My Highland Warrior (Warriors of the Highlands #1) - Miriam Minger

Prologue

MacLachlan Castle, Argyllshire, Scotland, 1307

“By God, am I tae wed or not?”

No answer came as Gabriel MacLachlan’s impatient roar echoed around the cavernous great hall, his mute and wide-eyed entourage staring at him as if he had grown two heads.

Mayhap he had. Swearing under his breath, Gabriel glanced at his russet-haired cousin, Finlay MacLachlan, who shrugged his massive shoulders.

The other three hardened warriors who had accompanied him from the training field—his kinsman, Alun MacSorley, and the strapping black-haired brothers who had been Gabriel’s fast friends since childhood, Cameron and Conall Campbell—cast looks at each other and then shrugged as well.

“Didna you tell me the woman awaited me in the hall?”

Alun nodded, his broad, scarred face streaked with sweat and grime. Yet he had no sooner opened his mouth to speak when Gabriel spun around at the commotion behind him.

His steward, Tam, stout as a herring barrel and huffing from exertion, caught up with him and leaned upon a trestle table to catch his breath.

“Laird…och, Laird, forgive me! She wouldna wait here but insisted she be taken directly tae the chapel. All is in readiness for your wedding, the priest, the proper documents waiting tae be signed—”

Gabriel’s vehement oath silenced Tam, whose pale blue eyes grew as large as his mouth was round. Swiping his callused fingers through his damp hair more dark brown than red, Gabriel stormed past the astonished steward while his four witnesses fell into grim-faced step behind him. He had appointed his trusted captains as such when he heard the news that his expected visitor had arrived.

Taller than all of his men, Gabriel lunged up the tower steps three at a time, more than eager to be done with the unwanted ceremony. The heavy oak chapel door gave way with one fierce thrust, slamming into the wall and causing the boyish-looking priest, Father Timothy, to jump and cry out.

Gabriel paid no heed as the young man scurried behind the white-clothed altar, but stared instead at the tiny wizened woman in a nun’s habit who looked as if the barest breeze would topple her.

Gabriel saw that she trembled, her face as pale as death, but she lifted her chin and stared steadily back at him in a manner that filled him with grudging admiration.

“Laird…” Tam said in a wheezing voice as he pushed his way past Gabriel’s men into the cramped chapel to make introductions. “Your bride by proxy, Sister Therese from the Carmelite order near Dumbarton. Sister…my honored laird—”

“Gabriel MacLachlan.”

His steely pronouncement ringing in the chapel, Gabriel spared the barest nod at the priest and took his place beside the silent nun who stood no higher than his elbow.

Sister Therese shifted slightly away from him, no doubt as uncomfortable to be so close to a man as that Gabriel knew he reeked from training his warriors for battle. The small room stank of sweat, dirt, and horse manure, the air stuffy and warm. When Sister Therese suddenly seemed to sway, Gabriel caught her arm, the flesh and bone as insubstantial as a twig.

“I willna faint, Laird,” she said in a shaky voice, still trembling beside him. “I will see this thing done, poor wee lass. May God protect her.”

Gabriel said nothing, but the look he gave Father Timothy made him rush through the wedding ceremony as if in fear of his life. Gabriel barely heard the sacred words, or Tam’s labored breathing, or Sister Therese’s murmured prayers from lips as thin and dry as parchment.

Paupers cannot be choosers.

The thought rang in his brain like a great iron bell tolling across the countryside, while the recent memory of Seoras MacDougall’s self-satisfied laughter churned in Gabriel’s gut.

“How more fortunate could any man wish tae be?” the earl had declared with an amused grin while his richly dressed courtiers had snorted and snickered behind their sleeves. “A fat dowry that will surely restore that heap of crumbling stones you call a castle and my bonny sister, Magdalene, as your bride.”

Snickers erupted into guffaws, Seoras’s massive torchlit hall ringing with mirth.

“My father’s precious wee Princess, or so he called her. I remember her as more a pest before she lost her wits, but a lunatic will breed the same as any other wench. She’s all yours now, MacLachlan, and for no greater price than that you and your men protect my lands against that usurper Robert the Bruce and his followers. What say you, man? Will you do it?”

All laughter had suddenly ceased.

Everyone waited with bated breath upon his answer while the