by Fiona Monroe
Besides, her faith was plighted to Mr. Carmichael, and Catriona believed in keeping promises. She would simply have to take command of herself and conquer this unwise infatuation.
At long last, she rose from the bed and removed her grass-stained, muddy, torn evening gown, and her slip and petticoat, and stood naked in the pale dawn light while she briefly surveyed the after-effects of the thrashing in a hand-mirror. With awful fascination, she examined the lattice of two dozen long, angry red weals all over both nether cheeks and across the backs of her thighs. She could see where that one cruelly hard stroke had struck across the top of her buttocks, and this particular stripe ached and throbbed still with its own peculiar intensity. She made a cold compress with a towel and the water from the hand basin, and bathed the welts.
It offered her some relief, and at length she slid beneath the covers, not bothering to put on her nightgown, and lay on her stomach to try to get a little sleep at least. Alas, there was no such thing as a cold compress for the heart. Catriona lay awake, smarting both outside and within, until the maid came in with her early-morning cup of tea.
Until she watched her actually walk up the aisle on her brother's arm, Catriona could not quite believe that Caroline would go through with the wedding.
She had, though reluctantly, looked in upon her cousin before breakfast, after washing her face and arranging herself in a fresh morning dress. The maid had taken away the mud-stained, torn gown to be washed and mended with an expression of surprise and disapprobation, and a soft exclamation in her own tongue.
She had no real wish to see Caroline, and she was heartily sick of her drama and histrionics. She could not, that morning, endure a return to the subject of Lord Daventry, or Sir Duncan's imagined cruelties, or listen to her bewail her fate. Her own heart was so full and tender that she thought it might spill its complicated sadness in unkind words, and since her cousin was expected to leave Lochlannan soon as Mrs. Ross, she did not want to quarrel with her. Nevertheless, she felt she ought to see how she was.
Caroline was sitting before her dressing table, already arraigned in a pretty sprigged gown, allowing her maid to arrange her hair in curls around her face.
At the sight of Mackenzie, Catriona felt a sickness that was unlike any emotion she had ever experienced. It was a poisonous pang, deep in her stomach, impossible to ignore. She froze until the girl had her dismissal from Caroline, who waved her away with flat indifference.
"That will do now, Mackenzie. Leave us."
Catriona tensed as the pretty little lady's maid brushed close to her, and let out a breath as the door closed behind her. This was absurd. She must master herself, and she must by no means let Caroline guess her feelings.
That, however, seemed unlikely. Caroline was studying her own reflection intently. "Do these curls suit my face? I am not sure. Perhaps I should wear it looser."
"Caroline... are you quite well?"
Her mouth set into a pout. "Yes! Quite well. If you mean, as I'm sure you do, will I think one moment more about that — buithaigir duine — then I will not. The curls become me rather than not, I think, on the whole. I am sure Mr. Ross will think them pretty."
"Yes, Caroline. I am sure Mr. Ross will think you pretty, however you wear your hair. But ought you — ought you to be getting married in this state of mind?"
"Oh for goodness' sake!" She slammed her hairbrush down on the dressing table. It was the same one, Catriona noted with faint amusement, that her mother had applied to her backside. "First you tell me to be a good girl and marry Mr. Ross, then when I say I will you tell me not to."
"Caroline... I never said, not once, that you should marry Mr. Ross —"
"Nothing will wound him more!" she cried angrily. "It is the only thing I can do that can come close to hurting him the way he hurt me. Besides, why should I pine away an old maid in this miserable castle, just for his sake?"
"I understood that Mr. Ross has a miserable castle, too?"
"Perhaps. But I shall be mistress of it. And besides, I shall make him take me to town each year." She picked up the hairbrush again and began to tweak her hair. "What did Duncan say to you after I left you last night?"
Catriona paused, then said, "Nothing of consequence."
"Did you get a hiding?"
When Catriona did not reply, Caroline gasped and turned to face her for the first time, animated and guilty. "Oh! You did. Dear cousin, I am so sorry to have let you in for that." She grasped her hands. "It was sweet of you to try to help me, and this was the consequence!"
