British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Beryl brought in warm water, a sponge, and soap, leaving them on the dressing table. She laid out an afternoon dress of fine white lawn sprigged with forget-me-nots. “Ye’ll recover your spirits after ye freshen, m’lady.” Beryl’s tone was gruff, but Celeste appreciated the thought.

  “I dinna ken how I would ha’ survived these months at Kennerith without ye, Beryl. Ye’re more a friend to me than a maid.” She caught hold of Beryl’s callused hand, squeezed it, and smiled.

  To Celeste’s surprise, tears sparkled in Beryl’s eyes, and her lips quivered. She tugged her hand away and retired, leaving Celeste to bathe alone as she preferred.

  While she sponged her body, Celeste pondered. Despite Beryl’s tales of his immoral exploits, Celeste knew Allan to be a man of high principles and strong character. The maid’s lies sprang from insecurity or misplaced jealousy.

  Celeste dried herself and donned a clean chemise, her busy brain planning a rendezvous with Allan. She would summon him to join her in the garden, and there she would assure him of her absolute faith in his integrity and inform him that she would not be traveling to Aberdeen on the morrow.

  Celeste positioned herself on the garden bench and arranged her skirts. If Allan entered from the west gate, he would see her framed by sunset-hued roses. But no, the late afternoon sun shone full in her eyes. She hopped up and sought a better venue. A small alcove near the gate held a curved bench. Ivy would make a lovely backdrop for her gown. Smiling, she hurried to position herself upon the bench, leaving room for him at one end.

  An angry male voice from beyond the garden wall reached her ears. Someone approached from the stables.

  “My sister is a comely woman, but few wenches could compete with that dainty piece o’ yours. I’ve a mind to tell his lairdship about the way ye’ve wronged Beryl, just as your worthless father left your mother alone and with child.”

  “Beryl’s wretched tales come out of her blighted imagination.” Allan’s brogue was more pronounced than Celeste had ever heard it before. “I’ve heard her tell enough of them tae my lady whilst I was helpless to defend my honor.”

  “Ye’d accuse your ain kin of lying?”

  “Has the whiskey scorched your brain? Beryl delights in mangling the truth. She’s done it since we were bairns together. Ye must understand that ne’er will I wed a first cousin—I canna think it right. Beryl is as a sister tae me. Can ye imagine marrying your sister?”

  Celeste heard the sound of clashing steel. “Ye’re a traitor tae the clan. We all suspected it when ye ignored the call from our bonny Prince Charlie and left my father, Angus, tae lead the clan tae glory at Culloden. Beryl pled for ye, so we left ye be, thinking ye’d rally to the cause in good time, but now your true colors show through. Ye’ve turned traitor—a Galbraith lover. First cozening up tae the old laird and now breaking your pledge to marry Beryl.”

  “Put the knife away. Ye dinna understand, Dougal.” Allan’s voice sounded sad. “I love my clan. It nigh broke my heart tae refuse Uncle Angus’s command and watch ye all ride off tae battle, but I couldna fight against the rightful government of Scotland. The Jacobite cause was doomed tae defeat ere a man set foot upon the battlefield at Culloden.”

  “Prince Charlie would ha’ returned Kennerith Castle tae the MacMurrays,” Dougal said.

  “Perhaps, had he the power. But that is neither here nor there. The Stuarts lost the throne during the Glorious Revolution, and our clan lost its castle hundreds of years ago after an inglorious battle. These are the facts, plain and simple. And short of a miracle, thus the case will remain.”

  “Ye’re no Highlander and no MacMurray. Ye’re no longer one of us.” Dougal spat noisily.

  “ ’Tis a lie!”

  “Then prove your loyalty and join us in taking back our own!” Running footsteps faded into the distance.

  Celeste sat with one hand pressed over her mouth, breathing hard, staring at a dandelion in the lawn.

  Steps crunched on the garden path. Allan passed her alcove, moving toward the rosebushes at the center of the garden. Celeste hopped up and hurried after him.

  He turned at her approach, smiled, and bowed. “My lady. I trust your luncheon was pleasant?”

  “It was.” Uncertain where to look or what to say, she touched a vivid rose and bent to inhale its fragrance. “Some of the roses had a second bloom this summer. Are they not lovely? Quentin once told me a legend about the lady who planted this garden. Have ye heard it?”

