Still when the good father came to the passage in the ceremony where he asked the congregants if they knew of any reason why she and Callum should not be joined, Alys held her breath. Beyond Brianna, Ewan, Milread and of course Callum, her past was a secret she hoped to carry with her to the grave.
Her fear must have shown on her face. Squeezing her hand, Callum leaned in and whispered, “Dinna fret, dearling. If anyone speaks up, I’ll run him through.”
He punctuated the promise with a wink and a smile and a touch to the dagger at his waist. Improbably Alys found herself smiling, too.
The moment passed. Save for an errant cough and shuffling foot, the chapel stayed silent and still. They repeated their vows in turn, swearing to love, honor and cherish each other all their days. Some erstwhile bachelors might demonstrate hesitancy when faced with changing their state, but not Callum. He spoke his promises in a deep, sure voice that resonated within the chapel and within Alys’s heart.
When her turn came, she looked up into her laird’s deep blue eyes, fringed with lovely long jet lashes, saw the love he held for her there, and said the sacred words from the wellspring of gladness flooding her heart. That her version of the vow included a promise to be “bold and buxom in bed” had her blood heating and her heart quickening.
Afterward, Father Fearghas bade her hold out her hand. Callum slid his ancestral ruby ring upon her finger, the sealing to her happiness. Turning her hand over and resting it in his, he leaned down and kissed her palm before repeating:
“With this ring I thee wed, This gold and silver I thee give,
With my body I thee worship,
And with this dowry I thee endow.”
Dividing his beaming gaze between them, Father Fearghas declared, “With the power vested in me by God the Father Almighty and the Holy Church, I now pronounce you man and wife. Go with God, my children, and may you find Christmas in each other for as long as you both shall live.” He turned his round, plain face to Callum and broke into a broad grin. “What are you waiting on, lad? Kiss your bride.”
Callum winked. “This part, Father, I can well manage without divine direction or yours.” Grinning, he spared the priest a swift sideways glance and then turned to Alys. “Come to me, my lady, my wife.” Before she could take so much as a step toward him, he opened his arms and enfolded her in a hearty embrace.
Like a snowflake exposed to a blazing fire, Alys felt herself melting into him. Their mouths met, their souls melded. They’d kissed many times before, but this time was different, sanctified and sacred.
Against her mouth, Callum whispered, “Flesh of my flesh, heart of my heart…” His tongue swept the seam of her lips and she opened for him without hesitancy, taking his breath into her body and his love into her heart.
It took the good father prying them apart to call them back to the fact that they were in public and in a sanctuary, no less. Planting a palm on Callum’s shoulder, he shook his head and whispered, “Wheesht, lad, cool your cods whilst in my chapel. The bedding will come anon.”
Laughing, they turned to greet their guests. Standing behind, Father Fearghas laid a hand on either of their shoulders. “Gentle folk, I give you Callum, Laird of the Frasers and his wife, the Lady Alys.”
Wild clapping ensued. Looking down onto the congregants standing behind the rail, Alys saw Milread dashing what surely must be a tear from her eye. Propped upon the rail, Alasdair waived with both arms, his wee body wrapped in a tiny Fraser plaid.
Callum brushed his lip against her ear. “Come, my lady, let us collect our son so that we may celebrate Christmas as a family.”
Alys shot up her head. “Our son?”
His smile broadened. “Aye, yours, mine, and nay other’s.” He held onto her hand and together they descended the stone steps.
Coming upon them, Callum fixed his gaze upon the crone. “So witch, have you nay curses or blows for me today?”
Milread snorted but her milky eyes remained misty. “As husbands come, you might just do.”
Callum tossed back his head and laughed. “Coming from you, ’tis high praise indeed.”
He reached out and took Alasdair from her. Cooing with delight, the babe threw his chubby arms about Callum’s neck. “Papa, Papa, come!”
