The Pleasure of the Rose

by Jane Bonander

  The pub door opened, slamming against the outside wall, and MacNab stepped onto the cobbled walk, snarling slurs at a customer.

  Nay, not a customer. Speak of the devil. Geddes slowed his steps.

  Fenella Begley stood nose to nose with the pub owner, hands on trouser-clad hips and breathing fire.

  “You can’t make her do that,” she spat. “Her arm isn’t healed from the last accident.”

  “That weren’t my fault,” MacNab roared. “She’s a clumsy bitch, is all.”

  “And you are a mean son of a whore,” she volleyed, appearing to egg him on.

  MacNab reared back. “I’ll teach you to call me names.” He raised his beefy paw to strike.

  Geddes stepped in. “MacNab!”

  The surly good-for-nothing turned toward Geddes, his arm still raised. “This ain’t your affair.”

  Geddes ambled toward the two of them. “Is this what makes you a man, MacNab? Striking women?”

  “I said it ain’t your affair.” He glared at Geddes, his ham-hock hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white.

  Geddes realized that the man could beat him to within an inch of his life. “Go back inside and see to your other guests.”

  “I ain’t finished with this one,” he said.

  “Leave her alone.”

  “You gonna make me?”

  Geddes sighed and shook his head. Arguing with a bull like Angus MacNab would only lead to disastrous results, and although Geddes wasn’t necessarily a vain man, he did value the current placement of his facial features. “You could snap me like a twig, MacNab, we both know that.”

  The pub owner’s massive chest expanded, as if he’d taken Geddes’s words as a compliment.

  Geddes glanced around. A few shoppers slowed their steps but gave the two a wide berth. “Do what you wish to me, but even you wouldn’t sink so low as to strike a woman, would you? That wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

  MacNab glared at him and then lunged toward Fenella. She stepped back and expelled a surprised squeak. He guffawed, apparently getting pleasure out of scaring her, then disappeared inside the pub.

  Fenella Begley quickly gathered her wits and strutted toward him, her green eyes filled with fire. “I didn’t need your help.”

  Geddes raised a cynical eyebrow and gave her a little bow. “You’re welcome, madam.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “Geddes Gordon,” she called after him.

  He paused, curious to know what she wanted.

  “If you really want to help, you can open your eyes to what’s happening to some of the women in this village.”

  He turned slightly and gazed at her. It irked him that Rosalyn found no fault with her. Nay, she praised her to the bonnie braes and beyond.

  Geddes had always taken notice of her unfeminine attire. He had once thought her manly; he was wrong. As he studied her, he realized she was really quite magnificent, especially when she was fired up. Although her shirt was mannish, it was open at the throat, exposing skin that was like porcelain, white and smooth. He thought that perhaps he even saw the shadow of her breast. Her short-cropped curls were also unconventional, yet he found they softened her features, even when she frowned quite mutinously, as she did now.

  “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Men. Do you truly believe that you have a right to physically abuse those who are weaker and smaller than you?”

  “I certainly don’t—”

  “Do you know that bastard, Angus MacNab, pushed his wife down the stairs and broke her arm? Do you realize that he forced her to return to work before it healed, and now she has broken it again?”

  Geddes was intrigued by her passionate nature. “It’s not—”

  “And,” she interrupted, coming closer and poking a finger at his chest, “she isn’t the only wife to come to me, broken and bruised, because that old sot of a physician is too drunk to treat them, or to care, for that matter. I’m bloody sick of the way women are treated, not just here, but everywhere. But by damn, here is where I am, and I intend to continue to do what I do until some bloody indignant bastard of a husband puts a bullet through my brain.”

  Fire continued to flame in her eyes and her cheeks were flushed, as if fevered. Her lips were a natural dusky shade of pale plum and she had a dimple in her chin. Why, she was a splendid creature! Why had he not seen it before? He’d been so busy listing the qualities that annoyed him, he hadn’t actually seen who she really was. Hoping to mollify her, he said, “Madam, what do you expect me to do about it?”

