A Promise of Love Read Online Free Page B

to hit something, quickly, and although Malcolm was twenty years his senior, he would do. The fact that Alisdair had to struggle in order to best his old tutor in hand to hand combat added another fillip to the situation. He was in the mood for a good fight, a brawl, a skin tearing, flesh bruising, bone- crushing bloody melee.
    Malcolm eyed the MacLeod warily. Although they were both only long shadows in the courtyard, there was enough light to see the look on the MacLeod's face. It was intent, single-minded, and madder than hell.
    Malcolm had thought long and hard before doing what he did. The past two years at Tynan had not been pleasant ones. At first, they’d been too busy trying to survive to spare the time to grieve. But then, memories had a way of seeping in through the cracks of everyday life, hadn’t they? He could not help but remember Anne. The laird’s young wife was a sweet girl, but had none of the fire a young, healthy man needed. Hadn't he seen the lad, tight lipped, with a warning glint in his eyes each and every time Alisdair had gone for a long, cold soak in the cove? And hadn't there been too many of those nights?
    Of course, the MacLeod would be angry - Malcolm knew there would be repercussions, and although Alisdair wasn't a hothead like his brother, Ian, he was still a MacLeod. Every member of that illustrious branch of the clan had a stubborn streak as wide as the glen.
    Malcolm had time over the last weeks to take the mettle of the Englishwoman. Time to realize that maybe she wasn't as English as she thought, with her way of scenting the air like a young doe, of her resilience each morning when they'd awakened on the cold wet ground, her and the twins and himself all crabby with the cold and his bones stiffening up on English soil. Maybe they could make a match of it, these two. The MacLeod with his stubbornness in the face of the English threat and the English woman who didn't act English at all.
    "I could wring that scrawny neck of yours, Malcolm," Alisdair said, watching as the old man remained at least five feet away from him, despite his advance. Inside his castle, or what had once been a castle before the Duke of Cumberland's troops had paid a visit, was a woman to whom, thanks to the Machiavellian maneuvering of his old friend, he was now legally bound.
    The very last thing he needed right now was a wife. He preferred a contingent of armed English soldiers, a bout of the plague or an attack of French pox to marriage.
    "Why don't you sleep on it, lad?" Malcolm suggested, the long years of friendship warming his voice.
    "Why, Malcolm? Do you lack excitement in your life? Do you miss battle so much that you would bring war to Tynan? Why, man?"
    "She's a wee thing, Alisdair."
    "She's as tall as me, Malcolm!" Which was only a slight exaggeration. After Malcolm’s announcement, he’d pulled his new bride from her saddle. The top of her head came to his nose, a fact he’d discerned only after she’d turned abruptly at the steps and nearly broken it.
    "She needs protection."
    "Let her hire an armed guard." Alisdair speared his hands through his hair. Malcolm was taking this entire farce too lightly.
    "She's been sore used, Alisdair. She's a poor widow."
    "Good God, man, now there's something to recommend her! If you must wed me without my consent, at least find me a virgin!"
    "Virgins are overrated, MacLeod. Besides, what could I do, post a handbill for a willing English virgin?"
    Alisdair halted abruptly, looked at the older man in disbelief. Dark shadows kept him from discerning Malcolm’s expression, but not the white flash of smile. He told himself to remain calm.
    "She's English, too, Malcolm?"
    "Aye, she came with the sheep."
    "What, as nursemaid? Drover? Does she perform lambings, or does she shear? Does she card wool, perhaps? What the hell do you mean, she comes with the sheep?" He nearly spit out the words.
    "One hundred Leicester sheep, give or take the few we lost on the trip. For