Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore

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      Lachlann didn’t immediately agree.

      “If I’m not able to see her, you might hear news of her in the tavern.”

      Lachlann sighed, then hefted his bundle onto Adair’s other shoulder. It took a moment for Adair to get the balance right, but once he did, he was satisfied he’d make it into the castle’s courtyard without arousing suspicion or undue attention. “Wait until the sun’s about a foot above the castle walls. If I’m not back by then, head for the horses. If I’m not there, go home and tell Father he may have to come and get me out of Sir Nicholas’s dungeon.”

      “Losh, Adair, be careful, or there’ll be hell to pay, and from more than Father.”

      “I’ll be as careful as can be, and I’d forswear my loyalty to our clan before I let any Norman catch me. Now go. These bundles are heavy.”

      “Gur math a thèid leibh,” Lachlann said before he hurried away.

      “Aye, I may have need of luck,” Adair muttered under his breath as he continued on his way, quickening his pace to catch up to the last of the laborers. Silently cursing his damn hood, for sweat was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, he was still about twenty paces behind the rest when he reached the castle gates.

      He kept his head down as he passed the guards.

      “There’s a strong one, to carry two,” one of them said, laughing. “Where’re you from?”

      “York,” Adair grunted, in what he hoped was a passable imitation of the accent, although he didn’t sound nearly as convincing as Lachlann.

      “Those Yorkshiremen are built like oxen,” another guard remarked. “That’s why they’re so good at hauling.”

      For a moment, Adair felt a kinship with the common folk of Yorkshire. But he didn’t want to make himself any more noticeable, so he continued to follow the laborers until he reached a portion of the wall that was far from completed. The others had put their bundles there and turned back toward the gate.

      So did Adair, but instead of returning with the others, he ducked into the alley between the well-remembered mason’s hut and the storehouse.

      His gaze scanned the courtyard. There was no sign of Lady Marianne, but it wasn’t likely she’d be strolling about the bustling yard full of masons, laborers and servants like a lady in a garden. She was probably in the hall.

      Adair scanned the yard again, looking for something he could carry into the hall the same way he had carried the wood into the yard.

      There might be such a thing in the storehouse beside him. Aware of the guards and workmen in the vicinity, he strode toward the door of the small building as if not engaged in anything secretive. He put his hand on the latch, hoping it wasn’t locked during the day.

      It wasn’t, and he quickly slipped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized why the hut wasn’t locked.

      There wasn’t any food in here, or drink. It contained a huge pile of sand, for the mortar, no doubt.

      They could make a lot of mortar with that much sand.

      Letting out his breath slowly, disappointed in his quest, he wondered why the sand smelled as it did.

      Then he realized it wasn’t the sand. There were bunches of plants hanging down from the rafters—fleabane and rosemary, to be sprinkled on the rushes that covered the hall floors.

      He turned and spotted a pile of rushes in the corner behind the door, perhaps excess from the last time they were swept and replaced.

      He had his excuse.

      TRYING NOT TO PAY any attention to the huge German mercenary leaning against the wall five feet away, Marianne sat in her brother’s hall with her embroidery, a small table bearing a silver carafe of wine and a goblet at her elbow. Polly was seated on a stool across from her, threading the needles with brightly colored woolen strands.

      Polly wasn’t even trying to ignore the German. She kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Herman, who was over six feet tall, with a hideous scar down the left side of his face. It was as if his skin had been wet clay and someone had scraped their fingers from his eye socket to his chin.

      “Heavens above, my lady,” Polly murmured in Saxon. “Ain’t he a horror?”

      “He’s supposed to protect me,” Marianne replied, her mastery of Saxon basic at best as she gave Polly the explanation Nicholas had given her shortly after the Scots led by Seamus Mac Taran had departed.

      She’d been afraid he’d discovered that she’d been out in the yard at night, but Nicholas had said nothing about it.

      Perhaps Nicholas wisely feared she’d try to flee before the wedding, even if he didn’t know she’d made one attempt already, and this German was his means of assuring she would be here when Hamish Mac Glogan came to claim her.

      How little Nicholas knew her! It would take more than a guard to dissuade her from escaping, if a marriage against her will was the alternative. She was just as determined as ever to get away, and no unsympathetic brother, or apparently sympathetic Scotsman—even one who’d kissed with such passion and who’d haunted her dreams every night—was going to stop her. Unfortunately, time was running out, and it was but two days before she was to be wed.

      She’d considered trying to speak to the priest Nicholas had sent for before the ceremony, to tell him that she was being made to marry, but Nicholas would probably make that impossible.

      The only other plan she’d come up with was to feign illness on her wedding day. Yet Nicholas might suspect her of trickery, and insist she attend nonetheless.

      Polly shifted nervously. “He looks like something straight from hell.”

      Marianne couldn’t disagree with that. “Pour me some wine, will you, Polly? It’s warm today.”

      Indeed, it was warm enough to make her think this terrible country might actually have a summer, after all.

      Polly set down her work and did as Marianne asked. As she handed the goblet to Marianne, Herman suddenly moved, bending down to pat the head of an inquisitive, and very ugly, brown boar hound that was sniffing the fur wrapped about the German’s stocky legs.

      Polly started with a jerk, sending wine slopping over the edge of the goblet and onto Marianne’s embroidery.

      “Oh, no!” she cried, immediately setting down the wine and starting to mop the spill with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined it! I’m so sorry, my lady!”

      “It’s all right,” Marianne hastened to assure her. “You only got a little on the corner.”

      Polly didn’t seem to hear, either because she was too upset, or because of the noise of the workmen outside. They must be doing something on the wall behind the hall, perhaps finishing the merlons.

      “It’s nothing to be so upset about. Truly,” Marianne said soothingly. She slid a glance at the hulking German, who was still petting the dog and muttering in his native language. “He scares me, too.”

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