Alys felt her full heart fisting. She stroked a hand over Alasdair’s downy curls and brushed a kiss on Callum’s lean cheek. Things were going to be all right. They were all right. Her true love stood beside her, now her lawful lord. She felt the weight of his ruby ring upon her finger and the force of his love in the deep blue gaze he fixed upon her. Her dear little Alasdair was nestled between them, happier than he’d ever before seemed. For the first time since Alex had persuaded her to run off with him, she felt as if she was part of a family. She felt as if she was at long last home.
They headed the processional across the courtyard to the great hall, Alasdair riding Callum’s shoulders and Alys walking beside them holding her lord’s hand. Stepping inside, she felt as though she’d entered a Christmas fairyland. Bows of evergreen laced with holly, ivy and mistletoe hung from the timber-beamed ceiling, their pungency filling the hall. Sprays of snowdrops, the special flowers of Christmas, took pride of place in the center of each of the dozen odd trestle tables. Savory scents greeted them. Wassail and hot pasty pies were already making the rounds. Callum’s cooks had scarcely seen daylight for three days, working into the wee hours preparing delicacies both savory and sweet. Platter upon platter of fine fare was being carried inside from the kitchen. Roasted quail, goose, venison, boar, mutton, salted salmon and smoked oysters, great wheels of cheeses, and any number of breads and tarts and custards would grace the groaning boards this first day of Christmas throughout Twelfth Night.
From the screened minstrel’s gallery above bagpipes played. Within the massive fireplace, in lieu of the usual peat fire, a great Yule log crackled and burned. A dais draped in the Fraser colors stood beneath a massive tapestry depicting the clan’s coat of arms.
Callum handed Alasdair off to Milread and offered Alys his arm. “My lady, will you do me the honor of dining by my side?”
Alys didn’t hesitate. This was her day, their day, and she swore to be done with shame and shyness.
She laid her arm atop the hard shelf of his forearm. “My lord, your side is the only place I shall ever again desire to be.”
He bent low to her ear. “Then let us feast with these fools a whit and then we will retire to our bridal bower. There lady, we shall dine on the ambrosia of one another’s bodies like gods.”
He led her up the three short steps to their places at the head table. Standing atop, she felt as though she was living a dream, a fairy tale.
She turned to Callum. “My lord, it is all too perfect.”
He lifted the chased silver bride cup and directed his powerful voice out onto the standing assembly of their kinfolk and company. “Gentle folk, I bid you a merry First Day of Christmas and present to you my bonny bride, the Lady Alys. I command you, good masters and mistresses, to love and honor this lady as I do, for from this day forth she is my helpmate and consort, the mother of my future sons and daughters, and above all, my most beloved wife.”
Shouts of “huzzah” rose about the hall, the vibrations reaching to the rafters. More toasts were made and drunk, most extolling the beauty, virtue, and goodness of the bride. Though Alys had tended toward shyness all her life, looking out onto the assembly of well-wishers, she made a point of holding her head high and her back straight. This was her first official feast day as Callum’s lady wife, and she wanted her lord to be proud of her.
And so he seemed to be. Smiling, Callum offered her the goblet, pressing the rim to her lower lip. She took a sip and passed it back, holding the cup for him to drink. He did, deeply. Holding the chalice with both hands, he tilted back his head and drained it according to the custom.
He set the empty vessel down. Leaning into Alys he whispered, “Soon I will have nectar of a finer sort to sate me.
”
Pretending anger, she swatted at his arm. “You shouldna say such wicked things to me on our wedding day and Christmas nay less.”
He grinned. “My sweet Alys, in a few short hours, I mean for us to be verra wicked indeed.”
They took their seats, the signal for their guests to do the same. Servants bearing ewers of scented water circulated so that the revelers might refresh themselves by washing their hands. A few seats away, Milread settled Alasdair beside her, his bum propped upon pillows, his wee hand wrapped about her crooked fingers. On Callum’s left, Father Fearghas stood and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Afterward, he sat himself again, attacking the platter of pheasant as though this holy day meal might be his last.
