British Brides Collection

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British Brides Collection Page 57

by Hake, Kelly Eileen


  “Aye,” she said quietly.

  But the next day brought with it a pelting rain that seemed bent on attacking the small dwelling. Lightning flashed through the one window of the cottage and thunder rumbled. Water trickled in through the roof in a far corner, and together Fiona and Sadie cleared the large kettle of the last trace of porridge left and set the black pot underneath the small stream, emptying it outside as needed. They ate smoked fish and bread that day.

  “Do not fret, Miss Galbraith,” Alex said, hoping to console her. “This same storm will keep Beaufort and your sister from traveling if they are in the area.”

  From where he stood near the window, Kyle, the man of the house, looked at Fiona and Alex where they sat at the table. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and stared. “Do ye seek an Englishman and a Scottish lass?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Alex said in some surprise. “You know of such a couple?”

  “Aye. Yesterday, when I was in the burgh seein’ aboot my wagon, I saw two such as they in the smithy’s shop. From what I ken, and it isna much for I came as they were leavin’ the place, one o’ their horses threw a shoe, and they were seekin’ a coach. The smithy told them there was no’ one available, and they maun wait ’til he finish with Laird MacClooney’s horse.”

  “How far is this burgh?” Alex asked, encouraged by the news.

  Kyle appeared to consider. “Two hours’ journey by foot.”

  “The shortcut I be showin’ ye is faster,” the boy said with a pout.

  “Christopher,” Kyle admonished. “I’ll no’ have ye speakin’ in sich a disrespectful tongue, or it’s boxin’ yer ears I’ll be doin’.”

  “Bu’ it is faster, Daddy. They ride t’ Gretna Green.”

  “Gretna Green?” Kyle asked in surprise.

  Alex shared a look with Fiona. “Yes.”

  “Then it’s congratulations I’m offerin’ t’ ye,” Kyle said, a huge smile cracking his weathered face. “Though you needna wait to reach the Green. We have a priest who’ll marry ye in the kirk. ’Tis the least I can do t’ fetch him, if ye have a mind t’ wed.”

  Fiona blushed. “No—I—”

  “We do not wish to marry,” Alex inserted, as flustered as she. “We travel to Gretna Green to stop a wedding.”

  Kyle’s smile dissipated. “Och, I see.” He stared at both Fiona and Alex. “Are ye for a certain ye dinna wish t’ marry? I’ve been watchin’ the both of ye this day past, and ne’er have I seen two people who seem so well fitted t’ another.”

  Fiona choked on the cider she was drinking. Alex listened to her cough while Sadie slapped her back. Bewildered by a new revelation, Alex couldn’t pose an answer to Kyle’s comment. He realized as he sat watching Fiona fan her face and try to catch her breath that the prospect of having her for a wife wasn’t at all unappealing.

  She’d been a tremendous help to him during the birth. Strong and steadfast, she stood at his side near the end, often seeming to read his mind and bring him those things he needed before he asked. Any of the English young ladies of his acquaintance would have probably fainted dead away at the first signs of labor. A doctor needed a strong, loyal wife who would aid him in his profession, if necessary, as well as be a good mother to his children, if the Lord should bless them with any. He observed the kindness Fiona bestowed on these young ones, the tender care, and he had witnessed her unswerving loyalty to family. Moreover, he and Fiona had been talking civilly with one another for a few days now, and he found himself enjoying her company.

  Alex was thankful when the baby’s sudden crying from the next room put an end to all thoughts trailing through his mind and Kyle left the table, letting the matter drop. Yet Fiona wouldn’t meet Alex’s gaze, and he couldn’t draw her into conversation.

  Christopher merrily played his reed, masking the uneasy silence that fell in the room.

  Chapter 7

  Cross that bridge,” Christopher said, pointing to a stone arch on the far side of the forest, “and when ye reach the other side, go on ’til ye come t’ the gap between hills. Turn t’ the left, and ye’ll come back t’ the road. If ye be followin’ my lead, ye should reach Gretna Green by nightfall.”

  “Many thanks,” Alex said with a tip of his hat.

