by Barbara Dan
"No, but it certainly makes me look impossibly wanton, agreeing to marry you on such short acquaintance." Dressed simply beneath her woolen cape, with her hair pinned back, she didn't feel much like a blushing bride.
"You can be as wicked and wanton as you please, once we're married," he encouraged, raising her trembling fingers to his lips. "Now, while Mrs. Rafferty and Mrs. Harris take you upstairs to get ready, I'll get things set up down here." He nodded toward the roomful of guests.
"Bruce, I can't take my clothes off in front of all these people!" she protested, surveying his guests with frightened eyes. "How can you possibly blindfold this many people?" she whispered. "I mean, somebody might peek!"
Bruce threw back his head and laughed. "Maybe I should blindfold you and tell everyone not to make a sound," he suggested teasingly.
"I won't do it!" she warned breathlessly.
"Trust me, Lydia. No one will see you, except Mrs. Rafferty and Mrs. Harris. And perhaps myself." He winked at her and moved off to discuss logistics for the upcoming wedding with the Judge and a few of his friends.
Lydia was sorely tempted to turn tail and run. Instead she drained her glass and set it on the mantel, feeling a comforting warmth steal over her. Across the room Bruce turned and blew a kiss. Far less brave, Lydia gave him an embarrassed little smile in return.
Then the two older ladies took charge. Chattering happily, they steered her up the grand staircase to the room adjoining the master bedroom.
"I can't believe he invited all those people," Lydia said, letting them divest her of her dress and undergarments. Seeing her own bed and furnishings helped her accept her fate with better grace, as Mrs. Harris escorted her, shivering, over to a tub full of warm bath water.
"The Captain is a very popular man. Why, when I heard three days ago that you two were going to marry—"
"It's all so romantic," Mrs. Rafferty crooned, assisting the petite bride into the tub. "When Bruce's friends learned that there was to be a smock wedding, wild horses couldn't keep them away."
Lathering her shoulders and neck with homemade rose-scented soap, Lydia asked herself how she had ever gotten talked into this. She must be crazier than he was!
"How very interesting that I was the last person invited to this event," she murmured. "Couldn't he have asked me first, before announcing it to the whole world?"
"Men tend to overlook details, dear." Mrs. Rafferty busied herself arranging the pretty silk fripperies she and Mrs. Harris had purchased for the bride. "Especially when they're in love."
"I hardly think that's his problem. He's just—" Stymied, Lydia threw up her hands. "Well, I don't know what provoked him . . ." Completely baffled and assailed by doubts, she brought up what was bothering her the most: "Bruce says none of his guests will see me without clothes on."
"I should hope not!" Mrs. Rafferty looked scandalized.
Abruptly Lydia ducked her head under water, before either of the ladies could stop her.
"Oh, my dear, you mustn't!" Mrs. Harris exclaimed when Lydia resurfaced. "Your hair won't dry for hours."
"Oops!" Lydia smiled at her two attendants. It seemed a fit punishment for a bridegroom who had invited his bride almost as an afterthought! "What a shame to keep everyone waiting," she said, not really caring. While the two women fussed over her affectionately, she lay passively soaking. Finally her hair was rinsed with a final pitcher of rose water, and she was whisked over to the fire and briskly toweled down, until she was glowing and pink all over.
Irresistibly drawn to the beautiful lingerie on the bed, she reached for a lace camisole.
Instantly Mrs. Harris tapped her outstretched hand. "None of that, dearie," she chided.
Mrs. Rafferty placed a soft pink robe around Lydia's shoulders and gave her a hug. "Did you ever see eyes sparkle like hers, Mrs. Harris?" she asked. "And blushing like a rose! Won't our Bruce be delighted!"
If she was pink before, Mrs. Rafferty's remark made Lydia turn lobster red. How Bruce was going to react was an interesting question, but if she worried about that right now, she would never make it downstairs, let alone get through her vows.
During all her stalling, the guests' enthusiasm had reached a fever pitch downstairs. High spirits and hard liquor had produced a crowd of raucous well-wishers, predominantly male. They had begun to clamor for the bride.
