Page 25 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
As indecision warred within her, Katreine bit her lip until it throbbed as powerfully as her pulse. Behind her, the thud of boots hitting earth alerted her to the fact that her father or one of her brothers had dismounted. Her time to decide was almost up. They would do everything to protect her from having to marry into the Blackswells, even sacrifice themselves. She could not allow that.
She looked at the face of the man who would be her husband, a man who thoughts of had once filled her with promise. She felt as if she had somehow been duped. Sunlight glimmered over his perfectly rugged features like beams of icy radiance. She’d let her guard down like a fool for a handsome face. No, a wickedly beautiful face, damn the Scot. She might have to wed Broch to save her family, but she would not go like a meek, foolish little lamb to be slaughtered. She was a shield-maiden!
“I will wed ye,” she said, her thoughts turning at a dizzying rate, sorting possible plans, discarding them, and then settling on one. “I will do it to save my family, but I will nae ever”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“surrender my body, nor my heart to ye, ye baseborn bastard.”
The gentleness that had been in his eyes disappeared, as if someone had obliterated the emotion from his soul. She sucked in a sharp breath, the words she’d just spoken echoing in her ears, her mind, the very chambers of her heart. Her anger boiled within her, yet she felt the slightest niggle of guilt for the horrible thing she’d said, and it deepened when she saw the cold fury that turned his eyes a frigid shade of blue. His jaw tensed, and his pulse was noticeable at his neck.
She was suddenly acutely aware of her father and brothers standing behind her and William, Blackswell, and Brodee still seated on their warhorses behind Broch. She’d shamed him, she was certain. The fury in his eyes disappeared as quickly as the gentleness had, and a cold dignity created a stony mask on his face. He gave her a bland smile. “I’m nae a bastard, Hellion. My parents were wed when they conceived me.”
Shame seared her from the inside, but she held her tongue and tilted her chin higher, refusing to retract her words.
His lips drew into a hard line, then he inhaled slowly, and said, “And just so ye understand me, I dunnae have a use for yer heart, but I’m afraid I must insist ye give me yer body, at least once, to seal our marriage vows.”
Nine
Broch had never thought upon the day he would wed, but he felt certain that if he had mused over it, the day would not have included him being surrounded on either side by angry men with drawn swords. Nor would it have included a bride-to-be who kept shooting him scathing looks and stood stiff as a board by his side.
When he saw her tremble, he considered offering her a reassuring touch, perhaps a brush of his fingers to her small, pale ones, but he knew well she’d not welcome the gesture. A hot flash of anger shot through him again at the memory of her derisive comment not long ago. Yet when he stole a sideways glance at her, this delicate lass so full of pride who was about to become his wife—his wife—the last lingering bits of his anger faded away, and bitter regret for the clot-heid way he’d reacted to her remarks assailed him.
There were a hundred—no, a thousand—ways he could have handled that better and shown her understanding instead of anger. If he had chosen even one of those options, perhaps she’d not look like a hunted doe now. As the priest, who her brother had gone to fetch after everyone had finished yelling and Broch had explained the situation, entered the room and walked toward them holding the cords he would use to bind their hands, Broch felt Katreine’s slight trembling become much more pronounced.
“We’ll start with the traditional wedding prayer,” the ruddy-faced priest announced.
“Tradition,” Katreine blurted, her eyes bright with fear. “We must adhere to tradition!” She turned fully to face Broch now. “I kinnae wed ye unless we adhere to the tradition of the Kinntoch clan. It would be ill luck!”
The desperation in her voice made his chest squeeze, and he knew then and there that he’d follow whatever ritual she needed him to. “What tradition do ye wish us to abide?”
The priest waved a hand at them. “Dunnae fash yerself about any traditions, lass. The Lord dunnae care—”
“Please, Father Randalf, do hold yer tongue,” she interrupted.
Father Randalf gasped at Katreine, eliciting a momentary contrite look upon her breathtakingly beautiful face. “I am sorry, Father,” she said, her voice like honey. A genuinely apologetic smile graced her features before lines of determination settled between her brows. Broch’s instincts tightened within him. Katreine was stirring some sort of mischief, and he had no doubt it was aimed at him. Whether it was to stall the inevitable wedding or to strike at him, he did not know, but this time, he would handle whatever Katreine did or said with more understanding and a restrained tongue.
“Have ye come to yer senses, then, lass?” the Kinntoch asked.
Broch tensed when she started to nod in agreement, but then she caught herself and shook her head. “I wish the wedding to proceed,” she said, her tone underlain with obvious strain, “but we must adhere to tradition.”
“What tradition?” her father asked, his brow creasing.
Donell strolled to her side, glaring at Broch, and then her brother slung an arm around Katreine. “Ye ken the tradition, Da. The long-standing one of the Blackening of the Groom.”
Her father’s frown deepened, revealing the obvious: there was no such tradition. Broch watched as Katreine’s eyes lit with hope, and in that moment, Broch realized she was so desperate not to wed him that she had blurted this likely in the hope that her father would rescue her. But she would not ask him to do so. Never would the proud lass ask such a thing. Admiration for her strength and bravery pulsed in him. He studied her father. What would the man do? Broch didn’t know whether he’d be angrier if her father called off the wedding and made himself and Katreine an enemy of the king or if her father did nothing and knowingly allowed her to sacrifice herself for the good of the Kinntoch clan.
“Oh aye!” her father exclaimed. “Of course. The Blackening of the Groom.” Kinntoch’s eyes flashed with ire as they settled on Broch. “I’m old, ye see. Sometimes I need a moment for my memory to take hold.”
Broch swallowed the curses he wanted to hurl at the man for not protecting his daughter no matter what, however foolish and unwise that was. And it was. The man had most definitely made the wise choice for the clan, but Broch could not help but think of the hurt Katreine must be feeling, considering she was sacrificing herself for her clan’s welfare. Had she had a secret hope her father would somehow rescue her?
“Ye’ll nae blacken my firstborn!” Blackswell objected.
“Tradition must be observed,” Kinntoch growled.
“Or the marriage will nae produce bairns,” Donell offered, smirking.
“Well,” Blackswell spat, “if we must observe that tradition, then the bride should be blackened, too.”
Katreine dismissed the hurt she was feeling at her father’s apparent ease in sacrificing her for the clan. It was how it should be, even though it meant she was soon to be wed. Heaven above! She sneaked a look at Broch, face set in brooding lines, and she cringed. Why had she allowed herself to become so desperate that she’d lied about a tradition needing to be observed before they wed? She grasped at the material of her skirts with sweaty palms. She could not recant her words, for the Blackswell men—who now included Broch, she thought dismally—would know she’d fibbed.
Her heart raced as she thought of the Blackening ritual that many clans in these parts followed. Hers never had, and if she was lucky, they would only strip her to her léine and not completely naked, as she had seen done before. Then they would spread hive honey all over her and feathers, and then… She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Then they would parade her through the castle and his clan, the Blackswells, would make crude remarks and ogle her while her clan would shame him. God’s teeth, she was a fool. She wanted to protest, yet pride kept the objection from escaping.
