The Wedding (13 page)

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Then we eat.”

He finally let go of her. She thanked the priest and invited him to dine with them. Sinclair declined the offer, explaining that because the moon was bright enough, he felt it was his duty to ride to his father's home and spend the night there.

She tried not to feel as though she'd just been abandoned by an old friend. She held her smile, thanked him again, and then stood where she was until he'd taken his leave.

Connor never left her side. She turned to him and, only then, realized she'd taken hold of his hand. She let go immediately and followed him across the clearing.

His men hadn't waited for them. So much for a proper wedding feast, she thought to herself. The Highlanders weren't even sitting down while they ate. They stood in a circle around a jagged boulder, laughing and talking while they enjoyed their food. One of them had placed the supper on a coarse cloth draped over the top of the stone.

It was a dismal affair at best. The second she joined them, a thick silence fell over the group. None of the men would look directly at her either, which only increased her awkwardness.

She felt like a leper. How she wished she could go back home for supper. She pictured her family seated at the great long table, smiling and jesting with one another while they shared their meal. There would be pigeon and fish and perhaps some leftover mutton stew too, and there were always fruit tarts.

Brenna knew she'd soon be wallowing in self-pity if she didn't stop thinking about people she loved and cherished and begin to concentrate on the present. She was hungry, she reminded herself, and if she didn't eat something now, she probably wouldn't get another chance until tomorrow.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much of a variety for her to choose from. There was yellowed cheese, brown bread, and oat cakes. The Highlanders hadn't left any room for her, so she squeezed in between Connor and Quinlan. Her husband hadn't bothered to introduce the rest of the men to her yet. Because she didn't know if it would be considered proper for her to ask their names, she followed their example and didn't speak to any of them. She kept her attention centered on the food and tried not to think about how miserable she felt.

The oat cakes tasted bitter. She wrinkled her nose and took a large drink of water to rid the taste from her mouth, and then, because it would have been unladylike for her to put the remainder back or throw it away, she made herself finish it.

She was so nervous, she took another one before she realized what she was doing. She had to eat the thing, of course, and odd, but the taste did improve considerably, especially when she added a. piece of sweetened bread to it.

Brenna didn't notice when the others finished. She ate four large helpings before her hunger was appeased. When she looked up to find out what was going to happen next, she found she had an audience intently watching her.

She was taken aback by their attention . . . and their smiles. “Is something wrong?”

Quinlan answered with a quick shake of his head. “Would you like the rest of the bread? There's one last oat cake as well. You're welcome to it, mi'lady.”

Brenna nodded. “If no one else wants it,” she agreed. She took the remaining bread and cake, broke both in half and offered some to Connor first, and after he refused, she offered it to the other soldiers.

Everyone declined. They continued to stare intently at her while she ate the food, and she found she didn't like being the center of attention any more than she appreciated being completely ignored.

“Whom should I thank for this food?” she asked when she'd finished.

No one answered her, but several of the men shrugged indifference. Their grins were beginning to bother her. She felt as though she were the only one not included in some jest.

She thought about telling the men it was damned rude to gawk, but quickly changed her mind. She shouldn't be using words like
damn
anyway, she reminded herself, or she'd end up with a day's fast as penance. She couldn't think of anything more atrocious.

“Please tell me why you're smiling,” she requested.

“You've impressed the men,” Connor answered.

“How have I impressed them?” she asked, pleased that Connor had finally spoken to her.

She straightened her shoulders and waited for the compliment. They'd probably noticed how she'd joined right in, and had been impressed with her because she'd tried to become one of them. Perhaps, too, they'd finally realized how polite she was being. Yes, they'd surely noticed her proper behavior.

“You ate more than Quinlan. In fact, you ate more than all the men.”

It wasn't the answer she'd expected. Telling a lady she'd eaten more than a soldier wasn't a compliment; it was an insult. Didn't he understand that? “Quinlan and the others must not have been very hungry,” she argued in her defense. “Besides, how much I ate shouldn't be impressive . . . or noticed by anyone.”

He smiled. Lord, he was really quite attractive when he wasn't glaring at her. “We think it is.”

She could feel herself blushing. She considered lying so they wouldn't think she was a glutton or a pig, then decided to be honest instead. She was going to have to eat with the rude barbarians again and again, after all, and they'd surely notice if she lied now and then ate until she was full at the next meal.

“I didn't eat as much as usual,” she finally admitted.

“You sometimes eat more, mi'lady?” a soldier asked.

He looked incredulous. She gave him a reproving look to let him know what she thought of his behavior. “ 'Tis the truth I do.”

Quinlan was the first to laugh. The others quickly followed his sinful example. Her embarrassment intensified, of course, and she desperately tried to think of a way to turn their attention away from her eating habits.

None of them was ready to change the topic, however.

“Isn't it a fine, spring evening?” she asked.

“Do you eat more when you're nervous?” Quinlan asked.

What an odd question. “No,” she answered.

The rude men all laughed again. She waited for them to quiet down before once again trying to change the subject.

“Connor, will you introduce me to your soldiers?”

“They'll introduce themselves.”

She already knew Owen and Quinlan by name, of course, and when she looked at the other three warriors, they each told her their names.

Aeden was the thinnest of the group, though he still wouldn't be considered puny by an Englishman's measure, she supposed, and Donald was the name of the soldier with the big brown eyes that reminded her of a doe's.

Giric was the shy one in the group. He could barely look directly at her when he told her his name.

“It's a pleasure to meet all of you,” she announced once they'd finished.