With each toast drunk, the guests grew merrier. On Twelfth Night, the most raucous of the feast days, a great king cake would be served. Whomever was served the slice in which the bean was buried would be crowned Lord of Misrule for the remaining celebration, imbued with all manner of privileges including the right to choose his queen. Glancing over at Callum, engaged in conversation with Father Fearghas, Alys had a strong suspicion of who that lucky lord and lady would be.
Atop the table, Callum’s hand closed over hers. Beneath it, his other hand found her knee. “Happy?” His expression told her he well knew her answer and yet she gave it anyway.
Beneath the table, she ran her hand along the inside of his thigh. They might not yet be bedded, but so far as she was concerned, the “bold and buxom” part of their celebrating couldn’t begin soon enough.
“Happier than I have ever before been or thought to be.”
Her hand engulfed in her husband’s big, broad palm, she sought to stretch her mind about the breadth of her bounty. From their head table to the trestle tables situated far in the back, the mood was uniformly jovial, the guests’ faces wreathed in smiles. How foolish she’d been to think an old wives’ tale or a bag of carved stones could threaten their happiness.
She turned back to her bridegroom and smiled. “Pray tell me I’m not dreaming.”
He speared a bite-sized bit of capon and fed her from his knife. “You’re not dreaming.”
Still uneasy with being so catered to, she hesitated and then took the meat into her mouth. Swallowing, she said, “We are truly wed, are we not?”
His low groan funneled into her ear. Beneath the table, his hand carried hers upward to cup his hardness. “By the saints I hope so, for I’m sore sick of this cockstand I’ve suffered for seven months. As it is, I find myself hard-pressed not to take you atop one of these fine tables or better yet, forgo the feasting altogether and bear you up to my bed.”
Heedless of who might be watching, she tossed back her head and laughed. She couldn’t help it. That was the magic of Callum. He always knew how to set her at ease.
“After seven months, surely another few hours willna matter overmuch. It would be churlish to desert our guests on the First Day of Christmas.” She gave his genitals a slight stroke.
Callum answered with a growl. “Once they fill their bellies with my beef and make their heads muzzy with my whiskey and wine, they’ll scarce mark whether we bide here or…above.”
“They’ll want to bed us proper will they not?” She’d been so caught up in worrying about the nuptial ceremony that, until now, she hadn’t given much thought to the other wedding rites that might follow.
According to custom, the bride and groom were to be escorted to their chamber and put to bed before their guests. Oftentimes the priest led the procession, laying a blessing upon the couple’s heads, but for the most part, ribald jests and salacious groping ruled the day. A bride’s garter was accounted to be a special prize. A bachelor who succeeded in snatching it and gifting it to his lady was said to be guaranteed faithfulness in his own marriage. But mostly it was all for fun.
His expression darkened. “They may wish to but they willna, not if I and my dirk have anything to say of it. Once I have you within those four chamber walls, the only eyes to feast upon you will be mine and if any man dares reach for your garter, I’ll see his hand cut off with my own blade. That goes for you, too, Father.” He elbowed Father Fearghas in the side.
The priest laughed. He reached for his wine cup and washed down the mouthful of capon he’d just polished off. “I’ve wedded you to this lady proper, my lord. So far as I see it, my duty is done.”
Alys looked to where Milread rocked Alasdair upon her lap, sugar glazing his mouth. So far as her son knew, Callum was his father. Someday when he was older she would tell him the sad story of his sire but for the next few years at least she meant for him to enjoy an uncomplicated youth. It hadn’t taken either of them long to get used to feeling warm and safe, cherished and loved. There was no point in snatching away the coveted treasure anytime soon.
Throughout the day, guests approached their table, some simply to wish them well, others bearing gifts. Evening shadows fell. The torches were lit. Alys felt her heart skip. Soon she and Callum would kiss over the stack of bride cakes and bid their company good-night. Unlike a virgin bride, she would have no difficulty in keeping her wifely vow. She would know exactly how to rouse and please her lord, to sate his passion whilst stoking it ’til dawn’s light. She would employ every whore’s trick she knew to bring him pleasure such as he’d never before known and this time she wouldn’t feel the slightest shame, for she would be doing so in the service of love.
