All her breath shuddered out on a sigh. Years ago, she had longed to read words like those in his letters.
And he had just spoken them to her. Boldly. Confidently. Out loud. And this wasna one of her restless, midnight dreams. Henri was truly here, now, professing his devotion and asking her to be his bride.
Now, when it was too late.
She lowered her lashes, unable to hold his gaze. “’Tis impossible,” she whispered.
He released her with a low sound of frustration and stepped back. “I see I am going to have to change both your minds—yours and your father’s. When is this wedding with Lord Awful?”
“Lord Alsh,” she corrected, giving him a disapproving look. “The ceremony is to be held on the day of Christ’s Mass.”
“Then naught is sealed and final until Christmas Day. That gives me four days to convince you that marrying any man but me would be the worst mistake of your life.”
She swallowed past a knot in her throat, realizing that she was going to have to be fully honest with him, now, before this madness went any further.
“Henri, there is…there is something you dinna know. Something I have never told you.” She inhaled deeply and said it all in one breath. “You will need heirs to secure your new estates and title and I canna give them to you because I am barren.” That hated word almost choked her. She looked at the floor, remembering how badly she had disappointed her first husband. “So you see, ’tis better than I wed Lord Awful.”
“Lord Alsh.”
“Alsh,” she amended quickly, wiping at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “After Yuletide, you…you should return to France and find a more suitable woman to be your bride. A woman who can give you sons.”
When he did not reply, she looked up to find his expression etched with pain.
In that moment, she knew with her whole heart that he had spoken truly: he did care for her.
Every bit as deeply as she cared for him.
But their feelings for each other changed naught.
“I-I canna accept your proposal.” Her voice wavering, she moved away from him a few more paces, brushing her hands over her skirts, determined not to give in to her emotions—or to the daft impulse to grab his hand and run from this place, ride for the coast, set sail for France.
She couldna allow herself to entertain such fantasies. Or to accept his offer.
Because Henri deserved more than what she could offer him.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “While we are both here at Glenshiel, milord,” she said more evenly, “I must ask you to respect my decision—and my betrothal to Lord Alsh.”
“Very well, milady.” His voice was still husky, his eyes dark with emotion. “I promise to behave. I will keep my hands to myself…but I will change your mind about marrying Lord Awful.”
“Merciful saints,” she whispered, flicking a glance Heavenward. “You, Viscomte Wicked, would try the patience of an angel.”
“Aye, my sweet lass.” That familiar grin curved his mouth, his dark beard making his teeth look uncommonly white. “And I vow that before the sun sets on Christmas Day, I will find a way to change your mind, win your father’s blessing…and marry you.”
She shook her head. “That is rather a great deal for any man to accomplish in four days.”
“I am not just any man.” His grin broadened, his confidence returning in full measure. “And Yuletide is the season for miracles.”
By the next afternoon, as more guests began arriving at Castle Glenshiel, Henri steeled himself to fight on two fronts in his campaign to win his lady fair. Aileen’s family had arrived from the Isle of Mull. He intended to speak with her father in private as soon as he could arrange it.
At the moment, however, he was seeking a more beautiful quarry. Carrying a small gift for her tucked inside his tunic, he walked down one of the castle’s new passageways, his boots echoing on the stone floors.
He had not found Aileen in her guest chamber, or in the renowned library that filled most of a tower, or playing with the children in the nursery. Nor had she been in the great hall or the kitchens, where cooks and servants were preparing for tonight’s feast, the first of many that would take place over the next twelve days.
He was beginning to suspect she might be hiding from him.
When he had asked Laurien where Aileen might have gone, his sister had suggested looking in an unexpected place. Which was just where he found her—in what seemed to be the only quiet spot left in the entire keep.
The chapel.
This part of the castle was entirely new to him; he did not remember there being a chapel at Glenshiel. Laurien had explained that after living half her life in a convent, she had missed having a place for daily reflection and prayer. So Darach had added another new tower to his keep so that she might have a chapel.
Astonishing the changes a wife could bring to a home…and a husband.
Henri hoped to discover that for himself soon.
He stepped through the carved door and closed it silently behind him. Laurien’s chapel was simple and unadorned: a few wooden pews, a small altar beneath a crucifix, a pair of tall iron candelabras. He did not speak, not wanting to disturb Aileen’s prayers. She knelt on one of the pillows at the altar rail, her head bowed, murmuring softly in Gaelic.
The fading afternoon sun sparkled through a half-dozen stained-glass windows, surrounding her with a glow that made her truly look like an angel, so stunning that she stole his breath.
The light burnished her red hair, which fell in soft waves to her waist, one long plait on each side. The gown she had chosen for this evening’s festivities was an ivory shade that accented her lush curves. She wore no adornments other than a long Scottish shawl called a plaide—an intricate cloth woven with a pattern of interlaced stripes, this one in shades of green—wrapped crossways over one shoulder and secured at her hip with a metal brooch.
He remained silent, just trying to breathe evenly, drinking in the vision of soft feminine beauty before him—the same sweet vision that had helped him endure too many cold, lonely nights and brutal days of war. Even when they had been parted by miles and years, even when he had feared he might not live to see her again, he had never been able to stop thinking about her. Dreaming of her.
