Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore

than a guard to dissuade her from escaping, if a marriage against her will was the alternative. She was just as determined as ever to get away, and no unsympathetic brother, or apparently sympathetic Scotsman—even one who’d kissed with such passion and who’d haunted her dreams every night—was going to stop her. Unfortunately, time was running out, and it was but two days before she was to be wed.

      She’d considered trying to speak to the priest Nicholas had sent for before the ceremony, to tell him that she was being made to marry, but Nicholas would probably make that impossible.

      The only other plan she’d come up with was to feign illness on her wedding day. Yet Nicholas might suspect her of trickery, and insist she attend nonetheless.

      Polly shifted nervously. “He looks like something straight from hell.”

      Marianne couldn’t disagree with that. “Pour me some wine, will you, Polly? It’s warm today.”

      Indeed, it was warm enough to make her think this terrible country might actually have a summer, after all.

      Polly set down her work and did as Marianne asked. As she handed the goblet to Marianne, Herman suddenly moved, bending down to pat the head of an inquisitive, and very ugly, brown boar hound that was sniffing the fur wrapped about the German’s stocky legs.

      Polly started with a jerk, sending wine slopping over the edge of the goblet and onto Marianne’s embroidery.

      “Oh, no!” she cried, immediately setting down the wine and starting to mop the spill with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined it! I’m so sorry, my lady!”

      “It’s all right,” Marianne hastened to assure her. “You only got a little on the corner.”

      Polly didn’t seem to hear, either because she was too upset, or because of the noise of the workmen outside. They must be doing something on the wall behind the hall, perhaps finishing the merlons.

      “It’s nothing to be so upset about. Truly,” Marianne said soothingly. She slid a glance at the hulking German, who was still petting the dog and muttering in his native language. “He scares me, too.”

      The young woman stopped dabbing, raised her red-rimmed eyes and sniffled. “You aren’t angry with me, my lady?”

      Marianne shook her head and gave Polly a conspiratorial smile. “Once, before I came here, I spilled a whole…” She searched for the right word. “Bucket? No, carafe,” she amended. “I spilled a whole carafe of wine on the Reverend Mother’s head.”

      Polly stared, her mouth an astonished O.

      Marianne nodded and leaned back in her chair. “I did,” she confirmed. “The Reverend Mother was very angry. She said I must have been sent by the devil to trouble her, and if I didn’t want to burn in hell, I had to pray for forgiveness twice a day and…”

      Again she searched her memory for a word. Not finding it, she acted out dipping a cloth and moving it in a circle.

      “Scrub?” Polly offered.

      “Yes, that’s it!” Marianne cried. “Scrub all the floors for a week.”

      Polly’s eyes grew round as wheels. “You never had to wash floors!”

      “I did,” Marianne confirmed. “So what is a little wine on my sewing? It isn’t very good anyway.” She studied the stain that was about the size of a coin. “That might even make it look better.”

      Polly smiled tremulously. “I think you sew very well, my lady. And the colors are very pretty, the red especially. It’s as bright as holly berries.”

      Marianne knew flattery when she heard it.

      She didn’t sew well because she hated it. She’d only started this because she wanted some excuse to talk to Polly, for a servant knew many things about the running of the household, such as who would be where, when. Polly was also familiar with the countryside and the people who lived outside the castle, as well as the roads leading away from Beauxville.

      As Marianne went back to working on her ugly embroidery that looked like miscellaneous blobs of color linked by green strings instead of intertwined roses and vines, two male servants came into the hall and set new torches in the sconces in the wall. A middle-aged serving woman swept out the hearth, leaving some coals at one side to kindle the fire anew in the evening.

      Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne caught a movement to her right. Another servant laying rushes.

      Whatever for? They’d just been changed yesterday.

      There was something odd about that man….

      Marianne stiffened and her hand went instinctively to her lips as the memory of the Scot’s kiss returned full force.

      What in the name of the saints was he doing here? And he had to be up to no good—again—to come in disguise. She should call out the guards or summon Herman.

      Yet if she did and the Scot was imprisoned, who knew what he might say to Nicholas? He might reveal that she’d been alone with him. Then Nicholas would surely lock her in her chamber until the wedding, with Herman to guard the door. She’d have absolutely no chance of escape.

      She had to get that Scot away from here before anybody realized who he was.

      She hastily slipped her needle through her linen and addressed Polly, doing her best to sound as if everything were perfectly normal and there was no need for alarm. “I think I’ve had enough sewing for today. Please go to the laundry and see if my shifts are dry.”

      Polly rose, reaching for the tray bearing the wine. “Yes, my lady.” She sighed. “I wish you weren’t leaving here so soon. Only two more days, and you’ll be off to Menteith.”

      “I’ll miss you, too, Polly,” Marianne truthfully replied. “Now hurry along. I really ought to begin packing. Oh, and see if there’s some extra linen to line the chest, please.”

      “Yes, my lady,” Polly replied before scurrying away.

      When she was out of sight, Marianne got to her feet. “You there, with the rushes,” she called out. “Come here.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      AT MARIANNE’S SUMMONS, the Scot slowly straightened. “Yes, my lady,” he said humbly, and in a broad Yorkshire accent.

      As he walked toward her, she couldn’t understand how he’d tricked the guards at the gate. It should have been obvious this man was no peasant, and not only because of his powerful build. He had the same warrior’s walk as her brother, a rolling gait of unexpected and lithe grace.

      When the Scot came to a halt in front of her, she gestured at her embroidery frame.

      “Pick that up and come with me,” she commanded, lifting her wooden sewing box. She started toward the curved staircase that led to the bedchambers, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the Scot followed her.

      Herman pushed himself off the wall, lumbering after them like a bear just waking from the winter. As always, though, the German halted at the foot of the stairs. Her brother’s bedchamber was between hers and the hall, so Herman went no further during the day or the night. The only other entrance to the apartments was at the opposite end of the upper corridor and led to the courtyard. It was always guarded by two men, and had been since her arrival there, lest somebody slip in from the yard and gain entry to the hall, or assassinate her brother in his bed.

      “So, he’s set his hound to watch you,” the Scot said softly in French as he followed her up the stairs. “Does he know about the other—?”

      “No. You have nothing to fear about that.”

      “The only thing I feared is that he’d discovered our meeting and taken his anger out on you. I’ve come back to make sure you’re not suffering for that. Or anything else.”

      “I’m