Kilty Party

by Markland, Anna

  It rankled that Rory could refuse marriage whereas she was being forced by royal decree to wed a Drummond. “I’ve ne’er even met this man I’m to marry.”

  Predictably, her father launched into the usual tirade about the beginnings of the feud between the two clans. Rory chimed in when his father’s memory lapsed.

  Nairn rolled her eyes. They’d heard it all too many times before.

  Caitlin privately thought it ridiculous two families who lived within thirty-five miles of each other couldn’t get along because of something that happened hundreds of years ago.

  She had nothing against this Shaw Drummond. He was likely as resentful about the impending betrothal ceremony as she. However, marriage meant living under the thumb of a stranger. No more galloping through the heather with her hair unbound, no paddling barefoot in the loch that surrounded Ardblair Castle, her skirts tucked up around her hips, and no opportunity to see the cities of Edinburgh, Glasgow, Paris, London or Rome. She doubted her betrothed would approve of a woman who loved to read. At seventeen, her life would be over. She’d be married to an angry man whose family would never welcome her as one of their own, the sacrificial lamb on the altar of a king’s crusade to end clan feuding.

  However, she kept her thoughts to herself, determined to contemplate the glorious history of the imposing castle as they rode up the hill to the arched gateway.

  Dressed for the Occasion

  A red-faced Fiona stormed into the chamber allotted to the Drummond men, seemingly more surprised by the spacious accommodations than by their state of complete undress. “Wheest, look at the size of this place. My so-called chamber is a cupboard.”

  Gordon and Logan grabbed towels and covered their loins. A scowling Brodie cupped his hands over his privates. Shaw supposed he should be used to his sister’s lack of social graces; however, having just reluctantly heaved his frame out of a very soothing hot bath, he refused to cover himself. She was the one who’d burst in unannounced, clearly finding the pose of a lady too challenging to maintain. It was time she realized there might be consequences.

  “Weel, look at ye, Shaw Drummond, strutting like a rooster,” she exclaimed. “Get dressed. Ye’ll have to do something about my chamber.”

  “Turn yer back, lass,” Brodie pleaded. “Ye canna just…”

  Hands on hips, Fiona braced her legs in an unladylike manner and pouted. “Useless Drummond men. I can see I’ll have to speak to Davidson myself.”

  Shaw stood his ground. She never obeyed her father and, if Shaw didn’t establish his authority now, she’d ride roughshod over him when he became laird. He gritted his teeth as cold water trickled from his long hair down his back. “Ye’ll do no such thing,” he replied, reaching for a towel, “we’re guests of a king and we’ll behave like the ancient noble family we are. Try to remember ye’re a descendant of a queen of Scotland.”

  The reference to Annabelle Drummond, wife of Robert III, did the trick. Fiona folded her arms and turned away. She harrumphed, tapping her foot, but averted her gaze while the menfolk dressed for the betrothal ceremony.

  *

  Lying on a luxuriously soft bed in the large chamber she and her sister had been allotted, Caitlin’s eyes roved over the elaborate tapestries and exquisite furniture, much of it French if she wasn’t mistaken. She loved her chamber at Ardblair, but her father wasn’t one to spend coin on anything other than wooden chests made by local carpenters. She’d never even asked if she might have her own solar, as Rory did, knowing it was pointless.

  She flexed her fingertips in the satin bedspread, richly embroidered with deep blue flowers. She’d never seen such a shade of blue before. Stirling was perhaps a worthy place to begin a new life.

  She wiggled her toes and stared up at the quilted canopy and voluminous hangings, imagining that queens may have slept in this very bed.

  “Nay doot it feels good to take off yer boots,” the maidservant observed. “Did ye ride far?”

  Caitlin wished she’d been allowed to bring her own maid from Ardblair, but the invitation had made it clear a maidservant would be provided. Whatever she confided to Moira never went any further. She didn’t know this woman’s name, though she was clearly a Scot.

  “Forty-five miles,” Nairn replied, turning away from the rain-spattered window. “What’s yer name?”

  Caitlin had been remiss in not cautioning her sister against being too friendly with strangers.

  “Avril. My mother was French and ’twas the month I was born. Now, where’s the frock?”

