Connor whistled softly. "Ye caught Anabelle with a woman?"
"Aye, although the woman fled ere I got a good look at her. Anabelle thought it all verra funny. Said she and the lass had been lovers for years. Tried to tell me I couldnae call that adultery. I could keep ye entertained for days on all the tales I have of Anabelle, her lovers, her rages, her wailing spells, and her wanderings. It was like trying to live in the heart of a fierce Highland storm. After that, dull sounds verra sweet to me."
Diarmot was relieved when Connor said no more. He did not like pulling forth the painful memories of his time with Anabelle. Such memories, however, did serve to remind him of why he had chosen Margaret. He craved peace, he thought, and walked toward the church with a surer step.
It was as he knelt beside his bride that his doubts trickled back. A voice in his head kept saying this was wrong, although it offered no explanation.
Margaret's hand in his was cool and dry, her expression one of sweet calm. What could possibly be wrong?
Just as the priest asked if anyone knew why Diarmot and Margaret could not marry there was a disturbance at the doors of the church and a clear, angry woman's voice said, "I think I might have a reason or two."
Shocked, Diarmot looked behind him and his eyes widened. Marching toward him was a tiny woman with brilliant copper hair. Behind her strode eight large, scowling red-haired men. She held a bundle in her arms and a small, dark-haired girl walked beside her holding another.
"Weel, now, Diarmot," drawled Connor, smiling faintly, "it seems your dreams have become prophetic."
"What?" Diarmot glanced at Connor who was slowly standing up.
"Did ye nay dream about a scarlet elf and a troop of fiery demons?"
Diarmot decided that, as soon as he found out what was happening, he would pound his grinning brother into the mud.
CHAPTER TWO
Pain seemed to be coursing through Ilsa with every beat of her heart, as if it was carried in her blood. When they had been told the laird of Clachthrom was marrying, her brothers had been enraged. So had she, but she had also wished to simply turn around and go home. Her brothers had refused to allow that retreat.
As they had forced her toward the small stone church, she had both hoped it would be too late and feared that it would be. Ilsa knew that the best she could hope for was that she would retain enough wit and strength to stop blood being spilled.
To see her lover, the father of her children, kneeling beside a pretty, fulsome young woman murmuring marriage vows had slashed her heart. Then rage had swept over her, a rage born of pain and betrayal. She could not believe she had spoken out before her brothers. As she marched toward Diarmot, who slowly stumbled to his feet and helped his pretty bride to stand, her fury grew. He was looking at her as if he had never seen her before.
He was still so beautiful it made her heart clench to look at him. Tall, well built, lean and strong, his form was all any woman could wish for. His hair was the color of rich clover honey, thick and a little long, hanging to several inches below his broad shoulders. His broad forehead, elegant straight nose, and well-shaped mouth with a hint of fullness to his lips formed a face that had haunted her dreams for a year despite all her efforts to banish him from her mind. Beneath slightly arced brows, and rimmed with enviable dark lashes, were eyes of a beautiful deep blue, but looking into them only added to her pain.
Gone was the soft warmth she had seen before when he had held her close and sworn they would soon be together again. Now there was only a cold anger and suspicion. She fought the sharp urge to flee that look, struggled to cling to her fury.
"What right do ye have to disrupt this ceremony?" Diarmot demanded, telling himself the reason the sight of this woman made him so uneasy was that she reminded him too strongly of his strange dreams.
"The right ye gave me a year ago," she replied.
"I have nay idea what ye are babbling about."
The audacity of the mon, Ilsa thought. "Show him the papers, Sigimor."
As the rest of her brothers kept a close watch on the guests, some of whom were looking increasingly angry, her eldest brother stepped forward and handed Diarmot all the papers concerning their handfast marriage. Ilsa tried to ignore the way he paled as he looked them over. She noticed the large, fair-haired man at Diarmot's side read them as well, constantly casting her looks that held a wealth of curiosity.
"They appear quite in order, Diarmot," Connor said quietly as he took the papers out of Diarmot's limp grasp.
"What is going on?" demanded Margaret, curling her arm around Diarmot's and trying to catch a glimpse at the papers.
When Diarmot just stared at the woman, Ilsa drawled, "It appears your betrothed is already married--to me." From the uproar she could hear, Ilsa knew the bride's family was furious, but she trusted her brothers to hold them back.