Page 4 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 4

Brigid started to protest, but Laird MacKane waved over the maid who’d brought her the milk. “Take my betrothed to the proper chambers and see that she is made comfortable and supplied with the things she needs. And send the healer to see to those bruises on her wrists.”

Brigid scrambled for something, anything, to say, but Laird MacKane turned and strode out of the room, followed by a man she had barely noticed earlier and who resembled him enough to be his brother.

Confused, and more than a little frightened, Brigid rose and followed the maid, her legs trembling slightly beneath her as she frantically tried to make sense of this new reality she had somehow walked into—or been dragged into, as the case may be.

Och, what am I supposed to do now? Mama, I ken ye gave me yer rule, and I promised to keep it… but how am I supposed to do that in a marriage with a man I should have stayed away from?

“Are ye sure about this, Conall? This lass ye’ve just announced ye’re goin’ to wed… ye dinnae ken anything about her! For all ye ken, she’ll put a knife between yer ribs on yer wedding night.”

Conall scowled at the corridor in front of him. A maid coming from the opposite direction gasped and scurried out of the way at the sight of him.

Most of the maids did that when they saw him coming, even though he’d never raised a hand to any of them. If he had the time, or the patience, to think about it, he might have been offended. But, right now, he had much more important things to worry about.

With a grunt, he shoved open the door to his study and stomped inside, with Oliver following only a breath behind.

“Conall, are ye listenin’ to me?” His brother’s tone was both angry and nagging.

Conall suppressed a sigh of frustration as he turned to face him. “Listenin’, aye. But agreein’… nay. So there’s nay need to say aught, Oliver. I ken perfectly well what ye think about my betrothal.”

He made his way to the desk and found a bottle of whiskey, quickly pouring himself a glass.

“Ye want a drink?” he asked his brother. “To celebrate my upcoming nuptials?”

Oliver snorted, his eyes sharp and hard as they’d been ever since Devon’s death. “Of course I dinnae want a drink. I want to ken what ye’re thinkin’, proposin’ marriage to the supposed granddaughter of our sworn enemy. Ye have to admit, this is madness, even by yer standards, Conall.”

“I’m thinkin’ that we’ve been at war with Clan Auchter for far too long,” Conall replied, leaning back against the desk and downing the whiskey in one gulp. “If I’d made peace with the old man sooner, Devon might still be alive.”

The words tasted sour in his mouth. He picked up the bottle and poured himself another dram, hoping it might help wash the bitterness away.

“Ye ken that’s foolishness. The old man doesnae want peace. He wants our land and our clanfolk under his heel.”

Oliver’s expression was dark with anger and grief, as it had been ever since they’d carried their brother’s body home. Not even his wife was able to lift the shadows of his fury and sorrow for long, though Conall knew she’d tried.

“Mayhap,” Conall relented. “But he’s the one who chose to pay the blood price, and to pay it with his kin. I see nay reason not to take advantage of it.” He shrugged. “Besides, marryin’ the lass will protect our clan better than killin’ her would. If Auchter raises a hand against us once she’s my wife, he’ll have every other laird within a day’s ride up in arms against him for the dishonor. Even he willnae risk that, for all he’s vile enough to try to get me to kill his kinfolk for him.”

“Ye dinnae ken that’s the truth, or that she’s half as unwilling as she appears. Auchter’s a snake—who’s to say that this ‘granddaughter’ of his is any better?”

There was venom in Oliver’s words, and Conall couldn’t fault him for it. He’d been having the same thoughts himself, after all; he couldn’t blame his brother for simply echoing them.

Even so, he was determined to follow through with his decision. “Think as ye like, and watch her if ye’re so confident she’s a spy. But until I ken otherwise, I’ll assume she is what she says she is an’ stand by the choice I’ve made.” He shrugged again. “At the very least, it will make the council happy, to see me wed. And with the added chance of endin’ the feud? It will silence the complaints for at least a moon.”

For a long moment, Oliver was silent, and Conall dared to hope that his brother understood his position, even if he didn’t agree with it.

Then, Oliver spoke, his voice low and cold as a winter wind. “Tell me, Brother, is it peace ye are seeking with an honest lass, or are ye merely a soldier who’s been ensnared by a pretty face after too long on the battlefield?”

