Page 11 of Bride of the Sinful Laird
He failed to mention he had no intention of taking his place as the Laird of the MacNeacails.
As the hours wore on and they drew closer to their destination, Edmund steered the birlinn to hug the rugged coastline where small settlements could occasionally be seen. These tiny villages were often the prey of the corsairs, but today there was no sign of the raiders. Nevertheless, Edmund kept his men on high alert. Their passenger, the Lady Annora, was a prize that would be fought over by any who pursued her, from the Barbary pirates, to her thwarted husband-to-be, and her father, who was a laird.
Edmund was under no illusion that Annora’s father would not raise hell to find her.
Leaving Lionel in charge of the rudder, he took a bowl of cheese and bannocks to Annora in the bow. She was curled in her cloak, peacefully asleep, her head on a pillow. She started and her eyes shot open as he bent to place the meal beside her.
“Och, ye scared me half tae death. I thought ye were one of the devil’s Barbary pirates.” She fanned her face with her hand and hauled in a deep steadying breath.
He pshawed. “Nay lass, ye’re dreaming. I’m nae wearing a turban on me head.”
She managed a laugh and nodded. “’Tis well ye’re nae one of them fer I’ve nay wish tae dive overboard into the cold sea again.”
She had combed her hair and made a thick yellow braid that hung halfway down her back. Little tendrils framed her heart-shaped face. She was turning into a beauty. Something twitched in his groin as his eyes roamed her bonnie face.
By God, she’s a bonnie sight.
“Ye look almost presentable. I daresay a scrub and polish will see ye returning tae yer human shape in nae time.”
Her mouth was too full of cheese and bannocks for her to make any kind of response, other than a muffled grunt.
When the craggy peaks of Scorrybreac at last came into view, it was time to ready themselves for their arrival. By now thesmirrthat had followed them all day had turned into heavy rain. Save for the sheltering Annora, all those on board the birlinn, despite throwing on their hooded leather cloaks, were dripping wet by the time they sailed into the little inlet nearest the castle.
Another smaller birlinn had been dispatched the night before to take the news of their impending arrival to the MacNeacail Castle and Edmund was expecting there would be someone present at the landing to guide them.
He was not prepared for the large welcoming party that braved the rain to greet them.
A tall, older man stepped forward, one hand outstretched in greeting, the other clutching a steadying walking-stick. Despite his appearance of frailty, his thinning gray hair and grizzled beard, the man held an air of quiet command.
“Tormod MacNeacail at yer service, sir.” He man bowed deep from the waist.
Edmund bowed and took his hand. “Edmund Sinclair.” He turned to Annora who stood beside him, head up, looking every inch the daughter of a laird. “And this is me wife, the Lady Annora.” He made no mention of her name although it was customary for lasses to keep to their father’s names even after marriage.
For a moment Tormod looked taken aback, but he gathered himself politely and took Annora’s hand to his lips.
“I am honored tae make yer acquaintance Lady Annora.” He straightened. “I beg yer pardon, I wasnae aware ye were married, sir.”
Edmund summoned his best smile, striving to attain the air of a newlywed lad. “Think naything of it. ‘Tis only recently the lady and I have married.”
A tall, slender young woman with a length of fair braids almost hidden under a white linen veil, was standing close behind Tormod. He turned and beckoned her forward. As she stepped up to take her place beside Tormod she barely glanced at Edmund, but held her head high, keeping her gaze distant. Her even, aristocratic, features were marred by a frown and a downturned mouth.
Clearly this lass is nae impressed with me appearance here.
“This is the Lady Tyra, yer half-sister?—
Before Tormod could get out the words hiding on his tongue, a stern-faced man stepped forward and stood beside the lass and took her arm in a most proprietary manner.
Tormod introduced the newcomer. “And this fine lad is her betrothed, the Laird Harris MacDonald of Sleat.”
Edmund greeted the man in a friendly manner, bowing from his waist, while the MacDonald merely dipped his head in a show of superiority.
Ah. It seems me presence here is doubly unwelcome.
Edmund studied his half-sister’s betrothed. He was undoubtedly a well-built man, with chiseled, fine-boned features. His voice as he greeted Edmund was smooth and carefully modulated, his short fair hair cut short and close to his head in the English style. His clothes were well cut, his jerkin of the finest leather and his great kilt had been woven with much skill, unlike most of the rough-woven cloth of the islands. He was altogether a very fine specimen of a high-born laird.
Edmund’s intuition stood to attention at once, sending him warnings, loud and clear, that both his half-sister and this Laird of the MacDonalds resented his presence here. This was something he would need to get to the bottom of if his stay at Scorrybreac was to be harmonious.
He managed to keep a polite smile plastered on his face.