  “The tale of the beautiful serf? The laird she married was a MacMurray.”

  Celeste pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Your ancestors owned this castle?”

  His eyes seemed to search her soul. “Ye o’erheard Dougal at the gate.”

  “I did.” Her fingers tugged at the curl lying upon her shoulder. “I am truly sorry your family lost the castle. And to think, my father doesna’ want it.” She studied the effect of afternoon sunlight upon the castle’s turrets and experienced her first genuine affection for the place.

  “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. In His wisdom, He removed the castle from my family and awarded it to yours. I yield to His will. Would that my family might shake off its obsession with the past! Many MacMurrays have emigrated to the colonies or to the continent and started life anew. But others bide their time amid the hills, ever hoping fate will once again award them lands and titles. My uncle, Beryl and Dougal’s father, perished at Culloden. Since I had no father, Uncle Angus had helped raise me until my mother’s death.”

  “I am sorry. I wonder why my father allows MacMurrays to work for him. Not you, of course,” she amended. “I meant your cousins.”

  “They use assumed surnames, as do I.” Allan paused, frowning. “I wish I hadna recommended them to Crippen.”

  Celeste seated herself upon the stone bench in the middle of the garden. She reached out to pull an overhanging rose close to her face. “I received a letter today from my cousin Roderick, who is shortly to arrive. He tells me to trust no one, that my life may be in danger.”

  “He knows of the threats your father received?”

  “He tells me to beware the MacMurrays.” Still sniffing at the rose, she studied Allan’s impassive face.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it.

  “The day I arrived here, Mr. Ballantyne gave ye a letter from your … from my uncle. Have ye discerned its meaning?”

  “I hope he meant to tell me that he’d made his life right with God. Ye canna be unaware of the rumors concerning my birth. Despite the evidence, I find it difficult to accept. My mother was a godly woman. She ne’er revealed my father’s identity. To anyone.”

  “Uncle Robert claimed to be a religious man?” Celeste brushed the rose’s petals against her cheek.

  “Nay. He turned his back on God during his youth. But in later days he seemed ridden by guilt. Whene’er I spoke to him of God’s forgiveness, he would shout me from the room. I believe he felt himself beyond redemption. Although he ne’er told me of his conversion, I hope he and God were reconciled.”

  “I begin to understand your meaning,” she said, looking up at him. “The Bible says ’tis sin that separates us from God, and ’tis Jesus’ sacrifice upon the cross that reconciles us. Ye read me the passage from Romans, and yesterday I read it again for myself. The Bible is a dusty old book—yet when I read it, my spirit comes alive. Since I arrived here at the castle, I have felt alive in a way I never knew before.”

  “I, too.”

  “Ouch!” Celeste released the rose, and it swung back into place. She popped the stinging finger into her mouth and leaped up. Her heart pounded as if to escape her ribs. Bending over a bush of delicate white blooms, she asked, “What d’ye mean, ‘I, too’?”

  He said nothing.

  “Ne’er did I believe the vile tales Beryl told. Your virtue contradicts her lies.”

  Silence.

  Rattled by his lack of response, Celeste allowed her mouth to babble on. “I�
�ll not travel to Aberdeen with my father on the morrow. I shouldna be surprised if Mr. Ballantyne, too, remains at Kennerith. He is unwell.” She feared to meet Allan’s gaze lest he read her heart. “Thus your trial continues with no end in sight.”

  “I thought ye desired a respite from my attendance. Why d’ye choose to remain?”

  She kept her face averted. “I abhor traveling.” The lie stuck in her throat. Her skirts snagged in a bush as she spun to face him. “Truth be told, I feel safest with you, despite Roderick’s warning. Though I ken ye dinna watch o’er me of your free will.”

  Allan released her dress from the rose’s thorns. He snapped a sunset-orange bloom from its stem and handed it to her. Celeste accepted the flower, lifting her gaze to meet his. She sucked in a quick breath. Clutching the rose to her breast, she moved closer until her skirt brushed his boots. “Allan.” His given name tasted sweet upon her lips.