  Caitlin sat up. “Frock?”

  “Wheest, lass. The best gown for yer betrothal ceremony.”

  “We didna bring frocks,” Nairn replied.

  Avril folded her arms across ample breasts. “Ye mean to tell me ye intend to pledge yerself to a mon in yer traveling togs? What will he think? And what about the banquet afterwards? Steward Davidson has a big feast planned.”

  It was on the tip of Caitlin’s tongue to counter that she didn’t care a whit about Shaw Drummond’s opinion, but Avril might repeat every word. Then it dawned on her what the maid had said. “Feast?”

  “Aye, all the gentry from hereabouts. Did yer mam nay make sure ye had an elegant gown?”

  “Our mother died birthing me,” Nairn replied.

  The color drained from Avril’s freckled face. “Ye poor wee lasses. And I’ll warrant ye have just older brothers who dinna ken any better.”

  Caitlin wasn’t about to criticize her blood kin but Nairn apparently had no such scruples. “Aye, Rory kens naught about gowns.”

  “Stand up,” Avril commanded, seizing her elbow. “Let me see the size of ye.”

  Caitlin had little choice but to slide off the bedspread.

  Avril eyed her up and down, then bade her turn. With an imperious twirl of the finger, she had Nairn do the same thing.

  With a cryptic Hmmm, she left, then popped her head back in the door. “Get those clothes off.”

  After the door slammed, Caitlin and Nairn exchanged a wide-eyed glance before collapsing on the blue satin, consumed by fits of giggles.

  *

  “Stand still while I fix yer clan brooch,” Fiona admonished.

  Shaw bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue, resorting to a more effective way of annoying her. “Ye look bonny in a gown, Sister.” He refrained from adding the décolletage revealed breasts she normally took great pains to cover with a shawl.

  Red-faced, she apologized for accidentally nicking him with the sharp pin, though he was certain she’d done it on purpose.

  “Seriously,” he said. “Ye’ve done the family proud.”

  “Aye, weel, ’twas simple enough to get Sadie to whip up a gown for the occasion, and I ken very weel ye would have met yer bride in yer traveling clothes if I hadna insisted on dress plaids.”

  Shaw studied his appearance in the mirror, admitting grudgingly his sister was right. He and his father and brothers looked mighty fine in the red Drummond dress plaids, feathered bonnets and checkered Argyle socks. He wasn’t sure he liked the buckled shoes, but who would be looking at his feet?

  “Line up,” Fiona commanded, inspecting them as if she were their regimental commander, eventually declaring, “Ye’ll do.”

  Gordon saluted. “Aye, Lady Drummond,” he quipped, earning a clip on the ear.

  “All this fuss for the cursed Blairs,” Fiona complained. “Let’s hope she’s at least bonny, Brother.”

  Straightening his shoulders, Shaw took a last look in the mirror, for once glad his sister had taken charge. His intended would have naught to complain about when she set eyes on him. He could only echo Fiona’s wish that he’d feel the same way when he met his betrothed.

  Caitlin was her name, if he remembered correctly.

  *

  Caitlin scarcely recognized the elegant lass staring back at her from the mirror, her curly hair still damp from the wonderful hot bath Avril had arranged. “But where did ye find such gowns?” she asked the mai
dservant.

  “Who cares?” Nairn asked, smoothing down silk skirts. “I love my frock.”

  “Steward Davidson has two daughters who are more or less the same ages as ye,” the maid replied.

  “And do they ken ye’ve borrowed their gowns and shoes?” Nairn wondered.

  Avril scowled. “Of course. They were only too glad to help, and the red suits Mistress Caitlin’s brown tresses.”

  Caitlin had to agree, though the gown’s décolletage revealed too much of her breasts. “Is there a wrap?” she said. “I dinna want Drummond to think…”

  “Rubbish,” Avril exclaimed. “Naught amiss with giving a mon a glimpse of what’s in store.”

  A wave of heat rolled over Caitlin. She’d tried not to think beyond today’s betrothal formalities. The prospect of sexual congress with a man was terrifying. Panic surged. “But my breasts are too big,” she whined, close to tears.

  Avril gaped. “Are ye daft? Trust me, Shaw Drummond willna think so.”

