Read Online Bride for a Knight by Sue-Ellen Welfonder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue-Ellen Welfonder
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betrothed bride,” he said, a burst of boisterous approval rising in the hall as he slid the smaller of the two gold-and-sapphire rings onto her finger.
Not surprising, so soon as the ruckus died down, Brother Baldric began rattling off his assets. And one quick glance at Alan Mor’s beaming countenance told him where the monk had gleaned such knowledge.
But before he could comment, the second ring was gleaming on his own finger, his
Sithe
maid’s soft voice accepting his plight troth and offering her own.
And then the deed was done.
The faery was his bride.
About the same time but across a few mist-draped hills and the wild torrent of water known as the Garbh Uisge, Munro Macpherson tossed in his curtained bed, trying to decide between the perils of falling asleep and risking another fearing dream or staying awake and listening for the heavy breathing that always heralded the arrival of his sons’ ghosts.
“Ach—for guidsakes!” Scowling fiercely, he punched down his pillows for what had to be the hundredth time since chasing Morag and her fool meal tray from the room. “Beset by bogles and bowls of gruel in my own bedchamber!”
Flipping onto his stomach, he squeezed shut his eyes and resisted the temptation to jam his fingers into his ears. Whether or not anyone could see him, sequestered as he was behind his tightly drawn bed curtains, scarce mattered.
He was still a man of power and consequence and should maintain at least a semblance of lairdly dignity.
And to that effect, fearing dreams seemed less treacherous than staring into the gloom of his enclosed bed, his ears peeled for any sound he shouldn’t be hearing.
Not comfortably ensconced in his own well-shuttered and barricaded privy chamber.
Pursing his lips, he reached to part the bed curtains just a wee bit. Only to make certain that fox Alan Mor’s strongboxes of stones were still piled against the bolted door. Blessedly, they were. And they provided sound proof against further intrusions from his long-nosed she-bat of a seneschal and any lackeys she might send abovestairs to pester and annoy him.
He almost snorted. That was something they all seemed ever good at, bedeviling him.
Alan Mor, by thinking him so simpleminded he’d be fooled by a thin layer o’ coin spread oe’r a coffer filled with rocks.
Morag and his kinsmen, by repeatedly sneaking into his bedchamber when he slept to throw open the shutters, nigh blinding him. Or expecting him to eat pig’s swill they called gruel and believe such a sorry excuse for victuals would replenish his strength.
His strength, a goat’s arse!
He hooted his scorn, sending a last glance at the iron-bound coffers. Saints, he would’ve smiled were he not so concerned about bogles.
But he was, so he let the bed curtains fall shut again and frowned into his pillow.
Truth was, a whole teetering tower of strongboxes wouldn’t keep out a ghost. But the three heavy chests he’d managed to pile on top of each other at the door did prove he hadn’t lost his muscle.
That he knew the coffers’ contents without peeking inside showed his wits were still with him as well.
If Alan—
fox-brained
—Mor possessed even half his own cunning, the lout would know the Fairmaiden grazing ground was more than enough to satisfy him.
That, and the flap-tongued fool’s precious wee lassie.
And thinking about her brought a smile to his tired, angst-fraught heart, so he snuggled more deeply into his bedcovers, certain that, for once, his sleep would prove untroubled.
Regrettably, instead of dreaming about sitting before the fire, his feet up and a bouncing, red-cheeked grandson on his lap, it was the sound of water that invaded his sleep.
Swift, swirling water plunging wildly over tumbled rocks. A churning cauldron of froth and spume, its thunderous roar echoed inside the confines of Munro’s curtained bed.
A refuge no longer framed by the dark oak of his great bed’s canopy but the wind-tossed branches of
Not surprising, so soon as the ruckus died down, Brother Baldric began rattling off his assets. And one quick glance at Alan Mor’s beaming countenance told him where the monk had gleaned such knowledge.
But before he could comment, the second ring was gleaming on his own finger, his
Sithe
maid’s soft voice accepting his plight troth and offering her own.
And then the deed was done.
The faery was his bride.
About the same time but across a few mist-draped hills and the wild torrent of water known as the Garbh Uisge, Munro Macpherson tossed in his curtained bed, trying to decide between the perils of falling asleep and risking another fearing dream or staying awake and listening for the heavy breathing that always heralded the arrival of his sons’ ghosts.
“Ach—for guidsakes!” Scowling fiercely, he punched down his pillows for what had to be the hundredth time since chasing Morag and her fool meal tray from the room. “Beset by bogles and bowls of gruel in my own bedchamber!”
Flipping onto his stomach, he squeezed shut his eyes and resisted the temptation to jam his fingers into his ears. Whether or not anyone could see him, sequestered as he was behind his tightly drawn bed curtains, scarce mattered.
He was still a man of power and consequence and should maintain at least a semblance of lairdly dignity.
And to that effect, fearing dreams seemed less treacherous than staring into the gloom of his enclosed bed, his ears peeled for any sound he shouldn’t be hearing.
Not comfortably ensconced in his own well-shuttered and barricaded privy chamber.
Pursing his lips, he reached to part the bed curtains just a wee bit. Only to make certain that fox Alan Mor’s strongboxes of stones were still piled against the bolted door. Blessedly, they were. And they provided sound proof against further intrusions from his long-nosed she-bat of a seneschal and any lackeys she might send abovestairs to pester and annoy him.
He almost snorted. That was something they all seemed ever good at, bedeviling him.
Alan Mor, by thinking him so simpleminded he’d be fooled by a thin layer o’ coin spread oe’r a coffer filled with rocks.
Morag and his kinsmen, by repeatedly sneaking into his bedchamber when he slept to throw open the shutters, nigh blinding him. Or expecting him to eat pig’s swill they called gruel and believe such a sorry excuse for victuals would replenish his strength.
His strength, a goat’s arse!
He hooted his scorn, sending a last glance at the iron-bound coffers. Saints, he would’ve smiled were he not so concerned about bogles.
But he was, so he let the bed curtains fall shut again and frowned into his pillow.
Truth was, a whole teetering tower of strongboxes wouldn’t keep out a ghost. But the three heavy chests he’d managed to pile on top of each other at the door did prove he hadn’t lost his muscle.
That he knew the coffers’ contents without peeking inside showed his wits were still with him as well.
If Alan—
fox-brained
—Mor possessed even half his own cunning, the lout would know the Fairmaiden grazing ground was more than enough to satisfy him.
That, and the flap-tongued fool’s precious wee lassie.
And thinking about her brought a smile to his tired, angst-fraught heart, so he snuggled more deeply into his bedcovers, certain that, for once, his sleep would prove untroubled.
Regrettably, instead of dreaming about sitting before the fire, his feet up and a bouncing, red-cheeked grandson on his lap, it was the sound of water that invaded his sleep.
Swift, swirling water plunging wildly over tumbled rocks. A churning cauldron of froth and spume, its thunderous roar echoed inside the confines of Munro’s curtained bed.
A refuge no longer framed by the dark oak of his great bed’s canopy but the wind-tossed branches of
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