When he looked into her eyes, hoping to find his answer, he did not see aye or nae in their dark blue depths. But he did see a small measure of grace. The faint possibility of forgiveness. And hope for the future, which was far more than he deserved.
Forty-Four
I know not what inexplicable and fated power
that brought on this union.
MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE
As yet, she has not consented to marry me, Father, but—”
“Consented?” Sir Harry spat out the word. “Son, have you not explained the gravity of her predicament? And the extent of our property?” He stamped about the flagstone floor, ignoring Dougal, who held out his coat, waiting to finish dressing him for dinner.
“I have made her aware of both those things, sir.” Somerled was relieved the other guests were well out of earshot, for he would not have them thinking ill of Davina. Nor of him, if he could manage it. “In the meantime, perhaps you could approach her father. At breakfast I spoke with Randall Keith, a Lowlander who knows something of her family. By his description, I’d say James McKie of Glentrool is a reasonable man.”
“Aye, with three sons,” his father said with a grunt. “Brothers do not take kindly to a sister being ravished.”
Ravished. Somerled loathed the word. Hated that it was true. “For her sake, I thought ’twould be best not to tell the McKies that—”
“What?” His father whirled round, his face turning purple. “And pay the full bride price for used goods?”
“Used by me, sir.” Somerled fought to keep his temper in check. “The family must be compensated for their loss.”
“Och!” Sir Harry shoved his arms into his coat, nearly knocking Dougal over in the process. “ ’Tis no way to negotiate a marriage, lad. You have the position of strength. In a plight such as this, society punishes the woman far more than the man.”
Somerled bit his tongue rather than engage his father in a lengthy debate. “I wish to marry her,” he said in a low voice, “not punish her. I will not have her reputation ruined for the sake of silver.”
“You sound like a besotted suitor,” Sir Harry said gruffly, standing still long enough for Dougal to tie his neckcloth. “Who’s to say whether the tongue-tackit lass was willing or unwilling?”
“Miss McKie was decidedly not willing,” Somerled shot back. “Which is why I shall spend the balance of my days on Arran trying to regain her trust. And why you shall pay whatever amount is necessary to meet her family’s expectations.” He pulled a sealed letter from his waistcoat pocket and forced himself to sound polite. “Sir Harry, if you would, kindly write a letter to Mr. McKie at once and express our intentions. I’ve already written one for you to include—”
“Aye, aye.” He cut him off, snatching the letter from his hand and tossing it onto the bed. “And since you insist, I’ll mention nothing of the sordid situation. Only that my son met his daughter on Arran and cannot abide the thought of living without her by his side at Brenfield House. Will that suit you?”
More than you know, Father. Somerled could not explain his growing feelings for Davina McKie any more than he could deny them. Besotted? Quite.
He followed Sir Harry to the dining room, anticipation coursing through his veins. Davina was expected at seven o’clock. They had parted well, he thought. The wariness in her demeanor had eased slightly by the time he’d taken his leave. Still, she was far from won, and he had less than a fortnight left.
Somerled looked about his surroundings with new eyes, wondering what Davina would think of Brodick castle. Commodious, aye, but not lavish. Cromwell had housed his army here in the seventeenth century; the place still bore the look of a fortress. The rough walls were constructed of red sandstone, cut but not dressed, and the floors made of the same rose-colored stone in large, uneven squares, mortared together. The furniture was sparse, the carpets few, the ceiling beams exposed, yet the windows commanded an impressive view—from the lapping waters of Brodick Bay to the bank of firs leading up to the castle, perched on its high plateau. The walled garden was well tended, the meals more than adequate, and His Grace had gone to great lengths to make his visitors comfortable.
Somerled took his place at the massive table, watching for one visitor in particular. The door on the ground floor closed with a muffled bang. Women’s footsteps moved up the turnpike stair. Two maidservants were chattering. And then Davina appeared, fiddle in hand, wearing the same eyelet gown and the same winsome expression.
For a fleeting moment her gaze sought his. A good sign.
