Highland Groom (2 page)

"Then why did ye wish to speak to me?"

"Weel, I havenae seen ye for months," Diarmot began, then grimaced when Connor just stared at him with wry amusement. "I think, like some foolish boy, I wanted ye to say this is right, to give your approval."

Connor nodded. "But ye arenae a small boy any longer. Ye are the only one who can say if this is right or not."

"Ye arenae going to give me your opinion, are ye."

"I am nay sure ye want to hear it," Connor drawled. "Also nay sure what ye want my opinion on. By all the rules, ye have arranged yourself a good marriage, gaining land, coin, and a sweet, virginal bride. By all the rules, ye should be congratulated by most everyone."

"But not by ye or Gilly."

"I cannae see into your heart, Diarmot. I cannae be sure what ye want, what ye seek. To be blunt, I look at that sweet, shy, biddable bride ye have chosen and wonder how long it will take ere ye have to be reminded that ye e'en have a wife."

Diarmot laughed and groaned. "About a month. I can see the same ye do, but tis what I think I need. Yet, something keeps nagging at me, weakening my resolve. One of those lost memories trying to break through the mists in my mind. The closer the time to say my vows draws near, the sharper the nagging. I have more and more dreams, strange dreams, but I cannae grasp the meaning of them."

"What is in these dreams?"

"Nonsense." Diarmot sighed. "Last night I dreamed of a scarlet elf poking at me, cursing me, and telling me to clear the cursed mist from my puny brain ere I do something stupid. Then there were some angry fiery demons, near a dozen of them, bellowing that I had best step right or they will be. cutting me off at the knees. Then, for a brief moment, all seems weel, until the first blow is struck. Tis the beating, I think, for I wake up all asweat, the fear of death putting a sharp taste in my mouth."

"The last I can understand," Connor said. "Ye were helpless. No mon wants to die, but to be set upon in the dark by men ye cannae recognize, who beat ye near to death for reasons ye dinnae ken, would stir a fear in any mon."

Diarmot nodded. "I can understand that part. I just wish that, upon waking with that fear, I would also hold the memory of the who and the why."

"Twill come. Now, elves and fiery demons? Nay, I dinnae understand that.

Gilly might. Could just be some trickery of your mind which is struggling to remember." He shrugged. "That would explain all that talk of clearing the mists and the like. Mayhap ye should postpone the wedding."

"And what reason could I give? Dreams of scarlet elves?"

"Weel, that could do it," drawled Connor, but his obvious amusement quickly fled. "The return of your memory. Just tell Sir Campbell ye sense a danger behind what happened to ye and, since the memories are struggling to return, it might be best to wait and see if ye finally recall what that danger is."

For several moments Diarmot sat sipping his wine, staring into the fire, and considering Connor's advice. It was good advice. The increasingly strange dreams he was having could indeed mean he was beginning to remember the attack upon him. Then he shook his head. It did not really matter when his memory returned, whether it was before or after his marriage. He might not recall what the danger was, but he was absolutely sure it was his danger alone. If it started to reach out to others, it would reach for his betrothed as swiftly as it did for his wife.

"Nay, it would just cause more trouble than it would solve," Diarmot finally said. "All my instincts tell me this danger I face is mine and mine alone."

"But if ye are wrong?" Connor asked quietly.

"Then I have already drawn Margaret into my danger by betrothing myself to her."

"True. At least, as your wife, ye would have better control o'er the protection of her. Weel, I dinnae think I have helped ye much. I sense ye are still uneasy." Connor stood up. "Years ago I would have looked at your bride's bloodline, her land, and her dowry and said 'good lad.' Once I wed Gilly, I lost that blindness."

"And if Gilly had turned your life into a near hell upon earth as Anabelle did mine? Would ye wish to risk giving any lass that sort of trust, e'en power, ever again?"

"Nay," Connor replied immediately. "Ye made your point. I just wish it wasnae so."

"So do I, but far better a wife so unexceptional I forget she is about than one who rips my heart and soul to shreds."

Connor walked to the door, but paused on his way out to look back at Diarmot.

"There is a third choice and ye have until the morning to decide."

"What third choice?"

"No wife at all."

