by Lily Baldwin
He turned her away, shielding her from the sight. Then he stroked a hand down her hair, rocking her. “My grandmother,” he began in a soft voice, “feared the fairfolk. She worried they would creep down the chimney in the night and take her babies from their cradles. My grandfather carved the faces to scare the fairies away.”
She peeked through her fingers at him. “Is that true?”
“I swear it to ye.” He crooked his thumb under her chin. “I’m not a hard man, Fiona. I ken some men think it is their husbandly right to strike their wives, but I think that barbaric. Now, mind ye, I do expect yer obedience, and I will punish ye if need be, but it will not be with my hand.”
“But downstairs, just now, ye said if I did not listen to ye that I would force yer hand.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I would hit ye. I meant that if ye refused to walk, then I would have to carry ye.” He cupped her cheeks in his hand, brushing away at one of her tears with his thumb. “Let me speak plainly. I have never, nor will I ever hit a woman or child.”
She looked at him skeptically. “I want to believe ye, but I’ve been told my whole life of the cruelty of MacLeod men.”
“But why?”
“When my grandmother came here newly betrothed to yer grandfather, she didn’t run away as ye’ve accused her of doing. She fled out of fear, escaping for her life.”
He shook his head. “Fear of what? My grandfather was a strong man and a powerful chieftain, but he was a gentle soul to his kin.”
“It was not yer grandfather who filled her with fear but his sire. My grandmother heard him abuse his wife, night after night.”
“Tavish MacLeod?” he said, his eyes wide with surprise. “Ye mean to say, ye believe my great grandfather abused his wife.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I hardly remember the man. I was but five when he died, but his strength and goodness have been what every MacLeod laird since Tavish has striven for. His compassion is legendary. He certainly never raised his hand to a woman, least of all, his beloved Glenda. In fact, in old age, he cared for her himself, even as her mind failed.”
“I want to believe ye, Jamie, but my grandmother said that she heard Glenda screaming night after night, pleading for mercy.”
“She did scream,” he said. “Even I can remember. It used to terrify me. But she had a sickness of the mind, which made her confused and violent. She lost her memories. Everyone became a stranger to her, even Tavish, although that never stopped him from loving her or caring for her. I can still remember him coming down to the great hall to break his fast with a black eye or some such injury.”
She was silent for several moments, her gaze downcast. “How could my grandmother have been so wrong?”
Jamie shook his head sadly. “I suppose it can all be blamed on our constant feuding. Like ye, she came here expecting the worst. Likewise, when yer grandmother fled in fear, my kin assumed she had run away because she had no honor.”
He crooked his thumb under her chin. “I admit, those very prejudices have colored every exchange ye and I have had from our first meeting in the woods. I’ve made assumption after assumption.”
She sat back and studied him. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased. “I have done the same. We have centuries of bad blood between our clans informing our judgments of each other.”
They sat in silence for several minutes. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, except that she was his wife, barely clad and sitting on his lap. He knew not how to proceed. And said as much, “How do we move forward?”
She pulled at a loose thread in his plaid. “We cannot go back to that day in the forest when we first met.”
“True,” he said, sitting straighter. “But it is not too late to start again. First, I would make a vow to ye.” He gently caressed her bruised wrist. “I will never hurt ye again. Ye do not need to fear my temper.”
She took a deep breath. At length she met his gaze. “I vow to honor our union, and ye as my laird. Despite what ye may have thought about me, my clan has always and will always come first.” She paused, looking at him cautiously before she continued, “which now includes ye.”
He rested his head back against the chair. “Ye’ve surprised me. That I don’t mind telling ye, and I’m seldom surprised by people.” He looked at her profile as she stared into the flames. He realized in that moment what a fool he truly was. His judgment of her character had been made before they even set eyes on each other. And, although they couldn’t go back to the beginning, he vowed, in that moment, to make things right.
“They must have terrified ye when ye were a wee bairn,” she said softly still staring at the fire.
“What do ye mean?” he asked.
“The demons,” she said, gesturing to the hearth.
He smiled. “To be sure, but I’ll tell ye one thing. My parents never had to worry about me getting too close to the flames.”
She looked at him, a smile slowly curving her lips.
He had never seen her smile before. Struck by her innocent beauty, he reached out to graze his fingers down her cheek, but she flinched suddenly, drawing away.
His chest tightened.
She blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Nay, lass,” he said softly. “Ye do not owe me an apology. ‘Tis I who wronged ye. Ye will learn to trust me. I’m really not the monster ye’ve thought me to be. And I wager, ye have a great deal more worth than I have given ye credit for.” He cleared his throat. “Considering these last days, and the ordeal I put ye through last night, ye must be exhausted.”
Her eyes darted to the bed. He glimpsed fresh apprehension in her gaze. His eyes traveled over her round, pert breasts, pressed against the thin fabric of her underdress. Her small waist flared out at her hips. She was small, her body strong, and yet she had soft curves he longed to touch. Despite the sudden desire coursing through him, he stayed his hands. “I have never laid with a woman who did not want me as much as I wanted her.”
Her brows drew together. “Ye do not want me?”
