He stalked across the room and flung open the door to find an old woman standing in the doorway—the same old woman who had taunted him at the wedding feast about wedding and bedding the MacInnes. She laughed out load at the sight of him.
Neil was not amused. “I hope to hell you brought my clothes.”
She shook her head.
His stomach rumbled loudly and another possibility occurred to him. “Steak and kidney pie?”
She stared at him blankly.
“You know,” he snapped. “Breakfast. Food. Sustenance.” And in a measure of his hunger and his desperation he added, “oatmeal.”
Her wizened face seemed to light up when he mentioned oatmeal, but she shook her head. “Nay.”
“Then, what the devil are you doing here?” he demanded. “Besides laughing at me.”
“I came for the proof,” she answered.
“Proof of what? The fact that I’m still here? Hungry and except for this scrap of cloth, bare-arsed naked?”
“Nay,” she answered once more, walking past him. “I’ve come for the proof of the bedding.” She stopped beside the bed, then flipped back the covers and stared at the near pristine condition of the white linen covering the feather mattress. She shook her head and made a clucking sound with her tongue that sounded suspiciously like she’d decided he wasn’t man enough to be married to the MacInnes.
“Not there,” Neil stalked over to her, snatched the bed linen out of her hand and flipped it back down into place. “There!” He pointed to the dull red marks on the coverlet. She leaned closer to the bed in order to get a better look and Neil yanked the coverlet off the bed and held it in her face. “I can assure you, madam, that I’ve fulfilled my obligation and deflowered the MacInnes.”
“Oooh, aye,” she replied with a coyness that was almost as disconcerting as the speculative way she suddenly began to eye him. “And on top of the covers, too. Instead of right and properlike between them. I dinna know Sassenach men could be so randy.”
“Oooh, aye,” he mimicked in his best Scots burr. “As randy as the randiest Scotsman. Late at night and in the morning light.”
“Then, wee Jessie is truly fortunate. Wait until the rest of the women see this.” She waved the coverlet at him.
Neil groaned. He wasn’t so sure “wee Jessie” would consider herself fortunate after last night. Especially when her clanswomen were about to wave the proof under her nose. He knew, of course, that once upon a time it was quite common to see stained bed sheets flapping in the breeze on the morning following a wedding, but the barbaric custom was rarely practiced in London anymore and he’d had no idea that Scottish clans still subscribed to the tradition. “Is that necessary?” he asked.
“Oooh aye,” she answered. “Verra important. The clan would be disappointed if we dinna display the proof.” Seeing the expression on his face, she added, “They might think that there was sumthin’ wrong with our laird or with you. And our wee Jessie wouldna want that.”
Neil had to fight to keep from gnashing his teeth. No, of course “wee Jessie” wouldn’t want her clan to be disappointed. She could be disappointed, but she had too much pride to allow her clan to find fault with the way her husband fulfilled his sexual obligation. “Where is the MacInnes?” he asked.
“She’s about the bailey tending to business.”
“Will you tell her I wish to see her?”
She shrugged. “I can tell her, but I canna promise she’ll come to ye. She’s tending to verra important matters.”
“As important as tending to her husband?” he asked.
“If ye were my husband, I’d say not. But yer Jessie’s husband and she’s the …”
“MacInnes,” Neil finished. “I know.” He glanced at the woman. “I was on my way out the door to find her when you arrived. I guess there’s no reason I can’t continue my mission.”
“Ye canna go like that,” she said, pointing to his makeshift plaid.
He looked down at the tartan tied about his waist, then turned his attention back to the woman. “Why not?”
“It’s na proper.”
“Then show me how to fashion it properly.”
She blushed red to the roots of her gray hair and backed away from him. “I canna. That’s the duty of yer wife. Or yer lover.”
