Highland Groom

Book 8: Murrays

by Hannah Howell

Genres: Historical Romance; General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Sir Diarmot MacEnroy, deciding his illegitimate children need a mother and his keep needs a proper lady, now stands before the altar with a gentle bride he hopes is too shy to disrupt his life or break his heart. The nuptials, however, are interrupted by the appearance of a flame-haired beauty carrying two babies, boldly claiming that she is his wife and mother of his twin infant sons. Armed with her seven very large brothers, she has come to demand her due.

Having waited one year for the return of the handsome laird who wed her, bedded her, then disappeared, Ilsa Campbell MacEnroy takes matters into her own hands and sets out to reclaim the man she briefly and passionately loved. Stunned by his denial, her heart softens when she learns of the injury that has ravaged his memory. Now, she faces the nearly impossible task of conquering his past—and his fierce reluctance to share his heart . . .

Release date: January 1, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

 

Scotland, Spring 1471

Ilsa groaned as eight of her fourteen brothers crowded into her small cottage. They looked around, each wearing an identical scowl of disapproval. None of them liked or tolerated her decision to move out of the keep. Unfortunately, not one of them understood that their often overbearing protectiveness had been smothering her, either. Even though one or more of them stopped by several times a day, she was enjoying her newfound freedom. That, she feared, was about to end.

“It has been nearly a year,” announced Sigimor, her eldest brother, as he and his twin Somerled crouched by the cradles of their nephews. “In a fortnight the year and the day come to an end.”

“I ken it.”

Ilsa put two heavy jugs of ale on the huge table that occupied almost half of her main room. She had realized that she would never be able to stop her brothers from coming round as the mood struck them so had arranged her living area accordingly. The huge table, sturdy benches, and extra seats, hung upon the wall until needed, had all been made specifically for her brothers. She had arranged a small sitting area more to her liking on the other end of the great hall which made up most of her bottom floor. A low, somewhat rough addition to the back of her home held the kitchen, a tiny pantry, a bathing room, and a small bedchamber for her companion. The high loft which served as the upper part of her home was where she had done things to please herself alone. She had the sinking feeling her brothers were going to force her to leave her little cottage just as she had gotten herself comfortably settled.

“The lads need their father,” Sigimor said as he let his nephew Finlay clasp his finger.

“Fourteen uncles arenae enough?” she drawled, setting eight tankards on the table.

“Nay. Their father is a laird, has land and coin. They deserve a part of that.”

“It would appear that their father isnae of a like mind.” It hurt to say those words, but Ilsa fought to hide her pain. “Ye want me to go crawling to a mon who has deserted me?”

Sigimor sighed and moved to join his brothers at the table as Ilsa set out bread, cheese, and oatcakes. “Nay, I want ye to confront him, to demand what is rightfully due your sons, his sons.”

Ilsa also sighed as she sat down next to her twin brother Tait. She had hoped her brothers would not use her sons’s rights or welfare to sway her, but suspected she had been foolish to do so. They might be rough, loud, overbearing, and far too protective, but they were not stupid. Her weak point was her sons and only an idiot would not realize it.

“Mayhap another week,” she began and groaned when her brothers all shook their heads.

“That would be cutting it too close to the bone. We will leave on the morrow.”

“But…”

“Nay. I will admit that I am fair disappointed in the lad …”

“He is of an age with ye,” muttered Ilsa.

Sigimor ignored her and continued, “For I believed all his talk of needing to clear away some threat and prepare his keep for a wife. Tis why I settled for a handfast marriage. I felt a wee bit uncomfortable insisting upon witnessed documents, but now I am glad that I did. He cannae deny ye or the lads. We can make him honor the vows he made.” He studied Ilsa closely for a moment. “I thought ye cared for the mon. Ye wanted him bad enough.”

“And I thought he cared for me,” she snapped. “That was obviously utter foolishness. For just a moment I forgot that I am too poor, too thin, and too red. The mon was just willing to play a more devious game than usual to tumble a maid.”

“That makes no sense, Ilsa,” argued Tait. “He let us ken where he lives.”

