His Bonnie Bride, Hannah Howell [best ebook reader for chromebook .TXT] 📗

to protect his wound, his sons riding to his side and behind. It had been a successful venture, far more so than he could have hoped, and he was pleased. His gaze fell on a pensive Tavis.

" 'Twas a good battle. Few men lost and much gain to show. I cannae remember one so successful."

"Nor I, Father. The bounty we have gained should ease the greeting a wee bit."

"So why are ye looking so pensive, laddie? Thinking on a wench, are ye?" Colin grinned.

A slow smile touched Tavis's handsome face. "Aye, ye might say that. A wench, and a visit I have sworn myself to making six or eight years hence."

Chapter Three

It was warm for a night so early in the spring. A full moon turned the budding greenery to silver. The soft light also strove to outline a group of men moving stealthily with an assortment of animals. Only the keenest of eyes could have spotted them within the shadow of the trees and only the sharpest hearing could have picked up a sound, so quietly did they go about their thievery. Suddenly their leader held up a gloved hand. All movement stopped, and he was joined by two others.

"What is it, Tavis? Why have we stopped?" queried Robbie, the burly master at arms, but then the sound of hoofbeats reached his ears and his hand went to his sword. "We are discovered?"

"Nay. Rest easy. We have merely stumbled upon a tryst." Tavis's smile gleamed briefly. "Take the men on, Angus," he directed a stocky man. "Robbie, you, Jaime, Donald and Iain stay with me. Wait for us by the horses, Angus. I do not plan to be long, but this interests me."

As the others moved on, Iain hissed, "Why do we risk this? Let us go and leave the lovers be. The raid was a masterwork. This pair can mean naught to us." Iain could not understand Tavis's actions.

"They can when the lass has hair of a color I've seen but once, seven years past," Tavis replied softly and, when he edged closer to the clearing where the couple were meeting, Iain was close at his side.

Although fully aware of the folly of her actions, Storm made her way to the stream that wove its way through her father's land. She needed the quiet, the isolation. Not another instant could she have born it within the walls of Hagaleah. Life had become a trial. She needed time to think.

"Oh Lord, Papa, where can ye and Andrew be? Ye are sorely needed at home," she mourned softly as she tossed pebbles into the stream. "The bitch from Sussex is set to ruin us."

She sat down, uncaring that the grass might ruin her gown. Since her father and Andrew had gone to take a turn at fighting the French, leaving Hagaleah in the hands of his steward, things had gone wrong. The steward did whatever his lover, her stepmother, requested. Storm could not even appeal to the Fosters, for the men there who would have helped were also in France. She could only sit by helplessly watching the woman drain the wealth, antagonize old, dear friends and mistreat the peasants.

One of the few things in which she had managed to thwart Lady Mary was the matter of her cousin, Phelan O'Conner, who had arrived from Ireland but a fortnight before her father had left. By some miracle the scrawny boy of nine had made his way, alone, all the way from Ireland. A note written by her mother before her marriage, which gave an O'Conner the right to seek aid of any sort from his English relations, had given him the chance for something besides poverty and starvation. He was now being tutored in skills that would serve him well when he became a man and, by force of will and guile, Storm had ensured that the boy had stayed when her father had left and things had begun to change. Phelan's Irishness was enough to make him unwelcome to Lady Mary.

The sound of a horse fast approaching sent her heart into her throat. When she recognized the rider her fear changed to anger. Her stepmother was determined to wed her to Sir Hugh Sedgeway. He was not ill-favored, being of medium height, with blond hair and brown eyes, but his character was abhorrent to her. Crude, violent and lecherous, he was everything she disliked. Storm had no intention of becoming his wife and spending her days surrounded by by-blows or watching him lust after everything in skirts. Even more important, she would have nothing to do with one of her stepmother's lovers, one of her partners in the orgies that grew more frequent. Tensed and ready to react, she watched him secure his mount and stride to where she cautiously rose to her feet.

"This is unwise of you, Storm. 'Tis a good thing I saw you leave and followed you."

"Is it?" She stepped back when he moved closer. "I sought some quiet and privacy."

"Ah, aye, 'tis a lovely spot." He reached for her, but she deftly eluded his grasp. "Now, lass, you should not be wary of your husband-to-be."

"Your plans advance beyond reality, Sir Hugh. Never will I be your wife."

"Not a tryst then," murmured Iain, his gaze running over Storm's small but shapely form. "She's still a bonnie wee lass. Just what are ye planning, Tavis?"

"I am not sure." His gaze went slowly from the brilliant hair done in a coronet of braids on down her slim length, noting the full breasts, tiny waist and gently rounded hips. "She has grown up fine indeed."

Sir Hugh shook his head, his brown eyes glittering with anger over the way the girl continued to oppose him. "Why do you fight me so, lass? We will be wed." He suddenly lunged, clasping her tightly in his arms. "Cease your struggles, wench. I intend to show you the joys of matrimony." He laughed loudly, a laugh that was cut short by Storm's