Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  It was not noon now; it was night. Well past midnight, though no moonlight filtered through the window to tell him so. How long had he slept? Less than an hour, for his body still ached for a great deal more sleep. The taper on the tall dresser, left burning lest he need to move about in the night, had lost little of its height. Aye, not long then. He rolled over on his back, folding his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable beneath the new linen sheets, enjoying the clean feel of them against his legs.

  The whole box bed smelled like roses. How had the women of the house managed that? He drank in the scent until he was nigh to dizzy with it. Rose. It had been her idea, he was sure of it. To make him think of her. To make him long for her until the moment she walked through the door to his bedroom—well, her bedroom. Now it was their room. At least it would be when she arrived at Auchengray, which couldn't happen soon enough to please him.

  Lachlan had said… What hadve man told him? That she might appear after midnight? Or had he suggested that himself earlier? His memory was playing tricks on him, confusing him. Jamie groaned, then sat up, determined to sort out what he did and did not remember from the day before. The last day of the year.

  When Rose hadn't walked through the door at noon, the time she was expected, he and Lachlan had agreed that Leana would serve as her proxy. Or had that been Lachlans idea? It mattered not. The fact was, Leana did stand in for her sister, and a very good proxy bride she was.

  She was bonny.

  He remembered that quite clearly. Leana had made a bonny bride, dressed in a wine-colored sort of gown. Or was it dark blue? He rubbed his forehead, hoping to ease the pain that throbbed inside his head. She wore a white kell, of that he was certain. A soft, filmy thing all around her sweet face. Aye, her face was douce, but her kiss was more so. He rubbed his brow harder, thinking it prudent to erase that memory altogether. A sudden urge for a dish of butterscotch overwhelmed him.

  He shook his head, then wished he hadn't. The room spun a bit. They'd kissed, he and Leana, outside the kirk. In the cold. With the lanterns. For a moment he'd forgotten—or pretended to forget, which was it?—that they weren't alone. They had kissed for a long time, as though it mattered, as though it meant something. Ocb! And her eyes. Jamie smiled in the dark, remembering her eyes, which were filled with pure light and immeasurable love. So much love that it scared him senseless.

  Had he ever seen a woman's eyes so filled with regard for him? Even his mother, who'd plainly adored him from infancy, never looked at him that way, nor had Rose. Only Leana. Dear, misguided Leana. Whatever did she see in him to warrant such devotion? He knew what he was: a liar and a thief. He'd lied to his father and stolen from his brother. If Saint Leana knew that, she would pack her bags and move as far from Auchengray as her feet might take her.

  Which might be very far, because her feet carried her across the barn floor more gracefully than any woman he'd ever seen. He remembered that; aye, he did. They'd danced for hours, the two of them. No wonder he was so thirsty yestreen. No wonder he drank more ale in a night than he had in a year.

  He fell back on the heather mattress, and the scent of roses wafted up to greet him. Rose. He needed to be thinking of her, of his bride, his love. Not of her sister, her proxy, his cousin. Leana.

  Leana had told him more than once that she loved him. I hveyou still. She had said the words, realizing he did not love her in return, knowing that he intended to marry her sister. She was a brave lass, that Leana. A woman, not a child. Was Rose a child? She would be sixteen next August. And you will be twenty-five next September. It made him feel old to think of having so young a bride. His father was much older than Rowena. Aye, and look how the woman regards him. Without nearly as much respect as Alec McKie deserved, nor with as much affection.

  Jamie sat up again, suddenly ill at ease. Would Rose look at him the same way in years to come? As a man who could be tricked and deceived, whose will could be bent to suit hers? Was he as blinded by his beautiful Rose as Alec was by his sonsie Rowena?

  Nae. He wouldn't entertain such foolish thoughts, because they weren't true. Rose had an innocence about her that Rowena might never have possessed. Rose was beautiful, yes, but she was also sweet tempered, kindhearted, and utterly good. Or was that Leana?