No other beautiful woman had ever enchanted him the way Lady Aileen MacLennan MacFarland did. From her eyes that always shone with the warmth of the Highland sky on a perfect summer day…to her charming lack of any artifice…to her skill with words and her love of books…to the sensual fire of her kisses. She was simply remarkable.
Deeper than that, Aileen was genuinely loving, in a way that was all too rare in this world.
He wished he could understand her prayers, what blessing she was asking God to grant her. Henri would give her anything—everything—her heart desired.
Unfortunately, he didn’t speak a word of Gaelic. To his surprise, though, he did hear one word he understood, quite clearly.
His name.
Finished with her prayers, Aileen made the sign of the cross and rose, gasping when she turned to find him at the door.
He realized he must look like a complete oaf— standing there staring at her, struck dumb by her loveliness.
Her coppery brows slanted downward. “Milord, ’tis a sin to eavesdrop on someone’s private prayers.” She remained at the far end of the aisle, as if she were wary of getting anywhere near him.
“I…” He cleared his throat, tried to gather his scattered wits. “I could not understand a word you were saying.”
“Mayhap not…but…’tis still a sin.”
“Not the worst sin I have ever been accused of,” he murmured, unable to keep his gaze from tracing over the tempting shape of her lips, the generous swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips. “Your gown is lovely.”
She blushed. “What brings you to the chapel?” she asked briskly.
“I came to let you know that the rest of the MacLennans fro
m the Isle of Mull have arrived. Your father, your grandmother, your sisters-in-law…and your brothers Brochan and Magnus. Who are somewhat larger than I remember. Have they always been the size of Highland mountains?”
“Magnus spends much of his time chopping trees and stacking wood when he is not hiking the hills with our cattle and sheep. Brochan amuses himself by throwing boulders. Their wives tease them that they each have enough brawn for three or four men.”
“Ah. Good to know,” Henri said with an uneasy laugh. “So in addition to improving your father’s low opinion of me, I will also need to avoid being tossed like a boulder or chopped down like a pine, once your brothers learn of my intention to break your betrothal.”
“They willna harm you…I hope.”
He assumed she was teasing. He hoped she was teasing.
She started down the aisle toward him. “I should go and greet everyone.”
“Aileen, wait. First…” He withdrew the gift from inside his tunic, a small box wrapped in a length of emerald green silk. “I have something to give you. And a question to ask.”
“Henri, so many gifts…” She stopped a few paces away, sighing. “How have you managed to make presents appear in my chamber at all hours?”
“I cannot reveal my secret strategies, milady.” He grinned. “All I will say is that I have been getting to know my young nephew Galen. For a lad of five years, he is quite a clever fellow…who knows every inch of this castle. And he accepts bribes.”
“That sly laddie…” She fought a rueful grin. “He once left a pair of frogs in my slippers.”
“Then perfumes and sweets are an improvement.” Henri loved seeing Aileen smile. He sensed that she had done too little of that, especially since her betrothal to Lord Awful. “Experience has taught me that if a man hopes to triumph over formidable opponents, he must rely on boldness, a steady arm…and clever allies.”
“I am not one of your opponents, Henri,” she said quietly, moving nearer. “I could never be that.”
“I know. Did you like the gifts I have sent so far?”
“Nay.” She lifted her gaze to his, plucking the latest offering from his hand. “I loved them. Every one of them. Very much.”
Her admission made his grin widen. Now that she stood close to him, he could tell she was wearing the perfume he had given her, a blend of lavender and bergamot with a bit of lemon balm, as luminous as a summer morning in the Loire Valley. He had known it would suit her perfectly.
“They were meant to be your wedding gifts,” he explained. He ached to touch her but folded his arms, reminding himself of his pledge to keep his hands to himself. “If I fail in my quest…if I do not get the chance to give them to you on our wedding day…I still wanted you to have them. A few things to remember me by.” He softened his tone. “In case we never see each other again.”
She winced as if struck by an arrow. “Henri, dinna say that. We have only just had the chance to see each together again, after so long. I canna bear to think of…of…”
“If you marry Lord Alsh, I doubt that he will allow you to have male visitors—at least, not a certain male visitor from France who enjoys kissing you.”
Her azure eyes misted, as if she could not bear to imagine the possibility of never seeing him again. “You are being ruthless, milord.”
“I mean to use every weapon at my command to win you, milady.”
With Galen’s help, he had been delivering gifts to her chamber every few hours. None of the presents he had brought her from France were particularly costly or rare. But each was personal and meaningful.
In addition to the oranges, he had brought other tokens of the pleasures she would enjoy once she moved to Amboise. The perfume, blended from flowers grown on his estates. A small pouch filled with sugared almonds because she loved sweets. A book by the renowned French intellectual Albert the Great. Another book, of the scandalous love letters exchanged by French philosophers Abelard and Heloise. A white velvet cloak, lined with the softest white fur, that he had thought would look beautiful with her red hair at their winter wedding.