Hearing them, Lydia cried, "Oh, help!" and threw herself into Mrs. Rafferty's ample embrace.
"Courage. Stout heart, Mrs. Masters," said the doughty Mrs. Harris. "My own sister had a smock wedding. In the dead of winter, it was, on a country lane. Wearin' nothin' but her shift. If she could do it, so can you."
"I doubt she had this many witnesses," Lydia groaned, unconvinced.
"'Aye," said Mrs. Harris. "But no one's goin' to see you naked as a jay, except we two. An’ we've already seen you, lass."
"And where, pray tell, is this ceremony taking place, if not in the parlor?" Oh, surely it wasn't too late to back out! Lydia thought.
"With so many people millin' aboot, you probably didn't notice the Chinese folding screen standin' near the door," said Mrs. Harris.
"No—"
"Your wedding clothes are waitin' on a chair. We'll bring you down the back stairs and sneak you behind the screen. Nary a soul will notice." Mrs. Rafferty smiled reassuringly.
"Aye, just stand behind the screen an' remove the robe. Only your hand will show while you speak your vows," Mrs. Harris told her.
"You mean, there will be nothing but a flimsy screen between me and all those people?" Lydia squeaked, now totally petrified.
"We'll be with you the whole time. And after you're pronounced man and wife, we'll help you dress, so you can receive your guests properly," said Mrs. Rafferty.
"Just remember why you're doin' this, lass," Mrs. Harris said with the shrewd smile of a pecuniary Scot. "You'll be startin' your life over, a new bride, with none of Frank's bills hangin' over your head."
"That's all I like about this," Lydia muttered.
Below the crowd was growing impatient. This is insane! Maybe I should just let Bruce pay, she thought, but then, she realized, if she didn't go through with the wedding as agreed, she'd be stepping off on the wrong foot. She squared her shoulders. Facing a firing squad seemed easier. "All right," she said, "but you must both stand right beside me, for luck."
"Aye. Now sit down, and let's get all this pretty hair arranged," Beatrice Rafferty said. "Even if it's damp, you must look your best."
Her hair was soon piled high in smoothly sculptured swirls, with wispy curls around her delicately flushed features, and one long curl over her left shoulder.
A soft knock at the door sent all three women scrambling. Lydia ran to the dressing room, while her chaperons answered the door. From behind the wardrobe door, she heard Bruce's low tones and the two ladies' cheerful responses.
"You may come out now," Mrs. Rafferty called at last.
Lydia emerged cautiously, clad in the pink wrapper. "Let's get this over with," she said through chattering teeth.
Downstairs she crept between the two women. She had just reached the parlor door unobserved, when the most blood curdling noise peeled out, massacring a Scottish wedding march. Almost jumping out of her robe and her skin, Lydia bolted behind the screen. Peeking through a narrow slit between two panels, she spotted the wicked piper, serenading her arrival downstairs.
Bruce MacGregor—God blight his soul!—dressed in a tartan kilt and sporan! Sporting a broad grin on his handsome face, Bruce strode up and down in front of his guests, coaxing the most unearthly sounds imaginable from the instrument held under his brawny arm.
Bagpipe music for a wedding?!
Lydia thought she had heard of everything—until that ear-splitting cacophony dealt her dignity another humiliating blow. The entire day had been a nightmare. And now, fingers in her ears, she suffered through two choruses of "Annie Laurie" and another maudlin Scottish ballad. The bagpipe, proud instrument of a wild Celti
c breed, sounded the call to future domestic battle, like banshees wailing.
Meanwhile Lydia, simmering with embarrassment, silently promised herself future revenge. Really! Bruce had a ringing baritone, but did he have to serenade her in front of all these rowdy strangers?
A sudden draft of cool air startled her as Mrs. Rafferty, taking advantage of her momentary distraction, whisked away her robe. Standing behind the screen on a small hooked rug, Lydia heard Bruce call out for favorites from the floor. Oh, no! she thought in horror, this can't be happening!
Launching into an old sea chanty, he was joined lustily by his friends. The hearty rendition reverberated so loudly off the ceiling and walls that Lydia feared—and then prayed—the house would fall down around her ears. Finally the strident tones of male chorus and bagpipes died away amidst enthusiastic applause and cat calls.
