Rose In Scotland

by Overfield Joan

  He moved closer, his gaze steady as he cupped her face in his hands. “You are a MacColme now, Caroline,” he said, using her given name for the first time. “Mind you remember that.”

  She was puzzling over his meaning when he bent his head and gave her a kiss that was all that was proper, and all that was not. His lips were firm and warm, and she felt the teasing flicker of his tongue before he drew back to smile down at her.

  “Come, annsachd,” he said, tucking her arm beneath his and turning her toward the others. “Our friends await.”

  The next several minutes passed in a blur as Caroline found herself meeting the strangers who had been invited to witness the wedding. The men were all in uniforms similar to those worn by Hugh and her grandfather, and she assumed them to be members of the same regiment. Her theory was proven correct a few minutes later when a heavyset woman with a huge bonnet stuck on her head came striding forward to meet her.

  “I am Mrs. Margate,” she said, grabbing Caroline’s hand and pumping it up and down much as a man would do. “The sergeant here was a member of my husband’s regiment, and if there is anything you wish to know you have but to ask me. I know all your secrets, eh, Sergeant?” And she jabbed her elbow in Hugh’s stomach in a blow that would have felled a lesser man.

  “More than I dare consider, Mrs. Margate,” he said, giving the woman a wink. “But as I know a few of yours as well, I am confident I can trust your discretion.”

  She threw back her head and let out a loud bark of laughter. “If you’re counting on discretion from a soldier’s wife, my lad, you’re the biggest dolt to ever draw breath. But you were ever a gentleman, I must say.”

  The others soon ventured forward to offer their felicitations, and as she accepted them, Caroline couldn’t help but note the regard with which her husband was treated by the other men. They all held the highest of ranks, yet their attitude toward Hugh was as equal toward equal. Given what she’d heard of the strict distance normally kept between officers and enlisted men she was more than a bit surprised, and it made her wonder about the nature of the man she had just married.

  “I hope you don’t mind my inviting Colonel Margate and the others,” her grandfather said, pausing beside her to give her a smile. “But they’re as devoted to Sergeant MacColme as I am, and they’d have been most hurt not to be invited to his wedding.”

  “It’s fine, Grandfather,” she assured him, watching as a man wearing the braid of a major laughed and clapped Hugh on the back. “And their presence will give credence to the tale that ours is a marriage arranged by you.”

  “Eh?” He looked momentarily baffled and then gave a quick nod. “Oh, yes, there is that, although I hadn’t considered it in quite that light. But it’s a brilliant piece of strategy, now that I think of it. Once it is known this match has my approval, Charles will be hard-pressed to make mischief.”

  The mention of her uncle killed the fragile peace Caroline had found. Amazing as it was, she hadn’t given Uncle Charles or his foul threats a single thought all morning. She’d been too busy brooding over her wedding and her enigmatic groom to consider anything else, but now she could not help but worry. She knew her uncle well enough to know he’d be furious at having been thwarted, and there was no saying how he might respond. She was considering several unpleasant possibilities when she became aware her grandfather was talking.

  “… in two days’ time,” he concluded, studying her carefully. “It will be better that way, as I am sure you will agree.”

  Too embarrassed to admit she hadn’t been attending, Caroline merely nodded. “Yes, Grandfather, whatever you say,” she said, wondering what she’d just agreed to. Campton had come in, signaling her with a raised eyebrow that it was time to go into the dining room for the wedding breakfast her grandfather had arranged. She turned to see if she could find Hugh, when she felt his hand slide around her upper arm.

  “Come, my dear,” he drawled, his voice smoothly polite. “It is time to lead our guests into breakfast.”

  Her heart gave a jolt as much at his proprietary manner as at the ease with which he used the casual endearment. Listening to him speak, one would think they had been married several years instead of a matter of minutes, she thought, and was instantly furious, both with him and with herself. She knew her response to be childish, and the realization only added to her irritation. Well, she decided, her spine stiffening with pride, if he could conduct himself with such cool aplomb, then she was hanged if she would behave any other way. Aware of the interested glances being cast their way, she gave him her most dazzling smile.

