Free The Laird by Sandy Blair

at jousting, so yer fears are for naught, mon ami .” Isaac gave him a slap on the shoulder as he walked away.
    Duncan hissed as his back muscles knotted like the tarred shrouds on a ship. Pain radiated down his spine and left arm. “Merciful mother of God, why will I not heal?”
    He felt a tap on his good arm.
    “We need to talk.” His wode new ladywife stood at his side with her hands on her hips.
    He frowned seeing her for the first time in the harsh light of day. God’s Breath! Save for the bruising and the silver flashing from her gray eyes, she had to be the plainest female he’d ever beheld. His gaze instinctively traveled downward. A good foot taller than she, he had no difficulty looking into the gaping bodice of her gown. He seriously doubted she could nourish a babe with what little she had to offer, let alone keep a man like himself—-one with a preference for heavy-breasted women—-satisfied. The thought of breeding prompted him to ask, “How many years be ye?”
    She clutched the top of her gown and frowned at him. “Twenty-four. Why?”
    The answer surprised him. He’d been told she was just sixteen. Did Albany think he’d not ask, or had His Conniving Highness merely assumed she’d have a strong enough sense of self-preservation to lie?  And what other lies has Albany foisted upon him?
    “Duncan, we need to talk. I need to know how I came to be here, and I really need to go back. And why did you marry me? We certainly don’t know each other well enough.” She heaved an exasperated sigh as he stared at her. “I know. I probably brought this about with my foolish daydreams, but all this...” Her arms waved about. “In truth, this is nothing like I imagined. Not with men urinating off the battlements into the ocean, food being thrown to the floor, my being dressed in wife number three’s clothes---which don’t fit as you’ve already noticed--and my not being able to drink the damn water.”
    What the hell was she ranting about in her odd English? Why would she want to drink water? And what gave her the impression he’d tolerate that tone of voice from her? “Wife, I dinna like ye speech nor ken yer aggravations.” Seeing the men stopping their work to stare, he grabbed her arm.
    Hauling his agitated bride toward the keep, he whispered through clenched teeth, “Were ye not at meat, wife? Were ye not clothed? What do ye find so grievous?”
    “Stop manhandling me!” She tried to pull from his grasp.
    “Nay, not ‘til ye be calm and respond with thought.”
    “Fine.” She sounded more dejected than angry as she tripped over her gown on the stairs to the solar. “I’ll answer anything you like, so long as you help me get back to where I belong.”
    “Ye belong here and ye belong to me, woman.” He walked her across solar and pushed her into a chair before the cold fireplace. In the process, he felt another stitch tear in his shoulder. When the pain eased—-when he opened his eyes, he groaned seeing her expression.
    “Bloody hell, woman, dinna start to greet.” He couldna abide a woman’s tears. They made him feel guilty, made something inside him want to run and hide. Or smash something.
    She wiped the wetness from her cheeks and straightened. “I’m not greeting . I just want to go home; to my coffee, to my mullioned windows, to my make-up, and God help me, to my fu--screwed-up plumbing and kerosene stove.” Seeing his shock, she blanched white and fresh tears coursed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.” She turned her face to the window and whispered. “It’s just that I don’t understand any of this, and I’m frightened.” She took a deep shuddering breath and murmured, “So very frightened.”
    He had no idea what caw fee or o seen stove meant, but he did understand her terror.
    He took a seat across from her and reached for her hands. “Lass, were ye a voweress?”
    She’d come to him from a French nunnery where she’d been living