  “Mind ye, take care of your mother and your sisters and the new wee bairn,” Fiona said, feeling strangely choked. “And help your father and Garth with the sheep.”

  “I will,” the lad promised.

  As they rode over a vista of rolling farmland, Fiona felt strangely sad to leave the sheepherder’s family. In caring for the children these past two days, she had discovered a part of herself she hadn’t known existed. Always, she had tried to shield herself from people, hiding within Kennerith and its surrounding mountains to protect herself from the scorn others might show. During this journey with Alex, she had been forced not only to converse with strangers but also to live among them, with no thick castle walls to protect her. In taking a chance by reaching out to others, she, in turn, had been blessed.

  Last night, when her eye unexpectedly began to twitch while she tucked the children into the one bed they shared, little Marget hadn’t run away in horror but instead placed her wee hand against Fiona’s face, her blue eyes wide with concern, and asked, “Does it hurt?”

  Tears had choked Fiona as she grabbed the little hand and kissed the palm, her heart full with the knowledge that the child didn’t fear her. Nor did Marget think her affliction a curse, but instead had shown love and concern, as had Sadie and Christopher. Perhaps there were people outside Kennerith like these children, like Alex, who wouldn’t reject her and might even come to accept her. Through his patient ministrations and kind words, Alex had shown her an acceptance she’d never known. And through them, Fiona came to realize that God accepted her also. Just as she was—flawed and all.

  She watched cool, blue shadows slant across the flowing hills while confectionary-white clouds crept past a low sun. Alex was different than she’d first thought. Indeed, if Beaufort were as kind as his brother, perhaps it wasn’t so horrible that Gwynneth had eloped with an Englishman.

  The random thought shocked her, and she quickly spoke to cover the confusion she felt. “Tell me about your home at Darrencourt. What’s it like?”

  If Alex thought it strange that she should so suddenly ask such a question, he didn’t show it. “The manor is a brown-and-white, sixteenth-century Tudor with elaborate gardens and a deep forest beyond, where I often go to hunt.” He directed a look her way. “Darrencourt is in the country, with an abundance of green meadows in which to ride.”

  “No moors or mountains?”

  “There’s a stretch of moorland within a short distance of Darrencourt, but no mountains. Only wooded hills, much like these, only not so barren at the top.” He motioned to the slopes on either side of them.

  “And what do you hunt?”

  “Venison, pheasant, quail—whatever meat my mother expresses a culinary desire for at the moment.” He grinned.

  Fiona was surprised. “Do you not have servants to take care o’ such matters?”

  “We do. Yet I enjoy the hunt. Fencing, too.”

  “Fencing?”

  “Swordplay.”

  “Aye.” That would explain why he was in such fine shape. “Are you accomplished?”

  “I can hold my own.”

  Fiona studied his aristocratic profile and proud bearing, then looked to his strong hands holding the reins. She didn’t doubt his words for a minute. “And have ye found the need to also treat your opponents?”

  He looked at her curiously. “Treat them?”

  “From the cuts o’ your sword.”

  He let out a loud, delighted laugh. The sound cheered Fiona. His eyes sparkled with mirth, and she noticed attractive creases bracketing his mouth. Had they always been there?

  “I assure you, Miss Galbraith, the points are tipped for safety’s sake. Fencing is considered a sport, and we use stilettos, not swords.”


  Fiona thought about that. From tales told at the ceilidh, her ancestors fought with weapons to kill, not for game play. “The only time I’ve heard of a sword being used for purposes other than the battles for which it was made is in a dance o’ my kinsmen—but even that dance is connected with war.”

  “Oh?” He sounded interested.

  She nodded. “Centuries ago, King Malcolm slew a chief of MacBeth. Afterward, he laid his sword o’er the chief’s sword and did a victory dance—what my kinsmen call a sword dance. My cousin David is adept at that, though he canna toss a caber for the life of him.” She chuckled when she remembered David’s attempts at carrying and throwing the upright tree trunk during the games of skill and strength her kinsmen played.

  A comfortable stretch of silence settled between them before he spoke again. “Tell me about Kennerith. What do you do there?”

  “Often I climb the hills. On a clear day, you can see the ocean and some of the islands while standing atop Mount MacMurray.”

