The Handfasting Read online

  “I’ve come to speak with your father, my lady.”

  To his satisfaction, she understood him perfectly. But she still stubbornly answered him in Gaelic. “Have ye? Well, ye didn’t answer my first question. Who are ye?”

  He smiled. Beautiful, mischievous, and clever. He was beginning to like the prospect of being wed to such a spirited lass. Indeed, he was tempted to lean down and steal a kiss from her clever mouth.

  But he was no fool. He’d been put off already several times. It would be no easy task to get the lass and her father to agree to the marriage. Noёl would have to be careful about how he proceeded. So for now, he would defer to her and speak in Gaelic.

  “I’d prefer to answer to the laird.”

  She raised fine, smug brows. “Indeed? And what makes ye so certain he wishes to speak with ye?”

  “By my reckonin’, he does not,” he admitted.

  She frowned up at him. Even that expression looked adorable, like the scowling face of a wee hawk.

  He gave her a wink and confided, “But I’m goin’ to speak with him anyway.” Now that his men were dispersed throughout the crowd, he cleared his throat to address the gathering. “May I have your attention, please?”

  The musicians ceased playing, and the hall quieted. All eyes went to him. Laird Gille frowned from his seat, looking very much like the wee hawk, before he slammed his cup on the table and rose to his feet.

  “Who are ye, and what is the meanin’ o’ this?”

  Noёl eyed his men, whose hands rested upon the hafts of their sheathed daggers. Then he gave the laird a respectful bow.

  “My laird, I apologize for interruptin’ your revels,” he said. “I am Sir Noёl de Ware. I’ve come to claim the bride I was promised by King William o’ Scotland and King Philip o’ France.” He smiled and set a subtly possessive hand upon the shoulder of the lovely lass beside him. “I couldn’t stay away a moment longer. I hoped my arrival would be a welcome Yuletide surprise for Lady Cathalin.”

  Ysenda stiffened. Cathalin? He thought she was Cathalin? How could anyone have mistaken her for her beautiful sister?

  From the great table, Cathalin—the real Cathalin—gasped.

  Ysenda had heard gossip about Sir Noёl de Ware, her older sister’s betrothed, for some time now. He was a noble French warrior. He meant to take her sister to France to live with him at his castle. Upon Laird Gille’s death, Cathalin would return to Scotland with Lord de Ware to inhabit the keep and rule the clan.

  For weeks, neither her father nor Cathalin had been happy about the arrangement. True, there was an alliance between Scotland and France. But Laird Gille didn’t trust Lowlanders, let alone Normans. He wanted a Highlander to inherit his land and title. And so he’d ignored the king’s command. He’d plotted to hastily marry Cathalin to a Highland laird before her Norman bridegroom arrived.

  But the Highlander hadn’t yet come.

  And the Norman had.

  And now he’d mistaken Ysenda for his bride.

  Upon hearing Cathalin’s gasp, Sir Noёl hastened to reassure her. “There’s no cause for alarm, my lady. I will take good care o’ your sister, I swear.” He glanced down at Ysenda with fondness. “I will honor Lady Cathalin and guard her with my life.”

  There was an uncertain silence in the hall.

  Ysenda pulled away from the knight. This wasn’t right. Her sister and her father might not want a wedding between Cathalin and Sir Noёl. But it was what two kings had decreed. Ysenda would not be a party to such deception, a deception which amounted to treason.

  “I’m afraid ye’ve made a mistake,” she told the Norman. “I’m not—”

  “Daughter!” her father called out.

  For the first time in his life, Laird Gille had wrapped a companionable arm around Caimbeul’s shoulders. Caimbeul had a look of confused hope on his face, as if his father had suddenly realized he had a son whom he loved very much.

  Only Ysenda noticed the eating dagger that dangled casually from the laird’s fingers, an inch from Caimbeul’s throat. And there was no mistaking the threat glittering in her father’s eyes.

  “Cathalin, darlin’,” he said, addressing Ysenda. No one in the hall corrected him. Not even Cathalin herself. She only bit her lip and stared intently into her ale. “’Tis no mistake. ’Tis the king’s decree. And how fortunate ye are to have your betrothed arrive at Yuletide. The two o’ ye shall have a weddin’ feast fit for a king.”

