The Highlander’s Accidental Wife (Queen’s Edict #3)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Helena’s mouth dropped open, and before she could protest, Damien winked at her and nudged his horse into a fast trot. When she followed, he began to gallop, and soon they were racing toward Morighe.

And it slowly occurred to her that Damien had purposefully avoided explaining what had made him look so… hopeful? But also, wariness had lurked in the lines of his face, and Helena found that it made her chest ache.

But she forgot all of that as they rode into the bailey under the grand, massive gate of Morighe, after crossing a huge bridge with a torrent of water racing underneath it to the sea. Or at least it sounded that way, for Helena could only see flashes of white and glints of water where the torches lit up the landscape below.

Glancing around, she thought the bridge seemed newer than the castle, made of stark white stone, while the castle had mellowed into an ombre with age. Up close, even in the dark, she could trace the strong lines of it, rambling along the hills. It gave the sense of a great stone lion, long settled in the swoops and dells of this part of the north, guarding it with an ancient and fierce dominance.

Her breath suddenly caught, and the legacy of this place, of Clan MacCabe, overwhelmed her. She’d read enough to understand what this meant on some level, yet to witness it in person, and to anticipate joining it?—

How can I hope to do such a thing?

Helena felt her very soul shrink back, the back of her neck hot and a tightness forming around her eyes. The same sickening sense that had wrapped around her when she’d received the Queen’s Edict now rose around her. That missive had felt like a mockery, after suffocating years of living under her father’s thumb, listening to her stepmother fret and moan about her bluestocking daughter, and enduring her stepbrother’s jibes.

And was this not the same? Why had Laird MacCabe done such a thing? Beyond practicalities, he could have asked for a far better bride from England, especially if Emma’s and Agnes’s marriages had persuaded the Queen to change the Edict.

“Lena—Lady Helena?” a voice asked.

Helena started, realizing that her horse had drawn to a halt in the middle of the bridge, sensing her distress. And this had alerted Damien, who now rode back, his face creased in concern.

“Have ye fallen ill, lass?” He caught her horse’s reins and peered at her. “Ye are too pale. Come in and let’s warm up, eat.”

“Wait—” Helena’s gloved hands caught Damien’s in a clumsy grip. “I…” She swallowed and met his fierce blue gaze. “Have we…?”

Have we made a terrible mistake?

She knew that she had few—if any—options, but she suddenly felt no better than the Queen, trapping lairds into her quest for power.

“Nay,” Damien said.

Something like a smile tugged at his lips, but his eye was grave and kind. It was a different side of him, and Helena felt her grip tighten, as though to prevent her from falling, even though they sat side by side on two strong horses.

“While I take heart that ye are so overwhelmed by MacCabe stonework,” he said in a soft voice, “ye need nae worry. Come in, warm up, and eat. Then, ye shall be returned to yerself.”

His hand rose, and for a wild moment, Helena thought he might press it to her face. Her entire body flamed with want for that comfort.

For all that Damien acted like a rogue at times, he had an uncanny talent for observation and a sense for what was needed—for what she needed.

Suddenly, glad cries and whistles split the winter evening, interrupting their moment, and Damien turned with an easy grin as folk spilled out onto the bridge. In the front, a lanky, flame-haired man strode up, similarly arrayed with two swords. He spoke in Gaelic, merry yet laconic, and then his eyes flickered to Helena.

Surprise flashed there for a second, followed by a shrewd glance to Damien, and then he bowed deep. The others on the bridge followed suit.

“About time ye brought home a bride,” said the red-haired man as he stood straight and grinned at his Laird.

This close, he reminded Helena of a fox, and she also noted the fine scars that crisscrossed his face and hands. He seemed too young to carry so many scars. Like Damien.

Also, like Damien, he disarmed her with his smiles and yet seemed capable of exploding into movement at any moment.

“I am Orrick, Damien’s cousin by marriage and man-at-arms. Come in, Me Lady.”

Other hails and cries split the air, a horn blowing somewhere, and then Helena jolted as a drum started pounding. Next to her, Damien huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

“Orrick, we shall wake up half the country.”

“Aye, let us—our Laird has returned home, at long last,” said another man.

There was a whirlwind of folk coming to greet them.

Helena was still atop her horse, dazed, until suddenly strong hands were on her waist and she was pulled against a strong chest. Her hand flew out and hit Damien— Damien, who was carrying her—and he gave her an ironic look.

“What are you doing?”

“Carryin’ me bride-to-be across the threshold of Morighe,” he answered blithely, over cheers and fiddle music. “Tis tradition.”

“You are lying,” Helena tried to scold even as she smiled.

“Well, it should be,” he said and then glanced back. “Oye, Orrick, let ‘em celebrate a bit more, and then they should quiet down and go to bed. I’m sure we’re rousin’ old folk and children.”

“I’ll do me best,” Orrick called after him merrily.

Damien set Helena down in a square hall, imposing yet cozy, with tapestries and a low fire. Another hall stretched out in front of them, the shadows darker. Helena frowned before she realized that it opened up into a large room with a dim balcony overlooking it. Three other halls curved out of sight, and the terrible feeling from the bridge began to fade as her curiosity grew.

“Explore tomorrow,” Damien said. “Here, let me get yer cloak.”

“Oh,” Helena said, not sure that anyone besides Emma or a maid had ever helped her out of her cloak.

He took them both with ease, then her gloves, and shucked off his own, thinner cloak.

“Thank you.”

“Ye are welcome. Come on.”

