Tying the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

They made the ten-hour journey back to Balforss, stopping only twice to rest and water the horses. His Lucy demonstrated courage and endurance like Alex had never witnessed in a woman. Although fearful of Goliath, she shared the saddle with Alex, never once complaining.

  For the most part, she was quiet. There was much about her ordeal she wouldn’t discuss with others around. He hoped, when they finally got home, she would tell him everything. He needed to apologize for triggering the disaster, but he also needed to understand why she left. That she willingly went to meet the viscount troubled him still.

  They were about an hour away from home—a hot meal, a hot bath, and a warm bed—when Lucy asked, “Did you kill Langley?”

  “I dinnae think Langley was ever in Scotland, love. They used his name to lure you away from Balforss.”

  “But the letters.”

  “Forgeries.”

  “Merde. I’m so stupid.”

  “Not you. Me. I’m the clotheid. I let Elizabeth dupe me. I swear, I’ll make her pay for her part in this.”

  “No, don’t. I’d rather you didn’t go near her again. Just leave that evil witch to her own miserable fate.”

  “I ken it makes no difference, but I didnae want her to kiss me.”

  Lucy squeezed his thigh. “I know.” After a long silence, she asked, “Is Liam dead?”

  “Aye. Shot. When we found him, he was still alive. He told us you had been taken. That was all. My da made certain the bodies of Liam and the driver were returned to their homes. He sent one of the men back to Balforss to inform Sir Ranald of his son’s death.”

  “I think he truly thought he was taking me to Langley,” she said. “I don’t think he meant me harm.”

  “If you expect me to forgive him, you’re mad.”

  “No.” After another pause, Lucy asked. “Do you forgive me?”

  “For what?”

  “For leaving Balforss with Liam.”

  “It’s me that needs forgiveness, love.”

  “Then I forgive you, if you forgive me.”

  “Done.” He marveled at how easy it was for him to ask for forgiveness, how effortlessly she gave it. Was it because they weren’t facing each other eye to eye? He always had an easier time saying difficult things to Lucy when she wasn’t looking straight at him. Or maybe, just maybe, pride no longer stood between them.

  “I’m not sorry you killed the men who tried to rape me. But I am sorry you killed the jailer.”

  “I didnae kill the jailer. He was already out cold when we entered the passage.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Why?” Why would she concern herself with the well-being of a man who kept her incarcerated in a windowless cell for two days?

  “He was kind to me. The experience could have been worse, but he gave me a blanket and a candle. And he let me talk to him when I was lonely.” She twisted around in the saddle and asked, “Have you ever read the poem Lady of the Lake by Walter Scott?”

  “Nae. Cannae say as I have.”

  “It’s very good. I’ll write and ask Papa to send me his.”

  Amazing how her mind seemed to hop from one unrelated thing to another. Jailers and poets. Pranks and princes.

  A half hour later, Balforss came into view. Lucy exhaled on a sigh. “Home.”

  “Do you ken what today is, love?” Alex asked, his lips touching the delicate shell of her ear.

  She turned her cheek into his kiss. “No.”

  “It’s our wedding day.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Alex. Alex.”

  He lifted his head and let it loll backward. His eyelids seemed to be sealed shut with heavy weights.

  “Are you going to sleep through your wedding night, too?”

  He rubbed his eyes open and worked to focus on the person hovering over him, gently shaking his shoulder.

  “Ian?”

  “You fell asleep in your bath.”

  Alex had nodded off. For how long, he didn’t know, but the bath water was cold. Folded in two and wedged into the wooden tub, he struggled to haul himself out with little success. Haddie must have given Lucy the larger of the two upstairs bathing tubs.

  “Give me your hand,” Ian said, sounding bored.

  “Christ.” He grasped Ian’s forearm and let his younger brother yank him free of the tub. Ian tossed a drying cloth at him. “That was embarrassing.”

  “Wasnae my favorite moment, either,” Ian said chuckling. “Get yourself shaved and dressed. Everyone’s waiting in the library.”

