LITMIR.BIZ

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his brother Henri.

      Rob had no wish to be in this place, yet its peculiar scents and incredible beauty fascinated him nonetheless. He decided he must dwell upon the favorable aspects of this journey instead of his dread.

      Would his Highland bride hold true with her surroundings? Would she differ so greatly from the women he had explored in the past? Would she beguile, or repel him? Or perhaps do both at once, as did her homeland?

      The sharp blade of anticipation sliced through his apprehension. While that did not banish it altogether, it certainly made it more manageable. The woman might make all this worthwhile. Thomas had promised she was quite beautiful as well as congenial.

      He inhaled a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and shook his head to clear it of the useless musing. Whether he liked the lass or not, she would be his wife. His family and Thomas would cease worrying about him then. Rob needed to get an heir from some woman. If he could not have the lady meant for him, he might as well take this one since Tom had gone to so much trouble.

      His man, Newton, reined his cob and waited until Rob rode abreast. “Craigmuir’s just through yon hills, milord.” He pointed ahead, off to the right. “Would you care to rest? Tidy yourself?” Newt made a scrubbing motion on his chest and cocked his brow. “Your bride awaits!”

      The merry grin Newton wore told Rob how begrimed he looked after a week’s travel in the same garb.

      “There’s a burn up ahead we must cross to get there.”

      Rob nodded and rode past Newton. Their mounts picked up the pace to a trot, scenting the water.

      His father had taught him that in any confrontation, Rob should appear as though he already conquered the world. Thus far, the advice had served him well. It would today.

      “He comes! He comes!” cried the sentry on the wall. Corby was all but leaping about with glee as he pointed toward the south.

      Mairi MacInness refused to play overeager. Especially when everyone else at Craigmuir acted as though Christmas mummers were expected. She supposed they had good enough reason for their excitement, with the feast and merrymaking imminent. For them it would be a grand holiday. As for herself, she would reserve judgment until she saw whether she had any good cause to celebrate.

      Her father joined her on the steps to the hall. “Best you wait inside, dove,” he advised her. “I would meet him first.”

      Mairi complied, but she did not go far, certainly not to her chamber to await being summoned. Instead, she went to the small chamber her father used to tally his accounts and store his books. From there, she would be able to see all that took place within the hall without being seen.

      She wanted no surprises. If the man proved loathsome, this would allow her time to prepare a proper reaction when they were introduced.

      While waiting, Mairi once again straightened the neck of her chemise, smoothed her skirts, rearranged the belt, her chatelaine and the simple scabbard that held her eating knife. Satisfied that she appeared as presentable as possible, she then kept avid watch upon the hall door.

      Her eyes grew wide with wonder when at last she saw him enter. Mercy, he did look impressive. Taller even than her sire, he was, and quite a contrast to her cousin Ranald. She had hoped never to see that one again. He’d arrived late, but there he came now, hurrying to catch up to her father and the newcomer as they crossed the hall.

      Unable to quell her curiosity, desperate for a closer look at the stranger who had come to wed her, Mairi decided she would risk appearing eager after all.

      They had halted at one side of the raised dais. Mairi approached just behind and to the right of her sire and remained silent and unobtrusive, as was proper. Her time would come, and none too soon to suit her.

      Baron MacBain’s emissary had arrived to make the arrangements two months prior to this. She had met him briefly, but had not known why the man was here until he had departed. After informing her rather curtly of the marriage plans, her sire had said nothing more on the subject no matter how she had plagued him about it.

      Mairi had prepared herself to refuse the match if it was not to her liking, no matter that her father had already arranged her wedding down to the last ribbon on her gown.

      Now she forgave him that, for it seemed he had done right well by her after all. Her mother would be proud of Da’s arrangements and of Mairi’s biddable acceptance, had she lived.

      What a pleasant surprise that the intended was such a young and comely man, Mairi thought. Since she was four and twenty, a good decade past the age his kind usually sought in a bride, she had fully expected to meet a groom in his dotage, minus most of his hair and teeth.

      That the man chosen was not a Highlander only counted in his favor. Leaving this isolated place would pose little hardship as far as Mairi was concerned. All her life she had craved adventure and travel to new places, even while thinking how unlikely she was to experience either.

      She would miss her father, of course. Though most of the time the laird scarcely gave her more attention than he did his hounds, she knew he loved her well. Otherwise why would he trouble himself to chastise her roundly now and again and caution her to be more thoughtful and prudent?

      Since she had never known her mother, he must feel obliged to make a proper lady of his only child. Mairi was glad he cared enough to bother.

      At the moment Da headed her list of favorite people simply because he had chosen such a fine husband for her.

      Aside from the occasional raids by the neighbors, life at Craigmuir proved exceedingly dull. Even those events possessed a sameness. Ride near, steal a few head of kine and ride out. Then her father’s men would retaliate. Other than patching up the few minor wounds acquired and enduring the curses when a raid failed, none of it affected her own routine.

      Now here stood her hope for great change. His light brown, sun-streaked hair had been neatly groomed, combed away from his wide brow. His dark gray eyes seemed to miss nothing, though he did not turn his head and gape as some did upon entering the cavernous hall. He must be used to even larger and better.

      Mairi thought so because his exquisitely embroidered woolen tunic and tightly woven hose seemed richer, and his excellent weaponry more costly, than her father’s. Or any other she had ever seen, for that matter.

      Silver spurs and the chain he wore marked him as a knight as well as a noble, but she had already known that about him. One of the few details she’d been granted was his title of baron.

      And how seriously noble he was. She smiled in welcome from her place just behind the laird, hoping for a ready response that would signify friendliness. Yet judging by his countenance, the man might have been approaching a hangman’s noose. He gave neither her nor her smile any notice whatsoever. Of course, he did not know yet who she was, Mairi reasoned.

      She clenched her teeth and maintained the smile, silently determined to not judge the man too swiftly. He must be as worried as she was about this first meeting.

      Her father had yet to notice she was present, for she stood out of his sight. He had just greeted her cousin and was making introductions.

      “Lord Robert MacBain, Baron of Baincroft, meet my kinsman and chosen tanist, Sir Ranald MacInness.” He inclined his head toward their cousin who would be laird of the MacInness after him.

      Ranald was a tall, stalwart man of thirty years who seemed cursed with a perpetual smirk. The sin-dark eyes examined their guest as intently as the man’s silvery-gray gaze regarded him.

      Though Ranald bore the sword, spurs and other trappings of a knight, Mairi knew he possessed none of the inner qualities required of one. Chivalry, humility and honor were unknown to him. She wondered whether that would be obvious to one who had never met him before. Lord MacBain’s handsome face remained so unexpressive, she could not tell what he thought.

      “Sir Ranald,” MacBain acknowledged gruffly, her cousin’s name sounding foreign upon his tongue.

      He

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