The Ward's Bride (Border Series Prequel Novella)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Servants stacked trestle tables, marking the end of the evening meal. They all stopped working to stare at the newcomers. Cora had known she would be an outsider here, but must every person they meet look upon them as if they’d never seen a Scot before? Had these English no manners to speak of? And they were supposed to be the barbarians.

  A plump woman who appeared to be the same age as the steward hurried toward them. Her posture, erect for a woman with white-streaked hair in servant’s garb, marked her as someone accustomed to giving orders. Cora guessed she was Langford’s housekeeper.

  Confirming her assessment, the steward introduced them: “Mistress Clare, may I present Lord Maxwell, his daughter Lady Cora, and members of Clan Maxwell. Clare is Langford’s housekeeper.”

  The woman bowed deeply to them without the curious glances they’d received from the other servants. “Would ye prefer to dine in the hall or have a meal brought to yer room?”

  Cora spoke up for the first time since their arrival. “I would like to retire, mistress, if you please.” She turned to her father. “Good eve, if you’ll excuse me, sire.”

  Without giving him a chance to answer, Cora turned and prepared to follow Clare. She had expected her father to stop her, but the steward’s voice was the one that rang out behind her.

  “I believe my lord would like to speak with you before you retire.”

  Does he sound worried?

  She spun back around. His expression left no doubt that something was amiss. Though there were few windows, and it was darker inside than it had been out, the steward’s face was lit by nearby candles. He looked pale even at a distance.

  “Surely Sir Adam would deem sunrise a sufficient time to speak to me after our long journey.”

  Or mayhap the man was as rude as she imagined him to be.

  Rather than answer her directly, the steward leaned toward her father. They conferred quietly and Cora resisted the urge to protest. If she were at home, in Scotland, such a blatant dismissal would not go unaddressed. But her “propensity to speak her mind,” as her father so indelicately put it, would not be welcome in this instance—just as it had not been welcome these past weeks. She took a deep breath instead.

  When a discomfited look surfaced on her father’s face, Cora nearly broke her silence, but she managed to wait—somewhat impatiently—for him to explain.

  “Go, my dear,” he said instead. “I will speak with Sir Adam on your behalf. Master Charles, we will take our meal here if you’d be so kind.”

  The steward looked as if he wanted to say something, but he merely looked at the housekeeper and shook his head. What could be happening?

  The housekeeper urged her toward the stairs.

  “The lord and lady’s…pardon…yer chamber is here,” she said, pointing to private rooms at the end of the corridor. “But for tonight, I’ve had the adjoining bower prepared for you.” She opened a large wooden door, and Cora stepped into the room that would serve as her temporary bedchamber. Until she could leave this place and return to Scotland, of course. Mayhap she should have waited up to speak to the Englishman this eve.

  Nay, tomorrow would be soon enough to begin her campaign.

  Where would her father and their men stay? As if reading her thoughts about sleeping arrangements, Clare turned down the covers on the fine-looking four-poster bed. “I’ll have a pallet brought in, if it pleases you, for me to sleep here tonight.”

  Cora heard the question in her voice.

  “My thanks, Mistress Clare. My own woman fell ill on the second day of our journey and returned home.” Cora wished she could have done the same, although she certainly didn’t need a chaperone. She didn’t intend to go near the English lord, never mind conduct herself in a way that could be deemed inappropriate. Nevertheless, it would be rude to say so.

  “My thanks for the fire, mistress.” It radiated a welcoming warmth.

  “Clare.” The clearly capable woman was already scurrying around, lighting candles from the hearth fire and spreading them throughout the chamber. “‘Tis my job, my lady.”

  Cora caught sight of streaks of grey under the servant’s cap. “How long have you been at Langford?”

  “I was born here and, by the grace of God, will die here too.”

  Cora sat on the edge of the bed and looked toward the door at the far end of the room. “And the new lord?”

  Now why had she asked such a question? She cared not about him. It wasn’t as if they were actually getting married.

  Clare stopped in front of her and smiled. Wrinkles formed at the corners of her light green eyes, nearly the exact shade of Cora’s own. But unlike her “devil’s red hair” as her sister liked to say, Clare’s looked as if it was once a shade of brown. Now there was more grey than not under her cap, so it was difficult to tell.

  “We’re pleased to have ‘im,” Clare said. “The old lord died without an heir. When the king granted Langford to the earl, we were all a mite worried. We’d been over two years, as ye can see, without anyone but Charles overseeing the place. It’s lucky we weren’t attacked.”

  Interesting, but Clare had not exactly recommended Sir Adam. Why? Was he cruel? What did he look like? She yawned.

  Nay. She would not ask because she did not care. Her future would not be relegated to an ancient keep in Southern England. She belonged back home, in Scotland, with her family and clan.

  After Clare helped her undress, Cora let herself recline on the bed for a moment. Sounds startled her awake some time later, mayhap the servant bringing a meal, but she slipped back into an exhausted slumber. The next morning she awoke to find sunlight streaming onto her cheek from the lone slit in the wall.

  “‘Tis a fine morning for a wedding! Up my dear, there’s much to be done.”