  Alex blinked. Why is everyone waiting in the library? He should remember. Ian seemed to think it was very important.

  “For your wedding,” Ian said, talking to him like he was thick-headed.

  A jolt of adrenaline surged through Alex, and he jerked to attention. Bloody hell. He stepped out of the tub, caught his foot on the edge, and tumbled into a heap on the floor.

  “Jesus,” his brother cursed.

  He shook his head and scrambled to his feet, clutching the linen over his privates. “I’m fine.” He tucked the cloth around his waist as he staggered to his washbasin.

  “Stand still,” Ian said, holding out a roll of cotton. “Ma sent me up to put a fresh bandage on you. Did you get your stitches wet?”

  “Nae.” He raised his arms and let his brother wind the long strip around his chest several times before tucking in the end. “Thanks.”

  Alex thought his brother understood his implied dismissal, but Ian remained in the room, leaning against the door, arms folded across his chest. He finished soaping his beard and cast a sidelong look at him. “I said I’m fine.” The man didn’t move. He looked in the mirror, turned his cheek, and lifted his chin, his straight razor poised and waiting for his hand to stop trembling.

  Ian launched himself off the door. “Sit,” he ordered pointing to a chair. “Give me the—”

  “I can do it.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Alex considered his brother for a moment, fought the need to strike him, then reluctantly handed him the straight razor and sat. He clamped his mouth shut and allowed Ian to scrape away his whiskers. He hadn’t slept last night and had only slept a few hours the night before.

  “Did you sleep at all since we got home?” Alex asked, trying to keep his jaw still.

  “I got a couple hours.”

  “Declan?”

  “Last I saw, he was asleep on the library floor.”

  Alex laughed. Declan could sleep anywhere, anytime.

  “Stop laughing or I’m like to slice your throat.” Ian continued shaving him with sure strokes, pausing to rinse the blade every so often. “Da says they’ve arrested Sellar. He’s to be tried for murder.”

  Alex grunted his approval. “They’ll sell tickets to his hanging.”

  “We can only hope.” Ian finished and handed him a towel. “Are you ready for this, brother?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Have you ever bedded a virgin before?”

  Alex leaned back and buckled his brow at Ian.

  “One. Why? Have you?” he asked his brother incredulously.

  “Aye. One,” Ian said, cocking a defiant eyebrow at him.

  “Who?” He’d never given much thought to the idea of his brother, three years his junior, having had carnal knowledge of women.

  “The butcher’s daughter in Thurso.”

  “Gertie MacDonald?”

  “Aye.” Ian sounded a bit on the defensive.

  Alex tried to suppress a laugh. “She told you she was a virgin, did she?”

  “What do you find funny about it?” Ian asked, looking like he was going to clobber him at any moment.

  Practically doubled over, Alex finally managed to sputter, “She told me she was a virgin, too.”

  Ian joined Alex in what was perhaps the funniest joke they’d ever heard. Their laughter rolled on and on with pointing and knee slapping, and gasping for air. Alex held his injured side. “Oh, God, that hurts.” At last, wiping
tears from his eyes, he said, “It seems neither of us has bedded a virgin, brother.”

  Their laughter was cut off abruptly by a sharp rap on the door. Not the bedroom door. Rather the door connecting his room with Lucy’s. Haddie’s terse voice came from the other side.

  “We can hear everything you say, ye numpties.”

  “Shit,” Alex and Ian whispered in unison. They turned to each other, their faces mirroring shock and horror.

  Ian helped him dress quickly and silently.

  Alex asked, “How do I look?”

  “Like something that’s been beaten, dragged by a horse for forty miles, and left for dead. But you’ll do.”

  “Go on without me. I want a word with Lucy.”

  Ian flashed him a set of fine white teeth and quit the room.

  He knocked lightly on the adjoining door. “Lucy?”

  “I’m almost ready.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not as we planned. We were supposed to have a church wedding.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He placed a hand on the door. “But all you’ve been through these last few—”

  “Alexander Sinclair, are you changing your mind?”

  He caught the warning in her voice. “N-no.”