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” he said, pacing the length of the room and back again. “My wife isn’t here. And even though I wish to see her, she’s tending to important matters and may or may not choose to attend me. My own clothing has disappeared and I cannot go to my wife unless I’m properly dressed in a Scottish garment I have no idea how to fashion. And you, a Scottish woman, presumably my relation by marriage and certainly old enough to be my mother, cannot help me fashion this Scottish clothing because it wouldn’t be seemly for you to usurp the role of my wife. Which means I’m expected to sit alone and bare-arsed in my bedchamber on my honeymoon until someone brings me my uniform or my wife comes to dress me.”
“Aye.”
“Well, bugger that!” he exclaimed. “And bugger propriety! I’m going to find my wife.”
Neil’s appearance in the old bailey, moments later, created quite a stir among the cottagers. Especially since Auld Davina followed close on his heels, waving the proof of the bedding before her like a nobleman waving his coat of arms. The women of Clan MacInnes who gathered around to see if the bed linens bore the stain of the MacInnes’s virginal blood took advantage of the unique opportunity to ooh and aah, not only over the blood-stained coverlet, but over the superbly arranged mass of male flesh and sinew that the tartan wrapped snugly around Jessalyn’s Sassenach husband’s narrow waist displayed so nicely.
Conferring with the Ancient Gentlemen on the far side of the outer bailey, Jessalyn looked up to see what was causing her kinswomen to gather like clucking hens around earthworms and caught sight of her husband striding across the yard a few steps ahead of Alisdair’s wife, Davina. She recognized the fabric Davina held in her hands. It was the woven spread used to cover her father’s bed. When she’d last seen it, it had been wrapped around her husband. Now, the spread was in Davina’s possession, and her husband was wrapped in the length of tartan he’d worn the day before. But instead of being properly pleated and belted into a plaid, the tartan was wound around his hips like a primitive loincloth. For all that his garment concealed, he might as well have strolled through the outer bailey naked. And she wasn’t the only one who had noticed. She narrowed her gaze as Sorcha, the widow of one of her cousins, reached out and brushed Neil’s flank as he walked by. He didn’t seem to notice, but the rest of her kinswomen had. They couldn’t take their eyes off him and any second now, Jessalyn fully expected to have to march across the yard and remind the lot of them that he was her husband and that they would do well to keep their eyes in their heads and their hands to themselves. She gasped at her kinswomen’s and her husband’s audacity and her surprise was enough to draw the three Ancient Gentlemen’s undivided attention.
“What the devil is the lad wearin’?” Tam demanded, turning his attention to the earl’s improper state of dress. He narrowed his gaze at Jessalyn. “Have ye forgotten yer wifely duty, lass? Dinna ye show yer husband the proper way to wear his plaid?”
Jessalyn shook her head. She hadn’t forgotten her wifely duty. She’d ignored it. She’d taken his Sassenach clothes and boots in the hopes that he would remain in his bedchamber. After sharing the marriage bed, she had needed some time and distance from him. “I dinna show him how to wear his plaid because I dinna think he’d be up and about so early.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was as much of the truth as she was willing to admit to three of the co-conspirators who had married her to an Englishman, then looked at her with censure in their eyes because she’d failed to fulfill her wifely duties. They were Scots warriors, her Ancient Gentlemen. They were supposed to be on her side and they were siding with him. Because they were men.
“What are you doing here?” Angr
y at the Ancient Gentlemen for siding with Neil when they should have remained loyal to her, Jessalyn asked the question much more sharply than she intended when Neil came to a halt in front of her.
Neil flicked a glance over his shoulder as someone brushed his side. He frowned at the old woman holding the stained coverlet and at the growing crowd who pointed to the linen and whispered amongst themselves in a language he couldn’t understand, then turned his attention back to the MacInnes, pinning her with his angry gaze. “I’m apparently heading a parade of kinswomen who’ve been charged with the duty of displaying the proof that you were a virgin until I bedded you.” He reached down and grabbed a corner of the bedding and held it aloft. “The MacInnes entered her marriage bed as pure as a newborn babe.” He roared, flapping his end of the coverlet in the air. “She bled all over the coverlet when I took her and she’s chaste no longer. Have you seen enough, ladies?” He sneered the title. “Or will you require further evidence of my Sassenach savagery?”