  Ysenda blinked in disbelief. Did her father really believe he could pass her off as Cathalin? Couldn’t the Norman see that her sister was the bonnie one? She waited for someone to speak up, to say it was all a jest.

  But no one did. No one wanted to contradict the laird. Caimbeul was aware now that his father held a knife to his throat. They both knew if he uttered a word, the laird wouldn’t hesitate to make it his last.

  Finally, her sister stood and raised her cup, saying pointedly, “Congratulations, Cathalin, dear sister. No one is more deservin’ o’ this great honor than ye. And no one could be happier for ye than I am.”

  Ysenda’s eyes flattened. No doubt. Things couldn’t have worked out better for her sister. It appeared Cathalin would get the Highlander husband she and their father wanted. And Ysenda would be sacrificed to the Norman.

  Worse, nobody in the clan was brave enough to come to her defense. She was being thrown to the wolves. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  But what was her father thinking? Sir Noёl had obviously agreed to marry Cathalin for the title and land that came with her. What would happen when he discovered he’d inherit neither? And what would happen when the two kings found out their alliance had been sabotaged?

  It seemed Laird Gille was courting war.

  Here and there, the clan folk began to cheer in tentative congratulations. The laird nodded to the musicians to resume playing. Everyone returned to eating and dancing and making merry, welcoming the Normans to their revels. And her father beckoned Sir Noёl forward with an affable wave of his hand.

  The Norman offered Ysenda his arm. She didn’t dare refuse him, for fear of endangering Caimbeul. So she rested her forearm lightly atop his.

  She tried not to panic. Surely her father wasn’t serious. He wouldn’t really defy the king. Surely he’d marry the real Cathalin to this Norman. His proud boasts of finding her sister a proper Highland laird were only that—boasts.

  The laird couldn’t hide the truth from Sir Noёl forever. He must know that the instant Ysenda knew Caimbeul was safe, she’d confess to the Norman that she was not his true betrothed. After all, it was far better to face her father’s anger than to invite the wrath of two kings.

  Besides, she reasoned as she stole a sidelong glance at the knight escorting her forward, her sister should be grateful. Lots of political alliances were made with doddering old men. At least Sir Noёl was fit and handsome. He had broad shoulders and thick, curling hair. His jaw was strong, and his dark eyes sparkled with life. He even spoke perfect Gaelic.

  Laird Gille narrowed his eyes at the Norman. “So ye’re the one who’s come for my most precious prize.”

  Sir Noёl gazed down at Ysenda. The tender sincerity in his eyes made her heart flutter. “I’m honored to have her entrusted to me.”

  Laird Gille guffawed at that. “I was referrin’ to my castle.” He picked up his cup of ale with his free hand, the one that wasn’t holding a dagger to Caimbeul’s neck. “But aye, I suppose my daughter is a prize worth havin’ as well.” He took a drink, and a foamy trickle dripped down his beard.

  Sir Noёl smiled at her. “She’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

  Ysenda’s breath caught. He couldn’t be talking about her. Had he even looked at his real betrothed? Cathalin was flawless. Next to her perfect rose of a sister, Ysenda looked like a common thistle.

  By Cathalin’s sour expression, she did not appreciate the slight. That anyone would praise Ysenda’s looks while Cathalin was in the room was unthinkable. Y
senda could almost see the steam coming out of her sister’s perfect ears.

  But to be honest, it was pleasant having an attractive man gazing down at her with such appreciation. No one had ever looked at Ysenda like that before. She’d grown accustomed to hiding in the shadow of her breathtaking sister.

  Of course, that bewitched look on the Norman’s face would vanish once he learned his bride came with no inheritance. But she wasn’t going to give him the bad tidings until Caimbeul was out of her father’s clutches.

  Meanwhile, her brother scowled in frustration. She could see he wanted to help her. But he didn’t dare. One slip of the knife, and he’d be good to no one. Her father had been drinking heavily. He might do something foolish, something rash, something he couldn’t undo…

  “Why wait?” the laird bellowed. “Let’s have the handfastin’ now!”

  Like that.

