The Highland Wife. Lyn Stone
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the baron’s title. An insult.
Mairi felt a prickle between her shoulder blades. Ranald would bear watching, she thought. It was a safe wager the man had a purpose in being here other than to meet her bridegroom. He had requested that nebulous honor for himself with some regularity, much to her disgust.
“I regret I cannot stay for the nuptials,” Ranald told her father. “I must return to Enslor before the morrow.”
“Expecting trouble?” the laird asked.
“Nothing I cannot deal with,” her cousin replied curtly. “’Tis little enough I have to do these days when I could be relieving you of many duties hereabout.”
Mairi’s father sighed. “Ambition is often admirable, Ranald. But I’m not dead yet, as ye can see.”
This could degenerate into another family squabble, Mairi thought with mounting apprehension. What an embarrassment to them all, that would be. Her gaze leaped to Lord MacBain, who observed her father and Ranald with keen interest.
Ranald pressed a hand to his chest in mock dismay. “Ye mistake my offer of help, m’laird.” He looked past her father and fastened his evil gaze on Mairi. “Just as ye mistook my frequent proposals to become as a son to ye.”
Her sire snorted inelegantly. “Cousin is a close enough tie to suit me. The clan chose ye years ago, and ye’ll have yer due, but not through me or mine.”
Ranald looked Mairi up and down, then smiled his oily, suggestive smile. How often he had done this, silently promising her what would happen if he ever caught her alone?
Abruptly the MacBain stepped between them, purposely cutting off her cousin’s view of her. Only then did Ranald halt his taunting of her and take his leave.
Thank God he did. The man made her skin crawl as though she were covered with leeches.
When they were finally free of Ranald’s presence, her future husband turned and looked her straight in the eye, as if she were the only person in the world worth seeing. Mairi’s skin felt fine at that moment. A bit overheated, yet fine. ’Twas her bones that melted.
God save her soul, this man could charm the thorns off of thistles. She felt totally bereft when he looked away to focus expectantly on her father.
Today, for the first time since she had found she was to marry, Mairi MacInness felt the definite thrill of expectation.
Of course, she had another reason for that feeling. She had not even hoped that he would be this handsome or look so worthy, given her father’s obvious reluctance to speak to her of the match.
“Lord MacBain, here is my daughter, Mairi MacInness,” her father said by way of introduction, and drew her forth by her arm to stand immediately before her intended. “Yer bride.”
Again she became the target of his full regard. The steel-gray, long-lashed eyes widened slightly with avid interest, mayhaps even desire. Mairi almost shivered.
Cautiously, as though he thought she might refuse the gesture, he extended one large hand, calloused palm upright. Mairi offered her own and watched as he lifted her fingers to his lips. He had wonderful lips. She sighed.
His eyes never left her face as that finely shaped mouth nearly touched her knuckles. She felt his breath warm upon them. That sent tingles up her arm and they did not stop at her shoulder.
“My lord,” she acknowledged. She wished she had not sounded quite so breathless, but indeed she was. His size and very presence quite overwhelmed her. But in the most wonderful way she could imagine.
“My lady,” he murmured in a very deep voice completely devoid of inflection.
She could not decide whether she liked the sound of him. However, the rest certainly left no room for complaint. He bore the scent of costly spices from the East. Cloves, she decided, drawing another deep breath. And cinnamon, which she dearly loved. That boded well, Mairi thought, used as she was to men bearing only the smells of sweat and horse.
Her father cleared his throat. “Coom, sit and rest yerself,” he commanded loudly, and motioned across the hall toward the low-burning fire. “Bring us ale!” He nearly shouted the words at the servants now bustling about the tables, readying them for the evening meal.
“Da! Please, speak more softly,” Mairi reprimanded quietly, patting her sire’s arm.
He merely grunted in a very low voice, not moving his mouth, “’Tis lack o’ hearing, lass. Sad to say, but ye must have pity and patience. I should ha’ mentioned it before.”
Mairi sighed, troubled, but not overmuch. Such a loss was to be expected in a man of her father’s advanced years. Yet he did not have to treat everyone as though they shared his affliction. Still, the young baron seemed not to have taken umbrance at her father’s loud barking. Mayhaps he understood.
To her surprise, her intended bypassed the comfort of the only two cushioned chairs, leaving these softer ones for his host and hostess. Deferring to a lady and an elder spoke very well for the man’s manners, she thought.
Why, then, did her father look so uneasy? Not fearful, exactly, but certainly wary. There was little that ever disconcerted him. He probably worried she would disgrace them all.
Not so, this time. She’d put her rash, impulsive ways behind her. Never again would she rush into an action or for a judgment, forsaking caution and good thought.
Was she not proving this even now? Each move the baron made, she evaluated with great care. After all, her very future depended upon how well they got on together.
Mairi modestly bowed her head and busily arranged her skirts as she asked pleasantly, “Were yer travels here remarkable, my laird? The hills are bonny this time o’ year, aye?”
He disregarded her completely as though she did not exist, his full attention still focused on her father.
“I wondered whether ye encountered any difficulties along the way, or if the trip proved an easy one,” she continued softly, waiting, unmoving, determined to get a reply of some kind from him.
He gave her none, but kept his eyes trained upon her sire as though expecting him to reproach a forward daughter for speaking freely. Da did grimace at her in warning when she glanced at him. “Hist, lass,” he muttered, shushing her.
That turned MacBain’s attention. He inclined his head to her slightly as one might to notice a bug upon the floor.
“You think me impertinent for speaking?” she prompted the baron yet again. Daring him, really.
That gained her an almost imperceptible shrug. Barely there and then gone. His lips curved, but it was not a smile. More like a gesture of mild annoyance.
And she had thought this man mannerly? How churlish of him, deliberately refusing to answer her. Contentious knave. Did he think so little of females in general? Or was it her in particular he found offensive? Had she mistaken his former look of interest after all?
When he did speak, it definitely was not to her. He had ceased looking at her and addressed her father.
“When may we wed? I must go home,” he stated very slowly in the same low, brusque tone that did not vary up or down.
Each word, he presented distinctly, as if it would stand alone. Did he think her father a lackwit? Or did he mock him as a Highlander who was unused to comprehending correct English? Either way, he had no cause to insult. Craigmuir might be isolated, but its laird was certainly educated, nonetheless. The MacInness had traveled widely in his youth and was well read. He had even insisted that she be taught to read and cipher.
Her father sighed sorrowfully as he replied. “Ye must wed soon, I suppose, since we’ve settled upon it.” Then, as though he had not yet answered, he forced a smile and raised his head as well as his voice. “Soon. Ye may marry this week.”
“This week?” Mairi exclaimed. She glared at her father, willing