  She stood back, hands on hips once again, and studied him, her gaze roaming over him. He hoped the flush at his neck didn’t rise into his face, for her scrutiny was almost sexual.

  “You’re not without influence, Geddes Gordon. You have the duke’s ear. Surely between the two of you something will spring to mind.” With an almost coquettish smile, she turned and strode away.

  Geddes watched her fine behind move beneath her trousers and for the first time in years, he felt a fire in his own.

  • • •

  Fen strolled toward the mercantile just as Reggie came out with a fifty-pound bag of flour over his shoulder. “Is that all of it?”

  Reggie nodded and frowned, gesturing toward the pub.

  “It was nothing.” She stepped up into the conveyance and sat on the padded bench.

  He dumped the sack of flour into the back of the wagon and then pointed at Geddes, who continued to watch her from a distance. He hadn’t moved. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. “Yes, he intervened.”

  Reggie nodded and then hauled his enormous bulk into the wagon next to her.

  As the cart rattled over the cobbled street, Geddes tipped his hat at her. She gave him a gentle nod, but forced herself not to smile.

  But as they rode home, she thought about him. Although they had sparred often, she hadn’t thought much about him as a man. In fact, she’d always thought he was rather bland. But now that she had a chance to study him, she found his physique quite impressive. She liked a man who was tall and lean, yet wide through the shoulders and narrow in the hips. And now she tried to imagine him without clothes, wondering if his strategic body hair was as fair as that on his head.

  He interested her—she had seen him redden as she looked at him. Perhaps he was shy; he was certainly proper. It was whispered around the island that he was a man who didn’t like women. That was nonsense. He simply hadn’t found one who interested him. Yet.

  She settled against the seat and allowed herself a small smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two weeks later, Geddes stood helpless as Rosalyn explained where she wanted to be married. “In the garden? You want to have the ceremony in the garden?” Geddes was nearly beside himself. He had run nervous, frustrated fingers through his hair so many times that it stood on end, reminding Rosalyn of the stubs of dried wheat left in the fields.

  “What could be more perfect?” Rosalyn let Annie sweep her hair up into a swirl of curls on top of her head. “It’s a beautiful April day, the sun is shining, and my flowers are blooming. And, as the islanders say, He Breeah.”

  Geddes was incredulous. “A good day? You think it’s a good day?”

  “It’s a splendid day, Geddes.”

  “But…but…but…”

  Rosalyn gazed at his reflection in the mirror and gave him a gentle smile. “You worry too much. And what’s the harm?”

  “It’s just never been done, Rosalyn. I’ve never heard of anyone getting married outside.”

  “But it’s my wedding, brother. The chapel is cold and damp. I’d feel like I was being entombed.” And she did, every time she entered the room. It had never felt all that religious to her—religion was outdoors, where God did His handiwork.

  Geddes suddenly seemed calm. His features softened and his eyes warmed as he looked at her. “Why had I even thought to argue with you?”

  She smiled, keeping he
r own demons at bay. “I have no idea. You’ve had a lifetime to learn not to.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “May I say that you look especially beautiful today?”

  “You may, dear brother. Now, what time is Vicar Fleming to arrive?”

  “In exactly two hours.”

  Rosalyn’s stomach suddenly filled with dandelion fluff. “Then be gone so Annie can make me acceptable for my new husband.”

  Geddes kissed her again and then left the room.

  Rosalyn expelled a long, quiet sigh and sagged against the back of the chair. It had been an act for his benefit, this attempt at courage and nonchalance.

  Annie fussed with her hair. “Ye look beautiful, mistress. Your gown is fit for a queen.”

  Aye, Rosalyn thought, although it wasn’t a gown. It was a long skirt with a train, all of which was heavy, hand-loomed, ivory cotton. The blouse was an off-the-shoulder ivory silk with handmade lace and brown silk ribbon running through it. Some might whisper that she should be in white, as that was the preferred color for brides ever since Queen Victoria married Prince Albert, but Rosalyn didn’t care. She had worn white at her first wedding; perhaps another color would bring her better luck the second time around.