The women of the clan scattered like a flock of startled chicks.
Neil let go of the bedding and barred his teeth in grim satisfaction before turning back to face her.
Jessalyn heard the note of self-deprecation in his voice and ignored it. She had to be strong in the face of overwhelming temptation. She couldn’t allow herself to be swayed by a pair of clear green eyes or a pair of enticing dimples. “How dare you present yourself before me in such a manner?” She demanded. “And how dare you frighten my women?”
“I dare,” Neil managed through gritted teeth, “because instead of waking up beside a warm and willing wife on the morning after our wedding, I was forced to go begging to the MacInnes for my daily bread.”
“And …” she hinted broadly, waiting for the apology she felt he owed her after the debacle that was their wedding night.
“And you may bloody well be the MacInnes but I’m your husband and like it or not, there are a few wifely duties I expect you to fulfill!”
“And what wifely duties might those be, my lord?” she asked sweetly, too sweetly. Having Neil remind her of her obligations was not what Jessalyn expected or wanted from him.
“I expect you to warm my bed during the night,” he responded. “And I expect you to still be there when I open my eyes and when I arise, I expect to be fed and properly clothed.”
“Is that all, my lord?” Sarcasm dripped like honey from her lips.
“No,” he said. “That’s not all. I expect you to be warm and accommodating if I choose to make love to you every morning.”
He succeeded in wiping the smirk off her face and replacing it with a most becoming blush. “I’m cold and hungry and horny—though not necessarily in that order. I spent the better part of an hour trying to fasten this damned rag,” he indicated the tartan wrapped around his waist, “and nobody seems to know where my bloody uniform and boots have gone!”
“I took your bloody uniform and boots,” Jessalyn told him. “Like it or not you’re the husband of the MacInnes and you’ll dress as we dress. I can’t allow you or Sergeant Marsden or Corporal Stanhope to wear your uniforms in the village or on the castle grounds.” Recognizing the firm set of his mouth and jaw and the belligerent look in his eyes, she softened her edict with an explanation. “Look around you, my lord. There are women and children here. Until you arrived, the only time most of them had ever seen Englishmen was when they rode in here wearing crimson tunics and trousers just like yours, then proceeded to burn and pillage. They terrorized the women and children, killed our kinsmen and slaughtered or stole our livestock. The sight of your uniforms is enough to bring back their memories of that terrible day.”
She didn’t say it, but Neil saw the way she shuddered and knew that the sight of his uniform brought back her memories of that terrible day.
“The people of Glenaonghais have struggled so hard to survive and to put the memories behind them,” Jessalyn continued, “that I dare not risk their peace of mind or your safety by allowing you or your men to wear your uniforms.”
“Fair enough.” Neil nodded in agreement. As long as he was clothed in a semi-modest fashion and fed on a semi-regular basis, he was willing to concede the battle over the wearing of his uniform. His stomach rumbled loudly and he smiled at her. “Then why don’t you show me how to properly fasten this thing—” He swept a hand over his tartan. “—so we can eat breakfast. I’m hungry.”
His boyish smile didn’t affect his wife the way he hoped. Instead of smiling in return, his bride recoiled as if he’d struck her. “Get one of the men to show you,” she ordered. “I cannot.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “The old woman who came for the proof of the bedding told me she couldn’t do it because my wife had to do it.” He eyed her speculatively. “You’re my wife.”
“I cannot,” she repeated, unwilling to explain that she couldn’t touch him, couldn’t fashion the pleats of his garment over his bare skin. She couldn’t perform that intimate task until she felt more like a wife and less like a trollop he’d purchased and bedded for the night.
“I understand why you can’t allow me to wear my uniform, but this—” He threw up his hands. “This I don’t understand. Isn’t helping a husband with his plaid each morning something every good highland wife does?”
“Yes.”
“Well?” he urged, “have at it.” Moving closer to her, he raised his arms. “The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can eat. I’m hungry.”
