Kirsteen pulled Fred and Blanche into a hug now, wrapping her arms around the two people she loved most in the world. Fred and Blanche accepted the embrace gratefully, and for a moment they stood by the beautiful lake, appreciating each other’s company and their good fortune.
Kirsteen knew that as long as she had them, she would be happy. She needed nothing else. Or so she thought.
3
“Logan has requested a mixture of comedy, tragedy and love stories, so I have selected the ones I think work best from our collection. There are a few new ones in there, thanks to the generous wages we received from our last performance,” Fred told the troupe as he handed out the scripts.
Kirsteen glanced at the titles. There were only two that were new to her, and she knew that she could have them memorized by the end of the day. She only ever played the smaller parts, often the narrator of the play, or a child or angel. Most of her role was the dancing that they incorporated into each piece.
“I believe we should start with The Beggar’s Opera,” Fred said, naming the title of a play that had become popular nearly a century ago. Rarely did they use such old material, but satire was still the fashion of the theatrical arts, and all their patrons adored the play.
All the troupe took their places, and for the rest of the day they rehearsed the songs in the opera, ensuring everyone hit the right notes and said the lyrics at the right time. Though they had taken a break for tea and biscuits, by the time rehearsal was over, Kirsteen was exhausted.
She was always exhausted the first day of rehearsals, even if she knew the play and corresponding dances by heart. She planned on retiring to her tent as soon as supper was finished. The evening meal was eaten with the servants in a large room adjoining the kitchen.
Kirsteen was shocked by how many staff the laird employed. There were at least thirty people at the table, not including the troupe. They ranged in age from no older than fourteen to a man so advanced in age his skin looked like that of tree bark. All were friendly, asking questions about the troupe’s travels and what plays they were planning to perform.
Kirsteen did her best to contribute to the conversation, but her fatigue was setting in fast. She was beginning to grow fearful that she might fall asleep in her stew when the woman sitting next to her asked her, “Do you know much about the laird, lass?”
Kirsteen turned to look at the woman, who was only a few years younger than her. “Laird Dunn? No, I know nothing, other than he is generous enough to hire us to perform for him.”
The woman smiled. “Indeed, he is verra generous indeed. And he has passed the trait onto his son, for whom the celebration is bein’ held.”
“Och, I cannae wait until Beathan is back! I’ve missed his jokes,” one of the younger boys said.
The woman next to Kirsteen nodded. “Beathan is a good-humored man, to be sure. So kind. It’s not always the way with men like him, ye ken,” she said. “Men of his ilk can be right cruel and greedy, but not so with Beathan. He wants the title not for himself, but for his people. He’ll be as gentle and fair as his faither, I ken that for sure.”
“Aye, but God willing, we will not lose the laird just yet. He seems in better spirits these days,” another man at the table said. “I reckon his health has greatly improved, knowin’ Beathan is off enjoyin’ himself instead of sittin’ here worryin’.”
“Hush!” a large woman at the head of the table said. She was wearing an apron and her arms were pockmarked with burns and scars. Kirsteen guessed she was the cook.
“I’ll not have ye speculatin’ on the laird and his lad. Ye‘re to be respectful of the two of them. If it weren’t for them, ye’d all be beggin’ at the door. Keep that gossip to yerselves, ye bampots!”
The table quieted immediately, everyone’s heads bowing toward their soup bowls. The cook, seeing she had thus cowed the lot of them, nodded and went back to her own meal, though she couldn’t help a smile as she spooned a mouthful of soup. It was good to know her patrons were men to be respected.
So often, the patrons that hired the troupe were men who acted like their riches and titles allowed them to go about the world without paying respect and common decency to their fellow men. Kirsteen had been groped and cornered by these men, who tried to buy her like she was a prostitute, not a dancer.
She was glad to know that with Laird Dunn and his son, she would not have to worry about such things. She could simply do her performances and enjoy her time in Scotland.
Beathan Dunn collapsed onto his bed with a grateful sigh. He had stayed in luxurious accommodation during his Grand Tour, with beds even larger than the one on which he was now lying, but he’d found them not nearly so comfortable. Truly nothing was as good as the bed in his chambers.
Reaching a leg up, Beathan untied the boots from his feet and crawled further up the bed, resting his head on the freshly stuffed goose down pillow. It smelled like the familiar combination of lavender and sheep fat that comprised the soap the castle cook made in large batches each year.
Och, I’ve missed this, he thought as he closed his eyes and let exhaustion overcome him. He had arrived at the castle this morning after a long trip up from Dorset. The roads had been blissfully clear of the mud that so often plagued them in the autumn, and Beathan had made it back one day earlier than he originally planned.
The surprised smile on his father’s face when he met him at the door was more than worth the trip. They had embraced warmly, then his father had pushed him away.
“I want to look at ye,” he’d said, surveying Beathan from head to toe.
“Ye seem taller, lad,” he said, laughing. “Or perhaps it’s just that I’m shorter than I remember.”