  “Are you going back on your promise to marry me?”

  “I…no…I—”

  “Need I remind you of your duty? Your solemn oath to my father?” Lucy asked, working up a head of steam. “You promised to marry me, and I expect to be your wife.”

  A long silence passed. “Lucy,” he asked softly, “are you sure?”

  “Yes, Alex. I’m more certain of this than anything.” Calm again, her voice sounded reassuring, confident, even sweet. “I want to be your wife now and forever.”

  When Alex entered the library, he found his father, Uncle Fergus, Ian, Magnus, and the barrister, Ewan MacBeath, having a dram.

  Magnus nudged Declan with his boot. “Wake up, ye gomeril. It’s nearly time.”

  “I thought we missed the wedding,” Declan whined from the floor. “Where’s the clergyman?”

  “I’m here to officiate,” Ewan MacBeath said. “The wedding contract the duke signed specifies today’s date. Unless Alex wishes to wait until another contract is signed…” MacBeath glanced at him over his spectacles. He shook his head. “…we must complete the bond before midnight this day.”

  Magnus handed him a tot of whisky. “Here, man. You need this. You look like you’re about to rattle apart and die.”

  “Nae. Alex looks handsome as ever.” His mother swept into the library with Aunt Agnes at her side. Flora gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks, Ma. You’re looking lovely yourself.” He meant it. His mother had always been a beauty, but she looked especially nice this evening in a fine, dark green gown.

  “Lucy’ll be down any minute,” she said. “After the ceremony, Mrs. Swenson has a grand feast waiting for us in the dining hall. Most of the guests left this afternoon, along with the vicar, thinking there would be no wedding. I dinnae ken what we’ll do with all the food Cook’s prepared.”

  Alex’s stomach grumbled, and he remembered the starving children he’d seen this morning. “Da, can we share our abundance with the people of Helmsdale? I ken they’ll make good use of it.” He expected his father to dismiss his impulse. Instead, Laird John nodded his approval.

  Ian, having witnessed the exchange, smiled and shook his head. “Perhaps you will save them all, brother.”

  …

  Haddie finished placing the last pin in Lucy’s hair and stood back. “You look like a princess, miss.”

  Lucy smoothed the silk chiffon folds of her cream-colored gown and traced the flowers Phillipa had lovingly embroidered on the bodice. She wished Phillipa were here with her now. She took a deep breath. No room for sadness. Only joy. Today was her wedding day.

  “Thank you, Haddie.”

  Laird John waited for her in the hallway. “Are you ready for this, hen?” John asked, smiling down at her and offering his arm.

  “More than ready.”

  “Alex is a lucky man to have you as a wife, just as Flora and I are lucky to have you as our daughter.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “I ken you can call me Da now, aye?”

  “Thank you, Da.”

  Haddie handed her a nosegay of white heather. “This is for you, for luck.”

  Bagpipes growled to life and wailed throughout the hall below—a baleful cacophony. John led Lucy downstairs to the entry hall where members of the household lingered outside the library door—Mrs. Swenson, Peter, the blacksmith Mr. Gareth, as well as Gilchrist Murray, who looked marginally cleaner than he had when Lucy met him this morning.

  Callum Mackay and his mother were there, as well. According to Haddie, Ian had offered to take young Callum with him when he returned to duty, and Laird John had found Mrs. Mackay work at the mill.

  The group parted, allowing John to lead her through the grand entry into the library. Many heads turned toward her, but the only face she saw was Alex. Clean shaven, light red hair plaited in a queue, his clear grey eyes shining. He was wearing what looked like his dress uniform, a dark green, almost black kilt, red jacket with black cuffs and gold brocade, and a long black-and-white horsehair sporran hanging from his waist. Alex, her Highland warrior, her brave knight, her prince.

  They walked at an agonizingly slow pace toward the fireplace where her betrothed was standing. She gripped John’s arm to anchor herself. Between the lack of sleep and the excitement of the moment, she thought she might float away. When at last she was standing in front of her soon-to-be husband, John peeled her fingers from his arm and transferred her hand to Alex. The sound of the bagpipes mercifully expired.