Conall knew his brother was angry and grieving, and he was willing to tolerate a great deal. But he was still the Laird of Clan MacKane, and there were some lines that even his brother could not be permitted to cross.

“Watch yer tone, Oliver. I am yer Laird, and I’ll nae let ye question me any further on this matter. I’ve made my decision, and ye ken as well as I do that once I’ve made up my mind about something, there’s nay changin’ it. I’ve said ye can have yer doubts, an’ ye can watch the lass if ye wish, but I’ll nae tolerate disrespect.”

Oliver scowled. “I still think this is foolishness,” he said, unwilling as ever to let his brother have the last word.

“As long as ye’re thinkin’ it rather than sayin’ it to my face, or the council, then that’s fine by me,” Conall replied grimly.

Then, with another deep sigh, he picked up the bottle and poured himself one last dram.

The rooms the maid took Brigid to were far more comfortable than Brigid had dared to hope—larger and better furnished than the ones she was used to at home. The hearth was comfortably sized, with an oak table and two chairs in front of it. Additional heavy chairs were placed where a person could relax and enjoy the fire on a winter’s eve. On the other side of the room sat a desk, empty but sturdy. It needed nothing more than writing supplies to be complete.

At least I willnae be treated like a prisoner, even though I am one in all but name.

The floor was covered in plush rugs, and the bed was twice the size of the one she had at home, with a thick mattress, a mound of pillows, and a heavy blanket. There was a small bedside table, and a chest for clothing and personal items set against the wall. A pitcher and a cup sat on the table, ready to be used, along with a chamber pot.

There was also a small closet, empty save for a few shifts and stockings—simple garments, probably borrowed or left by some other lass. The windows were covered with heavy shutters, as well as curtains to block out the light or chill.

The rooms were well-appointed, and lacking in nothing, but everything was in dark or muted colors, which made the overall effect cold and empty. She would be comfortable here, yes, but she would not be at home.

All of a sudden, Brigid felt terribly alone. The warmth of the milk in her hands helped, but even so, she missed her sisters terribly—a deep, twisting ache that felt almost like physical pain.

She wasn’t used to being without her family. In fact, she never had been, not even once in her life. She’d fantasized occasionally about going on an adventure, the way Valerie had frequently accompanied their father, but she never had… Until now, that was. And now that she was finally having an ‘adventure’—if it could even be called that—Brigid found the reality of it far less comfortable than she’d imagined.

Be careful what ye wish for. Isnae that what Mama used to tell me?

A knock on the heavy wooden door served as a distraction from her melancholy thoughts, as she set the cup down.

“Aye?” she called out, her voice sounding weak and tremulous even to her own ears.

A slender woman of about Valerie or Lily’s age entered the room. She was Brigid’s height, with golden hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. Her smile was warm and reassuring, and Brigid liked her at once.

“Welcome to MacKane Castle,” the woman said in a soft voice that matched her gentle appearance. “I’m the clan healer. Laird MacKane asked me to come see to some injuries ye have. Yer hands, I believe?”

“Aye.” Brigid held out her hands for inspection, her eyes tracing the purple bruises and rope marks.

The healer came forward and took her hands, tsking with concern as she examined them.

“Och, that’s nae good. I have some ointment that will soothe the ache and ease the bruising. Conall was right to send for me. We’ll have ye feelin’ better in nay time, lass.”

Brigid blinked. “Ye call Laird MacKane by his given name?” she asked.

The healer smiled. “Aye. I’m Emily Barr. Laird MacKane’s brother, Oliver, is my husband.”

“Och. I see.” Brigid smiled shyly, reassured by Emily’s friendly and forthright manner.

She had only just met the woman, but somehow she felt she was someone she could trust.

“My name is Brigid Blackwood,” she said, unsure how much information ‘Conall’, as the healer called him, might have revealed about her.

“Aye. So I heard. An’ Laird MacKane’s intended.” Emily patted her hand gently. “I ken ‘tis all very sudden, lass, and ye’re likely very nervous, but ye neednae fret.”

She glanced at the window as if checking something.

“Why dinnae ye come with me, Brigid? I can get ye the salve, an’ mayhap a change of clothing. Ye look to be about my size.” She glanced at the mug on the table. “After ye finish yer milk, of course.”

Brigid breathed a sigh of relief as she picked up her drink.

