The Highland Wife. Lyn StoneЧитать онлайн книгу.
then the Comte de Trouville had arrived from France to wed the widow. No finer man ever lived, Rob had decided shortly thereafter. He still believed so.
In all things, Rob struggled daily to measure up to the comte’s fine example of what a noble knight should be. He called him Father from that time on, and always thought of him as such. Trouville’s son, Henri, was Rob’s brother in heart. And the comte’s death would crush both his sons beyond bearing.
Nay, he could not expect Mairi to banish her grief in a short span of time. Mayhaps not ever, since she and the old laird obviously loved each other well.
In direct opposition to his earlier avowal concerning a show of sympathy, Rob reached out and clasped her upper arms from behind and drew her away from the body of her sire.
Though she resisted, he turned her to face him and pulled her close, surrounding her with his arms. “Weep now,” he suggested.
For a moment she fought him, pushing and pounding upon his chest as powerfully as the small space between them allowed. Then, of a sudden, she collapsed against him, her small shoulders heaving as she sobbed.
“Better,” he murmured into the fair, silken hair that had come loose of its plait, running his hands along her back, cradling and comforting her as he would a distraught child.
Over her head he shot dark looks at everyone around them until they moved far enough away to afford Mairi some privacy to mourn.
He waited patiently until she grew still again, wept out. Then he again took her by her shoulders and held her gently away so that he could see her tear-ravaged face. So lovely, she was, even in the throes of bereavement.
Rob raised a hand and brushed her cheeks with one finger. “We must go now,” he said, hoping his words sounded as gentle as he meant them to.
“Go?” she repeated, her widened eyes searching his for meaning.
“Aye. Now. We go to Baincroft.”
She pulled back from him, aghast at his words. “Nay, we cannot! What of Father?”
Almost desperately, she backed to the trestle where the body lay. With one hand she reached behind her and grasped the old man’s bloody sleeve.
“I promised him,” Rob explained, each word clear and firm, brooking no argument, knowing that she would leap upon any further display of tenderness in order to have her way.
He was uncertain whether he could deny her anything in her present state unless he braced himself against her pleas.
“We will go now,” he repeated.
She flew at him then, shoving him backward with the flats of her palms. “Go then! Get out! Coward! If ye think that I will let—”
The remainder of her words were lost on him as he caught her arms and secured her wrists with the long slender tail of one flowing sleeve.
It pained him to restrain her, yet this was necessary for her own protection. Mairi would never go willingly, but she must go nonetheless. Above all, he must keep her safe as her father bade him do.
With MacInness dead and Mairi gone, there would likely be no further attacks on this keep or its inhabitants. The tanist had instigated the first invasion. Now he would simply come and assume command as the new laird. Then he would almost surely come for Mairi. What man would not?
Rob would have to kill him then, he decided. Though he’d recently found it pained him to take a life, in this instance he would not mind overmuch.
He grunted when the sharp toe of Mairi’s sturdy shoe bruised his shin. She was making this much harder than need be, but he had to admire her mettle.
Fury at him for dragging her away might even set aside her sorrow for a time, he decided, justifying his necessary rudeness. Let her think him craven and heartless if it helped.
She could rant and rave all the way to Baincroft and that would be fine with him. Better so, than to have to watch her weep throughout the journey. Aye, this would serve to get her past the worst few days.
Her shouts and curses when he bent and hefted her onto his shoulder were likely startling the mounts in the stables outside, Rob mused. He could feel the harsh, angry hum of her voice where her wriggling middle made contact with his shoulder, but he was immune to the sounds of it, thank heaven.
He had discovered a few advantages to his deafness over the years. This was definitely one to add to the list.
Mairi ceased her struggles when her husband placed her in the saddle and proceeded to mount behind her. She agonized over the confusion their hasty departure was causing among the people who stood by and watched. There was nothing she could say to them to explain it and not a thing they could do to help her.
Her father’s squire watched with tears in his eyes. Poor Davy.
What must he and the rest think of her husband, forcing her to abandon them to Ranald’s mercies? And to leave her father to be interred in the family vault without even hearing a Mass said over him?
“Oh, please! Please stay,” she begged, to no avail. MacBain simply clicked his tongue, nudged his mount and rode through the gates his man had ordered opened.
Mairi held herself as stiffly as possible, hating the feel of this man’s body against her back, his arm surrounding her middle like a yoke of steel.
She raised her hands, still bound by the silken tail of her sleeve and pounded them against his forearm in one final protest. Her only reward was the bruise caused by the links of his chain mail.
Tears gathered and slid down her cheeks like a hot, sluggish waterfall. She held her breath to calm her grief and alarm. Her desire for adventure had flown away in the face of reality.
On a mount laden with their supplies as well as rider, MacBain’s man rode ahead of them, leading her saddled mare. He had tied pouches stuffed with food on either side of his saddle. She could see the outline of several loaves of bread. Her mare carried two unfamiliar packs as well as one of her father’s, containing what she supposed to be her gowns.
A fold of her red woolen surcoat poked out of the pack’s flap like the mocking tongue of an impertinent child.
Mairi leaned sidewise and peered behind them only to see the gates of her home swing shut. Try as she might, she could not stifle a groan of purest misery.
The arm MacBain had locked around her tightened, and he had the audacity to pat her side as though to comfort her. She reached down and pinched his thigh through the heavy hose he wore and had the satisfaction of hearing his sharp intake of breath.
“I will kill ye fer this, MacBain!” she announced.
He rode on, urging his horse to a gallop as they turned sharply off the main road and cut through the forest. Then she had little breath for curses. He bent her forward beneath him to avoid low-hanging branches, all but pressing her face against his mount’s sweat-pungent neck. The stiff horsehair abraded her cheek.
Add injury to indignity, why don’t ye? she thought with a further burst of fury. The heat of anger dried her tears and lent her purpose.
“Ye’ll pay fer this, MacBain! I will make ye dreadfully sorry fer this day!”
The wretch did not bother to acknowledge her threat. He rode on south by southeast at a quick and steady pace, forcing her from her duty as a Highlander’s daughter toward an uncertain future as a Lowlander’s wife.
And to think, she had embraced this fate of her own free will not an hour past! If only she had known MacBain would betray her this way and make her break her vow of vengeance, she would have denied him her hand and wished him to the devil. She would have held Craigmuir against Ranald and mayhaps killed that blackguard herself!
Why did she always act without proper thought aforehand? Her thoughts about MacBain had been in no way proper and just look where they had led her.
Poor Da. At least he