“Brandy?” Lucy said, turning.
Robert smiled at her. “It is an old island tradition when asking for the hand in marriage of a man’s daughter. You present him with a bottle of your best brandy.”
“Bribe him more like,” Mairi said tartly, “to overlook the scandal.”
“Don’t mind me,” Lucy said.
“Sorry.” Two bright spots of color still burned in Mairi’s cheeks as her gaze rested on Jack. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“Well,” Lucy said, “I am a scandalous bride, no question. I should be grateful to Lord Methven for rescuing my reputation after the tarnish applied to it by cousin Wilfred.”
“Lord Methven is lucky to be getting you,” Mairi said, glaring at Robert as though he had committed some heinous crime. “You are doing him a favor. As for his questionable relatives—” She looked down her nose at Jack, who grinned back at her, unabashed. “One must hope you are not obliged to spend too much time in their company.”
“Perhaps we should have asked both of you to leave your weapons at the door,” Robert said, looking from Mairi to Jack and back again. He drew Lucy’s hand through his arm. “Are you ready, my love?”
My love...
There was a lump in Lucy’s throat. She most certainly was not that, but the words were a sweet gloss over a marriage that was born of necessity. She nodded, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow and drawing closer to his side.
Together they stepped into the cool shadowed interior of the kirk.
Lucy stopped dead. The church was packed, every pew taken with the people from the town dressed in their Sunday best, carrying flowers, smiling.
Her breath caught in her throat. “This is for you,” she whispered to Robert.
“And for you,” he said, and Lucy felt the tears prick the back of her eyes again.
The service seemed very short. Isobel and Iain McLain were witnesses. Jack and Mairi studiously ignored each other throughout. Lucy remembered little of what was said, though she remembered making her vows and Robert making his, his voice strong and steady, his hand holding hers.
Afterward it seemed that the entire town escorted them back to the inn, the children running along beside them throwing flowers beneath their feet, the pipes playing, the crowds cheering, the streets alive and loud. Robert’s people were in the mood to make merry. They had brought food to celebrate at the wedding feast, chicken, eggs, potatoes, cheeses and delicious bannocks with rich butter. Lucy and Robert were escorted to the high table. The press of guests was so great that the two of them were squashed together on the long settle. Lucy could feel the hard length of Robert’s thigh pressed against hers; oddly it seemed impossible to ignore it. She took a gulp of wine to steady herself and felt instead the heat bloom in her cheeks.
“That’s better,” Mairi said approvingly. She was seated a little way down the table next to Jack Rutherford, whom she was ignoring with great deliberation. “You looked as pale as a corpse before.”
It was hardly a felicitous description for a bride, Lucy thought, but it was fairly accurate. Despite the mildness of the day and the huge open fire that blazed in the grate, her hands were frozen and she felt cold and scared. She looked at him. Robert. Her husband. Her mind simply could not accept the fact. Too much had happened, too fast, for her to be able to understand it. The change between her life a mere week before and her life now was huge, a chasm she did not know how to bridge.
Robert was talking to Iain McLain, and as she watched he emptied his tankard of ale and one of the potboys ran to refill it. Sensing her gaze, Robert turned to smile at her and leaned closer so that his words were for her alone.
“You’ve nothing to fear,” he said softly, and Lucy blushed that he had read her doubts of him in her eyes. He touched her cheek briefly, a comforting gesture, before pulling her plate toward her. There was roast chicken and it smelled delicious, but when she had tried a mouthful it had tasted like ashes. “Eat,” he said. “It tastes good and you have barely touched it.”
She tried. It still stuck in her throat, but another glass of wine helped. Gradually she could feel her tense muscles unlocking. She started to relax. She drank more wine, nibbled on the food and chatted to Mairi and to Isobel. The tables were pushed back and the fiddlers struck up, first a slow, evocative piece that sounded almost like a lament and then suddenly shifting into a dance that was fast and furious, with whoops and wild shouts of glee. The hall came alive with whirling figures. Lucy joined Robert in a country dance. She was spun down the line from hand to hand until, panting and flushed, her hair tumbling about her face, she came back to the start and into Robert’s arms again. He kissed her there and then in front of everyone, and the crowd roared its approval. The music shifted into a dance called the Bride’s Reel and Lucy danced until she was breathless.
