Taming the Highland Bride

by Lynsay Sands

  Merry waited until Una had closed the door on the last one before giving in to her curiosity and asking, "Who ordered the bath?"

  "Yer husband was the first to order it," Una answered as she turned back from the door.

  Merry's eyebrows rose slightly at the maid's grim voice and expression, but she merely asked, "The first?"

  "Aye, he asked me in the hall outside the room when he came out. He said to let ye sleep and fetch ye a bath when ye woke. And then Lady Edda stopped me at the bottom of the stairs and suggested ye may want one when ye woke. She was followed by yer father, who approached me when I sat down to break me fast and made the same suggestion, and then finally Brodie came to me as I headed above stairs to check on ye some time ago and suggested it as well."

  Merry's eyes were wide by the time the woman finished. It seemed everyone had thought she'd need to bathe this morning. She had no idea why. All she'd done was sleep since her last bath.

  "I had no idea why everyone was so all-fired certain ye'd need a bath," Una said, echoing her thoughts. "Until I saw the linen hanging from the stair railing."

  Merry gave a slight start at the hardness that had entered the maid's voice. She now noted the pity filling her face and bit her lip with worry as she wondered if she had not put enough blood on the cloth. "What is wrong with the linen?"

  "What is wrong with it?" the maid gasped. "Why, 'tis covered in blood."

  Merry waved that away with unconcern. "Well, 'tis expected. He was to break my maiden's veil last eve."

  "Break it, aye, but to cause so much blood he must have done more than that. The maun must ha'e been an animal. I was surprised to open the door and find ye standing this morn. Does it hurt to walk?"

  Actually, it did, she acknowledged to herself, but only because of the tender cuts on her thighs, not for the reason Una thought. Frowning, she asked, "Was there too much blood then?"

  "Aye," she assured her firmly. "'Tis normally just a bit of it."

  Merry clucked irritably at this news as she began to strip her gown back off. "I wish ye'd told me so ere last night. That means I needn't have cut meself the second time at all."

  "Cut yerself? Ye mean 'tis no' from the bedding?"

  "My husband was so drunk he knocked himself out almost the minute everyone left the room," Merry said dryly, her voice muffled as she pulled the gown over her face. "He couldna bed anyone. But I kenned everyone would expect we consummate and be looking for the linen in the morning to prove it, so I cut meself and smeared the blood on the linen." She got the gown off and tossed it across the nearest chest with an irritated grimace. "I wasna sure how much blood there should be, but the first cut seemed to produce little, so I cut meself again. Only the second cut was deeper than I'd intended and bled quite freely."

  Merry had tugged off her chemise as she spoke and now tossed it after the gown before turning to see Una's expression. The woman looked partly horrified at this news, partly admiring, and mostly like she was fighting to keep from laughing. Merry supposed it would be funny if she weren't still suffering a sore thigh from her efforts.

  "What did yer husband say about it?" the maid asked finally, managing to stifle her amusement.

  Merry shrugged. "Nothing. He was unconscious, as I said."

  Una waved that away. "But what did he say this morn when he saw it?"

  Merry didn't have any recollection at all of being woken and roused from her bed this morn, but she must have been for them to have taken the linen, she reasoned.

  "I'm no' sure," she confessed unhappily. "I doona really recall waking this morning until just now."

  Una pondered that briefly and then suggested, "Mayhap ye didna. Mayhap he just scooped ye up off the bed so they could take the linen and then set ye back to continue yer sleep."

  Merry's eyebrows rose at the suggestion. She supposed that was most likely what had happened, else she'd have some memory of what had occurred, at least a sleepy, fuzzy one. However, it suggested a thoughtfulness and kindness on the part of her husband that she didn't generally equate with drunks. Their actions were usually selfish and thoughtless. At least they seemed to her to be. Although her own father and brothers had occasionally displayed a sweetness when sober that caught her by surprise.