"I am only thankful that the consequence was not what it could have been," Catriona replied, rather coolly. But she could not long resist Caroline's sudden burst of warmth.
"I know!" Caroline cried. "I was deceived, and I hate him now as I loved him before. Thank God my brother rescued me. I know I deserved what I got. But you did not! You were only being a loyal friend. Did he take that horrid rule to you, too?"
"No. The razor strop."
"No!" Caroline put her hand to her mouth. "Truly? The razor strop alone? He has threatened me with it sometimes, but only given me two or three strokes as an extra lesson. How many did you get?"
"Full enough to make the point."
"But are you not very sore? I can still feel it, especially when I sit — may I see?"
Catriona was reluctant, but did not bother to protest when Caroline assumed her acquiescence and lifted her skirt up to view the lingering evidence of the razor strop whipping. Catriona had not herself quite dared to examine her nether regions herself before dressing, and it did not make her feel any better to hear Caroline's cry of dismay at the sight. The one stroke that Sir Duncan had delivered with particular vigour still throbbed relentlessly.
"I am so sorry!" Caroline cried again, and threw her arms around her neck.
"Please don't worry about it, dear cousin. I deserved it, too. What matters is that you are safe, and will be married in a few hours to a decent man who truly loves you, and will take care of you."
Caroline nodded against Catriona's neck, and Catriona hugged her back with real warmth. And then it proved that this had disarranged Caroline's curls, and she flew into a panic and summoned Mackenzie back to her. At this, Catriona felt compelled to leave.
In the event, she was glad that she had gone to speak to Caroline. It had dispersed what she now realised had been a shadow of resentment, and she felt more confident that her cousin knew her own mind — "Such as it is," she heard, in his dry voice — about her decision to marry Mr. Ross.
All the same, she sat at the back of the chapel, grimly enduring the torment of a smarting backside on the hard wooden pew and holding her breath lest Caroline would not after all appear. Mr. Ross stood at the altar by the minister, looking nervous, resplendent in full Highland dress. Lady Buccleuch, Sir John and Lady Ross and the minister's pretty young wife were the only other guests in attendance, and Catriona could not help wondering at the fact that none of them knew what had nearly happened in the small hours of the night just passed. She was very grateful that Sir Duncan had promised that it should always remain a secret, and her present discomfort as she tried not to squirm in her seat seemed but a small price to pay.
At last, Mr. Ross's face lit up with a huge smile. Catriona twisted around, and saw Sir Duncan enter the chapel with his sister on his arm. Caroline had put a few roses in her hair since breakfast, and with the simple morning dress, her black hair and ivory-pale skin, the effect was unexpectedly lovely. She looked neither happy nor apprehensive, but resolute. Her brows were drawn together, her lips were pressed tight, and her sharp chin was thrust forward.
By her side, Sir Duncan was bedecked in his full clan regalia. Catriona allowed herself one long, astonished stare before hastily withdrawing her gaze. He was magnificent in swathes of red, green and purple plaid, held in place with silver buckles and brooches. A sword swung at his hip from a leather sash across his chest, and a pouch made of some kind of animal hide and adorned with tassels and bone hung low
over the front of his kilt. He had even, she thought, combed his hair.
She caught one fleeting but definite glance from his sparkling black eyes, then she averted her head deliberately. She knew that her face was hot, and her heart knocked beneath his ribs. Before this, she had only ever seen him wearing a careless collection of sporting garments and the rather frayed-looking tailcoat he wore to dinner. When he appeared in society she supposed he must dress like the smart gentleman he was, but around his own home he made no effort in that direction. And now, he was every inch the Laird.
Was it true, what they said, about what Highland men wore underneath?
From his beaming smiles as he took her hand from Sir Duncan's, it was clear that Mr. Ross was delighted in his bride. Caroline, for her part, frowned and set her mouth. She repeated her vows in a low angry voice, as if daring anyone to argue with her.
Still, repeat them she did, and when the minister pronounced them to be man and wife the deed was done.