  “Mount MacMurray?” he repeated with upraised brow.

  “What our family named it generations ago. ’Tis the steepest mountain on our land. Pines and alders cover its base and trail upward, but at the top lies nothing but granite.”

  He nodded, his expression meditative.

  “We also named the roses in our garden MacMurray Roses,” she added. “Gwynneth and I take turns tending them. ’Tis a family tradition we dinna leave t’ the servants. The garden is ancient, as ye can see by the Celtic cross in its midst.” She thought back to something her grandmother had said. “I was told the roses began through an ancestor named Fayre. And legend has it that throughout past centuries, no matter what hardships Kennerith underwent, every new owner of the castle found at least one bush still living. The roses are lovely, of the most unusual color ye will find. Like the sunset before the gloamin’, they are.”

  “The gloaming. Twilight?” Alex questioned.

  “Aye.” Fiona smiled. “ ’Tis the afterglow once the sun disappears beyond the horizon. The gloamin’ lasts a long while.”

  The day passed in pleasant conversation as they continued southward. They reached a pass where the road narrowed, and they had to travel single file. Fiona felt almost saddened to end their discussion. When Alex pulled Barrag to a sudden stop, Fiona walked Skye closer to the trees crowding the lane so she could bring her horse next to Alex’s. A small village could be seen in the distance.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer for a moment, then looked at her, his eyes no longer laughing. “We have reached our destination. Beyond lies Gretna Green.”

  Fiona said nothing, but Alex sensed by the faint frown on her lips that she hovered in a state of indecision, even remorse. In an instant, the sober look was gone, and she bounced her heels into Skye’s flanks, prodding the horse into a wild gallop.

  Alex followed, wondering if he’d imagined her earlier hesitation. She seemed anxious to reach the small village, whereas Alex now had reservations. What right did he have to tell his older brother not to marry? Certainly the fact that Gwynneth was not merely a simple peasant girl but the granddaughter of an earl must hold some sway with his father. Indeed, if the sister was as amazing and lovely as Fiona, Beaufort should count himself blessed.

  It was then that Alex realized he was smitten with his redheaded collaborator, though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment she’d found her way into his heart. Little did it matter; she considered him as repulsive as the filth scraped from the bottom of his boots. Alex withheld a sigh. Duty to family prevailed. He might have experienced a change of heart, but it was of no account. He would remain loyal in carrying out his father’s wishes.

  Gretna Green appeared to be no more than a cluster of white cottages at a crossroads. Alex spotted an inn, a tavern, and other places of business. People walked through the streets, going about their daily duties. Alex slowed his horse to a walk, and Fiona did the same. He guided Barrag up to the first person they met, a short man with a bulbous nose and large ears.

  “Excuse me,” Alex said. “Could you tell me where marriages are performed?”

  The man cracked a wide smile, showing several gaps where his teeth had been. “Where’er ye like. Most are wedded at Gretna Hall, others at the Sark Tollbar—the first cottage ye come to when ye cross the border and pay the toll. Especially if the pursuit be hot, ye may want t’ go there. Others share vows in private cottages or e’en here, outside among the gorse bushes.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the village. “There’s nary a place a weddin’ canna be performed in all o’ Gretna Green.”

  A slight man wearing an apron strode from a cobbler’s shop. “If it’s a marriage ye be wantin’, come this way,” he called out to Alex.

  “Nae,” a stout man on the other side of the road cried out. “He has just come from the asylum this week. I can show ye t’ a respected man t’ give ye yer vows, a Robert Elliot.”

  “Nae,” the other man cried out good-naturedly, “my friend is drunk on ale. Bishop Lang is the man ye seek.”

  The two continued their easy, competitive bantering, and Alex questioned the man they’d first met. “You have a bishop presiding over weddings?”

  “In name only,” the man said. “David Lang was but a peddler in his youth before he served in the British navy. He’s been in the marriage trade thirty years and has performed many a ceremony.” He scratched his head. “Come t’ think of it, he was called on only minutes ago to wed a couple.”

  Alex grew alert. “Where?”