This morn, on her breakfast tray, he had surprised her with the most meaningful gift of all: her own letters, starting with the first one she had sent him at Yuletide five years ago, all gathered in a stack tied with leather cords. Many of the pages were torn and spattered from rain and mud. Some had their edges scorched from a fire he had barely escaped during the siege of Angouleme. And he had torn off part of one letter that had gotten stained with blood. His blood.
She looked down at the latest gift she held in her hands. “I canna believe you still had my letters…every one of them.”
“I carried them with me always. And they carried me through many dark times.”
Aileen looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with emotion.
She had never stopped caring about him. Despite her denials, she cared for him still. He was certain of it.
Just as he was certain that the two of them were meant to be together.
But he would need all of his tactical and diplomatic skills to make that happen. And time was quickly running short. He needed to go and arrange a meeting with her father.
But first, there was a delicate matter he needed to discuss with her.
He sat in one of the carved oak pews, leaving enough space for her to sit beside him. “Aileen, what were you praying for?”
Instead of sitting next to him, she sat in the pew directly behind his. “That you would come to your senses and return to France.”
“Liar,” he accused softly.
She gave him a sharp look, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I wouldna lie in a chapel.” She glanced up at the cross over the altar. “’Tis the truth. I also prayed that you would…” She hesitated. “That you would find the bride who is meant to be yours.”
His throat tightened. “I already have.”
She lowered her gaze to the unopened gift in her hands. “You need to go home after Yuletide, Henri. Without me. I want you to…to find love and happiness.”
“That is what brought me to Scotland.” He fought the urge to reach out and catch a strand of her glorious red hair in his fingertips. “Open the gift.”
She unwrapped the green silk to find a small box, engraved with their entwined initials. “Oh, Henri…” Opening the lid, she found the first piece of jewelry he had brought for her: a silver necklace. She held it up, admiring it in the light. “How in the world…is this truly—”
“A branch of a Scottish rowan tree.” He smiled. “I had it made for you by a talented silversmith in Amboise. To remind you of the tree you and I sat under…that day when you pulled down a branch and dubbed me Sir Wicked.”
The necklace had a delicate chain that connected to either end of a slender rowan branch crafted in silver, beautifully detailed, with emerald leaves and ruby berries.
Whispering something in Gaelic, she wrapped her fingers around it and held it to her heart. “Henri, you are only making it more difficult for me to do what I must—to marry Lord Alsh.”
“Good, I hope to make it impossible for you to marry Lord Alsh.”
She exhaled in frustration. “I should go. My father doesna like to be kept waiting. And it isna appropriate that you and I are alone together. Again.” She glanced around the chapel. “In here of all places.”
He knew she was right. He also knew it might be impossible to steal any time alone with her now that the rest of her family had arrived.
So he leaned over the back of the pew and stole a kiss. A soft brush of his mouth over hers. A brief taste of her feminine sweetness.
He felt her gasp at his boldness…then felt her surrender to him with an aching sigh of longing. She leaned into him, her lips parting beneath his, and heat lanced through him. He angled his head, wanting more, breathing in her sensual warmth, the summery scent of her perfume tantalizing.
She met his passion with her own, reaching up to caress his bearded cheek, tangling her fingers in his hair. G
roaning, he deepened the kiss, his tongue gliding over hers to claim the sleek satin of her mouth. She drew him closer and desire flared between them, hotter than the sun that spilled through the windows.
Suddenly she let go and drew back, sitting up straight, looking startled by her own response. “You…w-we…” She reached up to touch her mouth with trembling fingers. “You broke your word, Viscomte Wicked. You promised that you would keep your hands to yourself.”
“I am keeping my hands to myself.” He lifted his hands, wiggling his fingers. “I made no promises about any other parts of my anatomy.”
She looked as if she did not know whether to chastise him, laugh…or kiss him again. Blinking rapidly, she lowered her lashes. “Th-thank you for the gift, Henri.” She tucked the silver necklace back into its engraved box. “But I…I have to go.”
“Aileen, wait. I wanted to speak with you about something important.” He lowered his voice. “About your late husband.”
She went still, refusing to look at him.
“My sweet lass…” He ached to take her in his arms, especially for this conversation. “I have heard it said that Sir Cael MacFarland was a great warrior, that he died a hero and gave his life for the cause of Scotland’s freedom from the English. But…” He braced himself to hear her answer. “Aileen, did he hurt you?”
“Did he strike me?” She lifted her head, studying the stained-glass windows. “Nay, my husband was never violent toward me. I didna suffer abuse at his hands.”
Henri felt relief wash through him. But he still sensed that she had suffered in some way during her marriage. “And why…” He softened his tone. “Why are you so convinced that you are barren? How can you be certain?”
“Because I was married to a great hero for two full years, and I never conceived.”
“That does not mean the fault was yours—”
“Nay, Henri, let me finish.” She finally met his gaze. “I never conceived…but Cael’s mistress did.”
Henri’s eyes narrowed. “He secretly had a mistress?”
His Scottish Bride - Shelly Thacker Page 4
