Lynsay Sands

by An English Bride in Scotland

  Ross straightened abruptly at this news and eyed him in question. “Are you sure ye heard it right?”

  Marach nodded solemnly. “I heard them talking as I approached and paused to listen. They went on about it for a bit. How the stable master’d like to whip his boy fer being so stupid, especially for a spoiled light-skirt like the eldest Withram lass. He went on about how the two don’t have enough sense to come in from the rain, and’ll most like end up dead by the side of the road somewhere. And if ye refused the second daughter they’re replacing her with—and for some reason they seemed to think ye would,” he added significantly, before continuing, “if ye refuse her, the stable master is thinking he’ll most like end up homeless and dead right next to ’em.”

  Ross relaxed back on the bench with a frown. What was wrong with the second daughter that the men would be so sure he’d refuse her?

  “Bloody English,” Gilly muttered, having overheard Marach’s words. “He could ha’e told ye the situation when we arrived. Instead, he’s trying to pass off a sow’s ear as a silk purse, he is. Pawning off the second daughter on ye like that. And she must be fair ugly for the men to think ye’d refuse her. Surely his trying to trick ye like this and no’ being aboveboard on the matter is grounds to refuse the wedding?” he asked, and then added with sudden cheer, “If so, we can head home and find ye a fine Scottish lass to wed and bed.”

  “I’m thinking better the second daughter than the first after the stable boy’s had her,” Marach pointed out.

  “So long as someone else hasn’t had the second daughter,” Gilly said dryly and then pointed out, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and usually lands right next to the other apples.”

  Ross frowned at this suggestion and shook his head. “If honor ran in families, Derek would have been more like me. Just because the elder sister was faithless does not mean the second daughter is as well.”

  “True enough,” Gilly acknowledged. “But consider this, if she is no’ a light-skirt like her sister, why do they worry ye may no’ accept her?” He waited a moment, but when Ross did not respond, he answered himself. “If she’s no’ a light-skirt, then she must be ugly as sin, or a sour-faced prude of a fishwife. Or both,” he ended grimly.

  Ross merely stared at the man, his mind whirling. Dear God, was nothing ever going to be easy in his life? First his mother died, and then his father followed a year later, then he wasn’t even allowed time to grieve over the man and take up his duties as clan chief with the support of his people, but had to fight for the right. Now, he finally gets that matter mostly settled and comes to claim his betrothed and start a family of his own, only to find out his original intended has run off—with a stable boy of all things—and he was expected to marry her sister who was either a light-skirt like her sister, or some sour-faced prude of a fishwife.

  Life was so unfair sometimes. All the times really, Ross added bitterly. He couldn’t think of much that had gone right or easy in his life lately and frankly he was growing weary of constantly battling to get by.

  Gilly was right, he thought. The easiest thing to do was to get up, walk out, head home and marry a nice Scottish lass of his choosing. Surely he had that right? He wasn’t legally bound to marry the second daughter, was he? Could Withram legally disown his eldest daughter? Had he been able to manage it in so short a time? Frankly, Ross didn’t care. He was done with struggling through life. He was going home.

  Gilly and Marach had been nattering on about the situation as he pondered, but both fell silent when Ross stood abruptly. He saw the question in their eyes and said, “We are leav—”

  “Here she is at last.”

  Ross snapped his mouth closed and turned slowly at that almost desperately gay announcement from Lord Withram. The man was rushing toward the table from the stairs, two women trailing at a more sedate pace.

  “You know how women can be,” Withram went on, sounding extremely anxious. “Our Annabel wanted to look perfect for her first meeting with you.”

  Ross didn’t respond. He didn’t even acknowledge the words with a look. His gaze was locked on the young woman approaching beside Lady Withram. Short, no more than five feet, with a pretty face, shiny, long, wavy midnight hair and more curves than his shield. He noted all that in an instant, his eyes traveling with appreciation over each asset before settling on her eyes. They were a color he’d never seen before in eyes, a combination of pale blue and green, almost teal with a darker rim circling the unusual irises. They were absolutely beautiful … and presently brimming with anxiety and fear.