“Miss McKie!” The duke welcomed her with obvious pleasure, seating her on his right, the place of honor. “Glad to see you are in good health. We shall feed you well and then hear you play for us, aye?”
Somerled sat with his father on the opposite side of the table, several places down from His Grace and too far away from Davina. A brown-haired servant from Kilmichael was on hand as her chaperon. An ill-faured woman, but she could not help the sharpness of her nose or her thin-lipped frown. If Davina was to be his wife—and she was—no one must be given a reason to blether about improprieties.
Dinner commenced with souchet of trout, a flavorful fish soup, followed by haricot of lamb and roast ptarmigan. With a lady at his table, His Grace had significantly improved the menu. The other gentlemen were also aware of Davina’s presence, guarding their tongues and keeping their stories seemly, even as they regarded their bonny guest with blatant interest.
Somerled soon found himself grinding his teeth between courses. She’s mine, lads. Look at her no more. He would find some way to make his suit clear without compromising her reputation in the process. The sooner Sir Harry sent their letters, the better.
“Are you gentlemen staying through the sixth of July?” Alastair MacDuff inquired.
“Aye,” Sir Harry answered for them both, then downed the last of his claret. “ ’Tis when the duke sails for home, and so shall we.”
MacDuff, a middle-aged landowner from Fife, rubbed his hand across his beard, dislodging any loose crumbs. “Alas, I have business in Edinburgh that requires I take my leave at the end of June. With any luck, I’ll have a good day of fishing before I go.” He nodded down the table toward Davina, then lowered his voice. “What of this lassie with the bright red hair? She’s a rose waiting to be plucked, aye?”
Somerled bridled, but his father shot him a warning look. “Rumor has it that a lad at this table has already written her father, seeking permission to court the lady.”
“Is that so?” Alastair shrugged. “Just as well, for she’s too green for this old widower. Not a day over eighteen, I’d say.”
“Seventeen.” Somerled was on his feet as Davina stood, the dinner hour ended. When he caught Dougal’s eye, the elderly manservant nodded and slipped from the room, off to retrieve an instrument from his master’s leather trunk.
“Come, gentlemen,” the duke announced. “ ’Tis time for the music to begin.”
Forty-Five
There when the sound of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall.
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
Davina lifted her fiddle from its green baize bag, fearful the instrument might slip through her trembling hands. However would she manage an hourlong performance, knowing Somerled was in her audience? The LORD is my strength and song. She would remind herself of that truth, measure by measure, until she could bundle up her fiddle and flee for Kilmichael.
His words had echoed in her heart all through dinner. The only course is for us to marry. But how could she marry a man she barely knew and did not trust, for good reason?
A semicircle of chairs faced the hearth, its glowing embers warming the chilly dining hall. Davina positioned herself in the center while the duke and his guests took their seats. One gentleman in particular sat on Davina’s far left, his head framed by the window like a silhouette, his features hidden from view.
Y
ou are a rare beauty. You are more than worthy of a gentleman’s admiration. I want you for my wife.
Somerled MacDonald was as clever at weaving words as Michael Kelly was at weaving wool. The Highlander well knew those were sentiments most women longed to hear. To be seen as pretty, to be considered worthy, to be wanted. Davina was not immune to such flattery, but she wished for more. To be treated with respect. And to be truly loved.
This much she would concede: He’d answered her questions more frankly than she’d expected and had left the question of marriage in her hands. Only if you truly are willing. Each hour brought her no closer to a decision. Her head said aye, her body said nae, and her heart was too wounded to consider such a brash proposal.
Davina tucked her fiddle in place, wincing as the curve of wood pressed into her bruised shoulder. Strengthen thou me. Releasing a deep breath to steady her nerves, she plucked the strings once more to be sure they were in tune, then launched into a set of strathspeys and reels meant to stir her audience awake after their richly seasoned meal. His Grace was most responsive, so the others followed suit, marking the spirited rhythm with heads, hands, and feet. Though she could not see Somerled’s face, she sensed him watching her and heard his vigorous applause.