Beathan smiled, though he privately wondered whether his father hadn’t shrunk some since he left. The old man was different in other ways as well. There were more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, a slight stoop to his back that had not been there before. His hair, which before had been black sprinkled with grey, was now nearly white, and far thinner than it used to be.
Still, his father had been jovial as he ushered him into the castle and towards the library, where they shared a mid-morning whisky followed by tea and a hearty meal from Cook. Beathan had told his father all about Rome and Venice, describing in detail the cobblestoned streets that led off into Roman ruins that made a man feel like he was back in ancient times. He had regaled his father with stories of the food he ate, the art he saw, and the people he met.
Of course, his father had jumped on that last bit, asking, “Were there any lasses?” like it was the most important part of his trip.
In truth, there had been some. An opera singer in Paris, an artist’s model in Rome, the cousin of his tour guide in Holland. None had sparked any feelings other than lust in him. They were wonderful women, all, interesting, intelligent and kind, but they were not enough that he thought of them much beyond their few weeks together.
But Beathan knew what his father was really asking: had Beathan fallen in love?
Like seeing Europe, it was an experience he knew his father wanted him to have. His father and mother had fallen madly in love the moment they met at a ball, and had continued to love each other in much the same passionate way since. Beathan knew that his parents wanted the same for him.
If he was honest with himself, he did not feel ready for love just yet. Right now, all he wanted to focus on was his father, and preparing himself for the lairdship. He prayed to God that his father did not die any time soon, but he had to be prepared. That was far more important than the amour his father’s favorite poets were always writing about.
Banishing such worries from his mind, Beathan pulled a thick blanket over himself to ward off the chill now that the fire in the hearth had died. Tomorrow, the celebration would begin, and he wanted to be well rested and able to stay up all night, talking to everyone he had not seen in so long.
His mother had also mentioned something about an acting troupe; Beathan was not sure it would
quite measure up to the theatre he had seen in Paris, but he was willing to suspend judgment until the show.
Mayhaps I’ll be pleasantly surprised, he thought just before he slipped into sleep.
4
“How did ye manage this in so few days?” Beathan asked his mother as they walked into the hall.
Every lantern lining the walls was lit, along with the candles in the chandeliers, making the white blonde of his mother’s hair shine almost white. Tapestries had been taken out of storage and hung on the walls, trapping the warmth from the roaring fire and lending the room the stuffy comfort Beathan usually associated with the castle’s library.
“You would be surprised the burst of energy you can get when a loved one returns home,” his mother told him, squeezing his upper arm with her long, thin fingers. “Your father and I could barely sleep once he received the letter. All we did was plan and wait for you, my dear son.”
Beathan smiled, glad to finally hear his mother’s voice again. He had missed her Norse accent, which, according to his father, was just as strong now as the day they had met.
It was from her that he got his bright blue eyes and tall stature. His mother was almost as tall as him, with long blonde hair that was perpetually pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her skin was always glistening with health, its pale golden color a few shades lighter than his own. Her people were descended from Vikings, and Beathan liked to think that also contributed to the skills he had with swords and arrows. He was a born warrior, but for all that, he prized peace above all else.
“How is father?” Beathan asked as they took a seat in two of the chairs in front of the fire. The celebration did not officially begin for another hour, though guests were beginning to trickle in. They were sequestered to the outer tables, however, which allowed Beathan and his mother a modicum of privacy.
“He is well, for the most part,” she said, leaning back against the chair. “He still tires easily, and the physician has told him to limit his drink, but he is much better than when he was first diagnosed.”
Beathan nodded, deciding not to tell his mother about the whisky his father had partaken in the day before.
“But he is in good spirits? Of sound mind?” he asked. He hated to question his father’s mind, but the physician’s had warned him that the disease could eventually affect everything, from his speech to his movement to the way he made decisions. It was a harrowing thought, that his father might be so changed. Beathan could only hope such alterations had not yet occurred in his absence.
“Yes. He is happy most of the time, and as to his mind…” she laughed to herself, shaking her head as she said, “He is as mischievous as ever, and as good a laird as he has always been. Nothing has changed there, my son.”
Beathan breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Good,” he said, nodding to himself.
He has not deteriorated yet, then, he told himself, calming the worry that was always present within him. He had not been able to fully relax since that day the physician came to visit. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to.
“Beathan?” his mother said, and Beathan raised his head.
“Do not worry yourself,” she told him, leaning forward to take his hand. “He has survived this long, and God willing he has a few years left. He wakes up every day with hope, and you ought to do the same. We are blessed beyond measure, my son. Whatever happens, remember that.”
“I just daenae want to lose him. Not yet. I know I’m ready, but that doesnae mean I want to be laird. Not if it means losin’ him,” Beathan said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Beathan let his mother draw him into an embrace, though it was rather awkward since they were both seated. Still, it was a comfort, as was the ale the cook brought them a few minutes later. He stayed by the fire for the next hour, even after his mother excused herself, saying she had to check on the arriving guests and be sure they were shown to the correct rooms for their stay.