  He slapped the mattress. Enough about Leana! He was not in love with his wife's sister, not in the least. Rose had stolen his heart completely and left for Twyneholm with it tucked inside her reticule. When she returned—please God, might it be soon—she would come home bearing his heart in her hands. Lovely Rose, with her black hair swirling all around her ivory skin. Bonny Rose, with her dark eyes snapping at him. Clever Rose, behaving like a child one moment, like a grown woman the next. Charming Rose, with her sweet laugh and her sweeter lips and her small waist and her…

  Well.

  He could think of her no more, or he would ride Walloch all the way to Twyneholm to claim his bride that very night. Let her come to me. He stretched his long limbs, satisfied to hear his joints crack and pop, then wrapped himself in the rose-scented sheets, closing his eyes and dreaming of his new bride, of Rose.

  Let her come to me. Tonight. Soon.

  Yes, that was the last thing Lachlan had said to him before they'd said good night. That his daughter would slip into her bridegrooms bed in the wee, dark hours of the night. That Jamie should leave the door unlatched. He'd said he would, and he did. Lachlan told him to be certain that all was in readiness for her arrival and that Jamie should not be alarmed to wake and find a woman in his bed.

  He would not be alarmed. He would be delighted.

  Jamie's eyes drifted shut, and his body relaxed into slumber. Far down the stair, above the hearth, the mantel clock ticked so loudly he could almost count the seconds. Tick. Tock. He fell deeper into the twilight world of sleep. Tick. Tock. Beyond the dark edges of the room, a door creaked open. Jamie was so thoroughly exhausted he paid no attention to a door closing, or a candle snuffing itself out, or a curtain being drawn closed. Instead, he rolled over and slept the sleep of the dead.

  The dream—for it had to be a dream, it was too vivid to be real— began with the brush of a woman's hand across his cheek. Aye, definitely a woman. Her fingers were supple and slender, her touch as light as an angel's wing. Like the angels that climbed up and down the ladder to heaven. Jacob's ladder. Not the leafy plant. The vision, the dream, his dream. At last he'd remembered it! His dream, all of it, spread before him, clear as day in a room black as pitch. Angels and stairsteps and a voice from above.

  “Don't leave me,” he whispered, afraid to open his eyes.

  “I will never leave you.” A woman's voice, soft as air.

  He believed her completely.

  “Jamie, it's me.”

  Not merely a dream. A dream come true. Sweet Rose.

  She had come to him, just as Lachlan had said she would. Traveling through the night, through the wind and the snow, just to be with her bridegroom. He opened his arms to her, and she slid into them as though they'd already spent a thousand nights together. “Welcome, beloved,” he said. Her sigh was a song.

  The box bed curtains were drawn tight. Not a sliver of light entered their world. It was only the two of them, and no other existed. He could not see, but he could feel, and what he felt was more than enough. Time and the night would stand still until he had his fill of her. My love.

  But would she say it now? Would she tell him that she loved him?

  “Say you love me,” he whispered.

  “I love you,” she whispered back. “I've always loved you, Jamie.”

  “And I you, dearest. Always. From the first. But then, you knew that.”

  “Aye.” In the darkness she smiled. He could tell, could feel her lips on his neck, curling up at the corners.

  She was wearing something long, a single cloth, nothing more. “Is this…your kell?”

  “It is. My brides veil. Will you lift it away now?”

  “I will.” He tossed it asi
de and his shirt as well. “And will you let me love you?”

  “I will.” She kissed him. Not as she'd kissed him when they met, with sheep bleating all about them on a grassy hill, nor as she'd kissed him in the garden, a frightened girl. This was a bride's kiss. A lover's kiss. His young Rose was blooming that very moment into a woman.

  Fifty

  Our lips, without words, find the way to the heart.

  GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS

  Leana was stunned to silence.

  It was almost as though Jamie expected her. As though he knew she would come to him. As though the moonless night and the dark hour and the curtained bed had prepared themselves for her quiet entrance.

  All that was required was to slip into his waiting arms. Which she did. Oh, so willingly. Jamie. His bed was warm, and he was warmer still. Welcoming her with an eager embrace. Jamie.