  Shrugging the matter away, she moved to the tub and leaned down to test the water. Finding it satisfactory, Merry then stepped carefully over the edge, grimacing as lifting her leg pulled on the wound again. Knowing the perfumed water was likely to sting the cut, Merry sucked in a breath and tried to steel herself against it, but still gasped in another breath as she settled to sit in the tub and the water covered her thighs. The pain was even worse than she'd feared, and she ground her teeth together and closed her eyes against the tears gathering there as she waited for it to pass.

  Merry's eyes popped open again, however, when Una clucked with concern next to her.

  "What did ye do to yerself, lass? There's blood in the water. Stand up."

  Merry glanced down to see that there was indeed blood drifting through the water and it was coming from her right thigh. Grimacing, she stood up and let Una look at the wound.

  "Dear God, what were ye trying to do? Cut off yer leg?"

  "'Tis not that bad," Merry responded a bit irritably, for truly it did hurt and standing up had hurt, but sitting back down for the water to cover it again was going to hurt even more. Besides, she hadn't meant to cut so deeply, but the deed was done now, and she felt foolish enough knowing she hadn't needed to cut herself a second time at all.

  Shaking her head, the maid straightened and gestured for her to continue with her bath.

  Merry settled back in the tub, grinding her teeth against the return of pain as the water closed over her.

  Una watched silently for a minute and then commented, "I wonder what he thought when he saw the blood this morn. Does he think he consummated the wedding? Or does he ken he didn't and has worked out that ye produced the blood for the linen?"

  "I doona ken," Merry said as the pain finally began to ease.

  "I think he thinks he consummated," Una decided. "He certainly looked guilt-riddled when he ordered me to let ye sleep and prepare a bath for when ye woke."

  Merry felt a moment's guilt of her own at this possibility, but then shrugged. "Well, 'tis fine. Then mayhap he'll blame it on the drink and not drink so deeply ere he does try to bed me."

  Una grunted at the suggestion and said, tightlipped, "I wasna keen on the idea o' moving to England in the first place, but I damned near dragged ye out o' the keep and back to the horses when we saw the state of the man ye were to marry. 'Tis hard to believe that God and the fates could be so cruel as to take ye from yer whiskey-soaked father and hand ye ower to a whiskey-soaked husband."

  "Aye," Merry said unhappily.

  "The only thing we can hope fer is that fate has a plan and the man will do ye the favor o' gettin' hisself killed quick so ye can find some peace."

  It was nothing more than Merry had thought last night, but hearing it from her maid made it sound terribly cold and heartless. She squirmed in her bath, ashamed of herself.

  "We shall just have to make the best o' it," Merry murmured, and then added, "Lady Edda seems nice."

  "Humph," Una muttered, drawing her curious glance. The maid had picked up her gown and was shaking it out to set down more carefully so that it would not wrinkle.

  "Has Lady Edda been unkind to you?" she asked with a small frown.

  "Oh, nay," Una assured her, but then pursed her lips briefly, her eyes thoughtful before she said, "'Tis jest there is something wrong there."

  "With Lady Edda?" Merry asked slowly. In her experience, women were saints and men sinners. It seemed to her that such was the case here as well. Edda was sweet and kind and Alexander was a drunken fool. It seemed much as it had been at home with her own mother and the male members of the family.

  "Nay, no' with Lady Edda exactly," Una said carefully, and then admitted, "I am no' sure. She seems fine and has been
kind to ye, but the servants act a little queer about her."

  Merry's eyebrows rose. "Queer how?"

  Una hesitated and then said, "They go all quiet and watchful when she is about...and the old woman, Bet, seems to hate her though she'll no' say why."

  Merry considered this and then asked, "Have the servants said anything to ye?"

  "Oh, nay." She waved the very idea away. "I'm new here. They'll no' say aught until they're sure they can trust me. 'Tis jest a feeling I get. Something isna right."

  Merry considered that briefly, but Una was prone to "feelings" that were often wrong. For instance, during her mother's last illness, the maid had assured her she had a "feeling" her mother would recover. Instead she'd died. And while Una had fussed about leaving Scotland and living in a foreign land full of Englishmen, she'd also had a "feeling" when they had set out that the future was much brighter here for Merry. That she would be happier with her husband than she'd ever been at Stewart. Considering what they'd found here, that "feeling" had obviously been wrong as well.