Jessalyn flushed a bright red. She could feel the heat from his body and her fingers itched to touch him. But not here. Not in front of the entire village. Not like this. He hadn’t earned the right to solicit her tender, wifely ministrations. She couldn’t touch him without remembering how he’d boasted of his prowess in the bedchamber, without remembering how empty his boasts had turned out to be. Her husband was a huge disappointment as a lover and it angered her to discover that the heat and scent and sheer beauty of the man was almost more than she could resist. And since she couldn’t trust herself not to give in to her desire to touch him, she used her anger to keep him at a distance. “You’re hungry. I’m hungry. We’re all hungry. Look around you once again, my unobservant Lord Derrowford. Do you see any food? Do you see any women preparing a meal to break the fast?” She waved her hand toward the long empty tables still set up in the bailey. “There is no food.”
“But yesterday … last night …” he sputtered. “The wedding feast. The oatmeal.”
“That was the last of our food stores,” Jessalyn admitted. “The women used everything we had to prepare the feast. We’ll be going hungry until we can restock the larder.”
Neil glanced around. The women who had been showing off the blood-stained coverlet were now preparing to launder it while the old men and boys sat on crudely made stools and benches outside the thatch-roofed huts lining the walls of the bailey and whittled. He sighed. The village bordered a loch and a dense forest. Surely, there were fish in the loch and game in the woods. Surely the men of Clan MacInnes—even old men and young boys—knew how to hunt and fish. Why did the MacInnes allow them to whittle away the daylight hours when there was no food in the village? “Why aren’t the men out stalking game?” he demanded. “Why aren’t they out hunting and fishing instead of sitting around whittling?”
“You ignorant, arrogant Sassenach! Do you still not ken the damage we’ve suffered at the hands of greedy soldiers like you?” she demanded. “Those men and boys aren’t sitting around whittling. They’re fashioning spears so that they might hunt and fish to provide food for the clan.”
“Spears?” Neil repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before.
“Yes, spears,” Jessalyn said. “The English confiscated our weapons and the tools we need to make weapons. All we have left are our dirks.”
Neil gave a low whistle of begrudging amazement that his fellow countrymen had managed to do the impossible—disarm a clan of Scottish highlanders. “You mean there isn’t a single firearm or swo
rd in the entire village?”
“Of course not.” Jessalyn snorted. “We managed to hide a few firearms along with a few claymores and battle axes but firearms dinna work without powder and shot and claymores and battle axes aren’t much good for bagging rabbits and small game. That’s why we need the spears and the snares.”
Neil stared out at the dark sparkling waters of the loch. “The water looks deep. Too deep for trolling with hooks and lines.”
“Aye, ’tis very deep,” Jessalyn replied. “Before the Uprising, the fishermen of the clan took the boats out every morning and netted our catch, but the soldiers slashed and burned our fishing nets and crippled our boats. All we have are hooks and lines.” She shrugged her shoulders. “The English army destroyed nearly everything we owned, including our livelihoods with a thoroughness and a savagery I never imagined possible.” Her voice broke. “They shot most of the cattle and sheep and hogs along with the geese and chickens, then bayoneted the rest. They spared us because they wanted us to watch the destruction. They spared us because the army feared a public outcry in London against the slaughter of innocent women and children.” She managed an ironic laugh. “Quiet, desperate starvation goes unnoticed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to comfort her, to put a hand on her shoulder and pull her close, but she stepped away, out of his reach. He let his hand drop to his side. “Perhaps you should send someone to Edinburgh to purchase supplies …”
“I already have,” she cut him off. “But our stomachs will remain empty until he returns. Unless we’re able to catch enough food for an evening meal.”
Neil frowned, remembering the look of rapture in her eyes as she spooned up the charred oatmeal. He briefly recalled the way his hands had spanned her waist and the sharp, jutting angle of her hipbones. She couldn’t afford to miss another meal. She was much too thin already. “We might be able to catch a few rabbits or fish,” he said, “but hardly enough to feed a whole village. So that leaves us with only one other option.”
A Hint of Heather Page 11
