Julie Garwood: The Bride

Henry obviously didn't understand the bond of blood ties. Both Edgar and Alec believed England's king saw only the possibility of another strong ally in his back pocket. He'd misjudged the Kincaid, though, for Alec would never turn his back on Scotland or her king, no matter what the incentives.

Daniel, Alec's friend since childhood days, and soon to be named laird over the neighboring clan Ferguson, had also been ordered to take an English bride.

Daniel, too, had spent a tiring month in London. He'd found the duty as unpleasant as Alec had, and was just as anxious to get home.

Both warriors had ridden at a furious pace since dawn, pausing only twice to rest their mounts. They fully expected to spend little more than an hour or two at Jamison's holding. That would surely be time enough, they'd reasoned, to eat a full supper, choose their brides, marry them if there was a priest in residence, and then be on their way.

They didn't want to spend another night on English soil. It mattered not if their brides had other inclinations. The women were simply property, after all, and neither Daniel nor Alec considered the wants of a bride significant in the least.

They would do as they were told, and that was that.

It was Alec who won the privilege of taking first choice by tossing the caber farther afield than his friend. In truth, however, neither man had cared enough to give the feat of strength his all.

Aye, it was an errand they were completing, and a damn nuisance to be sure.

The devil and his disciple arrived at Baron Jamison's holding three days ahead of schedule.

Beak was the first to catch sight of the Scottish warlords, the first to give them those fitting names. He was sitting on the top rung of the ladder used to reach the loft, thinking to himself that it was time he had a proper snooze, for it was getting on high afternoon, after all, and he'd been working steadily in the warm spring sun without letup since his nooning meal. Still and all, Lady Mary had dragged her sister, Jamie, off to the south meadow and he really should chase after them just to make certain they weren't getting into mischief. When Jamie was nagged into putting her chores aside, the streak of wildness sometimes got the better of her nature. It was a fact that she became too uninhibited for her own good, Beak thought. Yet another reason she needed a strong man to watch over her. Why, his sweet Jamie could talk a thief out of his stealings if her mind was set on the task, and God only knew what troubles she'd talked Mary into stirring up.

Just thinking about all the possibilities sent a shiver down Beak's spine. Yes, he'd have to go after the wild pair, all right.

He let out a loud yawn and started down the ladder. He was on the second rail from the top when he spotted the two giants riding toward him.

Beak almost lost his balance. He knew his mouth gaped open just like a baby sparrow's waiting on food from his mama, but Beak couldn't seem to get it closed tight. He stopped himself from making a hasty sign of the cross, though, and was thankful the warriors couldn't possibly hear his knees knocking together when he finally managed the rest of the climb down.

He could feel his heart slamming inside his chest. Beak reminded himself he had Scottish blood running through his veins, though it came from his ancestors in the civilized Lowlands. He also tried to remember he'd never been caught judging a man solely on his appearance. Neither reminder soothed his initial reaction to the giants watching him so intently.

Beak started shivering. He excused his cowardice by telling himself he was just an ordinary man, he was, and the sight of these two warriors would give the apostles goose-bumps.

The one Beak thought of as the disciple was tall and burly with wide shoulders, hair the color of rusty nails, and green-as-the-ocean eyes. The man had grim wrinkles at the corners of those chilling eyes, too.

The disciple was a big man, aye, yet seemed puny in comparison to the other.

The one Beak thought of as the devil had hair as bronze as his skin. He was a good head taller than his companion and had not a bit of softening fat on his unforgiving Herculean frame. When Beak stumbled forward to get a better look at his face, he immediately wished he hadn't made the effort.

There was a bleak coldness there, lurking in those brown eyes. That gaze could frost a summer bed of clover, Beak thought with growing despair.

So much for his foolish plan to save his Jamie. Beak decided he'd go to hell cheering like a happy man before he let either of these two barbarians near her.

"My name's Beak and I'm stable master here," he finally blurted out, hoping to give the impression there were other stablemen about so they'd think him important enough to converse with. "You're early," he added with a nervous nod.

"Else the family would be lined up outside in their finery waiting to give you a proper greeting."

Beak paused for air, then waited for a reply to his remarks. His wait proved to be in vain and his eagerness quickly evaporated. He soon began to feel as important as a flea about to be swatted. It was unnerving, the way the two giants continued to stare down at him.

The stable master decided to try again. "I'll see to your mounts, milords, while you make your presence known to the household."

"We take care of our horses, old man."

It was the disciple who'd made that statement. His voice wasn't particularly pleasant, either. Beak nodded, then backed up several spaces to get out of their way. He watched the lords remove their saddles, listened as each spoke a word of praise in Gaelic to his mount. Their animals were handsome stallions, one brown, the other black, and Beak took notice that neither animal had a flaw… or a strap mark on its hind flanks.

A glimmer of hope was rekindled inside Beak's mind. He'd learned a long time ago that a man's true character could be discovered by the way he treated his mama and his horse. Baron Andrew's mount was riddled with deep lashings and if that wasn't proof enough that his theory was true, Beak didn't know what was.

"Have you left your soldiers waiting outside the walls, then?" Beak asked, speaking in Gaelic so they'd know he was friend, not foe.

The disciple looked pleased with his effort, for he actually smiled at the stable master. "We ride alone."

"All the way from London?" Beak asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Aye," the lord answered.

"With no one seeing to your backsides?"

"We don't need anyone else seeing to our protection," the lord answered. "That's an English inclination, not ours. Isn't that right, Kincaid?"

The devil didn't bother to answer.

"By what names are you called, milords?" Beak asked. It was a bold question he dared to ask, but the warriors weren't scowling at him any longer and that fact had given him courage.

The disciple turned the topic instead of answering. "You speak our language well, Beak. Are you Scottish, then?"

Beak's shoulders straightened with pride. "I am, with red hair afore it turned gray on me head."

"My name's Daniel, of the clan Ferguson. He's called Alec by those who know him well enough," he added with a nod toward the other warrior. "Alec is chieftain over the clan Kincaid."

Beak made a formal bow. "It's my humble pleasure to make your acquaintance," he announced. "I haven't spoken to a full-blooded Scotsman in so many years I've forgotten how to act," he added with a grin. "Forgot how big the Highlanders are, too. You gave me quite a start when I first spotted you, you did."

He opened the doors to two clean stalls adjacent to the entrance, saw to the feeding buckets, the water as well, and then tried to engage the two men in further conversation.

"'Tis the truth you're three days early," he said. "I'm thinking to myself the household will be in an uproar."