The mafors, a small square of delicate fabric to pin to her hair, would match the white. She had no choice but to wear it as well if she wished to appear an untouched bride.
There were no slippers; she’d keep her new soft boots along with her blue shift. At least she could treasure the memory of the Clarks’ beautiful blue gifts next to her skin.
The lid fell shut and a singleboomrocked the floor beneath her. The great hall had been breached. Screams, increasing in volume, announced the progression of the enemy through the wooden structure.
Fia whimpered, her stare frozen on the door, and for an instant, Kenna wondered why she herself wasn’t screaming and jumping about. Then she realized her heart was doing it for her—like a newly caged animal it was throwing itself against her ribs.
All is well. He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me.
“Help me with the tunic. And Fia, you must promise to tell them I am dead. Promise me, Fia!” Kenna commanded roughly, though she squeezed her maid’s hands gently in her own.
“I promise, Milady,” Fia helped her finish dressing with hands that shook like heather in the wind.
The screams from women inside the hall chilled Kenna’s blood, but the men’s voices, nearing the chamber door, frozeKenna’s heart mid-flight. She hoped she at least appeared composed.
While Fia pinned the square of cloth into place on her head, Kenna told herself that whoever her new enemy, he would be preferable to the monstrous Gowry.
Just after her maid had moved to her side, presenting the enemy with an army of two, the chamber door burst open. Trunks slipped across the floor like blocks of ice. And what greeted Kenna almost made her wish she had the Viking warlord back.
CHAPTER FOUR
The man before her, if merely a man, grinned with the aid of few teeth. As he entered, he straightened and doubled his height, his head still bowed in deference to the rafters across the ceiling. A lump the size of a turnip protruded from the center of his throat and bobbed once. He dropped the tree trunk he had apparently used to break in the door, and Kenna’s first thought was that the man could easily thwart his enemy. He need only pull off his coat armored with huge links of chain and drop it on the other man. It looked to be patched together from enough metal to protect at least four large soldiers.
Fia, stiffened beside her before crumpling into a soft pile on the floor. Of course. An army of one, then.
Kenna looked down briefly to make sure her maid was not hurt, then put her own body between the girl and the giant. How lucky Fia was to have found oblivion. Kenna unfortunately, kept her wits.
The titan stepped aside and into his wake entered the dark warrior. Heaven help her, but his presence filled her veins with a fire she had never expected. She almost smiled in relief but caught herself. Again, the man looked familiar. His creased browhovered above shimmering emerald eyes, sparkling like jewels in a dragon’s moist lair. They fairly dripped with color and Kenna’s body reacted with a melting of its own.
His long hair was neither black nor brown, but both, resembling the multicolored pelt of an animal. The way it laid across his shoulders like a mantle was familiar to her as well. A week’s worth of beard nearly hid the strength of his jaw, and his nostrils flared as if he were testing the air for danger. The war plaits at his temples brought her attention back to those eyes that now seemed darker, and she had to force herself to blink. She would not allow him to think her intrigued by him.
She glared instead.
Tearloch glared backas he studied his prize. She was taller than expected, and much prettier. If family resemblance had affected her at all, he could not see it. Perhaps in the eyes. She did have her father’s eyes, the color of ale in the bottom of a deep tankard. Amazing that her brown eyes could so closely match red hair, as if they had been tinted in the same dye. As was his habit, his gaze dipped low. She had fine wide hips that stretched her stomach tight and flat.
Yes, here is a lass built to bear fine braw sons.
Her waist was small, and…he smiled. The gown had not been made to fit her and ample breasts pressed against their confinement.And my sons shall not starve.
Her hair amused him, straining as it was against a thin veil that had clearly been designed for some other woman. These tresses would not be tamed so easily—nor, he imagined, would the woman if her defiant stance were any indication of her temperament.
He had expected bright orange hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles. She had hardly a dozen. Her skin was a honeyed brown, so she had no fear of the sun. He liked that. He also liked her mouth, its perfect plumpness, the clean sharp edges of the dent from her top lip to her nose. He wanted a closer look.
At once, the rare grip of fear wrapped its steel fingers around his stomach and the old chill began to climb toward his heart. His tongue turned to stone in his dry mouth as it always did when he was forced to speak to a woman.
Not this time! Think of her as merely a prisoner. Just a prisoner. Speak!
Damn Malcolm anyway. Why had he made this simple task so complicated? He was to fetch Malcolm’s sister back to Lochahearn, where Malcolm would meet up with them. A simple task. No discussion required, and indeed, little was permitted. Tearloch was allowed neither to tell the woman she was to be his wife, nor inform her that the brother she once thought dead and buried was now sitting on the throne of Scotland. Malcolm insisted on telling her the news himself.
Then there was the further knot of keeping his clan name from her. She would not go willingly with the very men who took her brother from her nearly twenty years before.
Briefly, he considered hooding her so he could avoid speaking to her at all. Better she should keep still and subdued until Malcolm was at her side, leaving less of a chance that Tearloch would let some secret slip off his tongue.
The woman swallowed as if the thought of hooding her had somehow been plain on his face, but she lifted her chin defiantly, and he felt something akin to pride swell his chest. He knew that look. He had seen it often enough on the king’s face.
The king. His friend. And soon to be his brother.
No, he would not fail Malcolm. He would hold his secrets, but he must find a way to loose his tongue so his future wife did not think him daft. Loosed, but controlled. It was a fine line.
