“You’re still too young,” Marsali said, knowing it was not altogether true. In her mind, Cecilia was too young, but age often meant little to men who used marriage as a tool to enrich themselves. She had once thought her father was different, that he would allow his daughters a choice, but the feud with the Sutherlands had disabused her of that notion.

  “I wish …” Cecilia began hesitantly. “I wish …”

  “What?” Marsali encouraged gently.

  “I would have liked to have been a nun,” her sister said quietly.

  “You must never say that,” Marsali whispered, alarmed. Such beliefs were so dangerous still.

  “I know,” Cecilia said. “But I do not believe I ever want to marry.”

  Marsali had no words of comfort. She had once believed in love and honor and happiness. Yet today she would marry a man she abhorred. And if she refused to speak the words, Cecilia would never have the strength to do likewise.

  “Come with me to the chapel,” she said. “I do not think God cares if it is a Protestant or Catholic house when we pray to Him.”

  “Truly?” Cecilia said. “Jeanie says—”

  “Truly,” Marsali said firmly. “There shouldn’t be anyone about.”

  She took Cecilia’s hand and led her down the stone staircase of the keep, staying in the shadows. The two ferrets scrambled after her. What would become of her pets when she went with Edward? He had made little secret of his distaste for them, and Tristan and Isolde were intelligent enough to keep their distance.…

  Noise came from the great hall, where her father was entertaining guests. She and Cecilia reached the outer door and went into the courtyard, which was humming with activity. Visitors had been arriving for the past two days, and any number of clan plaids were visible. Marsali recognized many of them, but some were new to her. Everyone except Sutherlands had been invited to the wedding and made welcome. She guessed even her father didn’t know all the guests.

  Marsali took a deep breath. She felt like crying, but she did not want Cecilia to see her fear. Her loneliness. Her despair.

  Her thoughts of Patrick.

  She led the way across the crowded courtyard to the chapel. Opening the heavy door, she peeked inside. Empty and quiet. A relief.

  Motioning for Cecilia to follow, she entered the dark, high-ceilinged building. Their slippers made little noise as they moved toward the altar. So plain now that the rich carvings and stained windows had been replaced by boards and shutters to conform with Cromwell’s Puritan ways.

  Of course, now that Cromwell was dead and King Charles was on the throne, the chapel undoubtedly would change again. Her father had been careful to shift with the political and religious winds.

  She and Cecilia made their way to a pew at the front of the chapel. The ferrets scrambled onto the bench and began exploring. With a glance and a nod at her sister, Marsali knelt and bowed her head. Cecilia knelt beside her.

  Marsali tried to concentrate on God, but all she could think about was Patrick. She knew the very day she had lost her heart to him. She had been only five, and one of her father’s hunting hawks had swooped toward one of her ferrets. Patrick had heard her scream and caught the jesses of the hawk before it grabbed her pet. His hand had been badly mauled by the bird in the process. He had been her hero ever since, her knight. Her starcatcher.

  Her husband-to-be.

  She had relished that thought, in her eight-year-old way, when he had gone away that first time. When he’d returned from fighting on the continent, a wanted man, she’d been fourteen and he twenty-two. He’d been taller than she remembered, and his smile had come more slowly. He’d also carried a new scar on his face, but his eyes had been just as warm and his touch just as gentle as he’d brought her hand to his lips and exclaimed what a beauty she’d become.…

  Marsali shook her head. She had to rid her mind of these thoughts.

  Once more, she tried to pray. Then, suddenly, she felt a new presence. She started to turn.

  Hands, strong and sure, seized her. At the same moment, she heard Cecilia gasp. She had no time to react. A piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth, and her hands were quickly bound behind her.

  A deep voice whispered in her ear. “My apologies, my lady.” She registered a sharp pain at the back of her head, and in the next instant, everything went black.

  Patrick Sutherland, earl of Treydan and son of the marquis of Brinaire, paced impatiently on the grassy knoll beside the waterfall.

