signed them and the official deed was done. Even without the spoken vows to follow, they were contracted man and wife. All that remained were the words of acceptance and, later, the consummation. She grasped his hand, eager to proceed for her father’s sake.
Her sire looked on from the table upon which he lay. With great effort to suppress her tears, Mairi smiled at him, telling him with her eyes how dear he was to her.
No matter that he had been a gruff old father who reprimanded far more often than he praised. She could see his caring much more clearly now than ever before in the provision he had made for her.
“Lord Robert Alexander MacBain, wilt thou have this woman, Mairi MacInness, to wife?” the priest droned.
“Aye,” his lordship answered gruffly, squeezing her small hand gently in his. Mairi noted bloody smears on both and shivered with dread that this presented a bad omen. Nay, she thought, this marriage was a good thing. The blood just spilled would bond them inexorably.
She watched the baron slip a gold crested ring off his smallest finger and slide it onto her third. A circle of fire it was, hot from the heat of battle, wet and slippery with sweat and gore he had shed for her and hers. She made a fist to keep the ring in place. A fist full of vengeful promises that must be honored.
“Lady Mairi MacInness, do you take this man to husband?”
She glanced up at MacBain—called Robert, so she had just learned—and caught a fleeting look of apprehension. Did he fear she would say nay?
“I will,” she answered emphatically, and added a nod for good measure. Not for anything would she leave a doubt in anyone’s mind. This was her choice. She was this man’s wife now. As soon as humanly possible, she would make certain no man could alter that.
Strange and fearsome as he was, the man could fight. And he had done all he could to save her and her father during the attack. At the moment, she could think of no better recommendation than that for a husband.
Her new lord might not be a Highland man, but he was a true Scot. And when the wedding and bedding were done, he would be family. Then he could do naught but marshal her father’s men, give them their orders and lead them out to avenge the laird.
Ranald MacInness must die at his hand, and the MacBain must rule Craigmuir. She had decided. And no man—not even her father at his fiercest—had ever been able to sway Mairi MacInness once she had settled upon a true course of action.
The night through, Rob sat beside Mairi near the laird’s deathbed. Now and again, she would lean forward and adjust the covers, caress her father’s brow or pat his hand. Her strength and control impressed Rob. Not once had she wept for what was to come, though she surely knew.
Only once did she excuse herself to go abovestairs and then only for a short time. Long enough, however. The old laird roused himself and gave Rob orders to take Mairi away at first light.
He spoke haltingly, yet formed each word clearly and precisely. “Ranald wants her…and my place here. No matter what Mairi says, take her and depart.”
Rob nodded in understanding and grasped the gnarled hand the laird offered him.
“Leave me to my men,” MacInness instructed. “Travel light and swift. And watch your back.”
Rob did not ask why. He did not need to. Any man who wanted Lady Mairi would not relinquish her easily. MacInness’s tanist would follow. In his place, Rob would certainly do so. The woman was a treasure worth fighting for.
“I beg you, do not rest until my lass has seen her last of the Highlands. Never bring her back here. Promise you will honor my…my wishes! Swear!”
What alternative did Rob have but to give his word? A last request was a last request, after all. And the laird was Mairi’s father, and now also his, by marriage.
Reaching down, Rob grasped his sword and raised it enough for the old man to see. He bent his head and put his lips against the jeweled pommel, then lifted the weapon higher, as though swearing on the cross formed by hilt, cross-guard and blade. “I so vow,” he declared.
Chapter Three
Rob did not tell Mairi of the oath when she returned downstairs and again took up the vigil by her father’s side. Morning would be time enough to wrest her from the only home she had ever known, and without a proper departure.
She would have a much sadder farewell to endure before that time came. He sat beside her on the bench while she leaned forward, her elbows resting upon the table where her father lay.
Suddenly, Mairi straightened and jumped as though startled out of sleep.
“What is wrong?” Rob asked her. More to the point, he should have asked her what was not wrong?
“Did ye hear? The cock just crowed,” she muttered. He almost did not catch the words. “’Tis morn.”
Laird MacInness turned his head toward where they sat and smiled his adieu at the both of them. “Keep her…safe,” he said, and breathed his last as though well content to do so.
Noble till the end, Rob thought, admiring the man for facing death as he had done. Not with whimper or complaint. Only a smile and a demand for the safety of his daughter. Any man could be proud of such a death, and Rob saw that pride reflected on the faces of the laird’s men.
Mairi’s delicate fingers trembled as she closed her father’s wrinkled eyelids. Exhaustion, pain and grief had leached her features of their usual bloom, and lent her body a stiffness he wished would abate. She would do well to give way to her anguish now and be done with it.
Nay, he thought, chastising himself. She would not be done with it even if she wept for days, months. One did not relinquish a loved one to death so easily as that.
Rob could only imagine the terrible, all-pervading sadness he would feel forever did he lose the man he treasured as a father.
His real sire had been another matter altogether. Had Rob known how at the age of ten, he would have arranged a real celebration at that man’s passing, for himself, his lady mother and all the others at Baincroft who had fallen under the harshness of that wicked wretch’s hand. Even now, these long years later, he could never bear to call that one his father.
But 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