Emily was more slender than her, and the clothing might not fit well, but even so, it would be a relief to change out of her travel-stained garments, which were the only things she’d been allowed to bring with her.

She may not be able to follow Emily’s instruction not to fret—how could she, in this strange situation she found herself in?—but at least, she would no longer look and feel quite so much like the outsider she was.

“I would appreciate that. Thank ye.” She hesitated. “The Laird… may I ask ye something about him?”

Emily chuckled softly and moved over to the comfortable chairs by the hearth, gesturing for Brigid to join her. Brigid chose the chair closest to the door, her eyes widening at the way the soft, almost velvety cushions seemed to enfold her. This castle might not be homely, but it was certainly luxurious.

“Of course, ye can ask me questions, lass,” Emily said, smiling at the look of wonder on the younger woman’s face. “’Tis part of the reason why Conall wanted me to see to ye, and I’m happy to answer them for ye.”

Brigid allowed herself to relax a little more, the tension slowly bleeding out of her shoulders, soothed by the warmth of Emily’s welcome, which made it impossible not to trust her, even though they were scarcely more than strangers at present.

“I was wonderin’… The servants seem to be… Everyone seems to be… afraid of Laird MacKane. I’ve noticed it since I arrived. I’m afraid I dinnae understand what is happenin’. Is he… that sort of laird?”

She paused, hoping the other woman would understand what she meant by this without requiring her to elaborate further.

Emily’s smile dropped, her face suddenly seeming older as it settled into lines of regretful sadness that made Brigid’s heart ache with sympathy.

“Och, nay,” she said, with a small shake of the head. “Conall’s nae so bad, really. ’Tis only that recent events have made him—and my husband, for that matter—a bit more… well, temperamental, I suppose, than they used to be.”

Brigid remembered what the men had said in the Great Hall, and what Conall had said when he proposed to her. “They said I was brought here to settle a blood debt?”

The words came out in a rush, and she bit her lip, hoping the question wouldn’t cause offense.

But Emily simply nodded once, her eyes filled with sorrow.

“Aye,” she said, her expression wistful. “Laird MacKane’s youngest brother, Devon, was killed. Conall an’ Oliver are still in mourning.” She shook her head. “Grief does strange things to folk. It makes Conall cold and cruel. And it makes Oliver sharp and angry. We’ve all learned to walk softly around them both.”

Dinnae give yer heart, nor the whole of yer trust, to anyone whom all others fear.

Her mother’s rule echoed in her mind, and Brigid swallowed uncomfortably.

Marrying Conall would likely mean risking breaking her mother’s rule. Either that, or she was doomed to a loveless, distrustful marriage, and she didn’t want to think of what sort of life that would be.

Nay matter what I do, I cannae win.

“I… ‘Tis only that I’m… I’ve never…”

Emily smiled softly. “Never fear, Brigid. Conall is gruff, but he’s nae as fearsome as he seems at the moment. Ye have nay need to fear him.”

“Thank ye.”

Brigid wasn’t entirely certain she believed Emily’s reassurance, but it was comforting to hear the words, nonetheless. And Emily, at least, didn’t seem all that frightened of Conall—more like she mourned the recent circumstances and how they had turned both brothers into the men Brigid had just met.

There was no guarantee that Conall would ever become anything other than the man Brigid had seen in the Great Hall—the man who’d killed another so easily and casually for what seemed to her a trivial reason. However, Emily’s warmth and lack of fear gave Brigid some hope to cling to. Her situation might not be as terrifying as it had first seemed.

Hope was good. Hope was all she had. Which meant it had to be enough, for now, to settle her churning stomach and give her strength for whatever was to come.

Emily patted her hand once more, offering further comfort. “Ye’re welcome. An’ ye can come to me if ye have any questions or worries, lass. ‘Tis what I’m here for.” She glanced at the window again. “Now, we’ve enough time to get ye clean clothes and salve afore supper.”

Brigid was surprised to find that, despite the cooling milk in her hands, and the ordeal she’d just been through, she was hungry.

“I… I would appreciate that,” she said, smiling gratefully at the healer as she finished her milk and replaced the mug on the table, before getting shakily to her feet to follow Emily out of the austere sitting room, already feeling slightly better about her circumstances.

Her groom might not be someone she could trust—at least not while he was grieving, apparently—but at least she no longer felt completely alone.

That had to count for something.