  “Gretna Hall. Many a fine lord and lady ha’e married there. Ye will be in good company.” Chuckling, the man gave them directions, and Alex prodded Barrag into a fast gallop.

  Fiona stared after Alex, then urged Skye to follow. Heat bathed her face at the villagers’ assumptions that she and Alex had eloped and were looking for a place to wed. Even more shocking was her discovery that the idea was not detestable. Quite the opposite, really. And Fiona realized that somehow, at some point, she, Fiona Galbraith, a Highland Scot, had fallen in love with Alexander Spencer, a noble Englishman.

  The abrupt awakening nearly unseated her from her horse.

  Her grandmother might one day forgive her, but her grandfather, God bless him, never would stand for such a match, if he were cognizant of his surroundings. Fiona creased her brow, thinking of all she’d learned from those she’d met on their journey. Indeed, a whole new world had been opened to her, one not entirely without merit. The elderly MacBain woman’s sage words were accurate. This was a new era, a time for change. Surely, then, it was time to let go of prejudices almost a century old as well as of the pride that had fostered them.

  Perhaps Gwynneth wasn’t as foolish as Fiona had reckoned her. Indeed, she might be the only intelligent Galbraith alive.

  With each pounding of Skye’s hooves on the road, Fiona felt more uncertain. What right did she have to try to stop her sister from marrying the man she loved? Gwynneth was seventeen, of marriageable age, and if Beaufort were as wonderful as his brother, as kind and considerate of others’ feelings, then surely Gwynneth would enjoy a happy life. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

  Yet Alex’s family considered Gwynneth unfit, and Fiona didn’t think he’d understand her sudden change of heart if she were to speak. She didn’t wholly understand it herself. After the rudeness she’d shown him those first days, Alex probably was anxious to be rid of her, though he was too much a gentleman to say so. Fiona only had herself to blame. Never mind that she was unaccustomed to strangers or the art of being sociable. She knew what the Good Book said about being charitable toward one’s fellow man, and no excuse would erase the fact that Fiona had acted shamefully. The revelation was sobering, and she issued a silent plea for God to intervene and steam out the wrinkles in her rutted character.

  Soon, they approached a long carriage drive. A wide, lush lawn covered in hardwood trees and evergreens fronted a white stone manor with gray trim along its many win
dows. Numerous chimneys rose above its gray roof. In front stood a shiny black coach, empty of its passengers, and a team of fine horses, prancing and snorting, their red coats glistening as if they’d just come to a quick stop. The driver worked to steady them.

  Alex hurriedly dismounted, and Fiona followed him inside Gretna Hall. He threw open the door, looked around the empty foyer, and hurried through the open door of a parlor. A man, approximately in his late sixties with black clerical robes and broad-brimmed hat, faced a couple who had their backs to Fiona. The woman wore a bonnet, but the dark hair was familiar.

  “Stop this wedding at once!” Alex cried.

  The couple turned in terrified shock, and Fiona felt strangely relieved.

  Alex’s face darkened a shade. “You have my apologies,” he told the unknown couple. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “May we continue?” the young woman said, her fearful gaze on the door. “I’m afraid Papa might come charging in here at any moment.” She slipped her hand into the fair-haired man’s, they exchanged a few words, saying they agreed to take one another for man and wife, and the older man officiating proclaimed them married.

  It was over so quickly, Fiona wasn’t certain it had happened, but she couldn’t miss the joyous kiss the man bestowed on his blushing bride before escorting her from the parlor.

  Alex moved toward the old man. “Have you wed an Englishman and a Scottish woman today?”

  The man’s full face beamed and his dark eyes sparkled. “Aye. I married them an hour ago. Sich a fine couple. They took a room here as well.”

  Alex quieted. “May I see the register? If we speak of the same couple, the man is my brother.”

  The old man nodded and pointed to the open page of a thick ledger where names and dates had been penned. Fiona stepped beside Alex and read the last entry:

  On Wednesday 22nd inst at Gretna, Lord Beaufort Spencer of Darrencourt to Gwynneth Galbraith of Kennerith in Scotland. A polite young lady and a dignified nobleman. Paid one hundred guineas.

 

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