“On the contrary, I find ye to be incredibly beautiful. Even when I believed yer character to be greatly wanting, I still could not help but admire yer womanly assets.”
She blushed. “Then what are ye saying?”
He could not believe what he was about to say. But now that he realized his marriage was not necessarily doomed from the start, he wanted to do it right. “I think we should wait until we know each other better. It would seem ye and I are full of assumptions and misunderstandings.”
She glanced at the bed. “But everyone will talk if there is no bridal sheet.”
He ran his hand through his hair as he looked at the crisp white linen. She was right. In the morning, the priest would inspect the sheet, and if her virgin blood did not stain the fabric, either she would be shamed, or his kin would know their union was not yet consummated.
He lifted her off his lap and set her on her feet. A moment later, he withdrew the small dirk from his boot and ran the blade across his palm. He allowed several drops of his blood to mar the sheet before he fisted his hand to stop the flow. “There,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It will be our secret.”
She smiled slowly, then a giggle burst from her lips. And for a moment, he saw her face without her usual guard. Her blue eyes shone. Her cheeks pinkened. Then her gaze dropped to his hand. Her brows pinched together before she turned to the table near the bed that boasted a platter of cooked meat, cheese, and bread. She grabbed one of the linen napkins before turning to face him. “Allow me,” she said. Gently, she cradled his hand and dabbed at the slice that still bled. Then she reached for the hem of her underdress and tore the fabric, wrapping the strip around his small wound.
“Ye have a gentle touch,” he said softly. She blushed. Again, he was struck by the softness of her beauty.
“Shall we to bed then,” she said with wide, innocent eyes.
He took a deep breath. His body grew hard. He wanted her.
His eyes once more trailed across her sheer garment. His mouth ached to taste her skin, to suckle her dusky pink nipples, to feel her body shudder around his as he brought her to sweet fulfillment.
He cleared his throat and lifted her into his arms. Then he laid her down on the bed and pulled the covers up to her shoulders before he stood and stepped back.
“Are ye not tired?”
He swallowed hard. “I think it best if I rest in the chair.”
She nodded and nestled beneath the blanket, her gaze never wavering from his.
“Ye’re so different than I thought” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Their eyes locked. She reached up and cupped his cheek. Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. Her full lips trembled at his touch, then softened, molding to his. She tasted so good, so sweet. He pulled away and stepped back, determined to honor his vow to wait until they knew each other better.
“Good night, wife,” he said.
“Good night,” came her soft reply.
He sat down in the chair near the hearth, all the while meeting her gaze. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by an excitement he had not known for some time. He prayed the morrow came quickly, because more than anything, he was looking forward to the dawn and a new day with his beautiful wife.
Chapter Twenty
In the morning, Fiona awoke feeling better than she had in days. She stretched her arms above her head. Then she sat up on her side and looked expectantly toward the hearth.
The chair by the fire was empty.
Relief and disappointment battled for domination in her mind. She laid back and stared up at the high ceiling while the events of the day before raced through her thoughts.
She had started the day a terrified bride, but by nightfall she had become a hopeful wife.
A new world had emerged, one where reason revealed the hollowness of their clans’ mutual prejudices—but had it all really happened, or had she dreamt their truce?
She glanced down and saw the blood mark on the sheet, drops from a cut Jamie gave himself, and knew it had all been real. But then she drew in a sharp breath, remembering it was the morning after her wedding. Soon, the priest would come to examine the sheet. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed the instant before a soft rapping sounded at the door.
A groan fled her lips. “Please, I need more time,” she called out.
Julia peeked into the room. “’Tis only I, my lady.”
Fiona expelled the breath she’d been holding. “Thank God.” She motioned for her maid to enter. “Please, do come in and hurry!”
Julia bustled through the door with a sack in hand.
Fiona stood and seized her crumpled tunic off the floor. “Will ye help me dress before the priest arrives.”
“Of course, my lady, but leave those garments. Our laird would like ye to wear what I have in here.” The maid held up the bundle she carried and plopped it down on the chair by the hearth. After she stirred the embers, rekindling the flames, she motioned for Fiona to join her. Then Julia fished inside the bundle and withdrew a lavender brocade surcotte.
Fiona’s eyes widened in surprise. “’Tis lovely,” she gasped.
Julia smiled. “The underdresses are silk. Look,” she said, pulling out a kirtle and tunic, both a lovely shade of buttery yellow.
Warmth flooded Fiona’s heart. She viewed the fine garments as another testament of Jamie’s newfound consideration for her wellbeing. He had made certain she had attire fit for the lady of the keep before having to, once again, face his kin.
And the priest…
“We must hurry,” Fiona gasped.
No sooner did Julia finish tying her surcotte, when a sharp rapping sounded at the door.
“That will be Father Peter,” Julia said.
Fiona held her breath as the priest entered, followed by his deacon who carried an incense thurible, and Matthew, Jamie’s second.
Straightaway, Matthew crossed to her side and in a hushed voice said, “Our laird had a dispute to settle this morrow. He asked me to accompany Father Peter to ensure yer fair treatment and to provide ye with whatever comfort is in my power.”
Fiona nodded gratefully and placed her hand on Matthew’s offered arm.