He headed past her down a narrow hallway that she had not spotted before, and it twisted down to a large kitchen. A woman was hard at work there, speaking to another, who lit up at the sight of Damien. She was plump and strong, with silver hair twisted up in a clever braid and kind blue eyes. As she hurried forward, laughing and struggling to speak—and hide her tears—Helena noticed that she was also quite tall, almost the same height as her.

Damien embraced the woman, saying, “I kenned that ye would be here.”

The woman said something in Gaelic, pressing both hands to his face and shaking her head. She embraced him again and then mopped at her face, shaking her head.

“Ach, of course ye come sneakin’ in when we least expect ye, me son,” she said. Then, she started and stared at Helena. “Lord a mercy, who is this? Ye… Oh my.” Her eyes went wide, and she let out a shriek of joy, startling both Damien and Helena. “Oh my! Ye are an English Lady. Is this—?” She turned to Damien and nearly danced on the spot. “Is this yer promised bride?”

“Nay, Maither,” Damien said gravely. “’Tis Grant’s.”

“ Damien ,” Helena hissed.

His mother gave him a puzzled look. “Grant just married—?” Her hands went to her hips. “Ye absconded with his bride, did ye nae, boyo?”

“Aye, she was such a sweet sight, and when she asked me for a proper kiss—since Grant’s too polite—then begged me to take her to Morighe, how could I say nay?”

Damien’s mother simply stared at him while he stared back, expressionless. Helena felt flushed with heat and was about to speak up, desperate to clarify things?—

I was supposed to marry Laird Ronson, but he married my best friend—which inspired the Queen to change the Edict. I did ask your son for a kiss, but it’s not what you think…

Dizziness swept over her, and she almost squeaked as Damien’s mother gave her a shrewd look, then smacked her large son, who yelped and laughed.

“Ye are a plague on me nerves, Damien Gray Baird. A mercy she didnae say nay when ye asked her. Ye did ask her, did ye nae? Tell me ye didnae steal one of the guests at Grant’s wedding because ye fancied her.”

Damien shot Helena a grin that made her heart flip and her stomach flutter. “And what if I did? Should I nae marry her as soon as possible, before she comes to her senses?”

“To be sure, I ken that she has sense, but I confess I dinnae ken how ye convinced her to marry ye, ye great dobber. Or how I managed to raise ye without a lick of sense of yer own.”

Helena let out a breath as the two began to jibe, and she realized they were simply teasing and laughing with each other. Her heart swelled as Damien and his mother went back and forth before they both burst into laughter, and she could not help but join in.

“Och, Milady, I should apologize for such talk, but ye should ken sooner rather than later that we are, err, a bit foolish in this castle. Too fond of jokes, we are.” Damien’s mother smiled and took Helena’s hands in her own. “I do like yer laugh, young lady. I am Lady Merie MacCabe, but ye must call me Ma. Or Merie.”

Helena felt her whole body warm, and she smiled at the woman, wanting nothing more than to call her Ma. “Thank you. I am Helena Lovell.”

Lady Merie squeezed her hands. “Such a pity that I fell ill and couldnae travel and see Grant get married to yer friend, Emma.” As she spoke, Helena did detect a bit of raspiness and shadows under Merie’s eyes. She wondered if the woman should be resting. “Perhaps the next time ye visit yer friend, I shall come with ye and visit mine.”

Helena nodded, then realized what Lady Merie had said. “Wait—you know about Emma?”

“Aye, I ken all about Grant and yer friend Emma,” Lady Merie said in a wry tone. “Grant’s maither, Brenda, is me best friend, as Grant is me rapscallion son’s.” She shook her head. “We had a bad storm, and I had to attend to an issue in the village, so I was out helpin’ and fell ill.”

“Maither, what did I tell ye about that? Ye arenae as young—” She whirled to Damien, who grimaced. “Ye ken what I mean.”

“I ken that ye think ye can tell me what to do,” she snorted. “Our people needed me, Damien. And perhaps if ye had been here, rather than off chasin’ Vipers?—”

“All right,” Damien interrupted, and the temperature between mother and son dropped. “Nae tonight. Please. Helena is exhausted from our journey. We’re both hungry and in need of a bath.”

Lady Merie’s shoulders rose and fell as she took several deep breaths, then she rubbed her forehead. “Fine. But this cannae go on, Damien. Ye cannae be Laird from afar.”

“I need to—” Damien’s fists clenched. “Never mind.” The words were bitten out. “Good night to ye both. Send food and hot water for baths to our rooms. And would ye show me bride to Bluebell Corner?”

“Of course,” Lady Merie said and folded her arms, staring at the ceiling.

Damien all but stormed out, and Helena shifted from foot to foot, unsure of what to say.

“I apologize,” Lady Merie finally said and looked at Helena. “As glad as I am that me son is back…” She shook her head. “Never mind. We shall discuss it another time. Let’s get ye to yer rooms.”

Helena couldn’t help it. As Lady Merie made to turn, she reached out a hand and stopped her. “When was the last time Damien was home?”

Lady Merie gave her a searching, sad look and murmured, “End of summer.”

A jolt went through Helena, and she stared at the woman. “Does he travel often?”

Lady Merie nodded.

Helena thought that should have filled her with relief. Instead, she was overcome with a sense of misgiving.

“But why?”

The older woman, who seemed so tall and merry, so strong and sure of herself, seemed to wither like a fallen petal at that question. She turned away from Helena, but not before Helena spotted the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“Och, Lass, ye shall have to ask him.” Lady Merie paused. “More, I hope one day that ye will never have to ask him such a question.”