“Are ye sure of that?” She nodded when her brothers looked briefly stunned. “We just have his word on that and I think we can assume that his word isnae worth verra much.”

“We will still go,” said Sigimor. “If we discover it was all a lie, a trick, then we will ken that we have us a mon to hunt down.” He nodded when his brothers all muttered an agreement. “So, Somerled will stay here, as will Alexander whose wife is soon to bear him his first child. They can watch the young ones. I, Gilbert, Ranulph, Elyas, Tait, Tamhas, Brice, and Bronan will ride with ye. A few of our men and a couple of our cousins, too, I am thinking.”

“Tis nearly an army,” protested Ilsa.

“Enough to put weight behind our words, but nay enough to be too threatening.”

Ilsa tried to talk them out of their plans, but failed. The moment her brothers left, Ilsa buried her face in her hands and fought the urge to weep. She had done enough of that. A soft touch upon her shoulder drew her out of her despondency and she looked at Gay, her companion and the wet nurse who helped her sate the greed of her sons. Brutally raped, cast off by her family, and then suffering the loss of her child had left young Gay terrified of men, a near-silent ghost of a girl who still feared far too many things and grieved for all her losses. Gay always hid away when Ilsa’s brothers stomped in for a visit.

“Ye must go,” Gay said in her whispery voice.

“I ken it,” Ilsa replied. “Yet, when he didnae return for me, didnae e’en send a letter or gift, I realized I had been played for a fool and did my grieving then. I buried all of that verra deep inside of me. I dinnae want it all dug up again.”

Gay picked up a fretting Finlay, handed him to Ilsa, then collected Cearnach. For a few moments, Ilsa savored the gentle peace as she and Gay fed the babies. Looking at her sons, however, at their big, beautiful blue eyes, she was sharply reminded of the man whose seed had created them. The pain was still there, deep, and, she suspected, incurable.

For a few brief, heady weeks she had felt loved, desired, even beautiful. At twenty years of age, an age when most considered her a spinster, she had finally caught the eye of a man. And such a handsome one, she mused, and sighed. That should have warned her. Handsome men did not pursue women like her. In truth, no man had ever pursued her. She had let loneliness, passion, and a craving for love steal away all of her wits. Going to the man as her brothers wished her to would only remind her too sharply of her own idiocy. Not that she ever completely forgot it, she muttered to herself.

“It must be done for the laddies,” Gay said as she rested Cearnach against her thin shoulder and rubbed his back.

“I ken that, too,” Ilsa said as she did the same to Finlay. “Tis their birthright and I cannae allow it to be stolen from them. Weel, if there even is a birthright and we dinnae discover that the mon told us naught but lies. Ye will have to come with us.”

Gay nodded. “I will be fine. I hide from your brothers because they are so big, nay because I fear them. They fill the room and I find that hard to bear. I will find other places to slip away to when we get where we are going.” She frowned. “I just cannae abide being inside a place when so many men are about. I ken your brothers willnae hurt me, but that knowledge isnae yet enough to banish all my blind fears.”

“Quite understandable.”

“Do ye still love this mon?”

“I think I might, which would be a great folly. But, tis time to stop hiding for fear I will be hurt. I must needs seek out this bastard for the sake of the laddies, but I begin to think I need to do it for my self, too. I need to look the devil in the eye, find out just how big a fool I was, and deal with it all. Of course, if he is there, was just hoping I would fade away into the mists, tis best to confront him with his reponsibilities. And then I can do my best to make him utterly miserable.”

When Gay laughed briefly and softly, Ilsa felt her spirits rise. Gay was healing. It was slow and there would always be scars, but soon Gay would recover from the hurts done to her. It made Ilsa a little ashamed of her own cowardice. If, after all she had suffered, little Gay could heal, then so could she. And, if she did meet her lover again, she would be a lot wiser and a lot stronger. She would not fall victim to any more foolish dreams.

“My children need a mother.”

“Och, he is back to talking to himself again.”

