They reached Glenshiel at last, the horses’ hooves thundering as they crossed the drawbridge and rode into the bailey. They all left their mounts in the care of the stable boys and hurried up the steps and into the keep.
No one wanted to keep Lord Alsh waiting any longer, since he had been waiting all day for his bride to arrive.
Inside, they found everyone gathered in the great hall, all the lords, ladies, and assorted MacLennans having a noisy and animated debate about something.
Laurien hurried straight over to Aileen. “Ma chere amie, I am so relieved to see you!” She hugged her. “Are you all right? Things have become somewhat more complicated than we expected—”
“A Yule Wolf!” Young Galen spotted the puppy in Aileen’s arms and dashed up to pet it, his blue eyes bright with excitement. “’Tis a Yule Wolf! Uncle Henri captured a Yule Wolf!”
“I am not certain ‘captured’ is accurate,” Henri admitted, lowering the hood of his hunting cloak. “More like ‘rescued from a snowdrift’.”
Aileen handed the lad the wriggling bundle of fur. Laurien nudged her son in the direction of the kitchens.
“Galen, gather your sisters and cousins and go play with the…uh…Yule Puppy. There may be some words said here that are not fit for the ears of children.”
“By Lord Alsh?” Aileen asked nervously, looking for her betrothed.
“Nay,” Laurien muttered with a chagrined expression. “By our grandmother.”
Aileen spotted Lord Alsh. Some women might have called him handsome, if he didna always look so cross. Tall and heavily muscled despite his advanced years, he was garbed all in dark gray, a color that accented his gray eyebrows, gray mustache, and thick gray beard. He wore a fine sword at his waist and a length of blue plaide across one shoulder.
Grandmother was standing next to him…looking furious for some reason.
Lord Alsh waited until the last of the travelers had entered the hall and shut the doors against the frosty wind before he spoke. “Milady.” He addressed her. “’Tis glad I am to find you safe and well after yesterday’s storm. Nollaig Chridheil to you.”
“Nollaig Chridheil, Lord Alsh.” She curtsied to him.
“I am eager to get the wedding ceremony underway,” he continued. “But ’twould appear there has been a mistake—”
“A mistake?” Grandmother sputtered. “’Tis an utter disaster! And you, Lochlann, are the one who created it!”
“What?” Her father looked confused. “What did I do? What mistake?”
“I thought I made my intentions perfectly clear,” Lord Alsh explained. “Lochlann, when I wrote to you asking for the hand of Lady Aileen, it didna occur to me that I might need to specify which one. This wasna the lass I was offering for.” He gestured toward Aileen, then nodded at her grandmother. “’Tis Lady Aileen the elder that I wish to marry.”
“By all the saints,” Aileen gasped in shock. “Milord, y-you mean to say that…you and I…we are not betrothed?”
“Och, nay, milady.” He shook his head, his gray eyebrows arched. “You are a lovely lass and would make a fine wife—for a man much younger than me. Nay, I am certain that I said in my letter what I wanted: a charming companion to cheer me by the hearth in my sunset years.”
“Alistair Alsh, ye daft old goat!” Grandmother fumed. “No one has ever described me as charming.”
“Alistair?” Henri murmured, leaning closer to Aileen with a puzzled look.
“That must be his Christian name,” Aileen whispered back. “I thought no one remembered his Christian name.”
Grandmother waved her hands as if to sweep Lord Alsh out of the keep. “You canna think to marry me. I am too old for any such nonsense!”
“You canna think that I meant to marry your granddaughter,” he retorted. “I asked for the hand of Aileen MacLennan—not Aileen MacLennan MacFarland.”
“Mon Dieu.” Henri looked like he might burst with either laughter or relief. “Your betrothal to Lord Alsh was—”
“A misunderstanding.” Aileen reached to take his hand in hers.
But Grandmother was having none of it. “You threw rocks at me, you old grump! On the shores of Loch Arkaig when we were bairns.”