  On the surface, she appeared to be a willing bride. Underneath, she was still reluctant. And who could blame her? Even though the duke had sworn on the Bible that all he had told her was true, she kept wondering if there were other surprises waiting for her once they were wed.

  “There.” Annie stepped back, pleased with herself. Suddenly, she gasped.

  Rosalyn’s stomach dropped. “What? What is it, Annie?”

  Annie grinned at her in the mirror, picked something off her dress, and showed it to her.

  “A spider? You found a spider on my dress and you’re grinning at me?”

  “Aye. ’Tis for luck. Me auntie were a maid for a London lady, and she told me it’s good luck for a bride to find a spider on her wedding dress.”

  Well, thought Rosalyn, who knew? At least it was a good omen.

  She studied her hair, noting the sprig of white heather that Annie had fastened to the top of her web of curls. “Isn’t the heather supposed to be in my bouquet?”

  “Yes, mistress; I’ve made certain there is one there, too.”

  “You want to double my good luck, is that it?”

  Annie’s eyes misted over. “You’ve been the finest of ladies to both me and me sis, ma’am. We want all of your troubles to be little ones.”

  Rosalyn’s attitude toward the gossipy Annie had softened over the past few weeks. The girl had become her shadow. “Is everything ready for the reception?”

  “Aye, Marvella and Ellie have been cooking and baking without a break. Ellie didn’t come to bed until nigh onto three this morning, and I’m not sure Marvella came to bed at all.”

  “They must be exhausted.” Rosalyn felt a deep twinge of guilt for being the cause of so much ado, but it was useless to argue. She had noticed that the kitchen was abuzz all day; some village wives, those who were noted for their excellent culinary skills, were still stirring up aromatic wonders.

  “We are your servants, mistress, and we are so happy you’re marrying the duke.” She was quiet a moment and then said, “Last eve I saw him outside roughhousing with one of the dogs. Every so often he stopped and glanced up at your window.”

  Rosalyn’s heart took a leap into her throat. “He was looking up here?”

  “Aye, ’twas as if he wanted a glimpse of you, like he was anxious for the morn so he could wed you.”

  “You’re too romantic by half, Annie. You know as well as I do that this marriage is no love match.”

  Annie straightened Rosalyn’s bedchamber, fluffing pillows and dusting tables with the corner of her apron. “It don’t matter, mistress. When he sees ye all dressed up fine he’ll fall in love with ye.”

  Rosalyn shook her head at Annie’s foolishness, but once again, in her secret heart of hearts, she longed for a marriage that would give her what she’d never had before.

  • • •

  Vicar Fleming, a young widower who was valiantly trying to raise lively and rambunctious twin daughters, stood on the narrow cobbled path that wended its way through the garden, and smiled, inhaling deeply as he did so.

  “This is the day the Lord has made, and He could not have made a finer one.”

  Rosalyn stood beside the duke, hoping the swift beating of her heart didn’t attract his attention. She had taken Geddes’s arm as she descended the steps, trying not to grip it too tightly as she pressed it to her side. The first person she saw was the duke, and from that moment on, she had seen no one else. They could have been alone or they could have been on a crowded Edinburgh street; she saw only him.

  He wore a kilt of the MacNeil plaid, the overlapping flap held in place with a shiny gold brooch. She had come to admire his physique, believing that no man had ever looked as grand in a kilt as he did. He had cut his hair, although it still hung to his shoulders, and when the sun gleamed off it, there were hints of burgundy fire. He looked as if he’d just stepped from a painting, one that encompassed the Scots savage past and the beautiful pageantry of the present.

  Vicar Fleming’s voice broke into her reverie. Vows were spoken. A rather platonic kiss followed. She was once again a wife.

  When the duke strode toward the celebration site, Rosalyn ducked into the castle to grab a few quiet moments before the festivities started. Fen met her in the foyer.

  “You look absolutely radiant.”

