The Devil in Plaid(27)

Jamie’s scowl only deepened. “Of that I am painfully aware.”

Matthew reached out and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “She could always change. Mayhap if she spends time away from her indulgent father, she will learn compassion and honor.”

Jamie shook his head. “The only hope I have is that she gives me an heir quickly, so I can send her back to her father.”

“She may not wish to be returned to her father,” a voice said behind him.

Jamie turned around and saw Julia. She dipped in a low curtsy.

“Forgive me, my laird. I did not mean to overhear yer conversation.”

“Worry not,” Jamie assured the lass. “But please tell me what ye meant just now. Why would the lady not wish to return to her father’s home?”

Julia twisted the cord around her waist nervously. “I noticed she had some bruising. I know it was not my place to say anything, but I spoke without thinking and asked her who was responsible. She answered, her laird.”

“Ye look surprised,” Matthew said quickly, drawing Jamie’s gaze.

“I am,” Jamie admitted. “I’ve met Laird MacDonnell. I thought him soft and indulgent toward his daughter. I find it hard to believe that he would raise a hand against her.”

Matthew shrugged. “Mayhap, he’s not had a choice. Her behavior is unsuitable for a lady. No doubt he’s needed to put her in her place.”

“Mayhap,” Jamie said absently, struggling to believe Gordon MacLeod would willingly hurt his daughter.

Matthew stood up. “Ye will be able to question her after the wedding. Ye’ve delayed long enough. The people await ye.”

Jamie took a deep breath. His captain was right. He pressed his hands flat on the table and stood. “Julia, does the lady wait in the solar?

She nodded in reply.

“Then go ahead to the kirk,” Jamie instructed. He withdrew a strip of MacDonnell plaid from his sporran and handed it to Matthew. “Ye know what to do.”





Chapter Seventeen


Jamie stood at the altar in front of Father Peter. Soft sunlight filtered through narrow stained-glass windows. The colorful beams were the only joyous sight in the whole kirk. His kin filled the chapel, standing shoulder to shoulder. Each person seemed more despondent than the last. The courtyard and the battlements of the inner wall were also filled with members of his clan—none of whom rejoiced on this so-called day of celebration.

The chapel doors opened. He flexed his neck from side to side when Lady MacDonnell stepped into the chapel on Matthew’s arm. She kept her gaze downcast. Her unbound black hair was swept over both shoulders, skimming her thighs. In her hand, she gripped a strip of her clan’s plaid.

His people strained to see his bride. Some wore expressions of curiosity while most glared at her with open hostility. For a moment, he worried that one of his kin might do something cruel or stupid that would demand he take action. He despised the woman slowly walking toward him, but he would not stand for her to be abused by his kin. To his relief, she made it to the front of the chapel without incident. Matthew bowed his head solemnly as he placed Fiona’s hand in Jamie’s.

Her fingers trembled. He looked down at her. Her whole body quaked. For a moment, he wanted to reassure her, but then she raised her gaze. Her blue eyes shone with malice. Straightaway, his heart turned back to stone. The priest spoke words Jamie barely heard. Fury built within him with every passing moment. When it came time to make their vows, Lady MacDonnell nigh spat her “I dos” at him. His own vows he gave in kind.

He kept his face passive as Father Peter wrapped their hands together, binding them with strips of MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids. But when the priest spoke the final blessing and bid Jamie kiss his bride, he had to fight against his desire to recoil. Leaning down, he brushed his lips to her rigid mouth, the barest caress. Then he turned with her to face his people.

The silence was palpable. No one cheered. He walked down the aisle with his new bride, passing only grim faces—faces that mirrored his own heart. He felt as if he were walking to meet the henchman’s ax.

In the great hall, supper was being served, but without time to prepare a proper wedding feast, the meal was unembellished. At his side, the new Lady MacLeod did not even keep up the pretense of trying to eat, so he was glad he had not wasted the cook’s time or his clan’s food by giving special orders. He glanced sidelong at his wife who sat unspeaking with her hands in her lap. Even when the musicians struck up a melody, she made no acknowledgement of their song, nor did she glance at the dancers when they spun in a reel in front of the high table.

Frowning, he reached for his ale, but it was empty. Straightaway, the serving maid, Brianna, was at hand.

“I can fill ye up, my laird” she said, her voice sensual. She leaned over, her full, milky white cleavage on display. At that moment, he noticed his new bride look at him for the first time since the dinner had begun. Her scowl deepened, and she flashed eyes like daggers at Brianna. This only fueled his desire to enflame her anger more. He smiled at Brianna as though they were intimate companions when, in truth, he had hardly spoken to her beyond typical orders regarding the workings of the keep. Reaching out, he lightly clasped a lock of hair that had escaped her braid. “You’ve always been able to satisfy me.”

He received a snort from his wife, but she wasn’t the only one to react. A throat cleared on his other side.