The Wrong Highland Bridegroom: A Novella (4 page)

“Ye were amazing,” said Effie as the clans walked back out to the field.

“Thank ye,” answered Connor. As her supposed betrothed, their families were spending time together over the midday meal, though her time had been completely taken with female conversation while the men stayed at the other end of the solar and talked about whatever men talk about.

“How do ye like yer chances wi’ the sword?” asked Effie as they emerged from the keep into the bright sunlight of a fresh spring day.

Several rather large Highlanders sauntered by. Connor shook his head. “I prefer a bow, I fear, but I shall try my utmost.”

“Good luck to ye. And careful not to hurt yerself.” She may not wish to wed him, but she certainly didn’t care to see him injured. The others were walking up to the viewing stands and Effie glanced around to see if Malcolm was by any chance in sight.

“Will ye by cheering for me this time I wonder?”

Effie spun to find Malcolm standing behind her. “Sir Malcolm! I wish ye the verra best.”

“Do ye now?” He glanced around and though there were many people around, Effie’s kin had all gone around to the stands and it appeared no one was watching. He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the drapes, under the grandstand.

“What do ye think ye are about?” cried Effie.

“Wheesht now! I missed ye last night, and I need a boon to help me win this time.” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“I shall scream and they will all come to rescue me!” declared Effie.

“Ye could. Or ye could kiss me instead.” His eyes sparkled and he wrapped his other arm around her and pressed her close to him.

Effie’s senses whirled. He was big and warm, and he smelled entirely of whiskey and man. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her eyes half open. She was intoxicated by his mere touch.

He kissed her, hard, his tongue demanding she open her lips. She did, tentatively, and his tongue thrust inside her mouth. It was invasive and wet, and not at all what she thought her first kiss would be like. She pulled back instinctually.

Malcolm laughed and released her. “Ye’ll get used to it, my pretty maid. First kiss, eh? At least ye started wi’ the best.” He pulled back the drapes and strode out from behind the stands.

Effie took a few deep breaths. Her first kiss. Her first glorious kiss with a man who loved her. She was not entirely certain about the experience, but it was without a doubt her first kiss. She smoothed her skirts, settling her nerves, and stepped out from behind the drape, right into Connor.

He frowned at her and her cheeks blazed with heat. “Are ye all right?” he asked.

“Aye.” She paused but could not think of any sensible excuse for why she should be standing behind the drapes under the stands.

“I saw Malcolm come out o’ here and I feared he had dragged off one of the serving wenches.”

Now her cheeks truly burned. “Nay I…I wished to speak to him in private.”

Connor folded his arms across his chest.

She leaned forward and whispered, “I think he may be the one for me.”

“I see.” His face did not lose the frown. Clearly he did not approve of her choice, but it was not his decision after all. “I should join the others.” He turned and stomped off to the field and Effie walked up to take her place by Isabelle on the stands.

“This should be an interesting contest,” said Isabelle, acknowledging the contestants, unaware of what had just transpired.

“Aye, it will be,” said Effie, noting that Connor and Malcolm were giving each other a look of death. “Good thing the swords are blunted,” she muttered.

“I do hope so,” agreed Isabelle. “I would hate to see anyone injured.

Yet Effie feared this was not a sentiment shared by Sir Malcolm or Sir Connor. She watched with interest as the sword fighting commenced, several fights taking place at one time with judges determining the winner of each match. She cheered as Sir Malcolm easily defeated his first match. He attacked with force, skill, and strength. She would not wish to oppose him.

When it was Connor’s turn to fight, she leaned forward with anticipation. He was well suited for archery, but he was not as broad as many of the Highlanders. He stepped into the circle with a certain amount of caution and Effie feared he would be defeated in the first round. Yet he was able to defend himself as the other man attacked.

Time and again his opponent charged, and Connor deflected until the other man was tired and winded, while Connor appeared much as he had at the beginning. Connor took his time, but his moves were quick and his reach was long thanks to his tall stature. When he attacked, it was quick and decisive. The judge gave him the nod; he was the winner.

Effie clapped for his win but stifled a cheer as she noted the eyes of Sir Malcolm upon her.