  Marsali had brought him to this spot during his last visit to Abernie. At fourteen, she’d been prettier than he’d ever imagined. He remembered vividly how she had appeared here, telling him shyly that no one else knew of her secret refuge. She had touched his heart as no one else ever had. During the last few years of horror, he’d thought frequently of that clear, bright morning, of Marsali’s lovely face and giving nature. Instinctively, he believed she would bring him the peace he so desperately needed.

  He was sick of war. Sick of slaughter perpetrated in the name of God and religion. Because he had been outlawed by Cromwell, he was unable to return home until the Restoration and the ascension of Charles II to the throne. In the meantime, he had survived as a mercenary on the continent, often under Charles’s banner. After the last battle, though, he had sworn never again to raise his sword against a fellow Scotsman.

  He’d left France when the young Prince Charles had been invited home; and along with Rufus and Hiram, he had ridden hard through England to get to Brinaire, only to find that his betrothal was no more, and that his intended was to marry Edward Sinclair, laird of the Sinclair clan.

  Patrick had been chilled at the news. He knew the Sinclair. He had fought with him once, only to see the man’s back at the height of battle.

  Edward would not have his Marsali. Not the tenderhearted girl who could coax wild animals to eat from her hands, and whose faith had seen him through more death and destruction than he wanted to remember. No, it simply could not be.

  Ignoring his father’s warning to leave the matter alone, he had stormed away from the banquet planned in his honor. Another kind of honor demanded that he protect the woman who, for twelve long years, he had thought of as his bride.

  He had taken with him Rufus Chisholm and Hiram Burnett. The three of them had saved each other’s lives more times than Patrick could count. Together they had ridden to this waterfall, a hidden grotto on the border between Brinaire and Abernie.

  He barely remembered the ride. His thoughts had been entirely of Marsali. Starcatcher, she had called him. She had made him feel as if he could do anything, even reach up and pluck stars from the sky. Did she still feel that way? Or did she want the marriage with Edward Sinclair? He had to know.

  But Patrick knew he would never get inside the Abernie gates without being recognized, and he would only be recognized, according to his father, as an enemy. The last thing he wanted was to be faced with killing Marsali’s kin.

  So when he and his companions had arrived here and laid their plans, he had done something completely abhorrent to him: He had sent other men to do what he could not. Both Rufus and Hiram were unknown to Marsali’s father, and Highland hospitality demanded their entrance to Abernie.

  His comrades would seek out Jeanie MacDougal and ask the truth of Marsali’s feelings. If she seemed content with the upcoming marriage, so be it; Rufus and Hiram were to return to him alone. If she was not, they were to bring her to him.

  Still, Patrick acknowledged, patience had never been his strong suit. After two days of waiting, he had reached his limit.

  He’d been staring at the narrow gap between the rocks, willing Hiram and Rufus to appear, and he tore his gaze away to face the waterfall. A lively tumble of water spilled in zigzag fashion through crevices and over boulders, falling some thirty feet. At its base, the water swirled gently in a quiet pool before continuing on its course.

  Patrick remembered the last time he had been here.

  “You must promise never to tell anyone of this place,” Marsali begged. “It will be ours alone.”

  Following her through a narrow space between two enormous boulders, he was amused. She was part seductive woman, part enchanting child. She had planned the expedition carefully, even managing to escape Jeanie’s watchful eye.

  “Not even Jeanie knows of this place,” she whispered, casting glances at him in search, he knew, of his reaction.

  It was hard not to express his wonder. The cliffs rose on all sides to create a small wooded sanctuary that was bisected by the bright, noisy waterfall. The tiny oasis sat not far from the heavily traveled road leading from Sutherland land to Gunn land. Yet he had never suspected its presence among the fierce, barren mountains.

  “I was riding one day,” she explained, “and saw a fawn dart between the rocks.”

  He thought then that he’d never met anyone more gentle. He was certain that she would be a wonderful mother. Even at fourteen, she possessed the maturity of a woman even as she retained the eager hopefulness of the young. Through her eyes, he saw life as bright and beautiful and glorious.

  “I promise,” he told her. “I will tell no one.”