  Chapter 2

  Sir Noёl couldn’t have been more satisfied with the laird’s idea. Preparing for an elaborate ceremony weeks in advance seemed like a waste of time to him.

  The betrothal had been made. The laird had agreed to the marriage. There was already a sumptuous feast laid out at the table. Why not get the deed done?

  Besides, he’d seen enough of his bride to suspect there was a splendid body under all that wool. The sooner the wedding, the sooner the bedding.

  Then he glanced down at his bride.

  A look of sheer panic filled her silvery eyes.

  “So soon?” she squeaked.

  He placed his hand atop hers in concern. Obviously, haste did not appeal to her. But why?

  Surely, she’d been prepared to be a wife. It should come as no surprise. She’d known about the betrothal for some time.

  Did she not find him suitable?

  True, he was no golden-haired Adonis. He had a few battle scars. And he’d been told he could sometimes look fierce and menacing.

  But he was young and strong, capable of defending a lady’s honor. And most women found him attractive enough.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her gently.

  The laird answered for her. “Ach, she’s only an anxious bride. All the more reason to make it quick, aye?”

  His bride was growing more agitated. But she couldn’t seem to find the words to adequately explain why. “Wait. I’m not… Ye can’t… This isn’t… Da, please… Don’t ye see ’twill only make matters worse if ye—”

  “Sir Noёl, I should introduce ye to your kin,” the laird interrupted. He turned to his second daughter, who sat fidgeting beside him. “This is Cathalin’s sister, Ysenda.”

  “My lady, ’tis an honor.” Noёl made a slight bow.

  The laird swung an arm out toward a red-bearded bear of a man. “That’s my sister’s son, Cormac.” He pointed to a smaller version of Cormac. “And that’s Dubne, his brother.” He waved a hand toward three curly-headed maids who were whispering together. “And those wee gossips are her daughters—Bethac, Ete, and Gruoch.”

  “Ladies.” Noёl inclined his head. “Gentlemen. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  He lost track of all the kin. Most of them were short and sturdy. Most of them had reddish-brown hair. And most of them were half-drunk. Finally he turned his attention to the young man around whose neck the laird’s arm was locked and waited for an introduction. “And ye?”

  “This? This is Caimbeul.”

  Noёl could see there was something amiss with the lad. His body was woefully misshapen. But that wasn’t all. Distress furrowed the young man’s brows. Maybe it was because the laird was waving his dagger about, dangerously close to the man’s throat.

  “Caimbeul,” Noёl repeated.

  “Sir,” the man tightly replied.

  Before the laird could continue, his bride interrupted. “Da, please listen to me.” Her words spilled out like the falsely calm surface over a turbulent river. “I think ’twould be best if we delayed at least till the morrow so ye can—”

  “Nonsense, daughter,” the laird chided. “Can ye not see how eager your bridegroom is to have ye by his side?”

  “But—”

  “And he’s come all the way from France.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “I’ll hear no more of it. ’Tis best ye’re wed right here and now.” Then he turned till he was almost nose-to-nose with Caimbeul. “Wouldn’t ye agree?”

  Noёl’s bride lowered her head then. But it wasn’t in submission. Her eyes were darting about madly, as if she were trying to come up with a clever ploy.

  “My lady?” Noёl said softly in French. “Is this not your wish?”

  She lifted her eyes. They possessed all the colors of a winter sky, shifting from ominous pewter to stormy gray to serene silver. How pleasing it would be to look into those eyes every day for the rest of his life, watching their changing hues and moods.

  Then she looked back at her father, who still had a possessive grip on Caimbeul.

  “Da, please. Don’t—”

  “Ye’ll do as I say, lass,” the laird scolded. “Ye know your place. We all make sacrifices. Look at poor Ysenda here. Even if the unsightly wench somehow manages to snag a husband…” He paused, his eyes twinkling, and Noёl was certain the laird must be jesting. The lass was almost as beautiful as her sister—even when she frowned, as she did now. “’Twill probably be no better than a Highland sheepherder. But ye… Ye’ll be the wife of a Norman lord. Ye’ll be Lady Cathalin de Ware.”