  The Chapel Royal

  Shaw was glad he didn’t suffer from the same excruciating compulsion to be punctual as his sister. Nay, ’twas worse. Fiona always had to be early.

  It was too soon to proceed to the Chapel Royal. “We must wait to be summoned,” their father insisted, tucking the flask of whisky inside his tunic after taking a sip.

  “We dinna ken the way,” Shaw added, wishing he’d had the forethought to make sure his sire didn’t smuggle in liquor.

  “How hard can it be to find a chapel?” Fiona retorted, opening the door. “Are ye coming or nay? A mon canna be late for his own betrothal.”

  Grinning, Gordon and Logan elbowed each other.

  Fiona wagged a finger at them. “And as for ye pair of scallywags, nary a word. Do ye understand?”

  Deep frowns replaced the smiles. “Aye, Fiona,” they chimed together.

  Only a year separated the youngest, Logan, from Gordon. They were more like twins, both in appearance and temperament. Shaw supposed it was inevitable the lads be fast friends, given the twelve-year age gap between him and Gordon. He sometimes felt more like their father; Fiona acted more like their grandmother.

  They followed her to the open door.

  Shaw’s father clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lad,” he said resignedly. “Let’s get it over with.”

  With a heavy heart, Shaw studied the bachelor in the mirror for one last time. At twenty-three, he considered himself too young for the responsibilities of marriage; however, he’d always thought the eventual day of his betrothal would be an occasion for excitement and rejoicing. He couldn’t wait for the ordeal to be over. “Aye,” he replied with a sigh, joining the rest of his family in the drafty corridor of the ancient castle.

  They traipsed through seemingly endless hallways. Maidservants bobbed polite curtseys. If any of them thought to offer help to a group of visitors who were clearly lost, Fiona’s withering glare soon deterred them.

  After ten minutes, Shaw spotted a freckle-faced, buxom maid coming out of a chamber. “Can ye direct us to the Chapel Royal?” he asked, ignoring Fiona’s exasperated sigh.

  The cheeky lass eyed him up and down. “Are ye a Drummond?”

  He could have sworn Fiona growled behind him.

  “Aye. Shaw Drummond.”

  “The one being betrothed to the Blair lass?”

  “Aye.”

  A grin nigh on split her face in two. She struggled not to laugh as she gave them directions, then hurried off down the corridor, her laughter echoing off the stone walls.

  “What do ye suppose that was all about?” Brodie Drummond asked.

  “The lass doesna ken her station,” Fiona replied, taking Gordon and Logan by the hands. “We’ll be late if we dinna hurry.”

  They soon came face to face with two burly King’s Own Borderers guarding the double doors. The soldiers refused to move when Fiona tried to enter.

  “We’re the Drummonds,” she declared. “We’re expected.”

  “Ye’re early,” one guard replied.

  “Punctuality is a Scottish virtue,” she countered. “If ye and yer commander had arrived at Killiecrankie in better time, ye might have won the battle.”

  Shaw cringed as the guards’ scowls deepened. As usual, Fiona had spoken without forethought. He saw little point in ramming the humiliating defeat at Killiecrankie down these men’s throats. “What my sister means is…”

  “She’s yer sister?” one of them asked incredulously.

  “Aye, and I’m Shaw Drummond.”

  The guard snorted. “The one getting wed by order of the king?”

  Shaw clenched his jaw. The man was just giving tit for tat. “Aye,” he said with a smile. “The very one. What’s a mon to do when a king commands?”

  The guards’ shoulders relaxed, until Fiona butted in. “Ye can let us in, ye ken. We dinna intend to steal anything.”

  Shaw rolled his eyes and cast a pleading look at the Borderers.

  “And what’s a mon to do when he’s saddled with a bossy sister?” one asked as he held open the door.

  Head held high, Fiona led the family into the Chapel Royal.

  One of the guards followed, clearly to keep an eye on them.

  The warm wood paneling of the high arched ceiling immediately drew Shaw’s eye and a little of the dread lifted.

  “’Tis bigger than the kirk at home,” Gordon whispered.

  “Hush,” Fiona admonished. “’Tis a holy place.”