"Tell them to stop that racket, and get on with the ceremony," she whispered fiercely.
Mrs. Harris was about to signal Bruce, when his msiling face appeared above the screen. In horror, Lydia saw him glance appraisingly over her naked, shivering curves.
Wretch! She glared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish out of water.
"Ah, I see the blushing bride is ready," Bruce informed the motley assembly. "Judge Perkins, will you kindly step forward and do the honors, sir?"
Chapter Twelve
After many prefatory remarks, which only heightened Lydia's discomfort, the honorable Judge instructed the bride and groom to join hands. Eyes shut, Lydia held out her hand tentatively, waving it about in search of his. After a few titters from the guests, she was grateful when at last Bruce took her hand in a firm but gentle clasp.
"What took you so long?" she hissed.
"I had to put down my bagpipe," he replied, just loud enough to provoke laughter. Any hope of a "two minute special" was doomed to disappointment. The judge was politically astute and, having a captive audience, made the most of the occasion. Nothing would do but to roll out his deluxe wedding service, complete with scriptures, a lengthy discourse on the blessings and duties of married life, and any number of references to the strengthening benefits of community involvement.
Now, Lydia had no real quarrel with the judge; he made a number of excellent points, but she was getting colder by the minute behind the screen. She wiggled her toes on the rug to keep the circulation going, twitched her nose to keep from sneezing, and watched goosebumps erupt all over her bare flesh. Finally her tiny muffled "Achoo!" from behind the screen set off a snicker in the front row, reminding everyone that the bride, although invisible, was naked as the day she came into the world.
Soon the sneeze was followed by hiccups as Lydia's stomach, devoid of sustenance all day, rebelled against the brandy. As the audience began to get out of hand, Judge Perkins cut off his "introductory remarks" and began the exchange of vows.
His voice booming and jubilant, Bruce spoke his vows directly to her, and as his twinkling brown eyes met hers over the top of the partition, Lydia found new courage. In that brief moment as she returned her vows, her hand and heart secure in his strong grasp, the ceremony lost its circus atmosphere.
Bruce slipped a ring on her finger and kissed her hand in a gesture of admiration and respect for her courage. "My beautiful lady," he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers.
Then the judge declared them man and wife and closed his service book.
Before their boisterous guests could rush forward to congratulate the newlyweds, Bruce raised his hands for silence. "I am honored to have you here this evening. As you know, this is the first time this house has been open for a social gathering. My bride has transformed an empty, dreary shell into a beautiful home, and I want to thank her publicly." Shouts of "here, here," and more sedate praise from the ladies interrupted him before he continued. "Hopefully when this war is over, we'll have many more parties, as happy as this one. And now my wife and I wish to announce that dinner is being served in the dining room across the hall. As soon as my bride is available, we will greet you and cut the cake."
Robert Harris, Colonel and Mrs. Rathbun, and Bruce's first mate ushered everyone in to a fine supper. Despite wartime shortages, Mrs. Harris, Mrs. Rafferty, and their helpers had done themselves proud. Guests dined on venison, wild duck, roast pork and an array of tempting dishes. Someone's maiden aunt played the parlor piano, which had been moved into the house that morning for the occasion.
Grateful that she was no longer the butt of ribald humor, Lydia quickly dressed behind the screen. Layer upon layer of the most sumptuous silk, satin and lace slipped over her skin, soothing away a good deal of her nervousness. By the time she emerged from behind the screen, she was smiling and confident again. Her wedding gown suited her so well that no one would ever have guessed that she had never tried it on before. The low cut bodice displayed her pale pearly skin with a delicate tint of natural blush.
When she appeared on Bruce's arm, no one could keep his eyes off her. The ladies declared the bride an instant success and an elegant trend-setter. Indeed, the new bride handled herself with such poise and kind attention to her guests' comfort that no one thought twice about the "charmingly different" ceremony that had taken place earlier in the parlor.
Over the next three hours, Lydia circulated among Bruce's friends. She was impressed that so many people had come on such short notice—not to enjoy a circus, as she had originally feared—but because they genuinely loved and admired her husband.