  He'd said he loved her, as simply as that.

  “I love you, I love you,” she'd whispered back, kissing him again. And again. He tasted like whisky, but she told herself she didn't mind. That tomorrow night he would taste like Jamie again. His words were slurred, but not terribly so. What few words he said were everything she needed to hear. I hve you. His sighs were poetry and his soundless touches a symphony.

  He seemed hungry to taste her skin. “Like honey,” he said, and so she let him do as he wished, too overwhelmed to speak. There was nothing to say. She wanted to whisper his name again, but—selfishly perhaps—she needed to hear her own name first. Leana. He would say it soon enough. She would wait. And while she waited, she would love him and hold nothing back.

  Jamie.

  He had chosen her for his bride after all.

  Forgive us, Rose.

  Surely her father was right about Rose's name in the ceremony being nothing more than words. Jamie had made his vow to her, to Leana. And to God, in the presence of his congregation. That vow would be consummated soon, very soon. Now, this night.

  Mine, Jamie. You are mine.

  The rose petals that she'd scattered across the bed released an intoxicating perfume. In a moment she would be drunk with flowers. She giggled at the thought, until he kissed her into silence once more. When he stretched himself against her, their toes touched. His feet were heated from the warming pan; hers were cold from the hall floor. “Warm me,” she whispered, and he did, until there was no part of her that was not heated to a flame.

  Everything was different, all was new, and the old Leana was lost forever.

  They drifted in and out of sleep, finding each other in the darkness, twining themselves together. Time was locked outside the room, barred from their bed. There was no hour of day or night, only love, and for that they had all the hours in the world.

  When Jamie finally drifted off to sleep for good, Leana found herself more awake, more alive, than she could ever remember. Oh, my dear hus-bandlTo be so loved and shown such love was beyond her most cherished dreams. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to sing, she wanted to run into the hall and shout of her love for James Lachlan McKie so the whole household might know what a transforming thing true love could be.

  Did every bride feel the same way? Surely not! She buried her face in the covers to hide her laughter. No bride could possibly feel as she felt, for no bride had come so close to losing everything. Jamie was the husband she'd almost let go. Jamie was the man God had put across her path, and she'd nearly walked away from him out of fear. Fear that he did not love her and never could.

  But he did love her and had thoroughly proven so. She would never doubt again.

  In the murky interior of the box bed, she found the white kell, more by touch than by sight. She could feel the intricate patterns carefully wrought across the fabric, stitched by a loving hand in another country. Did that woman know how gready she would bless a Scottish lass this Hogmanay? Leana could never place it over her head again, for a kell could only be worn by a maiden. The thought both saddened and thrilled her. A maiden no more. A woman, a wife.

  She smoothed her hand across die veil, an unspoken farewell. The diin cambric was covered in roses, and so was her marriage bed. She must now think of how to tell Rose, her dear, precious sister, that Jamie had chosen her instead. Might the lass be crushed, or would she be relieved? After all, Rose was young and had often confessed she was afraid to marry. With many years left to find a husband, a society debut could still be in her future. Besides, hadn't Rose pushed Leana in Jamie's direction since the moment he arrived? You were right after all Rose! That's what she would tell her sister. That her instincts had been right and her efforts had not been in vain. Dear Rose.

  A hint of daylight crept between the bed curtains. From down the stair came familiar sounds, a household stirring from a winter night's slumber. Jamie slept on, his breathing even, his smooth face that of a younger man, free of any cares that might wrinkle his brow. She curled up against him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and draping one arm across his broad chest.

  Perhaps she would sleep, just for an hour. It was bound to be a hectic day, and she had so much good news to share when she awakened.

  Fifty-One

  Awake thee, my Lady-Love!

  Wake thee, and rise!

  The sun through the bower peeps

  Into thine eyes.

  GEORGE DARLEY

  Jamie's eyes opened only a crack, then he squeezed them tight, shutting out the invading light of day, which had thrust its bright saber between his bed curtains, the unsheathed point aimed directly at his throbbing forehead.