  But two days ago, he had broken his vow, bringing Hiram and Rufus to Marsali’s hiding place. He hadn’t known where else to go, where else to bring her that would be safe.

  Patrick continued to pace. The waiting was driving him almost mad. He thought he’d learned to control his feelings long ago, but he was discovering that, where Marsali was concerned, the lessons had been for naught.

  Chapter 2

  Hiram caught the woman as she fell, her slender body collapsing into his arms. Rufus had accomplished the same with the girl.

  “Patrick will kill us for using force,” he grumbled.

  “Aye, he might,” Rufus replied amiably. “But then he might be glad we didna have to fight our way out of Abernie, which we would if that woman, Jeanie, is mistaken. If either one of the lasses cried out, blood would flow. He did say to avoid tha’ above all.”

  Hiram cast Rufus a doubtful glance, watching as he balanced the lass in his arms. “He won’t take kindly to ye undressing her, either.”

  Rufus grinned. “’Tis not always easy being Patrick’s friend. He canna do anything the simple way.”

  Hiram nodded his head. “If it ha’ been up to me, we would ha’ stormed our way in and taken her bold as daylight.”

  “And litter the ground wi’ her kin?” Rufus said dryly. “’Tis a foine way to start a marriage.”

  “Ye really think he plans to marry the lass? His fa’ said he would disown him.”

  “Aye, I do think he will. When Patrick gets an idea in ’is head …”

  “Now I see her, I ken his reason.” Hiram leaned down to touch the rich dark hair, but as he reached out, a small animal suddenly threw itself on him, biting his hand.

  “Bluidy devil,” he spit, then remembered his pledge to the serving woman. He would treat the lass, and all that was hers, gently. He had promised to take her sister and what Jeanie had called the “wee beasties” with him in return for her help.

  Wee beasties, indeed.

  He took the animal gently but firmly by the neck, then was suddenly attacked by a second. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rufus grin and knew he must be a sight. As big as he was, he’d often felt awkward, except in battle. It was all well and good to know that a swing of his arm would down an enemy, but what use was strength in the face of an unconscious woman and two small animals? Angry, hissing animals, trying to protect their mistress.

  Feeling miserably inadequate, he growled, “Dammit, man, come help me.”

  “Ah, ’tis foine to hear ye need my help,” Rufus said, approaching cautiously.

  Grabbing the ferret perched on the woman’s chest, he dropped it into Hiram’s sizable sporran. Hiram sent the one he held to join its friend. The bag moved wildly against his belt—and lower—as Hiram tied it closed.

  Hiram nodded his thanks. “Ah, as you said, Patrick’s no’ an easy friend. But he’s been aching to get home to his bride. Even I could see tha’.” He mused a moment, then said, “To imagine ’im in love is a wondrous thing. Didna think I would see the day.”

  “Ye may not see another if we donna get away from here.”

  “I gave the guards at the gate enough drugged wine to lay out a regiment, those that are no’ sick from last night.”

  “Nothing like a wedding to make a mon thirsty,” Rufus agreed. “Still, stealing the bride could make them a wee bit testy.”

  He took off the older lass’s outer clothes and replaced them with a lad’s trews over drawers and shift. “Ye best be looking out the door.”

  “The woman—Jeanie—said no one would come here wi’ all the celebratin’. She’s fair bonny, tha’ one. Wouldn’t mind takin’ her, too.”

  Rufus chuckled. “I didna think ye had romance in yer blood.”

  Hiram reddened but remained silent.

  Rufus finished tucking the girl’s hair under a man’s bonnet that he cocked halfway down on her face. “This one’s but a mite,” he said. “’Tis a sorry mon Abernie must be to sell either of them to a mon like Sinclair.”

  “Aye,” Hiram agreed. “It would take a coldhearted villain to my thinking.”

  “Ah, and now ye be thinking. Wonders. Always wonders,” Rufus said. “Now, watch over them while I go fetch the horses and a rug for the wee lass.”

  Hiram ignored the jibe, posting himself above the two unconscious lasses as he watched Rufus walk to the back of the church. At the door, Rufus glanced back at him briefly, then, opening the door a crack, he slipped outside.