“May I ask you a question, mi'lady?” Quinlan said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“When you first saw us, you were afraid. Some of us were wondering why.”

“Did you think we were going to harm you?” Aeden asked. He added a smile, indicating he found the possibility amusing. “You were praying.”

“Yes, I was praying, and yes, I did believe you were going to harm me.”

“But after, mi'lady,” Owen said. “After you knew we meant you no harm, weren't you still afraid? I wondered why.”

Hadn't any of them ever looked in a mirror? Or did they have such luxuries where they lived?

She decided it would be unkind to point out how peculiar they looked, and so she simply shrugged and didn't say anything at all.

None of them wanted to let it go. “Was it our war paint that put you on your guard?” Owen asked.

“I really don't care to answer, for I have no wish to hurt your feelings.”

For some reason, her honesty made the men laugh again. She decided to be a bit more blunt then. “However, I will admit it was your war paint that put me on my guard. Yes, it was,” she emphasized with a nod. “And your size, and your dress, and your manners, and your intimidating frowns, and the way my father's twelve soldiers cowered to the five of you. . .. Shall I go on?”

She could tell they'd taken her comments as compliments. She really should set them straight, she thought, and explain she hadn't been at all impressed with them—no proper English lady in her right mind would be—but then a fresh worry popped into her head, and she immediately looked at Connor.

“I'm not wearing war paint. You might as well understand that fact right this minute. It's barbaric, Connor, and you cannot expect me to . . .”

The men's laughter stopped her protest. Connor didn't laugh, of course; the man never laughed as far as she could tell, but he did smile. Her heart noticed by pounding a quick beat. He had beautiful white teeth, all of them did, and she wondered how they could put such ugly paint on their skin and take such good care of their teeth at the same time. They really were a peculiar lot, all right. Would she ever be able to understand them or find her place among them?

“Women aren't given the honor.”

She didn't know what he was talking about. “What honor?”

“Paint,” he explained. “The tradition belongs to warriors alone.”

Connor didn't look as though he was jesting, and so she didn't dare laugh. The effort cost her, though. Her throat ached considerably from the strain of being polite.

“Have you never seen a Highlander before, mi'lady? Do you know anything at all about us?” Giric asked in a whisper. He was blushing to the roots of his freckles and, in his shyness, had directed his question to the ground.

“When I was younger, I thought I knew all about you. I even knew where you lived.”

“Where did you think we lived?” Donald asked, smiling over the sparkle he'd noticed in his mistress's eyes.

“Under my bed. You came out only at night, while I was sleeping. I'd always wake up screaming, of course, and run like lightning to my parents' chamber.”

She expected the men to laugh over her jest, or at the very least, smile a little. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to understand she was teasing them. Three of them looked confused; the other two looked appalled.

“Did you just insult us?” Owen asked. He sounded as though he couldn't believe such an atrocity was possible.

“No, I was jesting. For heaven's sake, couldn't you tell the difference?”

They all shook their heads. Quinlan had the most difficulty hiding his smile. “It seems your bride has been dreaming about you for years, Laird,” he drawled out.

“It would seem so,” he agreed.

She didn't even try to hide her exasperation. The effort to have a decent conversation with them was making her head throb, and being polite was a wasted undertaking.

She gave up trying. “Connor, may I be excused?”

She bowed her head to the men and walked away. She had already headed for the lake with her hairbrush, fresh clothing, and her blanket in her arms before Connor got around to giving her permission. She reached the break in the pines, stopped, and then glanced back over her shoulder.

“Quinlan?”

“Yes, mi'lady?”

“They weren't dreams. They were nightmares.”

They didn't laugh until she was well out of sight, but the sound of their amusement was loud enough to reach the other side of the lake. She didn't believe the soldiers had finally gotten her jest, though; they appeared to be too slow-witted for that. She assumed Connor had made an atrocious remark about something his men would find humorous, like murder and mayhem. They all seemed to have a twisted sense of humor. She'd come to her opinion when she saw them smiling like heathens after Connor had told them they could kill the English soldiers. And hadn't they pouted like boys when the order was rescinded?

Brenna was immediately nagged by guilt. She knew she shouldn't continue to judge Connor so harshly. Could he help it if he was a barbarian or that he had been raised like a wild animal? No, no, of course he couldn't. Besides, he was her husband now. She was going to be stuck with him for the rest of her life, and shouldn't she at least try to like him?

Did he expect to take her to his bed tonight? She tried to block the frightening possibility as soon as it entered her mind. That was easier said than done, however; Lord help her, she couldn't even think about Connor touching her without shaking in panic. She knew her reaction wasn't at all reasonable. She was a grown woman now, not a child, and, therefore, understood what was expected of her. Her mother had patiently explained that all husbands wanted to bed their wives as soon as the wedding festivities ended. She hadn't given her daughter any specifics though, and while Brenna understood the basics, or at least believed she did, she'd still been left guessing about the finer points. It all sounded horribly awkward and messy to her.

Brenna wouldn't worry about it. If Connor decided to bed her, perhaps God would take pity on her and let her sleep through the ordeal.

She smiled over this fanciful notion while she stripped out of her clothes. She ran into the water before she could change her mind, gritted her teeth against the chill, and hurriedly washed.

Just as she was getting out, she heard someone approach. She moved back into the water, until she was covered to her chin, and waited.

A minute or so later, Connor appeared. A plaid was draped over his arm.

“It's time to get out.”

“I would have privacy when I do.”

“Why?”

She couldn't believe he needed to ask. “Because I require it.”