A few dances later the door of the hall burst open and the guizers came in, outlandish figures in straw suits, pointed hats and masks that hid their faces. Immediately the guests burst into rowdy applause and the music spun louder and wilder.
“I do hope that isn’t cousin Wilfred lurking under one of those fetching straw bales,” Lucy murmured.
One of the guizers was bowing to her, holding out a hand for her to join him in the dance. Everyone laughed and applauded when she got up to join him. She had no idea of the steps, but by now it scarcely seemed to matter. Seven of the Findon men performed a sword dance and then Lucy danced with Robert again and then with Jack and soon she was spinning through an endless succession of dances as the pipes and the fiddles beat out the rhythm and her head rang with music and laughter.
Then, suddenly, the door crashed open. A man stood there, travel-stained in the torchlight, his face set in lines of great weariness. He staggered into the room.
“My lord!”
The fiddle music faded and spluttered to a halt. The chatter and laughter died. Someone pushed the newcomer down onto the settle and he sank down gratefully. Another man pressed a tankard into his hand and he drank it down in one gulp. Lucy could feel a strange atmosphere in the room now, watchful and tense. Conversation bubbled softly like a kettle coming to the boil. Everyone was waiting.
“My lord.” The man wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I am Stuart McCall. I come from Golden Isle.”
Lucy felt Robert stiffen beside her and she glanced sharply at him. He was very still now, his eyes cold, unsmiling. She could feel the emotion in him, dark and turbulent. There was anger there and something else, something that felt like pain. She looked at his tight, set face and it was like looking at a stranger. She did not understand, but she felt the Robert Methven she had thought she was starting to know slip away.
“You have come to wish me joy on my wedding, I hope,” Robert said. He drained his tankard. Lucy saw his throat move as he swallowed; saw the deliberate way he placed the empty glass on the table and raised his eyes to meet those of the newcomer. It was intimidating, but the man did not flinch.
“Aye, my lord,” McCall said. “And to ask for your help.”
There was something terrifying in Robert’s stillness. “My help?” he said softly.
“Aye, my lord,” McCall said again. “The people of Golden Isle are starving, my lord, and no laird has taken the trouble to visit us for ten years, since—”
Robert’s palm slapped down on the table, making Lucy jump. “You have a factor to take care of your needs,” he said, his voice hard and angry.
“Neil McTavish cares nothing for the isle,” McCall said steadily. “He has done nothing to help us whilst the crops fail and the ships no longer call to trade with us. He has failed to protect us from Wilfred Cardross.”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath around the room as Cardross’s name hung on the air. McCall looked up and looked Robert directly in the eye.
“You are the laird. It is your duty to help us.”
There was another rumble of debate around the room, quickly hushed as Robert looked ar
ound, his expression fierce.
“Are you accusing me of failing in my duty as laird?” he said, very softly.
This time the silence was deadly. Lucy, watching, feeling the tension in every cell of her body, could see the way that no man would meet his fellow’s eyes. Oh, they respected Robert as laird well enough here in Findon. She had learned that in only a few short days. They trusted him, believed in him and knew him to be a strong man who would protect them. But it seemed Golden Isle was his weakness. It seemed he had washed his hands of the place.
McCall straightened up. His words echoed Lucy’s thoughts. “I hear you are a just and fair laird,” he said. “But you have cut Golden Isle loose from your protection. You have failed in your duty.”
Robert was on his feet, eyes blazing, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
Jack Rutherford put out a quick hand to him. “Let’s step aside and talk about this, Rob,” he said quietly.