  Shaking Una and her "feelings" out of her thoughts, Merry decided to judge Lady Edda on how she treated her. So far the woman had been kind and even sweet. Therefore, she would consider her a friend.

  Merry was quick about the unneeded bath, and the water was still hot when she decided it was enough and stood up. She quickly dried herself off with the linen Una handed her, and then stood patiently as the maid fussed over the cuts she'd given herself. Merry then donned her clothes, fidgeted impatiently while Una tended to her hair, and then burst from her room like a horse charging from a burning stable and made her way below, walking a bit oddly in an effort not to rip open her wound again.

  Late as it was, Merry had expected the great hall to be empty, but instead found her father, brothers, and Lady Edda still seated there, their heads close together as they conversed in quiet voices. Curious at the solemn expressions they wore and the stiff tension in their bodies, she headed to the table. The foursome were so wrapped up in their discussion that she had nearly reached them before anyone noticed her. The moment they did, however, their conversation came to an abrupt halt and they all sat up and turned to offer her bright smiles that were patently false.

  "Good morn, Merry lass," her father greeted, standing to walk the few feet to greet her. Much to her amazement the old man actually gave her a quick, hard hug and then took her hands to lead her back to the table. Her brothers were on their feet as well, she saw, showing a courtesy she'd never before seen, and Brodie even moved out of the chair that belonged to the lady of the house for her to sit. She was made suspicious by all this fuss. Nevertheless, Merry allowed herself to be steered into her seat and then glanced around as they all started to talk at once, wishing her good morning and saying they hoped she'd slept well.

  Merry murmured a general good morning in return and assured them yes, she had slept well. She then paused and sat back as a young maid rushed from the kitchens with some mead and a pasty for her and asked if she would care for anything else.

  "Nay. Thank ye," Merry murmured, and watched the girl nod and curtsy and then hurry back to the kitchens before turning curiously in her seat to see what had kept the girl glancing wide-eyed behind and above her as she'd set down her offerings and asked if she would care for anything else. The only thing behind and above her was the linen hanging from the stair rail for all to see, and Merry grimaced as she noted the dried blood on the sheet. There really was a lot of it, even more than there had been when she'd gone to sleep. Obviously her wound had opened up again and added to the stain she'd made before lying down last night. But then she'd already figured that out when she saw the dried blood on her legs this morning.

  Shaking her head, Merry turned back to the table, her eyebrows lifting when she saw the expressions on the faces of the others. They, too, had turned to peer at the linen, and while Edda was glowering with displeasure, her father and brothers looked absolutely furious.

  "Alex is down on the practice field with the men," Edda announced suddenly, noting Merry's curious gaze. She then shifted in her seat and stood. "I suppose I should leave you to visit with your father and brothers. I shall be in the salon above stairs if you wish to speak to me ere you go."

  Merry nodded and started to lift her mead to take a drink, but paused as the woman's words sank through her thoughts. Ere you go? Ere she went where? she wondered, and glanced around to call after the woman, but paused when her father touched her arm. Turning back to the table, she raised an eyebrow in question as she glanced to her father.

  "He hurt ye, lass," Eachann Stewart growled.

  Merry's eyes widened at the rage now in the man's face. She stared at him blankly for a moment, stunned by a show of emotion she rarely saw from the man, and then set down her mead and peered at her pasty, muttering with embarrassment, "I am fine."

  "Ye're no fine. The linen bears the proof. The man is an animal. If ye're wantin' to have the marriage annulled and return home with us, I'll back ye up on it."

  That made her glance up sharply. Her father looked grim and determined, and her brothers were nodding their agreement to his offer. Merry didn't know what to think. The men had been nothing but eager to see her go since learning of Lord d'Aumesbery's return from Tunis, so this offer was more than a little surprising. After a stunned moment, she managed to gather her thoughts, cleared her throat, and then pointed out, "The linen bears the proof that the wedding canna be annulled."