Sir Diarmot MacEnroy smiled at his brother Angus who sat on his right. On his left was his brother Antony, or Nanty as he was often called. They had come to attend his wedding and he was heartily glad of their company. The brother he really wished to talk to was his eldest brother Connor, however, but that man had only just arrived with his pregnant wife Gillyanne. Ignoring Gilly’s protests, Connor had immediately insisted that she rest for a while and had dragged her up to the bedchamber they would share. It would be a long while before he saw either of them again. Diarmot just hoped there would be some time before his wedding in which he could speak privately with the man.

‘Just uneasy about the wedding,” Diarmot said.

“Thought ye wanted to marry this lass.”

“I do. I just need to remind myself of why now and again.”

“She is a pretty wee lass,” said Nanty. “Quiet.” “Verra quiet,” agreed Diarmot. “Sweet. Biddable. Chaste.”

“Completely different from your first wife,” murmured Angus.

‘Just as I wanted her to be. Anabelle was a blight. Margaret will be a blessing.” A boring one, he mused, and probably cold as well, then hastily shook aside those thoughts. “Good dowry and a fine piece of land.”

“Does she ken about the children?” Angus asked.

“Aye,” replied Diarmot. “I introduced her. She seems at ease with the matter. Her father wasnae too happy at first, nay until he realized the only legitimate one was wee Alice. Once assured that any son his daughter bears me will be my heir, he calmed down.”

‘There willnae be what Connor and Gilly have, will there?” Nanty asked, his tone of voice indicating that he already knew the answer to the question.

“Nay,” Diarmot replied quietly. “I thought I had found that with Anabelle, but twas naught but a curse. Nay every mon can be blessed with what Connor has, but then no mon deserves it more.” Both his brothers grunted in agreement. “I now seek peace, contentment.”

He ignored the looks his brothers exchanged which carried a strong hint of pity. Since he was occasionally prone to feeling the pinch of it for himself, he did not really need theirs. It was time, however, to set his life back on course. He had drifted for too long after the debacle of his marriage to Anabelle, descending into debauchery and drunkeness which had left him with a houseful of children, only one of whom was legitimate by law even if he was not certain that little Alice was truly his child. Then, as he had finally begun to come to his senses, he had been attacked and left for dead. The months needed to heal had given him far too much time to think. That had led to the coming marriage to sweet, shy, biddable Margaret Campbell. It was the right step to take, he told himself firmly.

It was late before he got a chance to talk privately with Connor. Diarmot had almost avoided the meeting he had craved earlier, for the looks Connor and Gilly had exchanged while dining with Margaret and her family had not been encouraging. It was possible Connor might try to talk him out of the marriage and Diarmot feared he was too uncertain of himself to resist such persuasion. As they settled in chairs set before the fireplace in his bedchamber, Diarmot eyed his elder brother warily as they sipped their wine.

“Are ye certain about this, Diarmot?” Connor finally asked. “There doesnae seem to be much to the lass.”

“Nay, there isnae,” Diarmot agreed, “but that is what I want now.”

“Are ye being prompted by your injuries, by that loss of memory?”

“My injuries are mostly healed. And, aye, my memories are still sadly rattled with a few unsettling blank spots remaining from just before and just after the attack upon me. But, those things have naught to do with this.” He sighed and sipped his wine. “Not every mon has the luck ye have had in finding Gillyanne. I tried and I failed, dramatically and miserably. Now I seek peace, a woman to care for my home, my bairns, and to share my bed when I am in the mood. Nay more.”

“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.

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.”

Diarmot fought the urge to take a step away from the outrage and fury directed at him by the woman and her companions. This was impossible. Someone was trying to deceive him. He could not believe he would forget having a wife no matter how severe his injuries had been. A wife with copper-colored hair and ivy-green eyes was surely something a man would recall. He looked to Connor for help only to find his brother and the priest carefully examining the papers. When both men glanced at him, Diarmot felt panic stir in his blood. The look they gave him told him he would find little help from them.

“Is this your signature upon these papers?” the priest asked Diarmot. “Aye, but—”

“Nay, no arguments, please. These papers say ye are bound to this woman,” the priest glanced down at the papers, “this Ilsa Cameron.” He cast a pointed look at the twins before returning his gaze to Diarmot. “Ye have proved. . .