Highland Barbarian Part 3

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 brushing 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.

There were too many MacKenzie men. And the kirk was crowded with women and children."

For a moment Brice could only stare from one man to the other.

Suddenly sc.r.a.ping back his chair, he raced up the stairs toward his chambers with Jamie, Angus, Holden and the hounds on his heels.

"Woman." The door was slammed against the wall, the sound reverberating along the hallways of the castle. He gazed about the empty room.

"Do not try to hide from me."

In quick strides he crossed to the bedchamber and kicked in the door.

Jamie, Angus and Holden remained in the doorway, watching, listening.

The dogs circled the figure by the bed.

In that one instant before her head came up, Brice saw her kneeling beside the bed, her hair spilled forward like a veil. He could read her confusion when her lids flickered and lifted. Eyes as green as the shimmering Highland lochs watched him as he strode toward her. By the time he reached her she was on her feet, prepared to meet her fate.

The dogs growled low in their throats. But not one of them made a move toward the woman. They would wait, forever if necessary, until their master gave them the signal to attack.

In her hand was a dagger. A very small, very sharp dagger. Though Meredith's heart pounded painfully in her chest, her hand remained steady.

It was a giant who faced her. A giant whose rough clothes and speech sent terror racing through her. He stood, feet apart, hands on hips.

On his face was a scowl that gave him such a fierce look she wanted to flee. But though her heart was nearly bursting, she reminded herself that she was now the MacAlpin. The MacAlpin was no coward. Meredith lifted her chin a fraction and met his look with one of defiance.

He saw the look. Even in his anger he admired her for it. There were not many in this land who could face Brice Campbell without flinching, be they man or woman.

The dagger? Though he had no doubt that he could best this small female in a battle, it irritated him that she would dare to draw a weapon against him.

"Put it down."

Her eyes widened at the icy command.

"If I am forced to disarm you, my lady, I a.s.sure you I will not be gentle."

She stared at the muscles of his arms, then lifted her gaze to the challenge in his dark eyes. For a moment longer she held the knife.

Then slowly, with no change in her expression, she let it drop from her fingers. It fell to the floor and lay there among the furs, glinting in the light of the fire.

"Your bridegroom," he said, watching her through narrowed eyes.

"Was he not Gareth MacKenzie?"

She wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her. She wanted to twist the knife, while he writhed in pain. If not the dagger, then the words that could cut as surely as any blade.

A half smile touched her lips.

"Nay, my lord. It was not."