  Before he’d even realized he was going to do it, Ross found himself moving around the table to approach the girl. Taking her hand in his, he placed it on his arm and peered solemnly down into her unusual eyes before announcing, “Well worth the wait.”

  He was pleased to see some of her fear dissipate. Just a little, but it was something. She blushed too, ducking her head as if unused to and embarrassed by such a compliment … and her fingers were trembling where they rested on his arm. She did not strike him as a light-skirt, nor was she sour faced or ugly, but she had the finest eyes he’d ever seen, and he wanted to see more of them, so Ross turned and escorted her to the table.

  He didn’t miss the audible sighs of relief from her parents at their backs. Nor did he miss Gilly’s muttered, “Bloody hell. He’s done fer now.”

  Judging by the slight jerk of Annabel’s head first one way and then the other, she didn’t miss any of it either, but neither of them commented.

  “WELL, NOW YOU’VE met there is no need for delay.” Annabel’s father paused at her side and urged her to her feet. “Father Athol and the villagers are waiting outside the church.”

  Annabel stared from her father to her mother with amazement. Ross had literally just settled her at the table. She was positive her behind hadn’t sat on the bench for more than the count of four before her father was ushering her up. She understood that her parents were afraid that something else would go awry and land them in ruin after all, so were eager to get this over with, but this rush just seemed a bit unseemly to her. So she was surprised when the Scot stood with a nod of acceptance and once again took her arm.

  “Come along, lass,” he said solemnly. “Once done, ’tis over.”

  True enough, Annabel thought dazedly, doing her best not to look at the man. She had been avoiding looking at him since getting her first glimpse. Annabel had spent her life from seven on in the company of women. The only male she had seen was Father Gerder, who had performed mass at the abbey. He was a tall, slender, elderly man with white hair and an emaciated body. On her arrival here, Annabel had thought how shrunken and small her father had grown and that despite his pronounced stomach, he reminded her of Father Gerder.

  Ross in no way reminded her of her father or Father Gerder. Nor did he remind her of the women who had raised her. There was nothing soft or serene about his appearance, nothing small and dainty. Ross was huge and rough-looking, a walking wall of muscle-rippling, spicy-smelling, rumbling-voiced man.

  He was just so overwhelming that it left Annabel dry-mouthed, nervous and oddly discombobulated. She was quite set aflutter by it all. At least that was what she was blaming for the fine trembling that started in her when he took her hand to place it on his arm. Mind you, she’d reacted much the same way the first time he’d done so to lead her to the table. The sensation had passed to make way for relief when he’d released her. However, there would be no quick respite for her this time. He wasn’t walking her a mere few feet to the table.

  Ross walked her to the door and out, and across the bailey toward the chapel, and with every step, Annabel’s quivering increased until she was sure he must notice.

  “Deep breath.”

  Annabel blinked at those rumbled words from the Scot. Glancing at him uncertainly, she asked, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Take deep breaths,” he said quietly enough that only she could hear, and then he added gently, “ ’Twill hel
p with yer nerves.”

  “Oh.” She managed a smile, but was aware she was blushing brightly. He had noticed. Clearing her throat, she offered in a pained tone, “I apologize for my parents’ unseemly rush. They mean well.”

  Ross shrugged. “ There is nothing to apologize for. This suits me well enough. ’Tis best to get unpleasant tasks done quickly, do ye no’ think?”

  Annabel was so shocked by the words she nearly tripped over her own feet. While she herself had been set aback by the news that she was to marry, it had nothing to do with her groom. She hadn’t even considered him in all of this. All of her upset had been due to the abrupt change in her life and circumstances. After all, right up until a few hours ago she had thought she was to be a nun.