  “Very well, darling,” she purred, gloating at the way his eyes widened in surprise. “If that is what you wish.”

  He said nothing, but she thought she detected an answering smile playing about his mouth as he turned her toward the door.

  The first hint something was amiss came after the lengthy breakfast. Caroline had gone upstairs to change into her traveling clothes, and as she walked outside she came upon her grandfather bidding Hugh what looked like a fond adieu.

  “The staff should be expecting you,” he said, handing Hugh a letter with the Hawkeshill crest stamped on it. “But if there should be any problem, you are to give this to the butler—Begley, I believe he is called. It will explain everything.”

  “Very well, General,” Hugh answered, tucking the letter inside his surtout. “Will there be anything else?”

  Before he could answer, Caroline came hurrying down the last few steps. “What is going on here?” she demanded, her gaze going first from Hugh’s face to her grandfather’s. “Will you not be journeying with us to London?”

  “I knew you weren’t listening,” he chuckled, giving her chin a gentle pinch. “The nervous bride, eh?”

  Because it was so close to the truth, she scowled. “I am not nervous,” she denied indignantly. “I’d forgotten, that’s all.”

  “Mmm,” her grandfather responded, his eyes twinkling with laughter. “Well, as I explained, it will look better if the two of you make your bridal journey without me tagging along. I will travel up after you.”

  “Oh.” Caroline considered the matter and decided he was right. Still, that didn’t make the thought of spending the next several days alone in Hugh’s company any more palatable, and she swallowed uncomfortably.

  Taking her silence for assent, her grandfather turned back to Hugh. “Will you be calling on Lord Farringdale tomorrow?”

  “And Sir Anthony Covington,” Hugh replied, nodding. “Colonel Margate gave me a letter for him, and said he was certain we could count upon his cooperation.”

  “As he is Mrs. Margate’s cousin, I daresay we can,” her grandfather agreed wryly. “He is also a solicitor, and clever as a monkey, I am told. He will know what to do.”

  Caroline was about to demand an explanation when her grandfather handed Hugh another letter, this one sealed. “For my banker,” he said, his gaze stem as it met Hugh’s. “Mind you give it to him.”

  Caroline could sense Hugh’s reluctance as his fingers closed around the paper. “General, I do not think—”

  “I believe we have already had this discussion,” her grandfather interrupted, his voice cool. “And I believe it was agreed then how such matters would be handled. Consider it an order, Sergeant,” he added, a smile softening his stem features. Hugh hesitated a moment longer, and then took the letter and put it in his pocket. “Very well, sir,” he said brusquely. “I will report once we have settled.”

  “Mind that you do,” her grandfather said, and turned to give Caroline a gentle smile. “Godspeed on your journey, my dear,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek. “And do not look so downcast. Your grandpapa shall see to all, I promise you.”

  Caroline was embarrassed to find herself fighting tears. She had only just found her grandfather, and it felt as if she was already losing him. She rose on tiptoe to throw her arms about his neck. “Good-bye, Grandfather,” she said, giving him an impulsive hug. “I love y
ou.”

  He gingerly returned the embrace before setting her aside. “Here now, what’s this?” he demanded, frowning down at her in mock sternness. “I shall be seeing you in but a few days, you know. No need to get all teary-eyed.”

  “I’m not,” she denied, half-laughing as she swiped at her damp cheeks. “It’s just the wind making my eyes water.”

  Although there wasn’t so much as a breeze stirring the feathers on her bonnet, neither man mentioned the fact, and she was grateful for their forbearance. The time to leave was upon them, and for a brief moment the feminine panic she’d been holding at bay threatened to slip the reins. A tremble she couldn’t contain shook her, and her grandfather gave her an alarmed look.