The day progressed until the final four men were called to battle for the champion of the sword. Sir Malcolm was a favorite, and Effie was not surprised he was there, but Connor also was among the top four, proving that patience, speed, and skill could also be a lethal combination.

The four men drew straws to determine which would face each other. Malcolm and Connor were to battle. The crowd hushed as the two matches began. Effie only had eyes for Malcolm and Connor.

“Be careful; he starts fast,” whispered Effie, though of course Connor could not hear her.

At the signal, Malcolm charged at a full run with a yell that would cause most men to wet themselves in terror. Connor held his ground and deflected quickly, yet Malcolm stabbed with a knife as he passed. Connor ducked but still walked away holding his shoulder.

“Is that allowed?” asked Effie, even as the judge stopped the match and spoke to Malcolm, making him put down the knife.

“It is not allowed, but since this is the first time he has used a knife, he will be given a warning,” said Isabelle. “Still, I cannot say it is the conduct becoming of a knight.”

“Aye,” said Effie, too focused on the fight to say more.

Malcolm charged; Connor deflected. Malcolm swung; Connor ducked. Yet Malcolm was not tiring and Connor would need to do something more than defend himself to win this match. Malcolm charged again, and Connor not only deflected but also swung low, knocking Malcolm off his feet. The crowd cheered, but Malcolm rolled and came up swinging, hitting Connor hard on the same arm he had knifed before.

Effie wished to boo with some of the crowd, but she stifled it. Connor stumbled to his feet, rolled, and got up fast to deflect an attack. Yet Malcolm was expecting it and parried, coming down hard on Connor’s blade. Even from a distance, Effie could see the pain on his face. Connor’s arm was injured, and Malcolm would use his opponent’s weakness to best advantage.

Malcolm and Connor circled each other. Malcolm was talking to Connor; she could see his mouth move, but could not hear what he was saying. Suddenly, Connor attacked, locking swords and punching Malcolm in the face. Malcolm stumbled back, but the swing of the blow had left Connor off-balance, and Malcolm parried with his sword to Connor’s neck.

The judge rushed in. Indeed, for a moment, Effie thought Malcolm might kill Connor, but in a flash the moment was gone, the contestants stepped back, and they bowed to each other and to the lairds and ladies in the stands. Effie clapped in relief that they had not done each other serious harm. The judge awarded Sir Malcolm the win.

Effie was utterly spent from the anxiety of watching the two men battle, but there was one more match to determine the winner. Both Malcolm and Connor won their next fight, so Malcolm was awarded the prize as the winner and Connor accepted third place.

Malcolm saluted her and gave her a courtly bow. She accepted it with a curtsy of her own. She was Maid Marian after all. Connor watched Malcolm then turned to gaze at her, his face unreadable.

At Isabelle’s insistence, Effie went back to her quarters to prepare for the feast and rest a bit before the festivities began once more. She lay on her pallet, too many thoughts racing through her mind to rest. She pondered the reactions of both Malcolm and Connor, and when that left her mind in a puzzle, she turned her attention to fretting over her sister Elyne and whether she was safe out there in the wilderness.

A ghillie brought her word that Lady Maclachlan wished for an audience. Effie groaned. Audibly. Much to the surprise of the ghillie.

“Sorry,” said Isabelle. “Indigestion. Tell Lady Maclachlan I shall be there shortly.” Though she would rather have done almost anything else.

The trouble with maintaining this charade until they both found spouses of their choosing was pretending a kinship with his mother. Lady Maclachlan was a kindly woman, one she did not wish to hurt.

Effie knocked on the door to Lady Maclachlan’s quarters and the unlatched door swung open. “Good day, Lady Maclachlan,” called Effie.

“Aye, come in, child.” Lady Maclachlan beckoned her into the large room, her voice coming from behind the gold and burgundy bed curtains.

“Lady Maclachlan?” Effie peeked into the curtains to find Lady Maclachlan attending to her son, who was lying on top of the bed. His shirt was removed and his upper right arm was wrapped in a bandage.