“Not on my wedding day,” Robert growled. He sat down and gestured for his cup to be filled. There was an ugly set to his mouth. The atmosphere in the room simmered on the edge of violence. Lucy could sense all the complicated emotions in Robert; there was anger, but it was shaded by shame and, she was certain, pain.
She could feel Jack’s gaze on her. He was pleading with her silently to intervene. Either he overestimated her influence or he was desperate, probably the latter. Lucy could feel the tension in the air, feel everyone looking at her now.
She put her hand gently on Robert’s wrist. “My lord,” she said. “I know better than most the danger posed by my cousin of Cardross and know as well that you would never let a single one of your clansmen come to hurt. I am ready to retire. Why do you not speak with these gentlemen and then come and join me?”
She saw the tension in Robert’s eyes ease slightly. She could still feel the reluctance in him. After a moment he took her hand in his, kissed her fingers and gave her a faint smile.
“As you wish, my lady.”
It felt as though the entire room released the breath it had been holding. Everyone stood as Lucy and Mairi left the room. There were a few smiles, a few nods to her and there was respect in every man’s eyes.
Isobel McLain led them up to the chamber Lucy had left only that morning on the way to the wedding. It had been tidied, and rose petals and herbs sprinkled over the bed, scenting the air with the sweetest of fragrances.
“What was wrong with Lord Methven tonight?” Mairi said as she helped Lucy into the nightgown that Isobel had left warming by the fire.
“I don’t know,” Lucy said shortly. She was tired and apprehensive, aching from the tension and strain of the day. “I don’t know him well enough to know what was wrong.” She wished she had asked Isobel what was going on, but at the same time she did not want the landlady to realize how little she knew. It felt humiliating.
“It was the mention of Golden Isle that changed him,” Mairi was saying. She appeared not to have heard Lucy or noticed the note of apprehension in her voice. “He was perfectly at ease before that, but it was clear that he did not wish to go there—”
“Why do you not ask Mr. Rutherford?” Lucy interrupted. “He will know.”
That got Mairi’s attention. “I’d not give Jack Rutherford the time of day,” she said sharply.
“What on earth can he have done to upset you?” Lucy said, eyeing her sister’s face. “He seems very charming and he is as handsome as sin—”
“He’s too handsome for his own good,” Mairi said. She was folding Lucy’s gown with such sharp jerky gestures that Lucy was afraid the delicate muslin might tear. “He certainly knows it. Arrogant pig!”
“Oh dear,” Lucy said, trying to stifle a smile. “You really do not like him.”
“I loathe him,” Mairi snapped. “I’ll be glad to see the back of him tomorrow. I’m going back to Edinburgh. I assume you’ll be going to Methven?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy said. Her stomach felt suddenly hollow with longing for her old life. “I don’t know where we are going,” she said slowly, “or even if we will have a wedding tour. It has all happened so quickly.”
Mairi sat down on the end of the bed. “I suppose this is the moment when I should give you some maternal advice,” she said.
“Maternal— Oh!” Lucy could feel herself blushing. “Please don’t feel you have to advise me,” she said awkwardly.
Mairi’s expression cleared. “Oh, well, if you have already done it—”
“We haven’t,” Lucy said shortly. “That is I... We... It’s a marriage in name only.”
Mairi’s eyebrows shot up into her hair. “You are teasing me.”
Lucy frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Because...” Mairi stopped, took a deep breath. “Because Methven looks at you as though he cannot wait to bed you,” she said bluntly. “That’s why.”
Lucy’s blush spread downward. She felt very hot. She did not want to have to explain the details to Mairi.
“We don’t know each other well,” she said instead.
Mairi covered her hand with her own. “I understand,” she said, although clearly she did not. “But in time... Well, he will want an heir....”
Lucy nodded. “In time.” Now, though, with the vast expanse of the empty bed beckoning to her, she could not imagine a time when she would feel ready for that.