  Cora stretched her arms, refreshed by her slumber, and her mood was not even dampened when she remembered the night before. A fine morning indeed for a…

  She bolted off the bed.

  “What did you say?”

  Clare just cocked her head, giving her an odd look, before she returned to what she was doing—fussing over a dress. The emerald green one Cora had packed in her trunk. The one her mother had insisted she wear for her wedding to the Englishman. Though Cora’s mother and sister had wished to be part of her escort, her father had insisted the journey would be “too dangerous” for them.

  Her shoulders slumped as she remembered the hushed conversation between her father and the steward the previous evening. Sir Adam had wanted to speak to her. Her father had promised to do so on her behalf.

  How could she have been so stupid? But she couldn’t have known this was afoot—the plan had been for them to marry toward the end of her clan’s visit. What had happened to change things? Could her betrothed have divined her intentions?

  Well, she wouldn’t do it. There was no way she was getting married today.

  The door opened and a slew of servants streamed into the room. It seemed as though nearly every member of Langford’s female staff was packed into the small bower room.

  “Clare, I’d like to speak with my father,” she said, edging closer to the one person she knew.

  “Not possible, my lady. He and the men are already at the chapel speaking to the priest. We don’t have our own, you know. He passed, God rest his soul, a fortnight ago, so we had to borrow one from the village.”

  At the chapel? Borrow a priest?

  What was she to do? Certainly she could air her grievances to her father, but they’d already had that conversation to no avail. She’d hoped to convince Sir Adam to beg out of the wedding, but would he really do that now? Without proper time to hear her complaints?

  Nay. Langford was only his because he’d agreed to take her as his wife.

  Her hands began to tremble. How could this be happening?

  Cora was about to become a stranger’s wife.

  3

  The bride had arrived.

  Adam dressed carefully that morn. While the actual c
eremony was little more than a formality—he and Lord Maxwell had worked out the terms the evening before—his housekeeper had insisted on making it feel like a grand event. She’d declared it would be “the greatest feast Langford has seen in recent times,” and she’d helmed a thorough cleaning of the hall these past few days. Though it still didn’t look like much, all the old rushes in the hall had been replaced. The few varieties of flowers from Langford’s garden had found their way throughout the large room.

  For his part, Adam had arranged for the wedding to happen immediately simply because he wished to make it official. He imagined the girl was none too happy about their arrangement despite her father’s insistence otherwise. He would not risk anything going wrong. His lordship of Langford, Spencer and Maxwell’s plan for establishing some modicum of peace at the border. This marriage had made both possible.

  But as he waited with Langford’s priest in front of the chapel, he couldn’t help but notice Maxwell’s expression. The man looked worried. As did his captain, and Adam couldn’t ignore how they leaned in toward each other and whispered periodically.

  They knew something about her delay. If only he’d had a chance to speak with the lady herself before the event. The fire had been badly timed, but disasters had no respect for schedules. Luckily, the blaze had been put out quickly thanks to the fast thinking of the cobbler, who’d organized a brigade of water buckets.

  Something in the warden’s manner had concerned him last eve, and it was even more apparent now. So when Adam spotted the small retinue including Clare and two additional handmaidens, he let out a relieved breath.

  Until now, he’d given little thought to his bride beyond what she represented. He’d been busy these last few weeks, for Langford had lacked leadership for years. But as the bright green of her dress came into view, he found himself straining to glimpse her face. She walked slowly, moving down the path lined with servants who had stopped their duties to witness the small but important event.

  She had red hair.

  Not surprising, given her father did as well. But as Lady Cora approached, his eyes

  widened. Why had no one deemed it important to mention that his Scottish wife was beautiful? Blood pounded in his ears with every step she took closer to him. She wore no veil or head covering, only a few scattered flowers laced through her long, wavy locks, so he could see every feature.

  And there was quite a bit to see.

  A large bosom for a petite woman, skin so creamy he itched to know if it felt as smooth as it looked. And her face. Wide, pale-green eyes stared back at him above lips so pink and full, he longed to see them smile. To kiss them. By God, she was perfection.

  She also looked desperately unhappy.

  Her beauty had so taken him off-guard that it took him a moment to register her mood. But as he looked from her face to her father’s, Adam caught the tension between them. This was why Maxwell looked so worried. Lady Cora did not want to wed him, and her father knew it.

  “My lady.”

  He bowed and reached out his hand. She didn’t move. Would she not take it? Would she refuse him in front of everyone? Her father would never allow it, but Adam knew the consent of both parties was necessary for a wedding to take place. He refused to allow his concern to show.

  The priest coughed, and finally—with clear hesitation—Lady Cora took his arm. Aside from the thick gold belt inlaid with deep green sapphires, the lady wore no other jewelry. He’d known plenty of women beneath her station who would take any excuse to adorn themselves with the finest gems they owned, so her forbearance intrigued him.

  “My lord.”

  The huskiness of her voice immediately made him imagine her in his bed. Though Adam had never asked for a wife, especially a Scottish one, the idea suddenly appealed. He would spend each night with this woman, this beauty.

  He hardly deserved such good fortune.