At hour’s end she shifted from the breathless pace of the duke’s favorite jigs to the cadence of slower tunes. When the setting sun cast the room in bronze, she began the last song of the evening, a Highland air, “Well May My True Love Arrive.” No sooner had she drawn her bow across the strings, than the unexpected notes of a wooden flute, sweet and low, floated across the room, each phrase perfectly timed with hers.
Somerled.
Her throat tightened at the tenderness of his playing. If he intended to woo her with music, he could not have chosen a more fitting instrument. The long, hollow woodwind sounded like the human voice. Like his voice. Warm, compelling, persuasive. Might we begin again?
He walked toward her as he played, not stopping until his arm brushed against hers. She recognized his scent, like freshly pressed linens sprayed with heather water, and heard every breath he took just before the notes poured forth.
The tune was slow and expressive, brimming with emotion. Why, oh why, had she not chosen something else? Her heart was in every phrase, and so was Somerled’s. As they played, his words circled round inside her head. I’ve thought of nothing else but you. Turning her back to him did not help; his notes embraced her, caressed her. Nae! Tears clouded her vision as she plied her bow, trying to ignore him but failing.
On the last note he took the lead, easing into “Hard Is My Fate,” another plaintive Highland melody. The series of high sixteenth notes in the refrain let her fiddle take center stage while he spun a languid harmony with his flute. His thoughtful accompaniment undid her. How could a man be so considerate in one instance and so ruthless in another? They held the last chord until her bow and his breath reached their limits, then they bowed to enthusiastic applause and more than a few cheers.
“You two are meant to play together,” Alastair MacDuff said loudly, having sipped too many drams of whisky. “I hear there’s a man in this room who intends to court you, Miss McKie, provided your father will allow it. If ’tis not you, MacDonald, you’ve sorely missed your chance.”
The others laughed or nodded in agreement, slapping Somerled on the back as they stood and began moving about. Aghast at the gentleman’s careless words, Davina tried to put her fiddle back in its traveling bag. But this time her hands would not obey her. Even less so when Somerled came up behind her.
“We’ve my father to thank for that outburst, I’m afraid.” He pitched his voice beneath the murmur of the room. “MacDuff’s a widower, so Sir Harry meant to spare you his advances. Instead the drunkard from Fife seems to have given us away.”
Davina turned round, wishing she had paper and pencil, hoping Somerled would see the concern on her face and deduce its source.
“MacDuff spoke out of turn, lass, but he did not lie.” His gaze grew more intense, his voice lower still. “I’ve asked Sir Harry to write your father and to send my letter with it.” When her mouth fell open, he hastened to explain. “You may still refuse me, Miss McKie, though I pray you will not. But with mail from the island being so slow, I thought we should put things in motion.”
He looked over her shoulder at the room full of garrulous men. “ ’Tis better that your father hears the news from us than to hear gossip from a stranger. If even one person suspects what happened on Midsummer Eve …”
Somerled said no more, but she heard the rest and shuddered.
Davina awakened late on the Sabbath morning, dismayed to find a downpour pelting Kilmichael’s windows. Ill weather for traveling to Lamlash Bay for kirk.
Nan Shaw stood by Davina’s open bedchamber door. “I didna wauken ye earlier, thinkin’ ye’d not want tae mak a lang raik a’ by yerself on sae dreich a day.” The maidservant deposited a pitcher of steaming water and fresh towels on the washstand. “The captain is off tae the mainland and not expected hame ’til Friday, and me mistress is abed wi’ a worrisome cough. The ithers left for kirk lang syne.” Her point was well made: If the kirk in Lamlash had a bell, it would have already rung. “I’ll fetch a goun for ye,” she said, then closed the door behind her.