For better or worse, Catriona thought, as Mr. and Mrs. Ross left the chapel hand in hand. He looked as though he would burst with pride and satisfaction, she looked gloomy and perhaps a little scared.
The wedding party followed the happy couple up to the great hall, where they all drank a sweet creamy liquid with a fiery under taste of whisky from a large embossed silver cup that looked like an oversized soup bowl with handles.
Sir Duncan drank deeply of the cup, tipping half of its contents down his throat with both hands, then passed it to her.
She looked at it doubtfully, avoiding his eye. She was deeply conscious that her confusion was evident, and she hoped that he would attribute it to shame and embarrassment arising from her chastisement the night before. It would be natural to feel mortified, but to her own chagrin the memory of his having looked on her naked nether regions was stirring her blood and quickening her breath. That he appeared so very fine in his Clan Chief's regalia did nothing to calm her. She was surprised at that, she had never thought herself much affected by a man's outward costume before.
"It's the quaich," he said in a low voice, bending closer to her. "This one was made for my father's wedding. First wedding, that is. It may even have been a present from your grandfather."
At this, she did raise her eyes to him, involuntarily. He was watching her very seriously. Her grandfather, her mother's father, had been a minor laird from the Isle of Skye who had lost his lands after 1745. She knew only incomplete details about his life, as he had died when her mother was only twelve and much of the family history had been swept away in the aftermath of the Rebellion, but she understood that he had manage to retain enough of his fortune to endow his elder daughter with the dowry that she now stood to inherit. And, it would seem, to have a handsome silver ceremonial wedding cup made in honour of the occasion.
It was sad that this marriage had turned out to be so very unhappy, and ended in sudden, if not suspicious death.
It was as well to remember that. No doubt her aunt had stood in this very hall and drunk from this same cup, giddy with love for Sir Wallace Buccleuch, full of hope and happiness. Catriona dipped her head and cautiously sipped the white creamy liquor. It was like drinking thin porridge, if porridge were usually alcoholic.
She must have made a face, because Sir Duncan said with a smile in his voice, "Atholl brose. Elixir of the gods." He took the quaich from her and handed it on to his sister.
Caroline gulped down several mouthfuls, so that Sir Duncan had to call for the cup to be refilled before her new husband — still smiling — could take his turn. Caroline was now looking very white, as if it were dawning on her that what she had done was irrevocable.
When everyone had taken at least a sip from the quaich, Sir Duncan raised it above his head and declaimed something loudly in the Gaelic. There was a polite smattering of applause, which Catriona joined in even though she had not understood a word; she thought that the older Rosses looked disconcerted and mildly disapproving, though their son grinned broadly. The minister Mr. Farquhar, however, nodded and even seemed amused, while Caroline positively scowled at her brother.
"I'll drink again to that!" said Mr. Ross heartily, taking the quaich again and draining it. "Now as you know, I'm taking my lovely bride straight home to Sgeir Dubh, but we'll be back in a fortnight for a proper celebration. Until then, soraidh leibh agus slainte!" He raised the cup high.
Whatever he had said, it was evidently a cue. Everyone started moving down the staircase and out through the main door of the castle, where a curricle was waiting, decorated with flowers and already loaded with the newlyweds' luggage.
The morning was bright and blazing with just a hint of a breeze, a perfect Highland summer day. The dazzling freshness of outside made the stone halls of the castle seem suddenly gloomy and dark by contrast. Catriona stood blinking in the sunlight, giddy with tiredness. She had not, she realised, had a wink of sleep all the night before.
She felt a cold hand grasp hers, and shook off what seemed to have been a moment's standing slumber to find herself looking into Caroline's terrified face.
"I cannot go with him," she whispered. "I cannot really be married! Help me!"
Catriona was struggling for a response, when Mr. Ross noticed that his bride was no longer by his side and turned to hold out his hand.
"My love," he said, with great warmth. "Let me help you into our carriage, my dearest wife."
Caroline held Catriona's gaze for a moment longer, her eyes wide and staring. Then she set her mouth, straightened her shoulders, and accepted her new husband's hand. There was a determined set about the way she allowed him to hand her up into the curricle.
