Bride of Lochbarr

MARIANNE WAS in purgatory.

Or so it was easy to believe as she looked out over the sodden landscape from the arched window in her brother’s fortress.

Of course it was raining again, the downpour effectively hiding the jagged hilltops surrounding Beauxville like a veil, making the courtyard a mess of mud and puddles, and soaking the scaffolding erected around the half-completed walls of the castle. It had rained every day since she’d arrived in this wilderness at the edge of the civilized world.

If she were in Normandy now, the sun would be shining and the leaves of the trees would be bright green. She’d be beneath their shading branches, whispering with a gaggle of young women her own age, trying to stifle her laughter as the farm laborers went past the convent walls heading home after a day working in the fields. The young men would be singing their bawdy songs, well aware that behind the white walls of the convent, girls would be listening. The nuns would be scurrying about and twittering like a flock of startled birds, chiding their charges and trying to get them to go inside.

If she were back in Normandy, she would be warm. Here, even wearing a linen shift, a gown of indigo blue wool, a bliaut of light red with gold trim and with a bright green woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she was still cold.

If she were in Normandy, she would be warm and happy, not lonely, cold and utterly, completely miserable.

She should have asked more questions when her brother arrived at the convent and told her he was taking her to his estate. Instead, she’d been too happy to be free of the confines of the religious house and too proud of her noble brother and impressed by his bearing and arms to question him. Even the Reverend Mother had seemed intimidated by Nicholas, and Marianne had believed the pope himself couldn’t intimidate the Reverend Mother.

Yet if the Reverend Mother had known Nicholas was going to bring his sister here, to this mass of unfinished stone and masonry, where she would live among savages with wild hair and bare legs, surely she would have said that Scotland was the last place on earth suitable for a young Norman woman of noble birth and education. She would have suggested to Nicholas that Marianne be allowed to remain in the place that had been her home for the past twelve years until a suitable husband could be found.

The door to her chamber crashed open. Startled, she turned from the window and watched as her brother, new-made lord of Beauxville, strode into the room. As always, Nicholas was plainly attired in black wool without a bit of embroidery at cuff or collar. His only ornamentation was the bronze buckle of his sword belt. His scuffed boots were caked with mud, his hair was damp, and his taciturn expression gave no hint as to why he’d decided to visit her here, where he rarely ventured.

“Ah, here you are, Marianne,” he said, as if he honestly expected her to be somewhere else. He scanned the small room with its simple, crude furnishings and her painted chest, his gaze lingering for a moment on the embroidery frame neglected in the corner. “What are you doing?”

“I was thinking about the convent.”

His response to that was a dismissive sniff, his usual reaction when she mentioned her life there, or spoke of her companions or the sisters. Yet why shouldn’t she think of the past and her life in Normandy? Did he think she could forget it? Did he think she wanted to?

Some of her annoyance seeped out. “Shouldn’t you be supervising the masons at the south wall? Or entertaining that elderly Scot who arrived this morning?”

“The masons are waiting for drier weather, and Hamish Mac Glogan has taken his leave.”

“If the masons need the weather to be dry, they may never finish your castle,” she remarked as she glanced out the window again. To her surprise, it wasn’t actually raining at the moment, although heavy gray clouds still lingered, like a bad smell. “The delays must be costing you a pretty penny.”

“I didn’t realize you knew anything about building castles.”

“Masons sometimes came to work at the convent, and I once heard the Reverend Mother complaining about the cost,” Marianne replied. “You’re doing much more than repairing a few loose bricks, so I can only assume—”

“You don’t have to assume anything,” Nicholas interrupted. “I can afford the masons now that I don’t have to pay the good sisters for your care.”

His tone was no longer dismissive. It was surprisingly resentful, as if paying for her years at the convent represented serious hardship. Yet her family had never suffered for want of money, and the sisters had never implied that she was there out of charity, like some of the more unfortunate girls. “Was it so very costly to keep me there?”

