Read Bride of the Beast Online
Authors: Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Bride of the Beast (3 page)
"And so you shall."
Duncan
's flashing smile reappeared. "Upon your return."
Marmaduke opened his mouth to rebuke the notion but Durcan silenced him with a raised hand. "You shall be snugly ensconced within your own keep's walls by Yuletide at latest," his liege declared. "Then we shall all gather at Balkenzie's hearth and drink to my lady's health."
"And to our bairn's," Linnet added, the conviction in her voice and the look in her eyes doing more to dismantle Marmaduke's resistance than all her husband's bold words combined.
As if he sensed his friend's crumbling will,
Duncan
clamped a firm hand on Marmaduke's shoulder. "It will not take long for a strong-armed warrior such as yourself to have done with one odious Englishman?"
Taking his hand off Marmaduke's shoulder,
Duncan
gave him a playful jab in the ribs. "A fat and ill-fit one, if we choose to believe the tongue-waggers."
Marmaduke swallowed hard.
Something was amiss.
And whatever it was, it slithered up his back, cool and smooth as a snake, to curl deftly around his neck and squeeze ever tighter the longer he watched the merry twinkle dancing in his friend's eyes.
Marmaduke frowned. "There is something you are not telling me."
Linnet glanced away and
Duncan
stretched his arms over his head, loudly cracking his knuckles. His fool grin widened. "As ever, I can hide naught from you," he said, his deep voice almost jovial. "I've long suspected you're as blessed with the sight as my fair lady wife."
Lounging against the cold stone form of his long-dead forebear,
Duncan
finally tossed down his own gauntlet. "Lady Caterine wishes you to pose as her husband. Only if word spreads she has wed a third time, does she believe she can rid herself of her current woes."
Marmaduke stared at his friends, too stunned to speak. None would deny he revered them well. Saints, he would gladly give his life for either of them. But what they proposed went beyond all lunacy.
Impossible, he should
pose
as any lady's husband no matter how great her plight.
No matter who her sister.
Never had he heard anything more preposterous.
"You ask too much," he found his voice at last. "I will offer the lady full use of my sword arm, and I shall guard her with my life so long as she requires my aid, but I will not enter into a blasphemous relationship with any woman."
He bit back a harsher refusal on seeing the hope fade from Linnet's eyes. "By the Rood,
Duncan
," he swore as softly as he could, "you should know I am not a man who would pretend to speak holy vows."
"Then don't,"
Duncan
said, triumph riding heavy on his words. "Make the lady your bride in truth."
Make the lady your bride in truth.
His friend's parting comment lingered long after
Duncan
and his lady took their leave. Like the repetitive chants of a monk's litany, the taunt echoed, increasing in intensity until the words seemed to fill not just his mind but the close confines of the oratory as well.
Make the lady your bride
...
By the saints, did his liege mean to mock him? Duncan MacKenzie knew better than most of the loneliness that plagued Marmaduke in the darkest hours of the night, was well aware of Marmaduke's most secret desire: to have a fine and goodly consort of his own once more.
And a sister of the lady Linnet could be naught but a pure and kindly gentlewoman.
Was there indeed more behind his friends' insistence that only he can champion the ill-plighted young widow?
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Marmaduke's mouth and a pleasant warmth the likes of which he hadn't felt in many years begun to curl round his heart.
Make her your bride...
The words came as a song now.
A joyous one.
Hope beginning to burgeon deep within his soul, Sir Marmaduke went to the altar, sank to his knees, and bowed his head.
Sometime later, he knew not how long, a shaft of multicolored light fell through the chapel's one stained glass window to cast a rosy-gold glow upon his folded hands. The beam of light illuminated his signet ring, turning it to molten gold and making the large ruby gleam as if set afire.
Then, no sooner had the colored light appeared, did it vanish, extinguished as if a cloud had passed before the rising sun.
But Marmaduke had seen it rest upon his ring.
A portent from above.
Once more, Marmaduke murmured a prayer. One of t
hank
sgiving and hope. When at last he rose, his decision was made.
As soon as he could muster what few men
Duncan
could spare him, he would journey across
Scotland
to aid a damsel in need, a lady he would offer not only his warring skills and protection, but marriage.
A true one.
If by God's good graces, she would have him.
cold
rain pounded
the outer stairs to
"Lady, a dry crust of bread would taste as savory as a haunch of well-roasted boar if consumed in your fair presence." Sir Hugh de la Hogue gave her a thin smile. "Would you cease your pointless attempts to resist me, I shall see you dine on naught but the finest of victuals for the rest of
your days."
Giving heed to the urge to put distance between herself and Sir Hugh's thick-girthed, overblown self, Caterine stepped backward until she met the barrier of the hall's half-opened door.
With a cool grace she fought hard to maintain, she kept her head raised despite the rain coursing down her forehead.
"What I sup upon is no concern of yours," she countered her suitor's flowery speech. "With our cattle all but vanished these past months, I've grown quite fond of watery soups and seabird pasties."
"A pity your tenants have stooped so low as to steal from their own lady's herd." The earl made a great pretense of studying the rings adorning his small fingers. "Would you honor Edward's writ and pay obeisance to me as your new lord husband, I should deal swiftly with the thieving peasants."