  The year 1789 was off to a very bad start.

  Pain droned between his eyes, like a bagpipe playing one long, bleating, endless note. The chanters tune that danced around it was a taunting one. Nae mair whisky for you. Nae mair whisky for you. Jamie vowed that come next Hogmanay he would remember that dreary song and be more prudent with his drinking. One cup of ale. Nae mair.

  He forced himself to swallow, disgusted by the bitter taste in his mouth. A fresh pitcher of water and Hughs razor would be a welcome sight. But he'd have to part the bed curtains to get there, and it was entirely too bright in the room to suit him. Perhaps if he pushed the fabric aside a bit at a time, the light would not be so painful.

  Stretching out his hand, he tugged at the curtains, and a pool of daylight fell across his arm. In the far corner of the room, the narrow window was flooded with sunshine. It seemed that while he slept, the gray skies of yestreen had transformed themselves into a canvas of pale, shimmering blue stretched across the heavens. In January? Unheard of.

  He longed to know the time. Was it late morning? Noon? Later still? He rubbed his eyes, then his brow, moaning as he did. Happy New Year, laddie. Though his head remained foggy, his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light around him as he pulled the bed curtains open further. It was noon at the earliest. Strange that no one had come knocking on his door. Lachlan would be ringing the bell for dinner before long. And whatever was his shirt doing on the floor? Had the fire burned so brighdy he'd torn off the sark in his sleep?

  Jamie lifted himself with great difficulty into a sitting position. He threw back the covers, absendy turning to look over his shoulder as he did.

  Leaned

  Jamie snatched his hand back, as though bitten by an adder, and stared at the sleeping woman. It was Leana; there could be no doubt. She was curled up with her back to him, her hands tucked beneath her cheek, her slender legs drawn up against her chest. Her flowing, blond hair covered some of her pale skin but not enough of it. Not nearly enough. She was naked. In his bed. Fast asleep.

  His heart pounded in his chest, the pain in his head already forgotten. One thing was certain: He was sober now. Wretchedly so. What had happened? Where was Rose? He tried to swallow but could not manage it. Water, he needed water or he might choke on his own spit. Slipping one leg over his side of the box bed, he eased one foot to the floor, then the other, as gingerly as possible, not wanting to wake her, not until he sorted things out. What had happened
? Where was Rose? And why, in heavens name, was her sister asleep beside him?

  Jamie stood, then yanked the bed curtains shut, trying to block out the sight of her, desperate for a moment to think, to remember. What had he done? What grievous sin had he committed in the dark hours of the night? It was obvious, wasn't it? Her scent was all over him. He bolted to the washstand and splashed the pitcher of water over his hands, his face, his mouth, his chest, like a man possessed.

  The vivid images that appeared unbidden were not as easy to scrub away. His falling asleep, dreaming of Rose. A woman slipping into his room, slipping into his arms. Jamie, in me. Rose. He'd been certain it was Rose. I've always hvedyou, Jamie. She'd said his name, said that she loved him.

  I love you still.

  Leana.

  His blood rising, he grabbed a towel and dragged it across his face and arms, drying them with a vengeance as the truth sank in: She had come into his room, pretending to be Rose, and ruined his wedding night. And not just his wedding night, his marriage. No bride would ever stand for such wanton behavior from her bridegroom. To be unfaithful to her, on their wedding night, with her sister! Unthinkable, unspeakable. Rage seethed inside him, drenching him with heat, despite the empty hearth and the freezing cold room.

  He'd not been cold in the wee hours of the night. Oh no, he'd been very warm indeed. Awakened memories suddenly washed over him, burning him from the inside out. The intimate things they'd done, the coundess ways he'd bared his soul to her. The endearments he'd whispered in the dark, in the sanctity of their marriage bed. To Rose, he'd thought. To his wife. Not to her sister!

  Jamie drew the ends of the linen towel taut between his hands, stretching it, twisting it, nigh pulling it to shreds. How dare she! How dare Leana do this to her sister and to me? But she haddaied. It was done.