Part 3 (1/2)
She moved about the room, searching for anything that might be used as a weapon. When she found nothing she entered the bedchamber. The flames of the fireplace cast the room in a soft glow.
A rough-hewn frame of logs supported a huge bed littered with pallets of down and fur. Meredith's gaze fastened on a shelf above the bed where a dozen swords and daggers lay strewn about.
She studied the weapons and selected a small dagger that would fit beneath the waistband of a gown. Clutching it to her, she ran a finger gingerly along the blade and was pleased to find it honed to perfection.
She glanced down at her waist. The filmy confection she was wearing could hardly conceal a weapon. She would have to hide the dagger until more suitable clothes were given her.
Kneeling beside the bed Meredith began searching among the linens for a place to hide her treasure. Her fingers encountered the softness of fur. She closed her eyes a moment, resting her cheek against the velvety smoothness. How drained she was. There had been so little time to rest in the past few days. First there had been her father's death and burial, and then the marriage plans. Marriage. She felt tears sting her lids. There had been no time to grieve for her father or for her husband of less than a minute. She pressed her cheek to the soft bed coverings and choked back a sob.
Though she was an excellent horsewoman, she had spent too many hours of the day and night in the saddle. Her muscles protested. How she yearned to rest her aching body. Oh for a few moments of respite from the fear that lay like a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. She sighed. A minute longer, and then she would get to her feet. She must be prepared when the barbarian came for her. She would rest only a short time. She could not afford to let down her guard. Against her will her lids flickered, then closed. With one hand holding the dagger, the other curled into a fist at her side, she slept.
Brice finished the last of the mutton and washed it down with a tankard of ale. His hunger abated, he leaned back and stretched out toward the warmth of the fire. The dogs at his feet stirred, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the sc.r.a.ps he tossed them, then settled back down to drowse.
He was in a foul mood. Now that he had eaten his fill, he would have to give some thought to the woman.
If he was cold, the woman had to be much colder. The thin gown had afforded her no protection from the chill of the night. But she had brazenly rejected his offer of a warm cloak. What arrogance. He felt the beginning of a grudging admission of respect before brus.h.i.+ng it aside. What foolishness.
She was a most unusual woman. Not once had she cried or complained.
And not once, when they had made brief stops, had she climbed from his horse and demanded, a moment of privacy.
A bride and a widow within minutes. And yet she had not shed a tear.
Remarkable.
What was he to do with her? His hand atop the table clenched and unclenched. It had not been part of his plan to steal the woman. In fact, it bothered him more than he cared to admit. But the fool who had defied him and fired the arrow would have to bear the guilt. The terms had been clearly stated. One among the MacKenzie clan had no conscience.
Across the table Jamie MacDonald watched in silence. He had learned to hold his tongue when Brice was in one of his black moods. Jamie did not see Brice's bouts of temper as a flaw. Any man who carried the weight of responsibilities that Brice Campbell carried had every right to moments of doubt. If someone had suggested that Jamie was turning a blind eye to Brice's faults, he would have fought them to the death. He adored Brice Campbell. His devotion to the man was absolute.
Brice looked up as the door was thrown open. The dogs rushed to the door and sniffed, eager to greet the visitors who carried a familiar scent. Angus Gordon, Brice's most trusted friend, burst into the room.
Behind him strode Hol- den Mackay, whose clan had recently joined forces with the Campbells in the feud with the MacKenzies.
One look at Angus's stormy features told Brice that something was very wrong.
”You've killed the wrong man, Brice.”
”What are you saying? You saw him fall at the altar, Angus. It was Gareth MacKenzie.”
”Nay, Brice.
”Twas his younger brother, Desmond. Hol- den and I stayed behind to learn the name of the one who had fired the arrow at you.”
”And did you?”
At Brice's arched brow Angus nodded.
”Gareth MacKenzie. He would be the only one fool enough to continue the feud after you had announced it over.” His tone lowered.
”Holden tried but could not get to him.