  “Poor dear, you are cold!” he exclaimed, laying a worried hand on her arm. “Sergeant MacColme, get my granddaughter out of this wind before she catches her death!”

  A hard arm stole about her waist, and she was drawn back against the solid wall of his chest. “I’ll do that, General,” he said, his arm tightening possessively about her. “We’ll see you in London.” And with that he bundled her into the waiting carriage, ignoring her feeble protests.

  Thank God that was done. Hugh collapsed against the leather squabs, his eyes closing wearily. Except for the terrifying moments just before a battle, he’d never known time to drag by so slowly. This had been one of the longest mornings of his life, and the knowledge that it was far from over was all that kept him from giving in to the exhaustion tugging at him. There was still one final duty to be performed, and with that thought firmly in mind, he opened his eyes to study the woman sitting opposite him.

  My wife. The possessive phrase exploded in his mind, and he took a few moments to savor its unexpected sweetness. Concern for Loch Haven and the simple struggle to stay alive had occupied all of his thoughts for more years than he cared to remember, and marriage was something he’d never allowed himself to consider. But the few times such thoughts had crept into his mind, he’d imagined marrying some fire-haired Highland lass, a woman of a neighboring clan who’d fill his days with contentment and his nights with searing passion. The last thing he expected was that he’d one day agree to a temporary marriage of convenience with a golden-haired English aristocrat. It was too ludicrous by half.

  “Mr. MacColme?” A soft, hesitant voice jolted him out of his musings, and he glanced up to find Caroline regarding him with a worried look on her face.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” she asked, her blue eyes filled with concern as she studied him.

  He unfolded his arms, forcing himself to relax as he met her gaze. “We are husband and wife, Caroline. I do not think we shall risk censure were you to call me by my given name,” he said, his lips curving in a teasing smile. “It is Hugh.”

  Her cheeks grew delightfully flushed, but her expression remained somber. “Hugh,” she agreed, still studying him. “Is something amiss? You look as if something is troubling you.”

  Her acuity surprised him, and he cast about in his mind for some explanation. “I am only thinking of all that is to be done.” It was as close to the truth as he dared go. “We’ve some hectic days ahead of us, so perhaps it is best we were making our plans.”

  She looked surprised and then intrigued. “What sort of plans?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

  “Your uncle and how best to deal with him is our first concern,” he said. “The general sent him a note yesterday announcing our marriage, so I think we can expect him to be waiting on our doorstep when we arrive. Don’t worry,” he added when he saw her eyes widen, “I’ll keep you safe. If the rabiator thinks to cause mischief, he’ll learn soon enough the error of his ways.”

  His vow of protection seemed to reassure her. Her look of uneasiness vanished, only to be replaced by a puzzled frown. “What is a rabiator?” she asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. “Is it Scottish?”

  “Aye,” he said, managing not to laugh at her pronunciation. “It means a ruthless scoundrel, and from what I’ve heard of the earl, it is a term that suits him well.”

  She nodded, not bothering to deny his charge. “That other word,” she began, peeking up at him through her lashes, “the one you called me after the blessing. Is it Scottish as well?”

  He knew which word she was referring to, and reached out to capture her hand in his. “Annsachd,” he said, his gaze holding hers as he slowly removed her glove. “And ’Tis Gaelic.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss on the warm flesh. “It means beloved.”

  Her cheeks heated once again, but she didn’t attempt to free her hand. “Annsachd,” she repeated, her voice sounding slightly breathless. “It’s a beautiful word.”

  Hugh’s fingers tightened about hers. How easy it would be to use his hold to pull her into his arms and taste her sweet lips, he mused, gazing at her lush mouth with mounting hunger. She was his wife; his to kiss and make love to as he pleased. It was a heady realization, made all the more intoxicating by the knowledge she didn’t seem repelled by his touch. For a moment he was wildly tempted to follow the urging of his body, but instead he released her hand and leaned back against the squabs.