  “Sir Adam Dayne, the first of his name, Lord of Langford…and the Lady Cora Maxwell, daughter of…”

  Adam was too busy watching Lady Cora turn the small satchel of herbs in her hand over and over to pay much mind to the ceremony. She was nervous. Mayhap his bride was timid. He knew nothing of her except that she was the daughter of the Scottish warden, a clan chief with a reputation for diplomacy and ferocity matched only by Adam’s own overlord. It appeared the daughter was of a different sort. Which was just as well. He desired peace above all else, and a biddable wife would be most welcome.

  And yet…why was he disappointed as well? Surely the fiery women he’d always been drawn to would not make ideal wives.

  “Congratulations, my lord.” Maxwell clapped him on the back.

  It was over. He looked at Cora. What an odd notion. She was a stranger, but now she was his wife.

  Her expression was inscrutable.

  He turned to the crowd that had assembled behind them. “Today is a day for celebration. A holiday for all.” He expected the loud cheers and was glad for them.

  Oddly, his new wife didn’t seem to take kindly to his decree. “You don’t approve, my lady?”

  He could hardly call the slight curve of her lips a smile.

  Her eyes narrowed. “‘Tis not my place to say, my lord.”

  Though the words were kindly spoken, her tone was anything but. A problem for another time. Adam would bring his lovely wife to his side in no time.

  He looked forward to the day ahead, as optimistic about his future as he’d ever been. From orphan to…this. A beautiful wife, a castle and demesne any man would be proud to call his own. He owed it all to the earl who had raised him as his own, and he was determined to make him proud.

  It was a fine day indeed.

  It was the worst day of Cora’s life.

  Worse than the time her little sister had told one of her potential suitors she was “the coldest fish in the North Sea.” Though Lily had only made the hurtful comment because she hadn’t wanted Cora to leave her, it had left its mark. And that was before the incident.

  No matter—now she was married, and to the very man she’d hoped would convince her father this farce was unnecessary.

  Granted, he was quite pleasing to the eye, but that hardly mattered.

  Cora’s father dealt with men from both sides of the border, so she knew more Englishmen than she cared to admit. Which was why she had expected a dandified lord with pointed shoes and a jewel-encrusted cloak to be standing at the entrance of the small chapel.

  The first thing she’d noticed about Sir Adam was his height. He was even taller than her father, and his frame was powerful and strong—the body of a man who wasn’t afraid of physical work. And then his face had come into view. His brown hair was neither dark nor light, but it was shorter than was fashionable. Beneath that odd cut, he had the most extraordinary hazel eyes. The desire in those eyes had not caught her off-guard— it was the way men typically greeted her—but Cora had most certainly not been prepared for the catch in her breath when he took her arm.

  In truth, Sir Adam was the exact opposite of what she’d expected. His surcoat was without embellishments save for a crest that she recognized as Caiser’s, and he was no dandy. Though she would not have admitted it aloud, he was undoubtedly the most handsome man she’d ever looked upon.

  But none of that mattered. Cora’s only thought during the ceremony had been grief for her own powerlessness. For what choice had she been given? Refuse him at the altar, disgrace her family, and return to Scotland to live her life in a convent?

  It had hardly seemed like a choice at all, and now it was too late.

  She was an Englishman’s bride and would live far away from her family, from her clan, from her homeland.

  Nay, I will not do it!

  “You’re quiet, my lady.”

  As they climbed the steps to the keep, Cora nearly lost her footing. Her husband…husband!…caught her by the arm and steadied her. His grasp was strong.

  “I’ve nothing to say, my lord.”

  He made no co
mment. They entered the hall to cheers and made their way toward the dais. Although somewhat bare, the festive atmosphere and smells of the feast made Langford’s hall much more inviting than it had been the previous evening.

  It did nothing to allay her misery.

  Servants carried in trays of food and musicians began to play a tune that was unfamiliar to her. Her father sat next to her, but Cora did not wish to speak to him.

  “Adam.”

  She looked at her husband.

  “I am not ‘my lord’ to you.”

  “You are a stranger to me,” she said.

  “I am your husband.”

  He said it with such conviction and finality that Cora had no choice but to voice her opinion. “That you may be, my lord, but you’re a stranger still.”

  “And if you had your way, would I remain as such?”

  His bluntness took her by surprise. She glanced at her father, whose mood seemed to have lightened drastically now that the vows had been exchanged. He was laughing at something his captain had said. At least someone was enjoying the wedding feast.

  “Would you like the truth?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “I would always have the truth from you, Cora.”

  Her given name on this stranger’s lips should have sounded peculiar, but the way he lowered his voice when he said her name made her feel…odd.

  “Aye, it would remain so. If I’d had occasion to speak with you before the ceremony, we could have discussed as much.”

  He raised his perfectly formed eyebrows. Was there nothing about this man’s appearance she could not recommend?

  “If you had not retired early, we could have done so.”

  “If I’d known you planned to rush me to the altar, I would not have retired early.”

  Cora realized her voice had risen. And while she had plenty to say, she’d not do so within the hearing of a hundred or so guests.