Chapter 28

Henry’s spies had reported there was to be another wedding at Cragenlaw—Nhaimeth’s. Brodwyn could hardly bring herself to believe the truth of what she had been told. Henry, however saw the occasion as an opportunity. Even more unbelievable, they had been informed folk would be travelling frae all over to attend the celebration—the McArthur’s allies.

What Henry saw as an opportunity—a blessing in disguise because of the way St Clair had openly walked through the castle gates when Rob wed Melinda—she saw as the makings of a trap. Certainly Henry had spent most of his days as Baron Wolfsdale fighting off marauding Scots—warriors frae the border country with a bare few Highlanders thrown into the pot to strengthen the mix. Highlanders en mass were a very different kettle of fish. She had only to think on Harald to ken the truth: Highlanders were wild, mad—would gladly give up their lives if it meant the death of one Sassenach. If for naught else, Henry might have made note of the wall built by Hadrian that Wolfsdale practically sat atop. If the Romans feared the Scots, what chance did a small force of Normans stand?

It mattered not, she was past caring what happened to some of Henry’s special cohorts—part of the secret society that still met frequently in the cavern. She hadn’t dared to mention what she’d seen. Life had taught her that although Henry had changed toward her, become what some might call loving, she had enough experience to know otherwise. The moment her usefulness to him dissolved, he wouldn’t care a jot what became of her. The farther they got into Scotland, the happier she would be. Already the sights and sounds had calmed her spirit and, with it, the bairn growing in her belly—a future Scot if she had aught to say about it.

The route they had taken had skirted Stirling, travelling well to the west where, thankfully, the weather had now cleared. The local Chieftains, their clansmen with them, had travelled East to Lothian to rally round Donald Bane, Malcolm Canmore’s youngest brother. Tonight, they had stopped in the Trossachs that lay in the centre of the land. The sights, scents and sounds reminded her of home. She stood by the loch edge listening to the water lapping while Henry’s men raised the tents the leaders would use. Henry’s of course was larger, as if meant for a receiving room, not simply a place to bed down for the night. Even for the common soldiers there was nae just wrapping a plaid around them and making a bed amongst the heather.

Beyond the loch, in the distance, she could see snow-capped mountains that wouldn’t lose their white caps until midsummer. They reminded her of Dun Bhuird and how daft she had been to throw it all away for a pinch of ambition handed down to her frae her father.

Nae matter what anybody thought, she had been born a Comlyn and would stay a Comlyn until she died, a truth emblazoned on her heart and soul.

“Brodwyn.” Hearing Henry call her name, she turned away frae the loch to watch him approach with a smile creasing his weathered cheeks. His hair had begun to turn silver around his ears. She told him it made him look distinguished. “Our accommodations are prepared. I’m ready for a bit of food and then an early night. I’m sure yer as tired as I am.”

“Yer quite correct, Henry. Today’s journey has somewhat tired me,” she replied, playing the game, responding to the words that were almost a code that he wanted to fuck her. So she followed him to the tent, lined with yellow so it looked sunny nae matter what the weather. She was well aware that, naked, her condition would show to the observant. That’s why since they crossed over into Scotland she had begun kneeling on all fours to let him take her frae behind. Men preferred to dominate, Henry especially. So while he pounded into her she moaned and groaned—thought of Scotland and how she would be home soon.

The would dine on quail, or fresh fish frae one of the many stony-bottomed burns they passed as they prepared to travel east, since St Clair as well as Henry were of the opinion that if they approached Cragenlaw frae the west, the McArthur wouldn’t suspect them as Normans intent on stealing his grandsons. Henry could assert he had as much right as the McArthur to the lads, but she doubted their father would see it his way.