“Costly enough,” he replied. “But I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Telling herself his resentment must have another, more mysterious source, she lowered herself onto the stool and thought of a reason he might have come to her chamber. “Have you had word from Henry?”

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Nicholas frowned. “A soldier doesn’t have time to send messages to his family.”

From the sound of it, things were still no better between her brothers. They’d fought constantly as children; indeed, some of her earliest memories involved hiding from them when they argued and wrestled.

“So, what do you wish to talk about?” she asked, confused by his obvious reluctance to come to the point. Nicholas was usually extremely direct, and this prevarication was making her nervous.

Then she thought of one explanation why a brother might seek out a sister. “Is it something about women?” she asked hopefully. “Is there a woman you wish to woo and you came for my advice?”

Nicholas looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got more important things to do right now than court a woman, and I wouldn’t come to you for advice if I were.”

Marianne tried not to feel hurt at his brusque response. “I was only trying to be helpful, Nicholas,” she replied. “I was twelve years among girls and women. There’s probably not much I don’t know about them, so if you ever do want to ask me anything—”

“It’s your marriage I’ve come about, not mine.”

A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She’d been expecting this since the day he’d come to take her from the convent. It was, after all, the fate of most noblewomen and she dearly wanted children. Her happiest times at the convent had been helping the younger girls. So what reason could he have for taking so long to tell her that was why he had come to her chamber, unless he thought she wouldn’t be pleased?

In spite of her increasing dread, she tried to sound calm when she answered. “Oh? To whom?”

He strolled toward the brazier and studied the glowing coals. “It’s a very good match, Marianne,” he said after a moment that seemed to last an eternity. “Your husband has great wealth and power.”

His words brought absolutely no comfort; they only increased her uneasiness. “Who is he?”

“Hamish Mac Glogan.”

She stared at her brother with horrified dismay. “Isn’t that the old man who came here this morning?”

“That old man is rich and influential, related to the king of Scotland.”

Hearing the underlying impatience in his voice, she instantly recalled Nicholas’s rages when they were children. He was ten years older than she, and although he never struck her, she’d been terrified nonetheless. She certainly didn’t want to rouse that fierce ire.

Clasping her hands, she lowered her voice to a more beseeching tone. “Nicholas, I appreciate that you’re my older brother and stand in place of our father. I realize that it’s your duty to find a suitable husband for me. But I thought I would marry a Norman. So did the holy sisters, and that is what they had in mind when they taught me.”

“I told you, Hamish Mac Glogan is rich, he’s noble and he’s related to a king. That’s all that matters.”

She rose and went toward her brother. “But he’s so old, and he’s a Scot. I don’t know anything about these people, except that their land is harsh and cold and wet, and they wear those odd clothes. Surely there must be somebody else, a Norman nobleman, who—”

“You misunderstand, Marianne,” Nicholas replied with a coldness that chilled her to the marrow of her bones. “The agreement has already been made, the contract signed. Hamish Mac Glogan will be a powerful ally, and I need allies here.”

He spoke as if she was something for him to use as necessary, no more to him than the brazier beside him.

Anguish filled her as she saw not a brother who loved her, but a man who would do anything to fulfill his own plans.

“The wedding will be in a se’en night,” he announced.

So harsh, so cold, so cruel.

Seven nights, and she would be married to that old Scot and forced to live in this wilderness forever.

“Nicholas, I’ll willingly marry any man you like, as long as he’s a Norman. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”

“Yes, it is. I told you, Marianne, the agreement has been made, and there’s an end to it. Since I’m your oldest male relative, you have to do as I say.”

Her dismay and disappointment fled, to be replaced by firm resolution. This was her life, her future, in the balance. If no one else would look out for her interests, she must.

“I have rights, Nicholas. I learned all about them in the convent. Father Damien told us we had to agree to our betrothal. A woman can’t be forced into marriage. It’s against the law of the church.”

Nicholas looked utterly unimpressed. “The Reverend Mother told me you were headstrong and selfish. I see she wasn’t exaggerating. No wonder she was relieved to be rid of you.”