thought so because his exquisitely embroidered woolen tunic and tightly woven hose seemed richer, and his excellent weaponry more costly, than her father’s. Or any other she had ever seen, for that matter.
Silver spurs and the chain he wore marked him as a knight as well as a noble, but she had already known that about him. One of the few details she’d been granted was his title of baron.
And how seriously noble he was. She smiled in welcome from her place just behind the laird, hoping for a ready response that would signify friendliness. Yet judging by his countenance, the man might have been approaching a hangman’s noose. He gave neither her nor her smile any notice whatsoever. Of course, he did not know yet who she was, Mairi reasoned.
She clenched her teeth and maintained the smile, silently determined to not judge the man too swiftly. He must be as worried as she was about this first meeting.
Her father had yet to notice she was present, for she stood out of his sight. He had just greeted her cousin and was making introductions.
“Lord Robert MacBain, Baron of Baincroft, meet my kinsman and chosen tanist, Sir Ranald MacInness.” He inclined his head toward their cousin who would be laird of the MacInness after him.
Ranald was a tall, stalwart man of thirty years who seemed cursed with a perpetual smirk. The sin-dark eyes examined their guest as intently as the man’s silvery-gray gaze regarded him.
Though Ranald bore the sword, spurs and other trappings of a knight, Mairi knew he possessed none of the inner qualities required of one. Chivalry, humility and honor were unknown to him. She wondered whether that would be obvious to one who had never met him before. Lord MacBain’s handsome face remained so unexpressive, she could not tell what he thought.
“Sir Ranald,” MacBain acknowledged gruffly, her cousin’s name sounding foreign upon his tongue.
He offered his arm and, after a short hesitation, Ranald clasped it briefly in greeting. “MacBain,” he replied with obvious disdain, ignoring the baron’s title. An insult.
Mairi felt a prickle between her shoulder blades. Ranald would bear watching, she thought. It was a safe wager the man had a purpose in being here other than to meet her bridegroom. He had requested that nebulous honor for himself with some regularity, much to her disgust.
“I regret I cannot stay for the nuptials,” Ranald told her father. “I must return to Enslor before the morrow.”
“Expecting trouble?” the laird asked.
“Nothing I cannot deal with,” her cousin replied curtly. “’Tis little enough I have to do these days when I could be relieving you of many duties hereabout.”
Mairi’s father sighed. “Ambition is often admirable, Ranald. But I’m not dead yet, as ye can see.”
This could degenerate into another family squabble, Mairi thought with mounting apprehension. What an embarrassment to them all, that would be. Her gaze leaped to Lord MacBain, who observed her father and Ranald with keen interest.
Ranald pressed a hand to his chest in mock dismay. “Ye mistake my offer of help, m’laird.” He looked past her father and fastened his evil gaze on Mairi. “Just as ye mistook my frequent proposals to become as a son to ye.”
Her sire snorted inelegantly. “Cousin is a close enough tie to suit me. The clan chose ye years ago, and ye’ll have yer due, but not through me or mine.”
Ranald looked Mairi up and down, then smiled his oily, suggestive smile. How often he had done this, silently promising her what would happen if he ever caught her alone?
Abruptly the MacBain stepped between them, purposely cutting off her cousin’s view of her. Only then did Ranald halt his taunting of her and take his leave.
Thank God he did. The man made her skin crawl as though she were covered with leeches.
When they were finally free of Ranald’s presence, her future husband turned and looked her straight in the eye, as if she were the only person in the world worth seeing. Mairi’s skin felt fine at that moment. A bit overheated, yet fine. ’Twas her bones that melted.
God save her soul, this man could charm the thorns off of thistles. She felt totally bereft when he looked away to focus expectantly on her father.
Today, for the first time since she had found she was to marry, Mairi MacInness felt the definite thrill of expectation.
Of course, she had another reason for that feeling. She had not even hoped that he would be this handsome or look so worthy, given her father’s obvious reluctance to speak to her of the match.
“Lord MacBain, here is my daughter, Mairi MacInness,” her father said by way of introduction, and drew her forth by her arm to stand immediately before her intended. “Yer bride.”
Again she became the target of his full regard. The steel-gray, long-lashed eyes widened slightly with avid interest, mayhaps even desire. Mairi almost shivered.
Cautiously, as though he thought she might refuse the gesture, he extended one large hand, calloused palm upright. Mairi offered her own and watched as he lifted her fingers to his lips. He had wonderful lips. She sighed.
His eyes never left her face as that finely shaped mouth nearly touched her knuckles. She felt his breath warm upon them. That sent tingles up her arm and they did not stop at her shoulder.
“My lord,” she acknowledged. She wished she had not sounded quite so breathless, but indeed she was. His size and very presence quite overwhelmed her. But in the most wonderful way she could imagine.
“My lady,” he murmured in a very deep voice completely devoid of inflection.
She could not decide whether she liked the sound of him. However, the rest certainly left no room for complaint. He bore the scent of costly spices from the East. Cloves, she decided, drawing another deep breath. And cinnamon, which she dearly loved. That boded well, Mairi thought, used as she was to men bearing only the smells of sweat and horse.
Her father cleared his throat. “Coom, sit and rest yerself,” he commanded loudly, and motioned across the hall toward the low-burning fire. “Bring us ale!” He nearly shouted the words at the servants now bustling about the tables, readying them for the evening meal.
“Da! Please, speak more softly,” Mairi reprimanded quietly, patting her sire’s arm.
He merely grunted in a very low voice, not moving his mouth, “’Tis lack o’ hearing, lass. Sad to say, but ye must have pity and patience. I should ha’ mentioned it before.”
Mairi sighed, troubled, but not overmuch. Such a loss was to be expected in a man of her father’s advanced years. Yet he did not have to treat everyone as though they shared his affliction. Still, the young baron seemed not to have taken umbrance at her father’s loud barking. Mayhaps he understood.
To her surprise, her intended bypassed the comfort of the only two cushioned chairs, leaving these softer ones for his host and hostess. Deferring to a lady and an elder spoke very well for the man’s manners, she thought.
Why, then, did her father look so uneasy? Not fearful, exactly, but certainly wary. There was little that ever disconcerted him. He probably worried she
