Page 19 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

The men saluted, turned their horses and galloped back the way they’d come.

Dahlia’s stomach was churning as if it was filled with curdled milk, and breathing was becoming difficult as she looked up. The sun was not far from the high point of the sky. They’d soon be arriving at Castle Mackinnon.

No further words passed between them and, when the castle finally came into view, Dahlia felt as if her heart would stop beating. All the bitter memories of four years ago, when James Mackinnon had held her prisoner there, culminating in the murder of her brother, washed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping, her heart pounding so hard she was certain it would leap from her chest.

Arran turned to her. “Are ye all right melady? Yer face is drained of color and ye look terribly pale.”

She shook her head, unable to speak, leaving it up to him to guess at the distress the view of the castle had brought her. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, hauling in a deep breath, attempting to steady herself, and calm her ragged breathing.

Nay way will Laird Bairre Mackinnon see me afeared.

Arran spoke softly. “Never fash, melady. I’ll watch over ye and make sure that nay harm comes tae ye.”

There it was again, the rich timbre of his voice playing with her senses, bringing up a memory of a dark night years ago, a desperate bid to climb the castle wall, and a young man who tried to save her.

Dinna be foolish. ‘Tis merely the sight of the castle that robs yer breath.

His reassuring words went some way to settling her and she rode on, keeping her breathing steady, doing her best to appear serene and unconcerned, determined to greet Bairre Mackinnon with all the dignity she could muster. After all, she reminded herself, she was the sister of Haldor MacLeod, the Viking Laird, the fiercest warrior of them all, and she was every bit as brave as her brother.

The portcullis had been raised and the heavy oaken gates swung open as they approached. Dahlia felt a shiver of revulsion ripple through her as she caught sight of the laird riding out to greet them. Coming abreast of them he dismounted, bowing from the waist before her, a smile of triumph on his face.

“Welcome tae Castle Mackinnon,dearest,” he whispered. Taking the reins of her horse from Arran he stood close as she dismounted.

He scowled at Arran as he returned the reins of the little mare. “Take the horses tae the stables. After I’ve seen tae me lady I’ll meet with ye in the solar to hear yer explanation fer yer tardiness. It will bode well if ye have good reason fer keeping the Lady Dahlia in yer company overnight.”

Bairre raised Dahlia’s hand to his lips. She shuddered slightly, trying hard to hide her distaste at the touch of his cold lips on her hand. Then, to her horror and amazement, he bent and hoisted her into his arms, striding ahead, through the gate and into the cobbled courtyard.

As Bairre lowered her to stand by his side a cheer went up from the assembled rows of servants lined up outside the keep. She bit her lip. The man was clearly smart enough to know she’d be loath to display her resistance to him in front of this gathering of the castle servants.

“Every one of these attendants is here tae dae yer bidding melady and make yer life at the castle supremely comfortable.” Bairre was smiling at her, but his dark – almost blackcurrant –eyes held no warmth, and behind his smile his unevenly spaced teeth were sharp as a wolf’s.

Searching among the group there were no faces she recognized from her previous incarceration at Castle Mackinnon. She couldn’t help wondering if her jailers from the dungeon were lined up with the other servants for her inspection. It seemed there were few among the servants here now who’d been witness to the privations she’d suffered.

She turned her head, hoping for a glimpse of Arran. Catching sight of him heading into the stables with the horses left her feeling strangely bereft. Without realizing it, she’d grown accustomed to the protective mantle his presence had thrown over her.

A tall, angular woman with grey hair tied in a neat bun at her nape, emerged from the group of servants and approached. She curtseyed, giving Bairre a fleeting glance, before introducing herself to Dahlia.

“I am Beattie Murison, melady. I will be yer lady’s maid. If there is aught ye wish fer, please let me hear it and I will ensure yer wishes are met. I will tend tae yer dressing and yer hair and whatever ye need.” A nervous smile followed these words.

Bairre smiled graciously at the woman. “Thank ye, Beattie. Can ye please escort the Lady Dahlia tae her chambers?”

He turned to Dahlia. “There’s tae be a betrothal feast this night in the great hall. Many guests have been arriving throughoutthe day and there’ll be a great crowd here. The staff are all in readiness and the bedchambers are prepared. Unfortunately, as ye didnae arrive sooner, ye’ll have nae time tae rest before ye make ready tae receive our esteemed visitors.” He gestured to the lady’s maid who was standing patiently beside Dahlia.

“This maid will help ye make ready in yer finery fer this night. I wish tae introduce ye as me chosen bride tae all the clansmen and their ladies.”

Dahlia’s heart sank. How on earth could she carry off such a farce in front of the entire clan? It was difficult enough to hide her revulsion from Bairre, but to be on show in front of his guests, pretending to be his proud fiancée would sorely test her, while she was waiting every minute to hear that her brother had been successful in his petition to King Robert, and the wedding would never go ahead.

To her surprise, as Beattie guided her into the castle and up the stairs to her bedchamber, she saw that the grey forbidding stone walls she recalled had been plastered in many places and painted in bright colors. Giant colorful tapestries hung from the ceiling depicting battle scenes, flowers, or courtly suitors playing musical instruments to their attentive lovers.

It was a far cry from the grim halls and passageways that had been the rule when Bairre’s brother James was the Laird. Perhaps this meant there was a softening in the austere and cruel ways of the Mackinnons.

When Beattie flung open the large oak doors of the chamber designated as hers, Dahlia, could scarcely believe that such pretty rooms existed within the confines of Castle Mackinnon.

The walls were fully plastered and painted deep red and blue, hung with tapestries depicting more flowery, romantic scenes of lassies being serenaded by troubadours. The rug-covered floor was spread with brightly patterned, woven rugs strewn with lavender and herbs. A warm fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the fragrance of lavender filled the air.

Beattie ushered her into a second room containing an enormous, timber, four-poster bed hung with red velvet drapes and piled high with fur-lined coverlets and enormous feather-filled pillows.

The maid bobbed her head in a brief curtsey. “I trust it is all tae yer liking, melady. Yer clothes arrived with the other riders last night and I have unpacked them. They have all been steamed and hung to relieve creases and wrinkles.”

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