Father Peter did not glance in her direction but went straight to the bedside. She blushed at the sight of the blood stain. For a moment, she feared God might strike her and Jamie down for the lie, but then she remembered the spirit in which they chose to deceive the priest. They wanted time to form a bond that would benefit and strengthen their union; thus, bringing their clans closer together.
She watched nervously as Father Peter muttered a blessing and made the sign of the cross over the sheet. Then he stepped back while his deacon swung the incense burner over the blood—Jamie’s blood that he spilled to safeguard her honor.
“He isn’t a bad man, is he?” she said in a low voice to Matthew.
“Father Peter?” he whispered.
She shook his head. “Nay. I meant our laird.”
“The good Lord has not seen fit to make a better sort of man than Jamie MacLeod.”
Fiona looked in Matthew’s eyes and saw only truth.
Father Peter moved quietly to her side and made a cross with his thumb on her forehead. “May God bless ye and watch over ye.” Then he turned and left the room, his deacon following close behind. Scented smoke coiled behind them in thick ribbons.
Matthew smiled at her. “I shall also take my leave while ye finish readying yerself for the morning meal. We await ye in the great hall.” With a bow, he turned and left.
As the door closed behind Matthew, his words echoed in her mind. We await ye—she knew that meant his kin.
Fiona faced her maid. In Julia’s hand she saw a white piece of linen with lovely embroidered edges. Smiling, she asked, “Is that my kertch?”
“Aye, my lady.”
Fiona sat in the chair by the hearth while Julia brushed the tangles free from her thick, black hair. After her maid finished tying her new kertch in place, she turned and produced a small mirror from her sack.
Fiona studied her reflection, running her hand over the linen head covering. “When I think of a kertch, I see my mama’s face.” She took a deep breath. “Now, I am a married woman.”
And lady of Castle Làidir.
Her heart started to pound again. It was time to take her place at the high table. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking and stood facing the door, willing her feet to move.
“Are ye ready, my lady?”
Fiona winced. “Ye’ve asked me that before, haven’t ye?”
A kind smile curved Julia’s lips. “Aye, my lady. Ye’ve been staring at yer chamber door for some time now.”
Fiona took a deep breath, wishing Esme and Abby would suddenly appear. Then she looked at Julia. “Will ye come with me?”
The maid curtsied. “Of course, my lady.”
Fiona straightened her shoulders, prayed for courage, then swung open the door.
While they wound through long corridors, she tried to imagine she was at Castle Creagan. It was a day no different than any other. Soon, she would be sitting down at the high table beside her father. The great hall would be filled with familiar, loving kin who would greet her warmly. Holding tight to the love flooding her heart, she stepped out from behind the screen onto the high dais.
A moment later, her heart sank. No amount of pretense could have made her believe she was home.
The great hall of Castle Làidir was full. All eyes turned toward her when she entered, but no one smiled. Just as she had glimpsed in the chapel the day before, people’s expressions held only suspicion and hatred. Dropping her gaze to the ground, she hastened to Matthew’s side.
“Welcome, my lady,” he said, sliding out her chair. “Do not show them yer fear,” he whispered in her ear as she sat down.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she gazed out, pret
ending not to see the villagers’ hostile glares.
Julia set a trencher in front of her. “Laird MacLeod told me to bid ye not wait for him.”
Her hands tightly clasped in her lap, Fiona swallowed hard and smiled at her maid, nodding her acceptance. But despite Jamie’s wishes and the hunger gnawing at her stomach, she could not even think about eating.
“Tell me of yer family,” Matthew said casually at her side.
She appreciated the captain’s effort to put her at ease, but she could hardly draw breath. Making conversation was out of the question.
Just then the door swung wide, and Jamie strode into the great hall. Her mouth fell open as she watched his approach. His hair, which hung in smooth, clean waves past his shoulders, shone golden in color. His face was clean shaven. She was struck by the strong lines of his jaw. He wore a crisp linen shirt under his plaid. Her gaze was drawn to his broad shoulders and confident stride. Sweet Lord above, but she had never seen a man as handsome as Jamie MacLeod.
He climbed the stairs to the high table, his smile making her heart race. She griped the edge of her seat when he bent to place a kiss on her cheek. His full lips warmed her skin and shot a delicious shiver up her spine. She met the honeyed warmth of his amber eyes and gasped. He smelled clean and masculine.
“Good morrow, wife,” he said for her ears alone.
She blushed. “Good morrow, husband.”
Then to her surprise, he did not take the seat at her side. Instead, he straightened and outstretched his arms to his people.
“Clan MacLeod, I stand before ye a man contrite. Prejudice has colored my judgment, leading me to chastise and cruelly treat the woman who I am now grateful to call wife. In these days of war and threat, our clans have united. Our very survival rests in the strength of my bond with this woman, which we have made unbreakable with our vows.” He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Yesterday, I should have presented her as yer lady. But I failed ye, and I failed her. But I do this now. Open yer hearts. The feud that has brought only suffering to our people is over. This is the way forward, and I ask ye to stand with me as I present to ye, Lady Fiona MacLeod—she is yer lady and due every respect.”
