didn’t allow his grin to slip.

  MacLean spoke first, his disgust plain. “Lassie, ’twould take the sharp end of a claymore pricking that man’s neck before he acted in an honorable way.” The laird’s hand rested on his sword as he spoke.

  “Duncan, that just goes to show what a poor judge of men you are. The Sassenach is twice the man Malcolm the Maiden could ever hope to be.”

  “Leave young Davies out of this,” growled Duncan.

  Who the hell is Davies? Thomas wondered.

  Fia sniffed. “I am more than willing to leave young Davies out of everything.”

  Thomas stared from one to the other. Was young Davies another laird? Elizabeth’s chief adviser, the wily Lord Walsingham, would rub his hands in glee to find out what alliances were being offered to the powerful laird of Duart. Perhaps Davies was a code name for some of the supporters of Queen Mary. Was it possible that—

  Fia lifted her chin. “Duncan, I think you should know all. His lordship promised to become my sponsor once we were in London if I would help him reach his ship.”

  Thomas stifled a groan. The wench was going to get him killed. Catching MacLean’s black eyes on him, Thomas gave a vague shrug.

  MacLean rubbed his bearded chin, a genuinely quizzical gleam in his gaze. “Now why would you do such a thing, Sassenach?”

  Because she’s damnably beautiful? Because she asked me in such a way that no man could have refused?

  Thomas glanced at Fia and caught her encouraging smile. “Tell him,” she urged.

  He supposed he might as well. Fia was going to blurt out the whole, anyway. “Aye, we agreed to some such arrangement. I did it because she seemed to wish it very much.”

  MacLean looked puzzled. “Have you ever sponsored a lass before?”

  Thomas’s mouth went dry, and he shot an uneasy glance at Fia. “Once or twice,” he managed to croak.

  “I knew it!” Fia cried, evidently happy at this news. “’Twas fate that sent you to me.”

  MacLean rubbed his neck, his brows knit as though the answer to some puzzle still eluded his grasp. “What did you hope to gain?”

  Thomas didn’t know where to look. What could he say to such a question? That he found the laird’s cousin to be an incredibly sensual and delectable woman? That there was something about her sparkling eyes and the way she smiled that heated him beyond measure? That he lost what little sense he had whenever she pressed those full, silken lips to his? That just the sight of her here, kneeling beside him, was enough to make his aching and abused body strain against his bonds?

  Fia patted Thomas’s arm. “Duncan, let the poor man be. Can’t you see he is still befuddled? Lord Thomas agreed to sponsor my plays in exchange for help in getting to his ship.”

  Thomas blinked. “What plays?”

  Fia’s brows lowered. “But . . . if you didn’t know about my plays . . . what did you mean by ‘sponsor’?”

  The voice curled around Thomas’s neck and tightened into a noose. He didn’t need to look at MacLean’s way; he could feel the fury coming from that direction.

  Sweet Jesu, she writes plays.

  It was the last thought he had before the hilt of a claymore slammed into his head and blessed darkness wiped out the sight of Fia’s white face.

  Chapter Six

  The three men yanked Thomas’s inert body from the chair. His head dropped back and thudded against the table edge.

  Fia g
asped. “Be gentle with my Englishman! Though he’s an arse, he’s suffered enough at the hands of the MacLeans without bumping and thumping him all the way to the bedchamber.”

  “Bedchamber?” Duncan snapped, his black gaze cold.

  “Where else is he to go?”

  “To hell for all I care; he’s done naught but offer our family insult.” He jerked his head toward the door and ordered his men, “Take that pox-ridden swiver to the cellar.”

  “Och, Duncan, you can’t just—” Fia began.

  “Yes, I can. MacKenna, you, Berwick, and Talent see to it the Englishman is well bound, too. I’ll not have him escape.”

  Fia whirled to face MacKenna. “Don’t you dare take him to the cellar! The dampness will kill him.”

  MacKenna gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, lass, but the laird is the laird.”

  Fia crossed her arms, her gaze locked on the laird’s men. “Douglas MacKenna!”

  The large guard shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Aye, me lady?”