"Weddings mean all things begin anew," Bruce said, as they paused amidst their duties as host and hostess. He raised his glass of champagne to her lips, then to his own.
"To long life, Lydia, and to love."
Lydia looked up at her new husband through a sudden rush of emotion. "And to you, my champion," she whispered for his ears only. "Thank you for giving me back my life."
* * *
The hour was late when Bruce said goodbye to the last of their guests. Having spent the better part of an hour seeing them off, he didn't realize until he closed the door for the last time that his bride had disappeared from his side.
Thinking Lydia must have slipped upstairs, Bruce smiled, pleased that his bride had been accepted on her own merits. It would make her life easier, when he left again for sea duty.
Passing through the dining room, Bruce went to thank Mrs. Rafferty's two nieces for staying to clean up. He paused to snag a bottle of Canary wine and a small tray of cheeses and delicious meat pies from the buffet, then stuck his head around the kitchen door.
To his surprise, he found not two women, but three, in aprons, washing, drying, and stacking dishes. Lydia, her sleeves rolled up and her pretty arms submerged in soap suds, was so busily engaged that she didn't notice his approach.
"How now, Lydia!" he exclaimed.
She glanced up, her face flushed. "Is everyone gone?" she asked. Handing a dish to Patience Harms, she gave him the kind of polite smile one gave a stranger, not a bridegroom. "Can I get you anything else, Captain?"
As she started toward the fireplace for a kettle of hot water, Bruce interposed his bulk, blocking her progress. "I was just on my way up to bed," he said pointedly.
"Sleep well, Captain," she said breezily. "By the way, what time would you like breakfast?"
"I've all the breakfast we shall require right here," he said, balancing the tray on one hand. He stood, considering her thoughtfully, as she flitted about in what were clearly delaying tactics. "I expect you to join me, madam."
"Just as soon as all these dishes are washed and put away." She nodded, carefully avoiding eye contact.
"Upstairs, madam," he ordered, swinging her around and propelling her ahead of him, started up the wide curving stairs.
"Wait, Captain MacGregor!" his bride protested, feeling herself pulled along like a leaf in a wind storm. Lydia grabbed the banister and faced him, suddenly quite desperate. "You can't just order me about!" she said, the tears gathering. The effects of being catapulted, after a
few melting kisses, into an impetuous marriage had finally caught up with her, as this giant Scot, still clad in his tartan, herded her toward the Unknown with a haste that made her knees weak.
Obviously he wasn't put off by any feeble appeal to a sense of fair play. Nothing could save her now. Facing him, she moved slowly up the stairs backwards, and he, taking his time, matched her pace, step by step. All the while, he grinned at her like a great hungry cat stalking his dinner.
"You're not going to talk your way out of this, Mrs. MacGregor."
"Oh, help!" she said faintly. "I need help."
He smiled, enjoying her flustered shyness. "I intend to do my share."
"You know, you don't own me, just because you married me," she flared up. "So don't you dare tell me what to do!"
"You're sending up all sorts of distress signals tonight, aren't you?" He laughed, still advancing. "Relax, Lydia. I've no intention of telling you what to do. But I know diversionary tactics when I see 'em!"
"Is that so?" she said defensively.
"Shall we discuss this upstairs privately?" Bruce suggested, coming up two steps to her one. His roguish eyes did nothing to reassure her about the night to come.
"What's to discuss?" Looking up at Bruce pleadingly, Lydia, her legs giving out, sank down on the step, only to find her nose inches from her bridegroom's bare knees, just below the edge of his kilt. Feeling like a small boat adrift, she clung to the banister as if it were an anchor in a storm. Meanwhile the most helpless confusion raged within.
Lydia had never seen a man in kilts at such close range, and the proximity of his large muscular legs, darkly tanned and hairy, made her heart beat faster. As her gaze traveled upward, she was consumed by the strangest impulse, to peek under his kilt!
She swallowed, fighting her own lurid curiosity. "Uhm, you have . . . beautiful legs," she mumbled, nearly incoherent with desire. Licking her lips, she scrambled to her feet, convinced that he must think he had married a blithering idiot.