“We were ten and I wasna aiming at you! I was trying to skip the stones on the loch. To impress you. I have always had a soft spot for you, lass.”
Grandmother fell silent at that, looking surprised…and mayhap a wee bit flattered. “I never suspected.”
“Well, I did. Still do. Always will. But your heart was set on Connall MacLennan, and I never had a chance.”
“Is that why you have been so ill-tempered all these years?” Grandmother asked in disbelief. “Because of me?”
Lord Alsh shrugged and looked away. “I knew your love for Connall was true. But that didna make it easier to accept. Later, after I married, I cared very much for my own wife. But now…” He cleared his throat and stepped closer to her. “We are both widowed, lass. Why spend our sunset years alone?”
Beneath all the whiskers and wrinkles, his face held two emotions Aileen recognized.
Love and hope.
“What say you, milady?” Lord Alsh extended a hand to her grandmother. “Will you take a chance?” A grin made one corner of his gray mustache tilt upward. “We are still young enough to get up to a wee bit of nonsense, you and I.”
Grandmother glanced at Aileen, who nodded in encouragement. “I think this may be the perfect match you were trying to find,” she said with a smile. “And to live the rest of your years with a man who loves you so…I canna think of any life better than that.”
Uncle Malcolm added his approval. “Mother, a marriage alliance with the Alsh family would benefit our entire clan…”
Grandmother folded her arms. “But what if I dinna wish to spend my sunset years sitting by a hearth? I might like to travel.” Her eyes met Aileen’s again. “I have heard that France is beautiful.”
“I will take you anywhere, lass,” Lord Alsh promised. “Marry me, Lady Aileen MacLennan, and the world is yours. And my heart with it.”
Grandmother studied her tall, handsome, wealthy suitor a moment longer. “Well, I suppose…” At last she gave in and took his hand, with just the hint of a smile. “Aye, Alistair Alsh. I will marry you.”
Cheers of celebration went up among all the Yuletide guests gathered in the hall. Lord Alsh beamed with happiness, the smile on his face bigger than anyone could ever remember seeing.
Aileen turned toward her father, her heart beating wildly. “Father, since I am free now—”
“Aye, daughter, you have a question for me?” he asked reluctantly.
“Nay,” she declared. “I have an announcement to make.” She took a deep breath. “I intend to marry Henri—and I willna take nay for an answer.”
Her father’s dark brows slanted downward. His expression guarded, he looked at Henri, who bowed deeply.
“Lord Lochlann, it would be the greatest honor of my life if you would grant me the hand of Lady Aileen…the younger one.”
“You intend to take her off to France?” her father growled.
Aileen didna think anyone else was close enough to notice, but she could see her father’s blue eyes misting with tears. Only then did she understand that he had not refused his permission because he was being stubborn or heartless…but because he couldna bear the thought of her moving so far away.
Henri seemed to sense it as well. “Milord, I intend to cherish her like the treasure she is,” he said quietly, “to protect her with my life, to take care of her, to love her all the rest of my days.” After a breath, he added, “In France. But we will return to Scotland as often as possible.”
“Mayhap for Yuletide every year,” Aileen suggested.
With a deep sigh, her father relented, nodding. “Very well, young viscomte. You may marry my daughter.”
“Thank you, Father!” Aileen kissed her father’s cheek and threw herself into Henri’s embrace, filled with joy as
the great hall echoed with the cheers of her family, her friends, and all her dozens of cousins.
It did not take long to arrange a pair of Yuletide weddings that afternoon, since the local priest has arrived at Castle Glenshiel early in the morn to celebrate Christ’s Mass.
Lord Alistair Alsh and Lady Aileen MacLennan, the elder, said their vows first, in the castle’s chapel. The priest was understandably a bit reluctant to grant an unusual request for the second ceremony. But after a few toasts to the first happy couple, involving some of Darach’s finest whiskey, old Father Angus cheerfully agreed to a change of location for the wedding of Viscomte Henri d’Amboise and Lady Aileen MacLennan, the younger.
