Quinlan was the first to laugh. The others quickly followed his sinful example. Her embarrassment intensified, of course, and she desperately tried to think of a way to turn their attention away from her eating habits.
None of them was ready to change the topic, however.
'Isn't it a fine, spring evening?' she asked.
'Do you eat more when you're nervous?' Quinlan asked.
What an odd question. 'No,' she answered.
The rude men all laughed again. She waited for them to quiet down before once again trying to change the subject.
'Connor, will you introduce me to your soldiers?'
'They'll introduce themselves.'
She already knew Owen and Quinlan by name, of course, and when she looked at the other three warriors, they each told her their names.
Aeden was the thinnest of the group, though he still wouldn't be considered puny by an Englishman's measure, she supposed, and Donald was the name of the soldier with the big brown eyes that reminded her of a doe's.
Giric was the shy one in the group. He could barely look directly at her when he told her his name.
'It's a pleasure to meet all of you,' she announced once they'd finished.
'May I ask you a question, mi'lady?' Quinlan said.
'Yes,' she answered.
'When you first saw us, you were afraid. Some of us were wondering why.'
'Did you think we were going to harm you?' Aeden asked. He added a smile, indicating he found the possibility amusing. 'You were praying.'
'Yes, I was praying, and yes, I did believe you were going to harm me.'
'But after, mi'lady,' Owen said. 'After you knew we meant you no harm, weren't you still afraid? I wondered why.'
Hadn't any of them ever looked in a mirror? Or did they have such luxuries where they lived?
She decided it would be unkind to point out how peculiar they looked, and so she simply shrugged and didn't say anything at all.
None of them wanted to let it go. 'Was it our war paint that put you on your guard?' Owen asked.
'I really don't care to answer, for I have no wish to hurt your feelings.'
For some reason, her honesty made the men laugh again. She decided to be a bit more blunt then. 'However, I will admit it was your war paint that put me on my guard. Yes, it was,' she emphasized with a nod. 'And your size, and your dress, and your manners, and your intimidating frowns, and the way my father's twelve soldiers cowered to the five of you… Shall I go on?'
She could tell they'd taken her comments as compliments. She really should set them straight, she thought, and explain she hadn't been at all impressed with them-no proper English lady in her right mind would be-but then a fresh worry popped into her head, and she immediately looked at Connor.
'I'm not wearing war paint. You might as well understand that fact right this minute. It's barbaric, Connor, and you cannot expect me to…'
The men's laughter stopped her protest. Connor didn't laugh, of course; the man never laughed as far as she could tell, but he did smile. Her heart noticed by pounding a quick beat. He had beautiful white teeth, all of them did, and she wondered how they could put such ugly paint on their skin and take such good care of their teeth at the same time. They really were a peculiar lot, all right. Would she ever be able to understand them or find her place among them?
'Women aren't given the honor.'
She didn't know what he was talking about. 'What honor?'
'Paint,' he explained. 'The tradition belongs to warriors alone.'
Connor didn't look as though he was jesting, and so she didn't dare laugh. The effort cost her, though. Her throat ached considerably from the strain of being polite.
'Have you never seen a Highlander before, mi'lady? Do you know anything at all about us?' Giric asked in a whisper. He was blushing to the roots of his freckles and, in his shyness, had directed his question to the ground.
'When I was younger, I thought I knew all about you. I even knew where you lived.'
'Where did you think we lived?' Donald asked, smiling over the sparkle he'd noticed in his mistress's eyes.
'Under my bed. You came out only at night, while I was sleeping. I'd always wake up screaming, of course, and run like lightning to my parents' chamber.'
She expected the men to laugh over her jest, or at the very least, smile a little. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to understand she was teasing them. Three of them looked confused; the other two looked appalled.
'Did you just insult us?' Owen asked. He sounded as though he couldn't believe such an atrocity was possible.
'No, I was jesting. For heaven's sake, couldn't you tell the difference?'
They all shook their heads. Quinlan had the most difficulty hiding his smile. 'It seems your bride has been dreaming about you for years, Laird,' he drawled out.
'It would seem so,' he agreed.
She didn't even try to hide her exasperation. The effort to have a decent conversation with them was making her head throb, and being polite was a wasted undertaking.
She gave up trying. 'Connor, may I be excused?'
She bowed her head to the men and walked away. She had already headed for the lake with her hairbrush, fresh clothing, and her blanket in her arms before Connor got around to giving her permission. She reached the break in the pines, stopped, and then glanced back over her shoulder.
'Quinlan?'
'Yes, mi'lady?'
'They weren't dreams. They were nightmares.'
They didn't laugh until she was well out of sight, but the sound of their amusement was loud enough to reach the other side of the lake. She didn't believe the soldiers had finally gotten her jest, though; they appeared to be too slow-witted for that. She assumed Connor had made an atrocious remark about something his men would find humorous, like murder and mayhem. They all seemed to have a twisted sense of humor. She'd come to her opinion when she saw them smiling like heathens after Connor had told them they could kill the English soldiers. And hadn't they pouted like boys when the order was rescinded?
Brenna was immediately nagged by guilt. She knew she shouldn't continue to judge Connor so harshly. Could he help it if he was a barbarian or that he had been raised like a wild animal? No, no, of course he couldn't. Besides, he was her husband now. She was going to be stuck with him for the rest of her life, and shouldn't she at least try to like him?
Did he expect to take her to his bed tonight? She tried to block the frightening possibility as soon as it entered her mind. That was easier said than done, however; Lord help her, she couldn't even think about Connor touching her without shaking in panic. She knew her reaction wasn't at all reasonable. She was a grown woman now, not a child, and, therefore, understood what was expected of her. Her mother had patiently explained that all husbands wanted to bed their wives as soon as the wedding festivities ended. She hadn't given her daughter any specifics though, and while Brenna understood the basics, or at least believed she did, she'd still been left guessing about the finer points. It all sounded horribly awkward and messy to her.
Brenna wouldn't worry about it. If Connor decided to bed her, perhaps God would take pity on her and let her sleep through the ordeal.
She smiled over this fanciful notion while she stripped out of her clothes. She ran into the water before she could change her mind, gritted her teeth against the chill, and hurriedly washed.
Just as she was getting out, she heard someone approach. She moved back into the water, until she was covered to her chin, and waited.
A minute or so later, Connor appeared. A plaid was draped over his arm.
'It's time to get out.'