  “As I am not of your social class, I leave it to you to decide what is to be done,” he said, frustration and anger making his voice harsh. “But I warn you, if you think to parade me about in silks and velvet, my face painted up like a macaroni’s, you had best think again. And I’ll not wear a wig for anyone.”

  Eyes which only moments before had been as luminous as a moonlit sea grew distant. “Wigs are usually worn by gentlemen of the court,” she informed him, her manner as rigidly polite as his own. “But as they are no longer required, I am sure there will be no problem. What of your hair?” she added, her gaze briefly resting on his queue. “I note you do not powder it.”

  “Nor do I intend doing so,” he said, scarcely believing he was spending his bridal journey discussing his coiffure. “I had enough of that nonsense in the army. You don’t powder yours either,” he added, gazing at the thick blonde hair arranged in an elaborate pile of frizzes and curls.

  “It is falling out of fashion,” she replied, reaching up to touch her hair. “This new style is called à le hérisson; it is French, and all the rage. Do you like it?”

  Hugh didn’t answer at first. As it happened, he spoke French, having learned it at university, and it took him but a few moments to translate the word. “Hedgehog?” he repeated, a wide grin splitting his face. “You are wearing a hedgehog on your head?” And he burst into laughter.

  “It’s not a hedgehog, you wretch!” she exclaimed, tossing one of the long curls over her shoulder. “It is obvious you know nothing of fashion!”

  “So I do not,” he agreed, his dark mood vanishing. “And I pray I may never learn if it means putting rodents upon my head. You English—you never cease to amaze me.”

  They had gone several miles before his wife deigned speak to him again, and when she did it was with a brisk formality that made Hugh chuckle. It was obvious he had wounded her vanity with his laughter, and he knew he would have to work fast to put himself back in her good books. Fortunately she wasn’t so miffed as to refuse to cooperate, and he listened to her plans for the next few days with growing respect. In addition to her deep-blue eyes, it was obvious she had also inherited her grandfather’s skill for organization as well.

  “It seems a great deal of work for naught,” he commented, when she finished outlining her plans to introduce him to Society. “What does it matter what your London friends may think of our marriage? Once my business is done we shall be leaving for Edinburgh, and from there, God willing, to Loch Haven.”

  There was a brief pause before she replied. “Grandfather and I are agreed that the more who know and accept our marriage, the better,” she said, her gaze fixed on the scenery outside the carriage window. “Uncle Charles will be hard-pressed to cause difficulties once everyone knows we are wed.”

  Since it made sense, Hugh swallow
ed the rest of his objections. However much he might dislike the notion of scraping and bowing to a bunch of rich and arrogant lords, Caroline’s safety must come first. And, his common sense added, the more people he had on his side, the stronger his case. For the clan’s sake, he supposed he could drink a glass or two of punch.

  “When do you think we should make our first appearance as man and wife?” he asked, putting aside his own feelings to concentrate on what must be done.

  “Grandfather’s announcement should be in the papers in a matter of days,” Caroline replied. “But I think it best if we are established by then. We could go to the theater; that is always a good place to be seen. Or we might attend a ball,” she added, looking thoughtful. “I am promised at a ball at Lady Gresham’s this evening. I’d thought to send a note of apology, but perhaps it might be better if we put in a brief appearance instead.” She glanced at him for a hint of his inclinations on the matter.

  “The ball sounds fine,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “What rank does her ladyship hold? A countess?” The name was familiar to him, but he could not seem to place it.

  “Duchess. Her husband is John, duke of Gresham.”

  He was also one of the powerful men the general suggested he contact, Hugh remembered, and felt smugly pleased with the easy way everything was falling into place. He settled back against the cushioned seat when a sudden thought had him shooting straight up. “Will I have to dance?” he demanded, sending her a horrified look.

  The smile she gave him was closer to a smirk. “It is a ball,” she reminded him, her tone dangerously sweet. “Some dancing is to be expected.”