  Ross, however, had ridden here specifically with the intent to marry. There was no nasty surprise for him … except possibly for meeting his bride for the first time. Which suggested that marrying her, specifically, was the unpleasant task of which he spoke. And that was damned insulting. It also didn’t bode well for her future. This was the man she was to spend the rest of her life with, after all. If he was displeased after just seeing her, how unhappy would he be once he realized how useless she was going to be as a wife? And she very much feared she was going to be useless.

  But there wasn’t a darned thing she could do to prevent what was coming. They were at the chapel and pausing before the priest. Her future was set firmly on this course now.

  ROSS WATCHED HIS new father-in-law pull the door closed behind the departing group with more than a little relief. He’d found the whole bedding ceremony somewhat exasperating; a dozen drunken Englishmen along with his own drunk men had surrounded and jostled him upstairs and then proceeded to tug and pull at his clothes until he was naked. Then they’d shoved him into the bed beside his waiting, and equally naked, bride who was hidden under the linens.

  Ross supposed he wouldn’t have minded so much if he had been drunk himself. However, he hadn’t wanted to start his marriage by being either in a drunken stupor or unintentionally rough with Annabel due to drink, so had abstained after the one goblet of wine used to toast their wedding. He had suffered the men’s rough attention sober.

  A sudden rustle and movement in the bed beside him drew Ross’s attention to the fact that his bride was out of bed. He opened his mouth to ask what she was about, but the question never made it past his lips. She was naked from the top of her head to the tips of her toes … and absolutely beautiful. His bride was a fine figure of a woman, all soft and round. Just the way he liked his women, and his mouth watered at the sight. But it was a very brief view he got before she tugged a long shirt on and let it drop to curtain all that loveliness.

  “What the bloody hell is that?” As the first real words he’d said since marrying the woman, Ross supposed they left much to be desired. But he was just so shocked at the sight of the ugly shirt covering all that beauty, he couldn’t help himself.

  “ ’Tis a chemise carouse,” Annabel explained, looking suddenly uncertain. She hesitated, her tongue poking out quickly to lick her lips, and then gave a pained smile, and added, “Father Athol thought we might like to use it, but I forgot about it until now.”

  “Use it for what?” he asked nonplussed.

  “For the bedding,” she explained, blushing brightly.

  His gaze slid over her body in the contraption. It was quite simply a long shirt that appeared to be made of a very heavy material, and it covered every inch of her body. “How the devil am I to bed ye in that?”

  “Oh, there is a hole,” she said quickly and pulled the cloth around her hips tight, only to quickly let it go as she realized what she was revealing. Still, she’d held it long enough for him to see that there was indeed a hole several inches below the apex of her thighs … which he presumed he was to use for entry.

  Shaking his head, he let his gaze slide over her again. The shirt had obviously been made for a much larger woman, that or someone had overestimated Annabel’s size. He turned his eyes back to her face to see that she was blushing brightly and avoiding his gaze. Ross simply stared at her for several minutes, unsure how to react in this situation.

  He had heard of the chemise carouse. It was intended to ensure that there was no pleasure accidentally found in the marriage bed. Because, of course, the church frowned on pleasure of any kind, but most specifically, sexual pleasure. Ross, himself, felt sex was healthy and natural and meant to be enjoyed, but he knew not everyone was that enlightened. It seemed his bride had been raised differently.

  This was not a problem he had considered encountering, and frankly, he didn’t have a clue what to do about it. There was no way on God’s green earth that he intended to roll her over onto her back and simply thrust himself into her completely unprepared body. He would not do that to the wife of his worst enemy, let alone his own. They had to spend the rest of their lives together.

  Besides, he enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, and he liked for his partners to experience pleasure as well. He enjoyed hearing them gasp, and moan and groan. He liked to make them shake and tremble with it until they were pleading with need.

  When Ross simply continued to stare at her, his wee bride shifted uncomfortably and then climbed back into bed next to him. She settled on her back without pulling the linen and furs up to cover the shirt, closed her eyes, and said stoically, “I am ready.”