Two ales and a whisky later, the celebration had officially begun. Beathan learned the true use of the tapestry as the room began to fill. Normally, the voices echoed off the hard stone castle walls, making it difficult to be heard the later and loud the night went on.
Now, however, voices were muffled by the heavy carpet hangings, allowing everyone to hear their neighbor, despite the fact that the hall must have at least two hundred people occupying it.
“Good to see ye again, Beathan. We’ve missed ye,” Leslie Thompson, the castle blacksmith, said to Beathan as he passed by.
Beathan stopped and talked to the man for a few minutes. Leslie had been at the castle since before his father was born, and Beathan loved hearing stories of his father’s childhood. Leslie always told Beathan what a naughty, mischievous lad his father had been.
“Hasnae changed a wit!” Leslie always joked.
After greeting a few other acquaintances, Beathan made his way to the table at the front of the hall. His mother and father were already seated, as were the valets and lady’s maids. His seat was empty and waiting for him.
Beathan sat down next to his father, relieved to be off his feet. He was feeling a might drunk and more than a bit tired, and he knew he would need time to recover if he was to last the whole night. Pouring himself more ale, he had just settled into his seat when his cousin, Andrew, spoke.
“Ye‘re lookin’ well, cousin. Stronger than when I saw ye last.”
Beathan smiled, though it was a false grin. He loved his cousin Andrew like a brother. They had, after all, grown up together after his uncle had died suddenly, leaving Andrew orphaned in an estate near the coast. Beathan’s faither had taken the lad in and given him the same love and attention he showed Beathan.
However, despite this, Andrew had always been competitive with Beathan. He had challenged him to countless fights when they were children. When they learned the sword arts, Andrew had taken it upon himself to be Beathan’s sparring partner, dragging Beathan into the hall to practice for hours each day.
He had done the same with archery, and horse riding. To Andrew, everything was a challenge to win. His entire life was one long competition. It was exhausting to witness, and even worse to partake in. Beathan had hoped that in his absence, his cousin might settle down. That perhaps, with the laird to himself, he might finally stop posturing and trying to prove himself.
Clearly, however, this was not the case, for no sooner had Beathan smiled at the man than Andrew stood up and held out a hand.
“With ye lookin’ so strong and hardy, it’s only fair I challenge ye to a swordfight. To see what those lads on the continent have taught ye.”
The last thing Beathan wanted to do at that moment was try and best his cousin with a sword. However, one look at his father told him that he would not be able to get out of such a fight.
“Humor him,” were the words his father mouthed, and Beathan knew he could not say no.
A servant brought his weapon to him, and space was cleared in the middle of the room for their fight. The sword was one he had had forged by a renowned sword smith in Paris. It was a beautiful, gleaming beacon of silver that perfectly balanced in his hand.
Andrew had chosen the same rapier he had been using since Beathan could remember. He knew his cousin had far nicer weapons available, he had, in fact, gifted him a few over the years.
Why is he using that banged up piece of metal? Beathan wondered, looking at the old, dented thing that Andrew was raising above his head.
“We will fight to wound, not kill, cousin,” Beathan said. It went without saying that this was not a duel in the truest sense of the word; no one had lost their honor, and therefore, neither of them could gain it back by winning this duel. It was being fought purely for Andrew’s own amusement.
Beathan had not fought with a sword, or fought at all, since leaving France, and he could feel his lack of practice as he moved. He dodged a few of his cousin’s hits a second too late, missing the sword’s tip by sheer luck.
As the
fight continued, however, Beathan gained in confidence. His strokes were more sure, his feet remembering instinctively when and how to move. He could see Andrew growing frustrated as he began to overpower him. His cousin’s frown was something he was familiar with, but there was a strange look in his eye as he lunged forward, trying to clip Beathan on the arm. He jumped out of the way, and Andrew growled as he retreated.
There is no point in this, Beathan realized. No point in continuing. It will only anger him. This was confirmed when he chanced a look back toward the front of the hall, where his father was subtly shaking his head and mouthing, “End it.”
Beathan did, with a lunge toward Andrew that caught him off guard. Beathan’s sword grazed the length of his cousin’s arm, scratching the skin just enough to draw blood. Just like that, the duel was over, and Beathan breathed a relieved sigh. He executed a bow to the crowd, who clapped politely, if a little nervously, as he and Andrew vacated their positions on the floor.
Andrew’s steps were quick and loud. Beathan knew he was purposefully stomping; the carpets covering the hall’s floor were like the tapestries, and muted even the loudest of sounds. His cousin was being a petulant loser, and Beathan did not know how to calm him. He never had.
Andrew took his seat next to Beathan’s mother, and he saw her put her arm over the man’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. He saw, too, Andrew shrug off his mother’s arm, reaching across the table instead and filling his glass to nearly overflowing.
Beathan would never understand Andrew. What did he want? He had everything, and yet he seemed so unhappy, so obsessed with proving himself. Even though no one was ever questioning him.
It doesnae make sense, Beathan thought as he too walked away.
Highlander's Untamed Bride Page 2