And so it was that everyone gathered in the library tower an hour later, the room aglow with afternoon sunlight that sparkled through the stained-glass windows. The MacLennan ladies had helped decorate with boughs of spruce and ribbons of green and red plaide. Laurien had hung mistletoe over the entrance. And little Adelle had placed a few wee fairy hats made of red wool among the bookshelves.
The chamber was so crowded with happy revelers, there was scarcely an inch to spare.
Standing just outside the door, Darach and Aileen’s father waited to one side while Laurien made a few final adjustments to the bride’s wedding garments.
Aileen wore a gown of red velvet decorated with silver embroidery at the bodice and sleeves—the one she had planned to wear to dance with Henri on Christmas Eve.
’Twas ever so much better, Aileen thought with a warm smile, to wear it to marry Henri on Christmas Day.
Laurien had helped fashion her hair in long, loose waves, with a circlet of holly leaves at the crown. The silver rowan branch necklace sparkled at Aileen’s throat, and the fur-lined white velvet cloak her groom had given her flowed down over her shoulders and back.
“Ma chere amie, you look so radiant, you truly are a French ange de Noel today.” Laurien hugged her. “I will miss you so. But now we will be more than cousins—we will be sisters! And you will love living in Amboise.”
“Thank you, belle-soeur.” Aileen returned her embrace, overwhelmed with emotion. “I promise that I will write often. And we will visit Glenshiel whenever we can.”
And then Darach opened the door, and Aileen placed her hand on her father’s arm and stepped into the library.
The expression on Henri’s face as she came through the entrance made her heart soar. She had never felt so happy, so beautiful…or so cherished. The moment felt truly perfect, as if all her most heartfelt dreams and prayers were coming true.
Like a Yuletide miracle.
The door scarcely made a sound as it whispered shut behind her, like the door to one part of her life gently closing, and her future opening bright before her.
A future filled with adventure and joy…and abundant, extravagant, unbridled hope.
They spoke their vows standing beneath the stained-glass window with an image of two doves in flight, and Henri surprised her with one more wedding gift.
“This was a family heirloom,” he murmured, slipping a ring onto her finger. “I had it remade for you.”
’Twas a slender silver band with a breathtaking emerald in the center, surrounded by sparkling rubies that matched the ones on her necklace.
When Father Angus declared them man and wife, Henri drew her close and Aileen wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed her new husband. And all the wedding guests cheered and applauded and wished them a lifetime of happiness together.
Amboise, France, December 1302
Aileen set her plume and ink aside, reading over her letter one last time before she folded it and melted a daub of red wax on the back, stamping it with a seal marked with a large letter A. She remained seated at her writing table for a moment, sighing happily as she gazed out the large window fitted with clear glass, watching snowflakes drift past in the evening light.
Then she rose and walked over to the hearth, leaning down to pet Storm. Wagging his fluffy tail, he lifted his head while she scratched between his pointed ears, then he stretched and went back to sleep on the sheepskin rug before the fire.
There was still some debate as to whether Storm was a dog or a rare Scottish Yule Wolf…but Aileen believed. After all, he was a large beastie.
And he still had blue eyes.
Crossing the master bedchamber, she slipped off her fur-lined white velvet cloak and left it at the foot of the enormous bed. She could never remember feeling such peace and joy, she thought as she knelt beside the bed, wearing only a sheer linen chemise that had been a gift from her husband this morn.
Never mind that she had told him she needed no gifts at Yuletide this year…because she had already received the most precious gift of all.
Reaching into the cradle beside the bed, Aileen ran her fingertips over her son’s dark hair, marveling at the look of him, so perfect, from his long lashes to the sweet bow of his mouth to his tiny fingers and toes.
They had named him Raphael, which meant “healed by God.”
Aileen tucked the baby’s plaide woolen blanket a bit closer around him. “You may be a future viscomte,” she whispered with a smile, “but never forget that you are also a Scot.”
She heard a masculine chuckle from the doorway. “I think he may have been conceived on that blanket.”