  Ross surveyed her briefly, then shook his head and shoved aside the linens and furs covering him. Grabbing his plaid up off the floor, he wrapped it loosely around his waist and held it in place as he strode out of the room.

  ANNABEL BLINKED HER eyes open with surprise at the sound of the door closing and frowned at the sight of the empty room. Ross had left. She supposed she should have been distressed, but she was mostly relieved. Annabel had heard the rustling and felt the shifting of the bed and had braced herself for her husband to mount her, but she hadn’t exactly looked forward to it.

  There had been half a dozen oblates like herself at the abbey, and a few novices, and perhaps not surprisingly the topic of sex had come up on occasion. As they’d scrubbed the stone floors, or cleaned the stables, they’d whispered about how lucky they were to avoid men, marriage and the marriage bed, for all knew it was a terrible trial for those unfortunate enough to land in it. The tearing of the veil of innocence was said to be a painful and bloody endeavor. One girl, much younger than her siblings, had been present at her sister’s wedding and claimed that even the sounds of the revelry of the wedding feast hadn’t completely covered the screams coming from her sister’s room during the consummation that had followed the bedding ceremony.

  They had all shuddered at this news, and agreed they were lucky to avoid that. Annabel had never imagined back then that she would be lying abed in a chemise carouse preparing to scream and bleed herself.

  Grimacing, she tugged the linens and furs up to cover herself and then simply lay there fretting. Annabel had no idea where her husband had gone—probably to rejoin the revelry—but he would no doubt return. Perhaps he had gone below to find himself a drink or two to shore up his courage for what was coming, for surely if ’twas that unpleasant for the woman, it could not be much better for the man? That seemed a logical conclusion, but another one of the girls had claimed that if her father and brothers were anything to go by, men loved the carnal act, for they were forever chasing maids and cornering them to get under their skirts.

  Annabel sighed at that memory. The unfairness of it all was rather depressing. Not only did men get to enjoy sex, which from all accounts was painful for the woman, but they didn’t have to suffer monthly bleeding, or push huge babies out into the world from their own bodies, which was not only painful but often killed the woman. Truly, it did seem to her that women often got the short end of the stick in life.

  The opening of the door drew her startled gaze and she watched wide-eyed as her husband returned with two goblets in one hand and two pitchers in the other. His plaid was now tied
at his waist to allow it.

  Annabel automatically started to get out of bed to help him, but a terse, “Stay,” made her pause. She simply sat and stared at his very wide, very naked chest as he kicked the door closed and then carried the pitchers and goblets around the bed to her side. Ross set the pitchers and one goblet on the bedside table, and then poured liquid from one of the pitchers into the other goblet before holding it out to her.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  Annabel tore her gaze from his rippling chest to see that the goblet was full to the brim with honeyed mead.

  “Thank you, but I am not really very thirsty, my—”

  “Drink,” Ross repeated firmly.

  She frowned at the terse order, but accepted the goblet and raised it to her mouth for a sip.

  “Down it, lass. ’Twill help with the bedding.”

  Annabel felt herself relax a bit at the added words. He was trying to be kind, anesthetizing her with the liquor before performing the painful and bloody deed. It was really very thoughtful of him, she decided, and swallowed down the liquid as quickly as she could, managing it in three large gulps. Annabel then set the goblet on the bedside table, only to watch wide-eyed as he immediately poured more from one of the pitchers.

  “Are you not going to have some?” she asked self-consciously as she accepted the goblet he then offered her.

  “Drink,” was his only answer.

  Annabel drank. She drank five goblets of the honeyed mead in a row, one after the other, but when he tried to give her a sixth, she shook her head, wondering why the room appeared to shake with the action.

  “I really pobrably should not have more. Any more,” Annabel corrected herself, frowning as she noted that her words were slightly slurred … and pobrably didn’t sound quite right. She was pretty sure she’d got pobrably wrong.