  A muscle jerked in his cheek. He blinked and broke their gaze. Taking a step back, he bent to pull a weed from the black, crumbly soil. “Would ye care to help me tend the roses?”

  Celeste felt as if she had run up yet another flight of stairs. She drew a deep breath and smiled. “Like the fair lady of legend? I shall be pleased.” She knelt at his side, shoving mounds of fabric out of her way. “Perhaps I should change clothing so I can find the ground.”

  Chapter 5

  My plan has gone awry! She remained here.”

  He rumbled a humorless laugh that reeked of whiskey fumes and shrugged off her clutching hands. “Then ye must kill her.” His horse shifted and sidled as he mounted heavily. “Or leave her for my pleasure. She must die in the end whether ye do the task or nay.”

  “But he wants her left safe!”

  “Many things he wants, he may not get.” He chuckled again.

  “So ye intend to betray him, Dougal?”

  “No more than he intends tae betray me.”

  “Allan would turn back tae me if she were safely wed to another.”

  “Ye’ve gone soft on the wench, and Allan is a traitor.” He attributed a few filthy epithets to Allan and spat on the ground, narrowly missing his sister’s skirts. “Ye concern yourself with a lover, while I’ve a realm to reclaim. I go now tae rally the clan tae my side! Death tae all Galbraiths!” He reeled in the saddle and grabbed his horse’s mane to right himself.

  “A realm? Whiskey has addled your mind! Kill the earl, take the money, and let us all flee this cursed place! Allan will join us once she is lost to him.”

  “Allan must die with the rest of the wretched lot, since all ken he carries Galbraith blood. Why not wed Adam MacKinnoch, who’s pined after ye these ten years, and rid your mind of our misbegotten kin?”

  At her cry of protest, he kicked his horse into motion and jounced off into early morning darkness.

  Celeste drooped while Beryl unbuttoned her gown. “The house seems empty with Papa away.”

  “Poor man. He’ll be missing your care and company.” Beryl shook out the gown with a snap and laid it over a chair.

  “And I’ll be missing his.” Concern for her father’s safety creased Celeste’s brow.

  “Why’d ye stay?”

  Pulling pins from her hair, Celeste met the maid’s gaze in the mirror. “Why does it concern ye, Beryl? I thought ye intended to remain at Kennerith whether or not I left. Perhaps ’twas the prospect of arranging my own hair again that stayed my wanderlust.” She let her hair fall over her face in disorder, then pulled it apart to reveal a grimace.

  Beryl’s lips twitched in response as she reached for the tousled locks. “If ye’ve a mind tae snare the viscount for your husband, ye’d best leave the task of hairdressing tae me. He’s one with an eye for a pretty face, and we’d best see that he pays heed tae yours, my lady.”

  “Roderick? I hadna realized ye knew him.”

  A furtive expression crossed Beryl’s face, and for the first time Celeste could recall, the Highland woman’s cheeks flushed red. “I … ye must have spoken of him … or Dougal,” she sputtered.

  “Ye seem to ken more of him than I do. Roderick is a handsome man. He must attract many women.” While Beryl prepared her for bed, Celeste tried to recall Roderick’s flashing dark eyes and sardonic smile. During his brief but assiduous courtship, not once had she considered the implications of his evident romantic expertise. She had been too flattered and thrilled by his attentions to think clearly.

  “Ye should marry him quick and make him take ye tae London or Paris where ye’ll be safe.”

  “Safely away from Allan,” Celeste concluded. “Are ye certain ye love your cousin as a woman loves the man she would take as husband, Beryl?”

  Beryl’s lips tightened into a pink slash across her freckled face. “I’ll see him dead ere he weds another. What’s mine is mine!” She spun Celeste around and vigorously brushed out her hair.

  Celeste considered her maid’s proprietary attitude. Despite Beryl’s shocking lies and brusque comments, Celeste was fond of her. Yet Beryl, her brother Dougal, and Allan were all MacMurrays, members of the ancient clan that had once owned Kennerith Castle. If even half the accounts of clan battles and feuds held truth, the blood of a Highlander must run hot as molten steel, making a jealous woman such as Beryl a dangerous enemy. Although a clan uprising sounded like the stuff of legends and ballads, the venom Celeste had occasionally seen in Beryl’s vivid blue eyes and heard in Dougal’s gruff voice warranted caution.