Davina sank back on the pillows, miserable with herself. Mother never missed a service on the Sabbath due to bad weather, let alone from oversleeping. And what would the Stewarts think of her not appearing at kirk? There was no afternoon service in light of the distance churchgoers were required to travel; Kilbride parish included the entire eastern half of Arran, fourteen miles from Lochranza to Dippin. On the first dry day she would visit the manse and make amends. And come next Sunday she would be sure Nan roused her early.
At least her Sabbath duties did not include providing entertainment for the duke’s guests. Or playing unexpected musical duets with Somerled. Or avoiding his relentless gaze.
Two days away from him would give her time to think.
Please consider my offer of marriage.
Was a hurried wedding her only option? If the truth of her unchaste state remained hidden, might she not return to Glentrool at Lammas and resume her life? Should a suitor come calling, she’d need some reason to refuse him; no gentleman wanted a sullied bride. But it might be managed.
Except then she would have no husband at all and no children to call her own.
You may still refuse me, Miss McKie. That remained to be seen.
Davina eased back her bedcovers, determined to honor the Lord’s day as best she could. The drawing room shelves were lined with devout books, waiting to be read. And she’d write to her parents, for if they received letters from the MacDonalds, they’d expect to hear from her as well.
Whatever would she tell them? Only the truth, and precious little of that; a very short letter indeed. I have met a gentleman from Argyll. A guest of His Grace. A talented musician. He has shown me favor. Of the worst kind and in the worst manner, though that truth would not find its way into her letter. Nor would the words she longed to write: Help me. Save me. It was too late for that.
Davina bathed her hands and face in haste, knowing Nan would return shortly. The less time the woman had to see her bruises, the better. The ones Davina could spot were no longer quite so purple but remained painfully visible. She was prepared to mimic a fall from a horse if an explanation was demanded of her.
“Here ye go, miss.” Nan swept through the door with a fresh gown for her to wear—a pink one this time. It seemed the mistress of Kilmichael had an endless store, for which Davina was grateful. Though the dresses were two summers old, they were in good repair and hemmed to suit her shorter frame.
Half an hour later, her growling stomach appeased with porridge and tea, Davina climbed the stair, wondering if she might spend a moment with Mrs. Fullarton, inquiring after her health. But Nan was standing outside her mistress’s door, a stern look on her face. “She�
�s restin’ noo and doesna need tae be disturbed. I’ll tell her whan she waukens that ye asked aboot her.”
Davina nodded, though the news disappointed her. Was she to spend the entire day alone and perhaps Monday as well? Though she was in no hurry to face Somerled, the lively company at the castle held some appeal on so gloomy a day.
She visited the drawing room next, where the guilt of missing Reverend Stewart’s sermon prodded her toward the Buik displayed on a wooden bookstand and opened to the psalms. Davina let her gaze fall on the page, then wished she had not. The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous showeth mercy, and giveth.
Surely Somerled MacDonald would be counted among the wicked, among the borrowers who did not repay their debts. I took what you did not offer. But if she was to be counted among the righteous, did that mean she was expected to show him mercy? A man who had ravished her, body and soul?
Nae. She stared at the words through a stubborn sheen of tears. ’Tis not possible.
Though she quickly turned the page, the truth was not so easily put aside. Hadn’t the Lord forgiven her for the sins she’d committed that night? Most would say her transgressions were small in comparison to his, but Davina could not deny her need for mercy. Nor could she pretend she did not know what was expected of her.
Please, Lord. She pressed her hands to her waist, sickened at the thought. I cannot forgive him. I cannot …
Forty-Six
Sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Somerled focused on the well-trod path that led south from the castle, as if by sheer will he might hasten Davina’s appearance.
Two days, lass. ’Tis long enough.
A dreary, wet Sabbath spent with a book by the hearth was one thing, but a second day of drenching rain had tried his patience mightily. How could he woo the woman if she was not by his side?
Ah, there. His heart quickened at the sight of her emerging from the pine woods. A light shawl covered her head and shoulders, no doubt to protect her fiddle more than her hair. She held the instrument close as she walked, eyes lowered. Watching for puddles, perhaps. Or avoiding his gaze.
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 23