“If he’s gentle with you it will not be so bad the first time,” Mairi said. “It may hurt a little and you might not like it much, but if it gets too bad try to think about something else—Scottish country dancing, or the bagpipes, or what color wall hangings you would like when you refurnish Methven Castle—”
“You’re not helping,” Lucy said, interrupting her.
Mairi frowned. “I’m trying to help. I was going to say that it is certain to get better and by then you will be pregnant anyway....”
Lucy shivered, crossing her arms over her chest. Mairi went over to the window and pulled it closed.
“There is a chill in the air tonight,” she said. “Get into bed. Everything will be fine.”
Mairi tucked her in, kissed her cheek and then stood back, looking suddenly uncertain. “Would you like me to wait with you?”
“No, thank you,” Lucy said hastily. Then as she saw Mairi’s face fall she realized that she had been a bit abrupt and caught her sister’s hand. “I am so grateful you came to the wedding,” she said softly, hoping her sincerity could bridge the gap with her sister. “It made all the difference to me.”
Mairi’s expression lit with a smile. She squeezed Lucy’s hand. “I expect you were missing Alice today,” she said. “I know I’m not the same, that we have never been as close—”
Lucy shook her head quickly, silencing her. “I’m lucky to have you,” she said.
Mairi gave her a quick hug and went out and Lucy sat there in the sudden quiet. The party had resumed down in the hall. She could hear the music and the roar of voices. She had no idea how long Robert would be. She supposed he would have to visit her room for appearances’ sake even if he had no intention of staying with her tonight.
Suddenly she felt restless and lonely and so unsure.
She went across to the Armada chest and rummaged among the petticoats and bodices, her fingers closing around the hard cold shape of the pot of pennyroyal tincture. She should take it, just to be sure, just to be safe.
Yet Robert had said that she had nothing to fear and some instinct, deeper and more stubborn than the fear, made her want to trust him.
She knelt there until her legs were cold and aching and then slowly she put the pot back in its hiding place in the chest and straightening up, closed the lid.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROBERT WAS IN a vile mood. Once he had agreed to speak with Stuart McCall, no fewer than five more men from Golden Isle had appeared to join the meeting. Robert was surprised he had not seen it coming. McCall could scarcely have rowed himself over from the island on his own. The others must hav
e been waiting outside for the opportunity to come in and petition their laird. Simply seeing them made Robert feel guilty for the years of neglect. He did not like being in the wrong, but ever since the previous night he had been plague to guilt and doubt. It was a new sensation for him.
The islanders packed Iain McLain’s little office, a motley crowd, fair and weather-beaten, their blond hair and vivid blue eyes speaking of their Norse ancestors. They had refused the offer to sit, all except the oldest man present, one of the island elders so ancient Robert thought he could barely stand. The men looked uncomfortable and hemmed in, as though their natural place was in the open air or on the high seas and enclosed spaces constrained them.
Robert had introduced Jack as his cousin and right-hand man and the islanders had all nodded politely, but it was clear from their reserve and the watchful gaze of their blue eyes that Robert had a long way to go if he was to regain—and keep—their respect. He could scarcely blame them for that.
The men waited silently while McCall told Robert of the desperate plight of his people on Golden Isle. The war against France had evidently taken a heavy toll on the islanders in terms of lost trade. Harvests had been poor and now the population was on the verge of starvation. The press-gang had taken almost all the young men for the navy with no compensation or consideration of how their families would manage when they were gone. McCall said that boys as young as twelve had been taken. Robert felt furious and even more guilty. He had left Golden Isle in the hands of his factor; he had not wanted to know.
McCall blamed the factor. He leveled serious allegations against McTavish, not only that he had neglected the welfare of the islanders, that he had failed to import the food that was needed and failed to sell their produce at a fair price, but also that he was in the pay of Wilfred Cardross. As soon as Cardross’s name was mentioned, the atmosphere in the room chilled and hardened. The men shifted, muttering among themselves. There was a pause. Robert could feel something in the air, a moment of hesitation. The men were looking sideways at McCall, waiting. McCall took a deep breath.
Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01] Page 19