"There are some who doubt our own people have aught to do with our dwindling fortunes." She leveled a contemptuous stare at de la Hogue. "A good night to you, sir. You
will excu—"
Sir Hugh's arm shot out, his fingers curling in a tight grip around her elbow. "Very dear lady, I enjoin you not to wax too proud," he admonished, his features growing stony, the glint in his eyes, menacing.
He cast a meaningful glance at the walled courtyard below. His henchmen arrogantly sat their restive steeds, the horses' iron-shod hooves making hollow clacking noises on
the rain-slick cobbles.
To a man, the mail-clad knights' appeared every bit as hostile as their lord, their hands hovering threateningly near the hilts of their swords in a silent but not to be mistaken
show of might.
A warning only one as desperate as Lady Caterine would
dare ignore.
His steely grip on her arm became a sickeningly slow and far too intimate caress. "It would cost you dear to vex me. Already I grow weary of standing in the rain. Do not provoke me further."
Caterine lifted her chin a notch higher. "Then pray do not delay your departure. I wish you Godspeed on the journey to the rainless refuge of your own hall."
She met his glare with equal arrogance, not even allow ing herself the much-needed relief of blinking away the raindrops dripping onto her lashes and into her eyes.
More annoying still, her futile efforts to free her arm from the earl's grasp seemed to fuel his amusement.
And whet other interests.
Releasing her, he let his piercing gaze rake the length of her. His breath quickened, its foulness coming at her in fast little bursts while his generous paunch rose and fell with ever-increasing rapidity.
As if he could see beneath the scant protection of her well-worn garb, he gawked openly at her breasts and other secret places, blatantly ogling the way her drenched garments plastered themselves to what curves remained on her too-thin body.
Her skin crawled with distaste when his gaze fastened on the vee of her thighs. Nigh slack-mouthed, he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword. But unlike his dour-faced knights whose hands simply hovered near their weapons, Sir Hugh let his fingers toy with the leather-wrapped grip as if fondling a woman.
Or himself.
Caterine shuddered. Either image was too repulsive to ponder. Too reminiscent of other English hands doing other vile things, black memories best left buried beneath the weight of years.
A great heaving began in the depths of her stomach, roiling waves of aversion, flaming hot one instant and bitter cold the next, but she remained standing tall. Unyielding, and hopefully not showing the dread Sir Hugh and his minions ignited within her.
"You would be wise to remember I hold power of pit and gallows," he warned, at last returning his gaze to her face. "My authority extends over your dominions as well, Lady Caterine."
His fingers still plucking at the globular pommel adorning the hilt of his sword, he shot another swift glance at his
men. "Word has come to me that some females in your family carry the mark of a witch-woman. I am not disposed to examine you and see for myself if you bear such a blemish. Yet." He paused for emphasis. "Should you displease me fur—"
Her restraint near to snapping, Caterine stepped forward, thrusting her face within inches of Sir Hugh's. "Would that I possessed such powers," she seethed, too riled to stay her tongue. "I-I'd turn you into a toad!"
"I was not aware you possessed such heated blood," the earl crooned, a look of high amusement on his face. "Mayhap I shall enjoy sating myself on you after all," he taunted, his tone dripping bravado. "I am a man of great appetite."
"I'd sooner face the pangs of purgatory than pleasure you," Caterine vowed, hoping he mistook the quaver in her voice for scorn rather than dread.
"My lady will never grace your bed, sirrah!" Rhona pushed through the door opening to glare at the earl. " 'Tis spoken for, she is. A great Gaelic warrior will arrive any day to make her his bride. Her sister's husb—"
"Rhona!"
Caterine whirled on her friend, the remaining shards of her fast-slipping dignity smashed by the unexpected blow of Rhona's fool pronouncement. "Be still—"
"I speak the God's own truth," Rhona cried, waving aside Caterine's objections. "My lady's sister is married to the MacKenzie of Kintail, the Black Stag, a much-feared warrior. He has negotiated a most agreeable marriage for my lady. She will wed the most accomplished knight in his garrison. A
champion."
All amusement vanished from the earl's face. "Is this so?" He stared at Caterine, his expression a strange mixture of anger and incredulity. "Would you dare defy Edward of England's wishes? He has vowed to bestow your hand upon an Englishman—upon
me.
He desires Dunlaidir safe, in English hands. 'Tis his behest."
"Your king's desires are of scarce import to me, his be hests even less. I hold no allegiance to an English sovereign." Caterine's distaste for all things English churned wildly inside her. "Nor will I wed a Sassunach," she said, her pulse racing faster with each spoken word. "Not you. Not
any
man of that tainted blood. I would sooner rot away of the pox before I'd allow Dunlaidir to fall into English hands."
"So you do mean to wed some
Highland
cateran?" Sir Hugh challenged her, his tone rife with autocratic vehemence. "Edward will be much displeased. I am displeased."
Caterine pressed her lips together. The blackguard could take what answer he might from her silence. She'd get her own answers, from Rhona, as soon as the odious earl and his grim-faced poltroons removed themselves from her holding.
Sir Hugh's heavy-lidded eyes narrowed to slits. "I do not believe you." His stare bored into her, relentlessly stripping away the last vestiges of pride she'd wrapped around herself in preparation of this latest confrontation with her foe.
"I do not think you'd accept another husband, Englishman or Gael." His knowing gaze pierced the darkest hiding places of her soul. All vestiges of his earlier attempts at chivalry gone, he derided her, " Tis too dried up and pepper-tongued you are to give yourself to any man no matter his blood. Nay, I do not believe it."