The parade of approaching guests finally abated. Most were likely too drunk to stand. Alys’s pulse quickened. She gave a quick glance to the arched doorway. It led to the turret stairs, which in turn led to Callum’s solar and their bridal bower. Soon, very soon, she and her lord would take leave of their guests and retire to that longed-for private place. After seven long months, clothes would be shed and passions unleashed. Alys licked her lips. Mayhap it was the oyster she’d earlier eaten, but she could almost taste the brine of her beloved’s skin.
A tinker rose from one of the lower tables, a great pack slung over his broad shoulder and his cloak hood drawn high over his head. Seeing him start toward them, Alys silently cursed. As touched as she was by the displays of fealty, she so wanted to be alone with her lord. Beyond that, he was either odd or unpardonably rude. Every other man from the most humble crofter to the mightiest warrior had shown his respect by baring his head upon entering. And the man’s gait was all wrong. Most tradesmen adopted a mincing step and slope-shouldered stance when approaching the nobility. Not so this man. Long, confident strides bore him up the aisle between trestles to the front of the hall, his heavy warrior’s boots striking the slates and scattering the fresh rushes laid down that morn.
Reaching them, he stopped at the dais steps and bowed deeply. “My lord, my lady.” His English-accented voice sounded scratchy yet strangely familiar.
Callum spoke up. “You are either verra brave or verra stupid to come here, Outlander.”
The tinker didn’t deny it. “I come in peace and with your permission would offer my humble gift to the beautiful bride.”
Callum nodded. “It is my wedding day and Christmas, both fine reasons for setting aside fealties and feuding.”
The tradesman inclined his covered head. “I thank you.” He opened his cloak and spread the sides wide, displaying pockets lined with all manner of wares. “I have any number of fineries befitting a lady’s fancy: pearls to complement her creamy skin, rings and earbobs set with sapphires to bring out the celestial blue of her eyes, silk ribbons to festoon her sun-kissed tresses.”
Callum bent his face to Alys, his warm breath striking her ear. “The jewels are paste to be sure but you might as well choose one so as not to give offense. The sooner he leaves, the sooner we can retire.”
She stared down into the foreigner’s hooded face, and the foreboding she’d earlier dismissed struck her in the stomach with full force. Mayhap it was his hood which brought to mind images of the Grim Reaper, but the thought of taking anything of his repulsed her.
She
shook her head. “Good tinker, I thank you but there is nay thing I need or want. By the dust on your boots, you must have brought your bundle a great way. I would leave you to peddle your wares to the castle folk.”
It was no more than the truth. Considering all the rich gifts she’d received already, she couldn’t fathom wanting or needing a single thing. What she dearly wanted was for the man to be on his way so that she and Callum might retire upstairs.
He stood in place, fixing her with his hidden gaze. Peering more closely, she understood why he wished to keep his face in shadow. Though she could make out little beyond the cleft splitting his squared chin, she saw that the flesh was shiny with scars.
“Come, my lady, everyone desires…something. I have in my bag some very fine bolts of silks and satins, as well. Mayhap you might fancy one of them for a gown, something in yellow, I think?”
Yellow! Alys felt the room begin to reel. Why did it always come back to yellow? She’d thought herself done with that corrupted color but it seemed she was not. Tinkers traveled great distances. Might he have seen her plying the prostitute’s trade in Portree? Had he come to expose her? That fearful thought led to one viler yet. What if she’d serviced him! If so, not even Callum could redeem her. Even a laird must answer to his council, his people. Would his trusted advisors, the “old gentlemen,” stand aside and allow their laird to take a former whore as his consort?
Beside her Callum stiffened. His broad shoulder brushed her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the vein in the center of his forehead commence pulsing, a telltale sign he was very angry indeed.
“You heard my lady. She does not care for your gifts nor do I care for your insolent manner. Take up your pack and get you gone from my hall—now.” Beneath the table, his big hand covered hers.
Blaze Historicals Bundle II Page 22