  Shaw let his eyes wander down from the ceiling to the elaborately painted frieze of cherubs bordering the walls. Light streamed in from enormous arched windows at one end. The altar sat below a smaller set of windows at the opposite end. Colorful tapestries adorned the walls. The wood of the floor echoed that of the ceiling. The chapel bespoke warmth and intimacy despite its grandeur. He felt welcome.

  “Why is there a railing across the middle?” Logan asked.

  “The higher part on the other side is for the royal family,” Shaw explained. “Ordinary folk worship on this side.”

  “Ye canna go past the barrier,” the guard shouted when Fiona strode towards the wooden railing, Gordon and Logan in tow.

  Shaw held his breath. There was no guarantee she would heed the warning. A fine thing if his sister was arrested on the day of his betrothal.

  Fortunately, she turned away at the last moment. “I suppose yon wee table is for our ceremony?” she asked, nodding to a small wooden structure in a corner near the entry doors. Atop it sat an ink-pot, quill and two beribboned rolled parchments. To call it a table was to endow it with proportions it did not possess. It wasn’t even made of the same wood as the other furnishings.

  “Something they hauled in from a cupboard,” Fiona remarked, scowling at Gordon and Logan when they sniggered at her jest.

  Shaw’s patience snapped. “I’d hoped my family might try to make this day a little easier on me,” he rasped through gritted teeth. “Ye seem intent on making it even more of a trial.”

  “What can ye expect?” his father retorted, taking another sip of whisky. “’Tis a dark day when Drummonds are forced to sup with Blairs. Dinna expect me to exchange pleasantries with the cursed bunch.”

  Shaw’s spirits plummeted further. He was acquiring a wife destined to be shunned by her own father-by-marriage. No woman deserved that. He was about to insist they had to make the best of a bad situation when the doors were flung open. A richly dressed, corpulent nobleman entered. Davidson and a robed cleric from the High Kirk followed in his wake, both with suitably stern countenances.

  There’d be no turning back now. Sir John Erskine, Governor of Stirling Castle had arrived.

  *

  Trying to adjust the gown’s décolletage, Caitlin startled when Avril burst into the chamber. “My nerves are already on edge,” she scolded.

  “I think ye should make yer way to the Chapel Royal,” the grinning maidservant declared breathlessly.

  Caitlin wondered what had caused he
r to look so happy.

  “Ye’re pleased with yerself,” Nairn exclaimed.

  “Weel…er…’tis a wondrous day when a lass meets her handsome beau.”

  Caitlin got the feeling there was more to it. “Will somebody nay come to collect us?” she asked.

  “Er…possibly…but I think ye should go now. I’ll fetch yer father and brother.”

  She was gone before Caitlin could challenge her further.

  A minute or two later, Rory came striding in the door. “Let’s go. Da’s in the hallway. We canna be late.”

  Caitlin had never known her brother to arrive anywhere on time, but the sooner the suspense was over, the better.

  She and her sister discovered Avril waiting with their father.

  “This lass is going to show us the way,” he said.

  The maidservant had initially struck Caitlin as a serious person who rarely smiled, but now she seemed unable to wipe the grin off her face.

  “’Tis undignified,” Nairn said as they followed Avril.

  “I agree,” Rory declared. “Steward Davidson should be escorting a Blair lass to her betrothal ceremony, nay a maid.”

  As if conjured by the mention of his name, the steward emerged through double doors guarded by a Borderer. “There ye are. The Drummonds are already here, as is Sir John, so ’tis as well Avril brought ye early. Come in and we can get matters settled.”

  Caitlin inhaled deeply in an unsuccessful attempt to calm the turmoil in her stomach. They’d kept the Drummonds and the governor of the castle waiting. Rory took Nairn’s hand and led the way. Caitlin followed, relying heavily on the support of her father’s arm.

  Angelic Chorus

  Hands clasped behind his back, Shaw paced from one side of the chapel to the other, cringing when he heard the doors creak open. He flexed his fingers, straightened his shoulders and turned to face his fate.

  The gut reaction was to bellow his outrage when he saw a bairn enter with a braw Highlander. Surely he wasn’t expected to wed a child? Anger closed his throat.