Diarmot was still considering Connor's parting words as he watched the dawn brighten the sky. He had slept very little, troubled by that strange dream again as well as his own uneasiness. Although there were any number of times in his life that he knew he should have thought twice, this constant worrying over something was unlike him.

It was possible that his memory was beginning to return, although he wished it would not do so in strange dreams. He could not understand how that should make him question his decision to get married, yet, that seemed to be what it was doing. Until the strange dreams had begun, he had been content with his choice of bride and his plans for the future. In fact, he could not figure out what scarlet elves and fiery demons had to do with anything.

Suddenly realizing he had missed the dawn because he had become so lost in his own thoughts, Diarmot cursed and rang for his bath. Enough was enough.

Illness and a strange reluctance to bed any of the willing lasses around Clachthrom had kept him celibate for a year. That was what was disordering his thoughts and dreams. In a few hours he would be a married man again and he could do something about that problem.

Constant company and the final preparations for the wedding feast kept him busy and he was glad. Diarmot wanted no more time with only his own tangled thoughts for company. It was as he walked to the church with Connor at his side that Diarmot realized he was not going to be able to go blindly to the altar, marry his bride, and get it over with. Connor was tense with the need to say something.

"Weel, what is it?" Diarmot grumbled.

"I was rather hoping ye would take the third choice," Connor murmured. "So was Gilly."

"Why?"

"Weel, Gilly says Margaret is indeed sweet, shy, and biddable. She also says she is, er, empty."

"Empty? What does that mean?"

Connor shrugged. "Not much emotion in the lass."

"Good," Diarmot snapped, although Gilly's impression troubled him. "I have had my fill of emotion. Anabelle drowned me in emotions, good and bad. Calm would be a nice change."

"It could also be teeth-grindingly dull."

"I dinnae care." He looked away from Connor's expression of wry disbelief. "I may not find any fire in my wife's bed, but at least when I choose to go to her, she will be there. She may nay welcome me verra heartily, but she willnae be welcoming anyone else, either--mon nor woman."

Connor whistled softly. "Ye caught Anabelle with a woman?"

"Aye, although the woman fled ere I got a good look at her. Anabelle thought it all verra funny. Said she and the lass had been lovers for years. Tried to tell me I couldnae call that adultery. I could keep ye entertained for days on all the tales I have of Anabelle, her lovers, her rages, her wailing spells, and her wanderings. It was like trying to live in the heart of a fierce Highland storm. After that, dull sounds verra sweet to me."

Diarmot was relieved when Connor said no more. He did not like pulling forth the painful memories of his time with Anabelle. Such memories, however, did serve to remind him of why he had chosen Margaret. He craved peace, he thought, and walked toward the church with a surer step.

It was as he knelt beside his bride that his doubts trickled back. A voice in his head kept saying this was wrong, although it offered no explanation.

Margaret's hand in his was cool and dry, her expression one of sweet calm. What could possibly be wrong?

Just as the priest asked if anyone knew why Diarmot and Margaret could not marry there was a disturbance at the doors of the church and a clear, angry woman's voice said, "I think I might have a reason or two."

Shocked, Diarmot looked behind him and his eyes widened. Marching toward him was a tiny woman with brilliant copper hair. Behind her strode eight large, scowling red-haired men. She held a bundle in her arms and a small, dark-haired girl walked beside her holding another.

"Weel, now, Diarmot," drawled Connor, smiling faintly, "it seems your dreams have become prophetic."

"What?" Diarmot glanced at Connor who was slowly standing up.

"Did ye nay dream about a scarlet elf and a troop of fiery demons?"

Diarmot decided that, as soon as he found out what was happening, he would pound his grinning brother into the mud.

*CHAPTER TWO*

Pain seemed to be coursing through Ilsa with every beat of her heart, as if it was carried in her blood. When they had been told the laird of Clachthrom was marrying, her brothers had been enraged. So had she, but she had also wished to simply turn around and go home. Her brothers had refused to allow that retreat.

As they had forced her toward the small stone church, she had both hoped it would be too late and feared that it would be. Ilsa knew that the best she could hope for was that she would retain enough wit and strength to stop blood being spilled.