“Ah good, ye are here now, lassie. I knew ye would want to care for Connor yerself.” Lady Maclachlan gave her a smile that managed to be both mischievous and mothering. Connor, on the other hand, gave her a look that could sour milk.

“I dinna ken—” began Effie.

“Here now, take a seat on the bed.” Lady Maclachlan motioned beside Connor and Effie obligingly climbed up. “Be good now.” Lady Maclachlan grinned and shut the curtains, leaving Connor and Effie together on the bed with considerably more privacy than two unmarried people should ever have. Of course, everyone expected a wedding within days.

“Are ye hurt?” Effie asked tentatively.

“Nay,” Connor growled.

“Good,” said Effie. She tried not to look at him, but since he had turned his head away, she took the opportunity to admire his bare chest. He was a tall, lean man, with rippling muscles. Sir Connor was undeniably attractive, she was fair enough to admit it, but he was clearly in no mood to receive her. She paused a moment, waiting to see if he wished to speak, but he said nothing.

“I am sorry to trespass on yer privacy. I shall let ye rest.” Effie shifted to leave.

“Is that the man ye have chosen for yerself?” Connor’s eyes blazed into hers.

“Sir Malcolm?” Effie asked, wishing she could keep the heat from her cheeks.

“Aye. Is he to be yer man?”

“I…I am no’ certain my feelings. But I do wish to have a man who desires to be wi’ me.”

Connor folded his arms over his chest.

“Ye dinna approve.”

“No’ my place to say.”

“Ye’re right about that at least.” Effie folded her arms across her chest.

They sat in silence.

“I should get dressed,” said Connor and sat up, grimacing as he did.

“Ye are sore.”

“Nay.”

“Aye, ye are, daft man. And I ken how to help ye. I have many brothers, many active brothers. My sister-in-law is a healer and makes a balm to soothe sore muscles. It is used often since I have so many.”

“Sore muscles?”

“Brothers! Ye wait here.” Effie bounded off the tall bed and ran out to find Isabelle. The jar of balm was quickly obtained, and she ran back with the prize, wondering for a moment why she should help Connor, who had decided to treat her with mute disapproval. Yet she recognized Malcolm had not played entirely fair by striking Connor with a knife, and somehow she felt she should make amends for this slight.

Effie strode into the room carrying the jar and entered the curtain, joining Connor on the bed. Her pulse pounded with the nervous thrill of traveling down forbidden paths, sitting on a bed utterly alone with a man she did not intend to take as her husband. She banished such inopportune thoughts from her mind.

“Here now, this will help.” She paused with a sudden realization. Was she truly going to massage this balm into his naked flesh?

Connor was having a miserable day. Unlike other young men, he did not relish spending his day being battered about at the lists. If his mother had won the argument, he would not have been allowed to train for war at all. It was not until his father pointed out to her that a lack of training would make Connor vulnerable that his mother had paid for expensive private tutors who trained him in the art of swordplay, emphasizing the defensive arts.

Men like Sir Malcolm, however, had been trained from birth in the art of causing as much pain and suffering to his fellow man as possible. Malcolm was a behemoth of a man. Walking onto the field, Connor had felt much like David facing Goliath. He was pleased to have held out against him for as long as he had.

It would have been better, strategically speaking, had he not punched the man in the nose. Doing so tilted him off balance and allowed the bastard to win. Yet the satisfaction of hitting the man was so great, he could not bring himself to regret it.

He was surprised at how easy it had been for Malcolm to goad him. At first Malcolm had started insulting his father and his clan. Connor ignored him. It was standard practice to attempt to raise the ire of your opponent by insult, thus baiting him into doing something stupid and losing the match.

Malcolm had then taken to insulting his mother. Connor again ignored it. His mother would not thank him for losing his head and getting hurt in the attempt to avenge her honor. It was not until Malcolm had insulted Effie, bragging at how he had taken her first kiss and insinuating he had taken more, that Connor, in an utterly uncharacteristic show of blind fury had attacked, punching the large man in the nose. The look of surprise and pain on Malcolm’s face was reward enough. Connor smiled a little with the remembrance of it.