  “Will ye be needing aught else this night, my lady?”

  Celeste blinked and turned. Beryl waited near the door.

  “Ye’d ne’er harm me, would ye, Beryl?”

  Beryl’s jaw dropped. Her gaze shifted to one side. Her lips trembled, then set into a firm line, and her gaze met Celeste’s. “Nay, my lady. I’ll ne’er cause ye harm.”

  Celeste sighed. “I thought not.

  The door closed behind Beryl with a hollow boom. Celeste heard her speak to Allan but could not make out their words.

  Celeste extinguished her candles and climbed into bed. The castle’s dank chill seemed to seep into her bones. She rose to pull the curtains and glimpsed the glow of firelight from her antechamber. Allan gave a little cough. He must have overheard her conversation with Beryl. He must overhear all their discussions, but Celeste hoped perhaps he could not distinguish every word.

  Allan. To Celeste, he had become the embodiment of Jesus on earth—kind and selfless and considerate. His polite conduct allowed her to enjoy privacy despite his constant physical presence. Last night in the rose garden, her hopes had flown higher than the clouds, for his eyes had seemed to speak to her of …

  But his subsequent behavior put the lie to her imaginings. Pleasant, friendly, yet detached—that was Allan.

  Roderick’s warning about MacMurrays returned to haunt her. Did Allan detach himself out of respect for her, or did he maintain emotional distance because he anticipated her imminent demise? She shook her head in denial even as her hands crept up to grasp her throat. Can anyone be trusted? Do the MacMurrays all desire my death? Even the earl may plot my death since I am not truly his daughter.

  Her pulse pounded beneath her icy fingers. A sense of her own weakness swept over her. What chance would she have against a woman like Beryl, let alone against Dougal? She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Skinny arms. No muscle there. No strength anywhere.

  Jesus, are You here with me? Please, protect me from mine enemies!

  A realization struck her. All the qualities she had seen or imagined in her bodyguard were exemplified in the Jesus of the Bible—kindness, strength under control, and selfless love. Allan might offer her protection, but Jesus had already sacrificed His life for her eternal soul.

  A soft snore reached her ears. Allan slept. A little smile curled her lips, and her body slowly relaxed.

  God had guided the earl to choose Allan as her protector. Allan, despite his MacMurray blood, was the best human protection Celeste could have. And even if Allan failed
her, Jesus held her safe within His mighty hands. Because of Jesus, God would forgive her sinful self and make her His child. At that moment, Celeste put her complete trust in God’s salvation.

  It seemed mere moments later that Beryl swept back the bed curtains to admit morning light. “Arise, m’lady. A guest has arrived and is eager tae see you.”

  “A guest?” Celeste mumbled. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, and yawned. “At this hour?”

  “Nay. He arrived late last night and slept in the southwest tower chamber. ’Tis the viscount.”

  Celeste sat up, blinking. “Roderick is here?” Ignoring the bed gown Beryl held ready, she hopped up and ran toward the blurry door. As greater awareness dawned, she turned back. “Last night he arrived? I must dress in haste and greet him. I must be hostess while my father is away.”

  Beryl handed over her spectacles and assisted her into the bed gown. Her mind spinning, Celeste buttoned its bodice carelessly while Beryl unraveled her braid. Allan must be told. What would he think of Roderick?

  “My lady,” Beryl protested as Celeste rushed back to the door. “Your hair …”

  Celeste flung open the chamber door and nearly collided with her sentinel’s back. He turned around. Eyes like polished silver regarded her coolly.

  “Oh, I–I …” Her startled gaze took in his flawless livery, his brushed wig, and his hand resting upon the sword hilt at his side.

  He bowed. “My lady.”

  Heat rushed to Celeste’s cheeks. Allan’s magnificence made her own state of dishevelment seem the greater. Hair straggled around her shoulders, and her bare feet cringed upon the threshold. She gripped the door, ready to slam it shut.

  “Pardon if I intrude.” A voice broke the silence. Roderick Galbraith paused in the drawing-room doorway. “I climb the tower to awaken my lady with a kiss and find another before me, a jester in scarlet raiment. Pray, introduce us, my love.”