  Rosalyn attempted a smile. “I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin.”

  “I saw that he kissed you.”

  A rather unfeminine snort escaped. “It wasn’t a kiss. It was a friendly peck on the mouth.”

  “Were you expecting him to bend you over his arm and really plant one on you?”

  Rosalyn shivered at the thought. “I don’t know what I expected. He continues to catch me off guard, slowly becoming someone I could actually care for.”

  Fen took Rosalyn’s hands between her own and squeezed them. “Then don’t fight it, my friend, don’t fight that feeling.”

  Geddes rushed into the foyer, stopping when he saw the women. “Rosalyn, you should be outside, sitting next to the duke, welcoming the guests.” He tossed Fen an accusatory glance.

  “She’s a lovely bride, don’t you think, Geddes?”

  He didn’t take his eyes off Fen. “I imagine when you got married, you wore your trousers.”

  Fen’s gaze narrowed. “No, I did not. There was a war on, and I barely had time to comb my hair, but I did wear my nurse’s uniform, which, unfortunately, was spattered with someone else’s blood.”

  Color crept up Geddes’s neck into his cheeks. “Please, Rosalyn, the duke is waiting.”

  After he left, Rosalyn turned to Fen, her expression sad. “You two fight like enemies.”

  “Nay,” Fen answered. “We’re just adversaries. I don’t think it’s because we can’t stand each other. I rather enjoy sparring with him, if you want the truth.”

  A spark of hope in a day filled with worry.

  • • •

  As neighbors toasted the newlyweds, Fletcher had heard more Lang may your lum reeks than any other toast. He learned that it meant “May there always be a fire in your fireplace.”

  As quaint as that sounded, he suspected that after numerous draughts of ale and whisky, many of the men gave the toast a double meaning, for they all laughed and nudged one another.

  He and Rosalyn stayed at the celebration until all who came could wish them well. An hour before the sun disappeared behind the gauzy sea haze, Rosalyn met his gaze, quickly looked away, then announced that she was going to retire.

  Now, Fletcher stood near the stable and smoked a cigar, watching the villagers celebrate. All afternoon there had been dancing: four reels, Mairi’s Wedding, and various jigs. It was evident that a wedding was just an excuse for the people to make merry, but then, in
that respect they weren’t any different from Texans. Even old Barnaby had performed, doing an agile jig that Fletcher would not have thought possible, considering the decrepit nature of the old valet.

  Ah, but he was avoiding the real issue of why he was standing outside, rather than hustling his new bride to their bridal chamber. He had no idea how to proceed.

  And wasn’t that comical? Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, who had seduced saloon girls and trollops, housewives and maidens, didn’t know how to approach the only woman who now mattered. His wife.

  As she had walked toward him on Geddes’s arm earlier in the day, her hair wreathed in heather and her gown shimmering around her, he had felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach.

  It wasn’t just that she was beautiful; that was almost a given. He had found her comely from the beginning. It was the look in her eyes that had hit him like a blow.

  • • •

  Rosalyn stepped to the window and drew back the curtain just enough so she could watch her new husband. He appeared as uncertain about this entire escapade as she was, smoking and pacing.

  Angry with her musings, she swung away from the window and crossed to her dressing table. The fact that she was now a titled woman should have given her some pleasure. It did not. As far as she was concerned, the title meant as little as the marriage that had granted it to her.

  She glanced at her reflection, eyeing her own figure in her nightgown with the tucks that extended down the front and the back and the handmade eyelet lace she had stitched on the cuffs and placket. It was her finest nightgown, and it was soft and comfortable, but at this moment it could just as well have been a hair shirt, for her discomfort went that deep.

  The lord savage stood just inside her door, tall, dark, and dangerous. He crossed his arms over his wide chest and leaned casually against the doorjamb, studying her.

  “I didn’t hear you knock.” She touched her lace collar and discovered the pulse at her throat pounding. She felt alive, raw, aching with a new wonderment.

  “That’s because I didn’t.” He stepped into the room and closed the door.