Julie Garwood: The Wedding

"I may never voice my opinions?" she asked.

"When others who follow me are present, you may not," he qualified. "When we are alone, you may do whatever you wish."

"I wish to go home."

"That isn't possible."

She let out a sigh. Home meant facing her father, and until someone explained the truth to him, she honestly didn't think she wanted to see him again.

"I'll give you my promise just as soon as you promise you'll explain to my father."

"I won't ever bend to you."

"Nor I, to you."

He ignored her outrageous boast. "However, because you're so obviously afraid of me and fear your future, I've decided to make this one exception. If I ever see your father, I'll explain what happened."

She wanted clarification. "But you won't go into detail about the proposals. Even though I was just a child, Father still might not understand."

"I won't mention your proposals."

Her smile was radiant. "Thank you."

He pointedly looked down at her hand resting on top of his. In her gratitude, she was now patting him.

He couldn't resist teasing her. "It isn't appropriate for you to show me your affection in front of the English soldiers."

She snatched her hand away. "I was not showing you affection."

"Aye, you were."

He liked having the last word. She saw him smile as he turned away from her. What a twisted sense of humor he had. Were all the people who lived in the Highlands as strange as this one? Brenna fervently hoped not. How in heaven's name was she ever going to get along with such peculiar people?

Good Lord, she was already thinking about a future with the barbarian. What was happening to her? She should be trying to think of a way to get away from him instead of wondering what it would be like to live with him.

Her reaction to him was most puzzling. She'd felt relief and true appreciation when he'd promised to speak to her father, and yet she had absolutely no reason to trust he would keep his word.

There was only one possible reason for her odd behavior, she decided. Her mind had snapped. "He's made me as addled as Beatrice… Good God, Beatrice…"

She'd forgotten all about her lady's maid. The poor woman was probably quivering with terror in the bushes somewhere.

Brenna dismounted and went running back to her father's soldiers. They were standing now, silently replacing their weapons. None of them would look at her when she called out to them, and so she moved closer.

Quinlan intercepted her by blocking her path. He didn't touch her, just stood in her way so she couldn't take another step. The other Highlanders had also moved forward to put themselves between her and her father's men.

If she hadn't known better, she would have believed they were actually trying to protect her from her very own escort. The idea was too ludicrous to consider, however, and she decided that they were simply being rude.

"I would like to speak to my father's soldiers."

Quinlan shook his head. "Your laird wouldn't like it."

He wasn't her laird; she was English, for the love of God and king, but she knew she wouldn't get what she wanted if she argued with him. She needed his cooperation, not his anger.

"I doubt your laird will mind at all," she said. "I'll only take a minute. I promise."

Quinlan reluctantly gave in. He moved to her side, clasped his hands behind his back, and said, "You may speak to them from here."

She didn't waste any time. "Harold, please don't forget Beatrice. She's hiding near the stream. I would appreciate it if you would take her back home."

Although Harold wouldn't look at her, he did nod agreement.

"Will you tell my parents not to worry?"

Harold mumbled something under his breath she couldn't quite make out. She tried to move closer so she could hear his whisper, but Quinlan put his arm out to stop her.

She gave the Highlander a good frown to let him know what she thought of his high-handed behavior and then turned back to Harold once again.

"What did you say?" she asked. "I couldn't quite hear you."

The soldier finally looked at her. "Your father will go to war over this atrocity, mi'lady. That is what I said."

Her heart felt as though it had just dropped into her shoes.

"No, no, he mustn't go to war over me. Make him understand, Harold."

She stopped when she heard the panic in her voice, took a deep breath, and then whispered, "I won't have anyone fighting because of me. Tell my father I wanted this marriage. I asked the Highlander to come for me."

"You wanted to marry MacNare?" Harold asked, obviously misunderstanding.

"No, no, I never wanted MacNare. I wanted…"

Dear God, she was so flustered, she couldn't remember the laird's name. "I wanted…"

She gave Quinlan a frantic look. "What is the name of your laird?" she whispered.

"Connor MacAlister."

"MacAlister," she called out. "I wanted MacAlister. Please remind my father he met my future husband a long time ago."

"It's time to leave, mi'lady," Quinlan advised, for he'd just spotted Connor watching from the edge of the clearing. The laird didn't look at all pleased with what he was seeing.

"One last request," she pleaded.

She didn't give Quinlan time to argue with her. "Harold, tell my father not to come after me. I want him to celebrate my…"

"Your what, mi'lady?"

She could barely get the words out without choking. "My happiness."

She ran back to her horse and was already settled in the saddle by the time Connor reached her side. He sat atop a huge black stallion that looked as mean as his master.

She made the mistake of looking up, and promptly dropped her reins in reaction to the anger she saw in his eyes. She quickly lowered her head and pretended to be terribly busy getting comfortable so he wouldn't know she was deliberately trying to shield herself from his temper.

He wasn't about to be ignored. Did she actually want him to believe she was trying to protect him from her father's wrath? The thought was both insulting and laughable.

He forced his mount closer until Brenna's leg was pressed tight against his, and then demanded her full attention by taking hold of her chin and forcing her to look at him.

"Why?"

She knew what he was asking and didn't even try to pretend she didn't. "War means death," she answered.

He shrugged. "For some men it does," he agreed.

"Even one man would be too many," she explained. "I don't want anyone to fight because of me. Father has a large army, but it would be a hardship and a nuisance for him to come after me. He would insist on leading his soldiers, and I cannot help but worry you might…"

"I might what?"

"Kill him."

He was appeased. She wished she had the strength in her to push him off his horse. He was a proud and arrogant man, and she had used both flaws to her benefit by letting him assume she believed he would be the superior warrior on the battlefield. While it was true that he was physically superior-because he was younger, bigger, and obviously stronger-her father would make up for the differences by having staggering numbers on his side. It would be a slaughter, all right, and Connor MacAlister would probably end up on the bottom of the pile of wounded.

Why had she lied to Harold, then? Honest to heaven, she didn't know. She had just sealed her fate with her father, because she knew that as soon as his vassal gave him her message, he would go into a rage. He wouldn't be at all reasonable or bother to take the time to think it through and realize she couldn't possibly have planned this trickery. Not only did she not have the heart for it, she hadn't had the time.

Papa was going to blame her, and then he would turn his back on her and never acknowledge her as his daughter again. But he would stay alive to hate her. And no one would die.