  A strange man standing near them called attention to himself by clearing his throat. “My name is Ewan MacBeath, Esquire. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss FitzHarris.

  “Mr. MacBeath is here to marry us,” Alex said.

  “Oh good.” Lucy was aware how dimwitted she must sound. “I mean, I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Mother Flora had visited her room while she was bathing and explained a few of the finer points of Scottish Marital Law, assuring her their bond would be legal. Apparently, a church wedding was not necessary as long as one held a binding contract.

  “If we’re ready, we can begin,” Mr. MacBeath said.

  Mother Flora took the nosegay of heather from Lucy. Standing face to face with Alex, both hands clasped, she could feel him tremble. Her brave knight was nervous, and for some reason, that pleased her.

  “Alex and Lucy,” MacBeath began, “do you come together of your own free will to bind yourselves in matrimony on this day?”

  “We do,” they answered in unison. Alex squeezed her hand, and Lucy, vibrating with happiness, stifled a giggle.

  “Do you, John Michael Sinclair, and you, Ian Allen Sinclair, bear witness to the union of Alexander and Lucy?”

  “We do.”

  “Then I ask you, Alexander James Sinclair, do you take Lucy Ann FitzHarris to be your wife, to be her constant friend, her partner in life, and her true love? To love her without reservation, honor and respect her, protect her from harm, comfort her in times of distress, and to grow with her in mind and spirit?”

  “I so do.” Alex gazed down at Lucy, firelight flickering in his eyes.

  “Do you, Lucy Ann FitzHarris, take Alexander James Sinclair to be your husband, to be his constant friend, his partner in life, and his true love? To love him without reservation, honor and respect him, protect him from harm, comfort him in times of distress, and to grow with him in mind and spirit?”

  “I so do.”

  “You may place the ring on your bride’s hand,” MacBeath said in a much less formal tone.

  Alex twisted a simple gold band off his finger and reached for her, fumbling for the correct hand.

&nb
sp; “The left,” MacBeath offered kindly.

  He slipped the ring, seven sizes too large, on her slender finger.

  “And now for the binding,” MacBeath said.

  John Sinclair stepped forward. “Cross your right hands at the wrist.” They did, and John tied what looked like a scrap of tartan around them.

  “Now you are bound one to the other with a tie not easy to break,” he said. “May you grow in wisdom and love, may your marriage be strong, and may your love last in this life and beyond. You may kiss your wife.”

  Alex placed his lips on hers. His kiss, so tender and loving, held a promise of devotion. Through the fog of her joy, she heard applause and congratulations. The piper took up his bagpipe, this time with a jauntier tune, the kind one might even dance to.

  He broke their kiss and said, “We’re married.”

  “I know. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Considering everything that’s happened, it’s a miracle.” He kissed her again.

  Mrs. Swenson entered the library, holding a tray filled with glasses of whisky, and passed them around as Laird John spoke a blessing.

  “A thousand welcomes to you with your marriage. May you be healthy all your days, may you be blessed with long life and peace, may you grow old with goodness, and with riches.”

  The walls echoed a hearty, “Slainte mhath.”

  Flora called out, “Everyone into the dining hall for the feast.”

  On their way out of the library, Alex leaned close to Lucy’s ear and whispered. “You promised to tell me your secret name for me once we were married. Will you tell me now?”

  She whispered back, “When you take me to your bed and make me your wife, I will call you master.”

  He sucked in air through his teeth, quick and sharp, then groaned, “Oh, God.”

  …

  Throughout his twenty-one years, Alex had experienced sexual frustration on a number of different levels. During his early teens, he had little to no control of his body’s responses. The mere mention of breasts would make his soldier stand at attention. His years in the army had afforded little privacy. He sometimes went for weeks without any release, while in the constant company of his fellow soldiers. Since Lucy had arrived at Balforss, it had been an ongoing struggle to contain the desire she stirred in him, despite their frequent conflicts.