  “Who nursed you back to health last winter when you were moaning and crying fit to shame a priest?”

  He shifted uneasily. “’Twas ye, me lady.”

  “And who sat by your Katherine’s side when she was giving birth to little David?”

  The grizzled face softened at the mention of his youngest son. “Bless ye, m’lady. Ye stayed with her the whole night.”

  “And who gave you the silver to buy that new horse you are so fond of?”

  A dull red stole across MacKenna’s cheeks. He cast a miserable look toward Duncan before replying, “’Twas ye, me lady.”

  Fia raised her brows. “Then tell my cousin how dangerous ’twould be to put a puny Sassenach in the cellar. How the man could easily die, which no one wants since he is a favorite of Queen Elizabeth’s.”

  MacKenna swallowed noisily and laid down his burden. “Ah, me lord, if ye’ll forgive me fer sayin’ so, ’tis a bit cold in the cellar.”

  Thick black eyebrows rose slightly. “Cold?”

  MacKenna nodded miserably. “Aye. And . . . and damp, me lord.”

  Duncan’s smile made his men pale. “’Tis damp in the cellar. By all means we can’t have such for our wondrous guest, can we?”

  MacKenna fidgeted but managed to say in a reasoned tone, “Me lord, if this was a Scotsman I wouldn’t hesitate, but with an Englishman . . .” He shook his head. “The littlest thing could do him in.”

  Berwick nodded. “Aye, me lord, ’tis true.”

  Duncan regarded Berwick sourly. “I suppose Lady Fia sat with your wife whilst one of your sons was born, too.”

  Berwick looked shamefaced. “Nay, but she brought me soup every day fer two weeks when I had the ague and was shaking fit to fall from me bed. I think I’d have died if no’ fer her.”

  Duncan turned to Talent. “And you?”

  Talent shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Lady Fia helped me poor sister when she cut her foot and it swelled until we thought the skin would split and smelled as if—”

  “Enough. The three of you are worthless!” Duncan’s face darkened until Fia thought he would explode.

  Fia was relieved when he finally let out his breath in a long, drawn-out hiss. “Take the damned Sassenach and place him in a bedchamber. Post a guard—nay, post two guards. And by the saints above, MacKenna, stop looking like a witless sheep!”

  MacKenna sighed his relief and gestured to the men to resume carrying their burden from the room. As he passed Fia, she murmured, “I owe you.”

  His shrewd blue eyes twinkled somberly. “That ye do, me lady. Don’t think I’ll let ye be forgettin’ it, neither.”

  Fia grinned. “I won’t.” She slanted a challenging glance at Duncan from under her lashes before saying loudly, “Take him to the blue bedchamber. I’ll be up shortly with some medicines.” The men moved with exaggerated caution as they maneuvered the Englishman out of the doorway.

  Fia followed them to the door.

  “Hold, cousin,” Duncan growled. “I’m not finished with you.”

  She sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Sit.”

  She reluctantly came to perch on the edge of a chair near Duncan. “Very well. What else have you to say?”

  Duncan crossed his massive arms over his chest, the amber amulet gleaming against his dark clothing. “You will not go near the Sassenach without a chaperone.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Duncan, who will nurse him—”

  “Mary. She’s not worth one whit as a chaperone, but she’s a good nurse.”

  “Duncan, I’m not a child who—”

  “Furthermore, I am inviting Malcolm Davies and his mother to attend us at their earliest convenience.”

  She leapt to her feet. “No! Duncan, please don’t—”

  “You will marry as soon as Lady Davies and I agree on the contract.”

  “I don’t want to marry that babied lackwit!”

  Duncan’s expression gave her no hope. “’Tis for your own safety. The Davies clan is powerful and will see to it that you’re well cared for.”

  “Duncan, I can’t—”

  “You will be married by Sunday a week. Earlier, if I can arrange it.”

  “You cannot force me in this,” she warned.

  “Oh?”

  “Nay. They say Lady Davies is as proud and haughty as a queen. What would she think to see me kicking and screaming all the way to the altar?”

