His Bonnie Bride by Hannah Howell (best mobile ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Lord Eldon groaned and held out his hand, into which Storm dutifully placed her knife. "Storm, you should have been a boy." He tucked the knife away.

"I have oft told ye that, Papa," she said with an unrepentant grin as they started off. "Good morrow to ye," she gaily saluted her former captors.

"Lass, you must not be so amiable toward the enemy," Lord Eldon admonished genially.

"Oh, then I gather I should not have tended to the laird's wounds."

"You what?!" her father bellowed, but she laughed and winked at the MacLagans, grinning when Tavis winked back.

Despite the hefty ransom felt by all at the manor and surrounding it, there was much rejoicing when the children were returned. The houses of Foster and Eldon had always done well by their people, protecting them and caring for them as few other lords did. It was a relief to all to see that the direct lines were once again assured. They would continue to have as good a life as one could expect in such troubled times. Hagaleah resounded with cheers as the troupe arrived.

Only two people felt no joy. Mary Eldon watched her husband's return with a set face, and Lord Foster's fiancee slept, having wept herself into exhaustion for fear that her nuptials would be canceled. Once the shock of what she had done had faded, Mary began to feel herself ill-used. She felt her husband lacked understanding, was too harsh in his judgment, for, after all, she was born and bred in Sussex and did not understand the way of life along the border. Now, instead of being allowed to learn from her error, she was to be forever punished for it, her standing at Hagaleah greatly reduced.

Briefly she thought of seducing her husband into a gentler attitude, but soon forgot that. Even before they had wed she had guessed that his children by his first wife, an Irish nobody, were as important to him as the blood in his veins. By putting them at risk she had lost what little place she had managed to grasp in his affections. Now he would treat her as little more than a brood mare, a vessel to bear him more sons to act as insurance, to guarantee that the line would pass to one of his own blood, and she would not even be able to regain her stature through her children, for she did not doubt that he would keep them from her as he had sworn to.

Her gaze settled upon the bright head of the one she considered the root of her troubles, the one who had caused her problems from the start. Jealousy raged through Mary as she thought of how strong a hold Storm had upon the lord of Hagaleah. The bitterness Mary felt over the destruction of her plans to be the grand lady of such a powerful holding was directed at the little girl. Logic and rationality had little to do with her thoughts as Mary swore that someday Storm would pay for her disgrace.

Storm settled down in her bed, unaware of the malevolence directed toward her. She felt content, for she was home again, her father had survived the battle, Hilda was again her nurse and she had had an adventure. Caring little for the woman, Storm had not noticed her new mother's absence from the festivities. She felt no real animosity toward her, but had known from the start that they would never be friends. Therefore, Storm made an effort to have as little to do with her stepmother as possible.

"Hilda?" she called softly before the woman could leave the room.

"What is it, lass?" Hilda moved to the side of the bed, her eyes soft with honest affection.

"Why do we fight the Scots?"

"Ah, well, I think 'tis for the land mostly. They think 'tis theirs and we say 'tis ours. Of course we have fought and raided each other for so long I don't think anyone really knows or even thinks about the why of it. What's made ye ask that, child?"

"They did not seem much different from us so I was not sure why we were enemies."

"Men always have enemies. They would be lost if they had no one to fight. 'Tis the way of it."

"Why have we been told such lies about them, and they are lies, aren't they, Hilda?"

"Aye, most of them. They kill, loot and rape, but then our men do too. I do think they be a bit wilder lot, but be they Scot, Englishman, Frenchman or any other breed, a fighting man is a fighting man. Put a sword in their hand and 'tis time for the women and children to hide." She sat on the bed. "I think 'tis the blood and battle which changes them from the men we recognize to beasts with naught else but killing, firing homes and raping women on their minds. Ye could meet a man who's all courtesy and smiles, a true gentleman, but ere the next day, in a battle with a sword in his hand, his softness fades and, because they are now enemies, he could kill the man he drank with not long ago or toss a lady whose hand he had kissed so genteely but nights past and treat her no better than a tavern wench. 'Tis all a mystery, I fear."

"So, if I had been a woman grown the nice man who did my braid would not have been so nice. He may well have dishonored me instead."

"Aye, lass, I've little doubt of that if for naught else than it would have been a blow at your sire."

"Ah, well." Storm yawned, and her eyes closed. "I shall not see them again, I am certain."

Hilda stood up and stared at the sleeping child. "I hope not, lass. I surely hope not."

* * * * *

Once the English had left the Scots headed home. Colin MacLagan rode in a well padded cart