With little further ado, and a few final waves and shouts of farewell, they were off in a rattle of reigns and clatter of hooves. Catriona watched until they were out of sight beyond the sweep of the drive, uncertain whether she felt apprehension or relief.
"A match made in heaven," said a dry voice close behind her.
Catriona would not look round. "A match made by you, sir."
"Nonsense. She chose it."
Catriona could not deny that.
"She will do well enough. Ross will treat her all right, especially if he heeds my advice and stands no nonsense from her. Now then, Miss Dunbar. What say you to this wedding dance?"
"Sir?"
"You heard what Ross said. I'm holding the biggest ceilidh Lochlannan has ever seen to celebrate finally getting my sister safely wed. Care to open proceedings with me — after the happy couple, at any rate?"
"I... would be honoured, sir," Catriona said, out of rote, but she was confused. This almost polite, almost tentative application for her hand as a dancing partner — and two weeks at least ahead of the actual event — seemed to come out of nowhere. If he required her to dance with him at the ball, or ceilidh or whatever they called such gatherings here, she would have expected him to brusquely order her to stand up with him on the night.
"Good," he said, and moved away.
She had not once turned to him. When at last she looked round, he was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The castle was definitely quieter without Caroline. Within a day, his father Sir John followed him, explaining that he dared not leave his steward long to his own devices. Lady Ross was to remain a guest at Lochlannan until the wedding feast, and since she and Lady Buccleuch were entirely content with each other's company, Catriona felt herself to be superfluous. She sat and read in silence that long evening, drooping with tiredness and half-listening to the mothers congratulate each other on the suitability of their children's match.
Their complacency astonished her. Perhaps Lady Ross knew nothing about the matter beyond the no doubt glowing account of his bride that her son had given her, but Lady Buccleuch certainly understood that Caroline had been in love with another and had married Mr. Ross reluctantly at best. Had she no fears for her daughter's happiness?
Sir Duncan seemed restless, too. He did not join the ladies that eve
ning — hoping and fearing that he would was the only thing that had kept her from going to bed as early as she decently could — and she had no idea where he was, or what he was doing. She did not see him again until breakfast the next morning, when he slouched at the head of the table in his hunting gear, looking ruffled and wet. His huge shaggy dog lounged at his feet, and he tossed it whole sausages and roast pheasant quarters with an irritable air.
"You should not feed that beast from the table, Duncan," said his mother.
"I'll feed it anywhere I damn well choose."
Catriona thought she had become inured to the disrespectful way he would often speak to his mother, but she could not help but feel dismay at his tone. Their eyes met, glancingly, and she thought he seemed disgruntled. He had certainly not looked kindly on her.
She lowered her gaze to her simple breakfast of pickled herring and porridge, and resolved to pay him no more heed. Unfortunately, a night of exhausted and dreamless sleep had done nothing to cure her of the madness that had infected her soul. She had opened her eyes to thoughts of him, and lay curled under the covers reliving the moment his hand had caressed the skin of her breast and his fingers had closed around her nipple. The tender bruises on her backside, now that the welts left by the lash of the razor strop had all but subsided, reminded her that she had lain bare and exposed to him and that memory was dangerously delicious.
Sitting down to breakfast and feeling the twinge still, she could not help but remember. And being in his presence again, her heart hammered and her stomach fluttered. Although she let the servant serve her from the sideboard, she could hardly eat a mouthful.
Distractedly, she wondered how Caroline was faring, on this the morning after her wedding night. Had she, when it came to it, refused Mr. Ross? Catriona could imagine her throwing a tantrum and perhaps a breakable object or two when her new husband tried to claim his marital rights. From all that she had heard of Blackrock, her imagination conjured a vast dank sea-lashed bedchamber, an old-fashioned four-poster, and Caroline sobbing behind a locked door while her husband raged and pleaded without. She hoped it was not so, for everyone's sake, but she could not imagine herself submitting to the embraces of a man for whom she cared nothing. Caroline had married in a fit of anger, and must by now have faced the full reality of what that entailed.