  "We'll say ye cut yer leg, or that 'tis yer woman's time. D'Aumesbery was so fou with drink he probably doesna remember what he did last night."

  Merry simply stared at her father for the longest time. An annulment at this stage would mean forfeiting her dower. Her mind was finding it difficult to accept that he would make this offer. Truly, he and her brothers had been sunk so deep in their cups these last years, she'd felt sure they cared for naught but themselves. It was startling to find that they did, after all, care for her. The realization even brought tears to her eyes. But she wasn't foolish enough to think this meant anything had changed. While she was tempted to accept the offer and escape her marriage, it would simply mean returning to Stewart and babysitting her father and brothers again until her father mustered himself to contract another marriage. If he ever did.

  And did he, there was no guarantee she would land in happier circumstances. At least at d'Aumesbery she knew what she had to deal with. Here she might have a drunken husband, but she was used to dealing with drunks, and here she also had Edda. Merry had missed the kindness, wisdom, and guidance of a woman since her mother's death. Here she had that in her mother-in-law. And Edda even reminded her somewhat of her dear, deceased mother. Not in looks. Maighread Stewart had been a beautiful woman even in death, whereas Edda...Well, she wasn't as pretty, Merry ended the thought lamely, unwilling to insult the woman even in her own mind.

  Besides, her looks mattered little. The fact was Edda was English, and Merry's own mother had been born to a Scottish husband and English mother and raised in England. Every time Edda spoke, Merry heard the same rhythm and cadence to her words as had been in her mother's, and it reminded her of her youth when she'd felt safe and secure in her mother's care. She would not give up the unhappy lot she had here for what might be an even unhappier lot somewhere else.

  "Nay, I am fine," she said finally, and then assured him, "He really was not so rough with me. I must just be a bleeder."

  Eachann Stewart's eyes narrowed at her words and he then offered, "We will stay around here for a bit in case ye change yer mind."

  Merry blinked at the offer, surprised again. Alex had mentioned the night before the wedding that he thought they should ride back to Scotland the day after the wedding with her father and brothers for the added safety the increased number of men would supply. But now her father seemed to be suggesting that--"I thought we were all traveling north today?"

  Eachann Stewart looked affronted at the very suggestion. "Even d'Aumesbery isna base enough to f
orce ye to travel today. Nay." He shook his head. "Yer husband announced this morn when he came below that he was giving ye a week to heal and that we should go ahead without ye."

  Merry bit her lip, feeling bad that everyone was thinking so poorly of her husband over this business. Obviously, she had really miscalculated the amount of blood expected. Unfortunately, she didn't know what to do to change that opinion of the man, short of admitting what she'd done.

  "But," her father continued, "we'll stay right here to be sure the bastard doesna kill ye next time."

  That suggestion nearly made her wrinkle her nose. Did they stay, Merry knew it would mean nothing but a struggle for her as she fought to keep them from drinking, and embarrassing her or wrecking the place.

  "Nay. There is no need for that," she said solemnly, and when her father opened his mouth as if to argue, added, "We shall be traveling north to Donnachaidh as soon as enough time has passed for me to heal. 'Tis close to Stewart and easy enough fer me to ride over there then do I change my mind."

  Her father did not look pleased, but nodded after a moment and let his breath out. "Well then, I guess we may as well leave."

  Merry blinked at the abrupt announcement as the men stood up. "Now?"

  "Aye, well, we did plan to leave today," he pointed out. "Everything is ready. We were only waitin' to see which way the wind was blowin' with ye."

  Merry recalled Una telling her while helping her dress that she'd heard Alex order the whiskey locked up and the Stewart men to be told it had been used up in the celebrations for the wedding. It seemed likely to her that this was the real reason her father was now eager to go. It made the fact that he'd made the offer to stay--and that her brothers had not protested--even more surprising.

  Suddenly aware that while her father and brothers had got to their feet, they now stood waiting for something, Merry glanced at them uncertainly and then rose herself. The moment she did, her father wrapped her in a warm embrace. He hugged her tightly and whispered, "Send fer me if ye need me, lass," before releasing her and stepping aside.