Yet the truth of Malcolm’s taunts ruined any good humor that may have arisen from breaking his nose. Effie had made it painfully clear she had chosen Sir Malcolm Douglas of all men. Connor could not think of a man he liked less.

Connor shifted on the bed and groaned. He had only entered the games because Effie had suggested it. Fool that he was, he planned to win Effie’s affection through feats of skill in the tournament. Stupidity being its own reward, all he had to show for it was a cut on the arm and bruises up and down his body.

It would be simpler to let her go her own way. Yet he felt obligated to David Campbell. The man had given his sister to Connor’s care. Connor did not realize securing the marriage, one that was already arranged, would prove to be so difficult. Connor sighed. He knew he was acting on more than just obligation. There was something about Effie. The way she smiled, the purity of her heart, and yes, the way her body moved in a gown.

The door squeaked and he knew Effie had returned. He wished she would let him be. If she did not wish to wed him, so be it, but it was torture to lie on a bed so close to her and not wish for something more. And yet he was not about to send her away.

Effie appeared from the opening in the bed drapes and vaulted herself onto the bed. She was still wearing the silk gown that was laced tighter than he thought appropriate. Her beauty and her figure were astounding. He tried to blame being bashed about at the tournament for his light-headedness, but he feared it was her décolletage alone that made him see stars. She was glorious, but did not appear to be cognizant of this fact.

She held up a small jar. “Here now. This shall help.” She set the jar down and dipped two fingers into the balm. “Point to where it hurts.”

Where did he want her to rub those fingers? Oh no, he was not going to answer that. He had already been goaded into acting the fool enough for one day.

“Well, I can see a bruise here.” She scooted closer to him and pointed to a bruise on his arm above the bandage. She leaned over him to reach his arm, giving him a clear, wondrous look at her cleavage. He caught his breath.

“Sorry it might sting a little to begin but then it feels better.” She slowly, gently massaged it into his skin. The ointment did feel nice, providing some relief. Her fingers on his skin felt even better.

“Is it working?” she asked, her eyes a deep blue. A man could fall into those eyes and drown.

“Aye,” Connor grunted. He could say no more.

“Good. I see another bruise here.” She began to rub the ribs on the side of his chest. Her hair fell over her shoulder onto his naked stomach.

His body was responding to her in ways he hoped she did not notice. He was of a stoic nature, but she was tempting him beyond what he could bear. “’Tis enough. I thank ye.”

Effie turned to face him, a little crease between her eyebrows an indication she was displeased. “Surely, ye canna tell me ye are not aching.”

He was aching all right. But not in the way she meant. “I need to dress.” And she needed to leave him alone before he went mad. He sat up and unintentionally groaned. After multiple sword fights, his muscles were quite sore.

“Dinna be daft. I can see what ye’re about.”

Connor shifted his position. She could see?

“Ye dinna wish me to ken ye are hurting,” Effie continued. “Men and their foolish pride. Ye should’na be afraid to ask for help. Here now, I’m going to put some on yer arms and shoulders.” Effie grabbed the jar and crawled around behind him. Her fingers kneaded into the muscles of his back and shoulders, causing him to groan with pleasure.

“There now, I knew it would feel good.” Effie began to hum a happy tune.

Connor felt he had gone to heaven. The balm penetrated his aching muscles with a restorative tingle. Her fingers found all the places that were hurt and massaged away the pain. If he had been a cat, he would have purred. As it was, he was groaning like a man possessed.

When she was finished with him, he wanted to do nothing more than curl up with her in the bed.

“There now.” She crawled back around to see him. “Do ye feel better?”

Better? Much more than that. Connor put his hand over hers. “Marry me, Effie Campbell.”

Effie laughed, a happy sound. “I knew ye needed some salve for those muscles.”

“I am in earnest. Dinna find another man, marry me.” Connor had never been more serious.

Effie laughed again. “I see what ye are about. Ye want the salve for yer poor muscles. Here, I will let ye keep the jar.” She placed the jar in his hand.

“Thank ye,” he muttered as she jumped down from the large bed.

He got the jar. What he wanted was the girl.