To see her lover, the father of her children, kneeling beside a pretty, fulsome young woman murmuring marriage vows had slashed her heart. Then rage had swept over her, a rage born of pain and betrayal. She could not believe she had spoken out before her brothers. As she marched toward Diarmot, who slowly stumbled to his feet and helped his pretty bride to stand, her fury grew. He was looking at her as if he had never seen her before.

He was still so beautiful it made her heart clench to look at him. Tall, well built, lean and strong, his form was all any woman could wish for. His hair was the color of rich clover honey, thick and a little long, hanging to several inches below his broad shoulders. His broad forehead, elegant straight nose, and well-shaped mouth with a hint of fullness to his lips formed a face that had haunted her dreams for a year despite all her efforts to banish him from her mind. Beneath slightly arced brows, and rimmed with enviable dark lashes, were eyes of a beautiful deep blue, but looking into them only added to her pain.

Gone was the soft warmth she had seen before when he had held her close and sworn they would soon be together again. Now there was only a cold anger and suspicion. She fought the sharp urge to flee that look, struggled to cling to her fury.

"What right do ye have to disrupt this ceremony?" Diarmot demanded, telling himself the reason the sight of this woman made him so uneasy was that she reminded him too strongly of his strange dreams.

"The right ye gave me a year ago," she replied.

"I have nay idea what ye are babbling about."

The audacity of the mon, Ilsa thought. "Show him the papers, Sigimor."

As the rest of her brothers kept a close watch on the guests, some of whom were looking increasingly angry, her eldest brother stepped forward and handed Diarmot all the papers concerning their handfast marriage. Ilsa tried to ignore the way he paled as he looked them over. She noticed the large, fair-haired man at Diarmot's side read them as well, constantly casting her looks that held a wealth of curiosity.

"They appear quite in order, Diarmot," Connor said quietly as he took the papers out of Diarmot's limp grasp.

"What is going on?" demanded Margaret, curling her arm around Diarmot's and trying to catch a glimpse at the papers.

When Diarmot just stared at the woman, Ilsa drawled, "It appears your betrothed is already married--to me." From the uproar she could hear, Ilsa knew the bride's family was furious, but she trusted her brothers to hold them back.

"Diarmot and I were handfasted a year ago."

"Handfasted? Is that all? Such marriages are set aside easily enough."

Ilsa stared at the woman, torn between an urge to gape and one to slap her pretty face. What was truly surprising was how little reaction the woman revealed to the possibility that her betrothed had deceived her, that she had almost been dragged into a false, bigamous union. Where was the anger, the righteous sense of insult? There was not even the glimmer of pain in the woman's pale blue eyes. Either Diarmot's pretty little bride had no depth of feeling for him or she was an idiot.

"It cannae be done so easily, Margaret," Diarmot said.

"It cannae be done at all," snapped Ilsa.

She unwrapped the blanket around Finlay. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gay quickly open the blanket wrapped around Cearnach. It shocked Ilsa a little to see that Gay looked as furious as she herself felt. For the moment, outrage had apparently dimmed Gay's fears.

"Your sons, Finlay and Cearnach." Ilsa nodded toward each child as she introduced them. "They are three months old. These lads give me the right to claim ye as my husband. They also, by your own vow, compel ye to make me your wife before God and kinsmen, before a priest."

"Nay, they are not my get," said Diarmot.

Ilsa felt Sigimor take a step closer to Diarmot and heard him growl. There was an echo of the ferocious noise from behind her, her seven other brothers clearly sharing Sigimor's fury. Although she was feeling violently angry herself, she was pleased that the men had left their weapons outside the church as custom demanded.

"Nay, Sigimor," she said as she wrapped her son back up in his blanket.

"He insults ye," snapped Sigimor. "He insults _us_."

"Aye, true enough, and, although there is a part of me which would like to see him stomped into a smear upon the floor, I still say nay. Ye were the one who pressed me to seek him out, to make him honor his obligations. I cannae do that if ye break him into wee, bloodied pieces, can I. It wouldnae be good for the lads to see their uncles slaughter their father, either."

"How can I be their father?" demanded Diarmot. "I dinnae e'en ken who ye are, woman."