Aileen glanced over her shoulder, smiling at her husband in the firelight. “Mayhap, my love.”
’Twas indeed possible that Raphael had been conceived on that snowswept night in the Highlands when she and Henri had taken shelter in the abbey.
Or on one of the passionate nights that had followed, after their wedding.
Last Yuletide had truly been a season of miracles—in more ways than Aileen had even suspected at the time.
Henri entered their bedchamber and shut the door behind him. Pausing to greet Storm, he took off his boots and left them beside the hearth. “I see you received this morning’s Christmas gift.” Grinning, he stripped off his tunic and crossed the room. His green eyes warmed as they traced over her curves. The sheer garment concealed naught. “I am not certain if you remember, but it was one year ago tonight…”
“I remember everything,” she assured him in a husky whisper.
He knelt beside her at the cradle, bending to place the gentlest kiss on his son’s forehead. He slid an arm around Aileen’s waist. “My sweet lass, I know this was not how you intended to spend our first Christmas…”
“Raphael is a bit young yet for his first sea voyage, at just three months old.” She rested her head on Henri’s shoulder. “Everyone in Scotland will have to wait a wee while to meet him.”
“At least your grandparents are here. I know it is not the same as celebrating with dozens of MacLennan cousins, but Lord and Lady Alsh certainly seem to be in festive spirits.”
“Aye.” She laughed. “And ’twas sweet of Alistair to bring such a gift.” Aileen ran her hand over the elaborate carving on the cradle, which had been made from a Scottish rowan tree…by Alistair himself.
Marriage to Grandmother seemed to have changed the man, who was no longer known as Lord Awful. Everyone said ’twas as if his heart had grown three sizes in the past year.
“France is known for its cathedrals and its wine—and they seem to be enjoying both.” Henri chuckled, taking Aileen’s hand and drawing her to her feet. “Paris, Bordeaux, Tours…”
“I believe Grandmother said they are off to Chartres next.”
“The place where all of this began.” Grinning, Henri nodded to her writing table beneath the window, to the sketches scattered among her letters and manuscripts. “And how are your plans for the new library coming along? Will I need to add a new tower? Two?”
“None. This place is so large, I still get lost in it.” She shook her head, smiling up at him. “When I married you, milord, you neglected to mention that you live in a palace.”
“Chateau d’Amboise is a castle of only moderate size.” Pulling back the bedcovers, he scooped her i
nto his arms and settled her on the sheets. “Things tend to be a bit more grand here in France.”
“Aye, so I have learned.” Sighing, she stretched her arms over her head, enjoying the silky softness of the sheets and pillows…and the view as her husband stripped off the last of his garments. “This may not be a palace, but I feel like a princess here, Henri. Your people have been so welcoming and kind.”
He stretched out beside her. “They are your people as well now, Viscomtesse Aileen d’Amboise.”
“I am not certain I will ever grow accustomed to having such a lofty title. I was just writing as much in my letter to Laurien.” Aileen ran her hand over the hard curve of her husband’s shoulder, the corded muscles of his arm. “I told her all about my first Yuletide in France.”
He nuzzled her throat. “I trust you did not tell my sister every detail.”
His lips covered hers in a deep kiss, lush with the promise of pleasures to come.
When he lifted his mouth from hers, she reached up to caress his bearded cheek, the emerald and rubies of her wedding ring sparkling in the firelight. “You were right, Henri.”
“About what?” He grinned. “I am right about so many things.”
“When you told me to have hope,” she whispered. “To trust that even after a long time of darkness, light can come again…and miracles can happen.” She twined her arms around his neck. “Nollaig Chridheil, husband.”
His green eyes sparkling with merriment, and love, he lowered his mouth for another kiss. “Joyeux Noel, my sweet Scottish bride.”
I hope you enjoyed spending time with Henri and Aileen in the pages of His Scottish Bride. I’d love to keep writing books that touch your heart for many years to come. Readers like you make it possible, and I’m so thankful for your support.
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