  Noёl’s bride clenched her hand atop his now, digging in to the muscle of his forearm. “But Da, the king will—”

  “Hush! I’ll hear no more!” her father interrupted as he tightened his grasp on the man, hugging him closer. “Ye should be more like Caimbeul. He knows when to hold his tongue. Don’t ye, lad?”

  Caimbeul lowered his eyes in anger and shame. The hand atop Noёl’s arm clenched even tighter.

  Noёl wasn’t sure what was going on. Did Caimbeul object to the marriage? The man had been seated beside his bride. Was it possible he had feelings for her? And did she return those feelings? Perhaps she preferred the sweet-faced Scottish lad, despite his crooked body.

  Surprised by the pang of jealousy that shot through him, Noёl suddenly longed to whisk his bride away from this place. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else desiring his wife.

  He didn’t like Laird Gille either. Didn’t like the fact he seemed to be irresponsibly drunk. Didn’t like the way he kept cutting his daughter off. Or how he was manhandling Caimbeul. In fact, until the laird died and surrendered his keep, Noёl would just as soon remain as far away from the Highland holding as possible.

  But to his own amazement, more than anything, he wanted to please his bride.

  He spoke for her ears alone. “My lady, is somethin’ amiss? Do ye find marriage to me repulsive? Are ye afraid o’ me? I won’t beat ye, I promise.” Then he thought of something else. “Are ye afraid o’ the marriage bed? Is that it?”

  He saw that calculation in her eyes again, as if she were winnowing wheat from chaff. She turned to him with new determination.

  “Aye,” she decided. “That’s it. I’m afraid o’ the marriage bed.” There was an eager light in her eyes now as she clutched his sleeve in both hands. “So if ye vow not to bed me tonight, I’ll go through with the handfastin’.”

  She was up to something. He could see that. He doubted the intrepid lass was afraid of anything. But though her notion didn’t please him—already his body stirred with desire for her—if it was what she wanted, he supposed he could wait another day.

  “As ye wish,” he said.

  Ysenda sighed in relief. She’d bought herself a day. No handfasting was official until it was consummated. Hopefully, in the morn, when her father was sober, he’d realize what a grave mistake he’d made and correct it. Their sham of a marriage would be nullified, and Cathalin, the real Cathalin, would take her place as Noёl’s bride.

  Part of her was not happy about that. Already she could tell th
at Sir Noёl was too good for her sister. Cathalin was selfish and spoiled, accustomed to getting her way. Noёl was considerate, noble, and polite. He’d likely try to accommodate her, and she’d end up running him ragged.

  Cathalin would never appreciate his gentlemanliness. She was used to forceful Highlanders who took what they wanted. She would probably mistake Noёl’s kindness for weakness and belittle him at every turn.

  It was a pity really. But Ysenda could say nothing about it. She was the youngest daughter, without power and without a voice.

  Her father still had a dagger at Caimbeul’s throat. He obviously didn’t expect Ysenda to go through with the ceremony willingly.

  But now that she had the Norman’s promise—and she trusted the word of a noble knight—she knew she was safe, at least for tonight. So she’d oblige her father and recite the damned handfasting vows.

  The ceremony would be brief, doubtless briefer than the lavish weddings of France. Highlanders had little use for religion and no patience for church approval when it came to unions. Matrimony was achieved simply by mutual consent.

  Sir Noёl’s men made a formidable appearance as they gathered round him. They were large and powerfully built. Their manner was grave and guarded. Ysenda thought they looked ready to unsheathe and do battle if anyone so much as cocked an eye at them.

  She wasn’t sure why, but that gave her strange comfort.

  Sir Noёl had brought the marriage agreement with him. One of his men unfurled it across the table between the roast venison and the smoked mutton, along with a quill and ink. Sir Noёl penned his mark on the document, as did Laird Gille.

  Ysenda swallowed hard. The heavy black scrawls on the parchment made the marriage seem all too real…and permanent.

  Before the ink was even dry, Laird Gille stood at the table to preside over the rite, and the hall again hushed.

  “Join your right hands,” he directed.

  Sir Noёl faced her and clasped her right hand, which felt dwarfed within his. She could feel the calluses that marked it as the sword hand of a seasoned warrior. His palm was warm and dry. She feared her own was sweaty. Yet there was something reassuring in his grip.