  Duncan’s eyebrows lowered. “This is no laughing matter, Fia. I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  His jaw tightened. “If that’s the way you wish to do this, then so be it.” He crossed to the door. “Fitzgerald!”

  A flurry of rushing footsteps followed and a redheaded lad slid into the room. “Ye called, me lord?”

  “Aye. Go find MacKenna and tell him to throw that damned Sassenach in the cellar after all.”

  Fia gasped. “Nay! ’Twill kill him!”

  Duncan’s flat gaze answered her. There was a tense pause as she struggled with her temper.

  “Och, to the devil with you,” she snapped. “I’ll meet this bridegroom of yours.”

  Duncan nodded once and Fitzgerald, looking as if he’d received a reprieve from the devil himself, raced from the room.

  Duncan arched an eyebrow at Fia. “You’ll do more than meet young Davies, lass; you’ll wed him.”

  “But I—”

  “Nay, no more. I’ve explained to you all that I’m willing. Now I’ve letters to write that must be sent before the day is out.” With that, he turned toward the large desk that sat in a corner of the room.

  She watched him take his seat and pull a sheet of vellum forward. “Duncan, I—”

  “Nay.” His broad shoulders seemed bowed, as if the weight of the world pressed upon him. He flipped the inkwell open and dipped a silver-tipped pen into the bowl. “No more of this, lass. Not tonight.”

  She couldn’t ignore the tiredness of his voice, so she slowly went to the door, pausing once to look back. He was still seated at the desk, his face bleak as his pen steadily crossed the paper. Her anger melted at the strain she saw upon his dark face, the amber amulet resting on his chest among his leathers and plaid.

  Poor Duncan. He carries so many responsibilities. So many cares. She started to say something but then thought better of it. He was the laird of the clan and, wish what she would, she couldn’t release him from that burden.

  She sighed and quietly left the room, softly closing the wide oak door behind her.

  Fia smoothed the blanket for the hundredth time. “The Sassenach’s still asleep and it’s been more than fifteen hours.” She couldn’t keep the worry from her voice as she placed her hand upon his forehead. “His fever has not yet broken.”

  Mary came to stand beside her. “’Tis not unusual fer a person to have a low fever and sleep fer hours—even days—after facing such calamities as this one did.”

  “But he’ll get better???
?

  “He’ll be fine, lass. Weak as a kitten, but other than that, no worse fer the wear.”

  Fia wished he’d sigh in his sleep or move in some way; this deathly stillness was nerve-wracking. “Duncan says I may not visit the Sassenach without a chaperone, though the man’s so tired he can’t even awaken.”

  Mary’s blue eyes twinkled. “I told the laird this morn that if he truly wished to see ye married, then the less chaperonage ye had, the better.”

  “I’m never going to get married,” said Fia sharply.

  “‘Never’ is a big word, lassie.”

  “In some cases, ’tisn’t big enough.” She turned from the bed and began straightening the room, pouring fresh water into the pitcher on the washstand and dusting a small pile of books that hadn’t been moved in weeks. The morning light from the mullioned window streamed across the stone floor and turned the dust motes to glittering fairy dust.

  She returned to the bed. “His poor eye is black and blue. And that welt on his cheek—tsk.”

  Fia lightly traced a bruise on his cheek to the corner of his mouth. She should have been glad he was having such a restful slumber, but she wanted him to waken and look at her the way he had when he’d kissed her in the forest. The passion in his brown eyes had melted her into a puddle of desire. Even now, just looking at his handsome profile made her stomach tighten.

  “Lassie, are ye ill? Ye look a might heated.”

  “Nay, I’m fine,” Fia said, though her neck and face prickled with warmth. Mary eyed her suspiciously and Fia hurried to change the subject. “I hope Duncan hasn’t been harsh on you for helping me on my journey to London.”

  “Och, don’t ye worry ’bout me, my lady. Jenny Dow used to be Duncan’s nurse when he was a babe, and she’s my third cousin.” Mary grinned. “Nothing can hush a man quicker than a good memory, especially when it involves the changin’ of swaddlin’.”

  Despite the feeling of hopelessness that had begun to seep through her, Fia had to laugh.