  Hiram heaved a deep sigh and prayed no one would come.

  Minutes ticked by. When, after what seemed an eternity, the door slowly opened at the back of the church, his heart pounded in his chest and every muscle in his huge body tensed. An instant later, Rufus appeared, and he relaxed.

  Rufus walked quickly to the front of the church. “You take Patrick’s lass,” he said. “I will wrap the wee one in the rug and carry her. As small as she is, she will look no more than a bundle of rags we are carrying off for the winter.”

  Hiram put his arm around the Lady Marsali and pulled her to a standing position, holding her up as her legs folded under her unconscious form.

  He watched Rufus carefully roll the wee lass into the rug he’d brought, then just as carefully pick her up. Standing in the open doorway, Rufus whistled, and their horses moved to the steps of the church.

  Hiram hesitated as they both looked out. Food and wine were being distributed to crofters in another part of the courtyard, so this area was virtually clear. No one seemed to be taking any note of them. With any luck, they looked like two wedding guests, one supporting a boy who was obviously drunk and the other carrying a bundle of castoffs.

  They both deliberately swayed in their saddles as if drunk as they slowly walked their horses to the gate. Rufus mumbled something unintelligible to the now almost unconscious guards, who did nothing to stop them from passing. Hiram expected, at any second, to hear the cry of alarm behind them, but he curbed his impatience and kept his horse to a slow plod as they meandered down the road, toward the small village that served the castle.

  Once out of sight of the gates, Hiram looked at Rufus and grinned. Then they both dug their heels into the sides of the horses and took off.

  They’d absconded with the bride.

  Patrick heard the horses and strode quickly to the opening in the rocks. At last.

  But was Marsali with them?

  One horse, a huge animal Patrick recognized as Hiram’s, emerged from between the rocks. His heart stopped for a moment as he saw a lad slumped over in the saddle in front of his friend.

  Rufus followed, holding a girl slumped against him. But the girl had red hair, and Marsali’s was black, like fine silk.

  Hiram came to a halt and swung out of the saddle, carrying the still figure with him.

  He laid the figure down and bowed to Patrick. “Your Marsali, milord,” he said with rare formality.

  “What in the bloody hell did you do to her?” Dropping to the ground, Patrick gathered her into his arms and tugged the bonnet from her head. Black hair, still laced with flowers, tumbled out. Her dark lashes lay gently against creamy white skin.

  He knelt, holding her, his own heart thumping as it had not for years. He laid a hand over hers. When he felt the steady beat of her pulse, relief flooded him.

  “A wee tap only,” Hiram said apologetically. “We had no time, Patrick. The woman you sent us to, Jeanie, wasn’t any too sure what to do, not until this morn. She told us to wait in the chapel, and she would send the lassies if she believed it the right thing to do. We had no time to talk to the lassies, not if we were to escape before the wedding.”

  Patrick felt his heart miss a beat. “You mean she did not agree?”

  “Jeanie said she would not send her to us unless she was certain of the girl’s heart,” Hiram insisted. “When they appeared, we assumed …”

  Patrick’s stomach turned. He’d wanted Marsali’s consent. But he was not angry at Hiram. He should have gone to her himself. He should have somehow found a way.

  His gaze fixed on Marsali’s face, he swore softly. Then, glancing at the younger lass Rufus had laid upon the ground a few yards away, he asked, “And who is that?”

  “Yer lady’s sister,” Rufus replied.

  Patrick’s eyes widened in surprise, and he studied the unconscious form more closely. Cecilia had been so much younger the last time he had seen her, he truly hadn’t recognized her.

  “Jeanie said the lass would not go wi’out her sister,” Hiram explained. “She said the earl had threatened to marry the wee one to Sinclair if yer lady wouldna’. That is why yer lady agreed to the wedding.”

  Patrick cursed under his breath. He could scarcely believe it of his foster father, whom he had both admired and respected.

  But what in God’s name would he do with Cecilia now?

  Rufus was trying to offer water from a pouch to Cecilia in an effort to waken her. He nodded to Patrick that the girl was unharmed.

 

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