by Karen Ranney
“Or perhaps you’re simply being harder on yourself than anyone else,” he said. “Perhaps we see the truth better than you.”
She nodded, willing to let him win this argument.
“I’ll go and make that tea now,” she said.
He nodded, smiling again. A sweet and somber smile tugging at her heart.
“And afterward, go and prepare yourself to be a bride.”
At the door, she paused, and asked him the one question she’d come to ask.
“Tell me something about marital law,” she said.
“And what makes you think I know anything about marital law?” he asked.
Surprised, she could only look back at him. “I think you know a good bit about everything, Mr. Seath.”
His laughter was scratchy sounding, as if he’d rarely had a chance to use it.
“A charming woman offers to make me tea and tells me I’m wise. I truly thank you for coming to see me.”
He held up his hand, his fingers nearly skeletal. “Ask your question, Miss MacDonald,” he said. “If I do not know the answer, I shall endeavor to discover it for you.”
She should excuse herself now, go and make his tea, and have another maid bring it to him. Instead, she did the very worst thing she could possibly do. She asked him for the truth.
“If a man or woman is married under a false name,” she asked, “is the union legal?”
His gaze was steady.
“I cannot think it would be, Miss MacDonald. But I will consult with others before I render my judgment, shall I?”
She nodded, and escaped before he asked her any more questions.
Chapter 18
RULES FOR STAFF: Be respectful of the housekeeper’s position and obey her dictates. Show the same respect for the majordomo and steward.
Instead of being married at the kirk where they attended Sunday services, the tradition was for the Earls of Denbleigh to be wed at the small chapel attached to Ballindair’s East Wing. The décor of the chapel was plain, as if the Murderous MacCraigs, having decided their souls needed saving, dispensed with any trappings of their wealth—just in case God saw it and demanded a greater tithe. The benches in front of the wooden slab of the altar were hard and plain oak. No cushioned backsides for the MacCraig penitents.
The four stained-glass windows—the only concession to a religious atmosphere—weren’t of a spiritual theme, but demonstrated a few MacCraig lairds in the act of attempting to impress God. One laird washed the feet of his clan members. Another raised a sword against a large green monster—Satan or a mythical Highland creature? One tender scene showed a laird cradling his son with one hand, the other holding a sword pointed toward the earth.
The plate on the rough-hewn wood altar was hammered silver, two large discs resembling ornate coins. Jean wasn’t certain what they were used for, and this wasn’t the time to ask.
No guests had been invited to this wedding, but the staff of Ballindair occupied the pews. She would have preferred the ceremony be done in secret. The fewer people who witnessed this farce, the better.
The earl was wearing a kilt. Of course he’d be wearing a kilt. She just didn’t expect the oh so proper and English-sounding Earl of Denbleigh to look like a Murderous MacCraig. With his black hair tumbling across his forehead, his tailored jacket and red and black tartan kilt, he didn’t look very English—or as proper as he’d appeared on his first day back at Ballindair.
He was quite handsome, so much so that several of the women in the congregation could be heard to sigh.
The idea of bedding him, of even being next to him naked, filled her with a dry-mouthed terror. But beneath it was anticipation, warming and growing, trying to hide and woefully bad at it.
What did she know about bedding any man, let alone an earl? Let alone this earl?
Morgan’s hand felt warm, large, and strangely comforting. She placed her fingers on his palm and had a fleeting vision of grabbing his hand and racing from the chapel.
She didn’t dare look at the altar, for fear it might catch fire. God could not be happy about this day.
Behind her, in a place of honor, sat Aunt Mary and Catriona. Her sister had insisted on a new dress, and the seamstress and her staff labored long into the night to finish it. No doubt Catriona was the object of everyone’s stare. Jean had never seen her look so beautiful. She should be the bride. From the gaze eating through her back, evidently her sister felt the same way.
Aunt Mary was beaming, her happiness evident for anyone to see. Not only had her nieces ceased to be maids, but she’d been elevated in stature, simply because she was now related by marriage to the Earl of Denbleigh.
Mr. Seath was the only one who wasn’t smiling, and she knew why.
She met his gaze once. Strangely, he only nodded back at her. He’d not told anyone she’d come to him, or the question she asked. If he had, she wouldn’t be standing next to a tall and strong and handsome man, lying to God and all those assembled.
It was a wonder the ghosts of Ballindair weren’t present, especially the French Nun, moaning and groaning, or the Herald, issuing dire warnings of future disaster.
The Presbyterian minister nodded somberly at them, then escorted them to a small desk where Morgan signed his name before handing the pen to her. Her difficulty breathing wasn’t because the corset was laced tightly in order to fit her into the beautiful wedding dress. No, it was a guilty conscience and a healthy dose of fear. Fear of God, and fear of what might happen should anyone discover the truth.
The marriage ceremony was accomplished in a matter of minutes. She stood beside Morgan, her hand trembling in his. She repeated everything she was told to say, in a voice low enough not to be overheard by the assembled staff.
Only one bad moment occurred, when the minister called her by name. She blinked at him, feeling as if she stood on a precipice above Hell itself. Morgan looked at her curiously. She’d only shaken her head and repeated the vows under a name not her own.
Aunt Mary didn’t appear worried. Neither was Catriona.
Was she the only one who cared that tonight she’d indulge in sin?
And was that a shiver of anticipation?
His wedding to Lillian had been an Anglican service, with the whole of her family in attendance. His father had been dead a year, and he alone except for friends. Andrew was in attendance then, too.
At Ballindair, however, there was no trace of the Anglican service. The very Presbyterian minister officiated, scowling at him the whole time. After they repeated their vows, but before leaving the altar, Morgan withdrew the clan brooch from his pocket and pinned it on the collar of Jean’s dress. The red and black pattern of the MacCraig tartan looked good against the yellow fabric.
He nodded to Andrew, who stepped forward and bowed to Jean. In his hands was a replica of the first MacCraig sword ever carried into battle. By accepting the sword, as every MacCraig bride had—with the exception of Lillian—she acknowledged her entrance into the clan.
Andrew had agreed to do this duty for him, but his carefully expressionless face indicated his disapproval. So far as Morgan was concerned, as long as he didn’t voice his concerns, he could dislike this marriage all he wanted.
He didn’t want the kind of relationship Andrew had with his wife. She spent what she wanted, lived how she wanted, and was free of his interference in her life. Periodically, Andrew would return home, to greet the newest addition to his brood, or plant another child in his wife’s belly, before returning to London once again.
What kind of marriage would he and Jean have? They were still strangers, but he’d thought he knew Lillian, only to be startled by her true nature.
Jean spoke her mind and was very firm when she wanted to be, witness her protestations about their marriage. He still wanted to smile when thinking of her four objections.
He knew three things about his wife. She was intensely loyal to those she loved—witness her attempt to protect her sister, and that she’d nev
er told him the housekeeper was her aunt. She was curious about a great many things, especially the Ballindair ghosts, and had never been kissed. If she had, she wouldn’t have worn that look of startled awareness in the garden.
He watched her take up the sword in both hands.
“You’re now a MacCraig,” he said, in a voice loud enough to carry to the back of the chapel.
Not one person murmured or spoke.
The pipes swelled again, as they had when she entered the chapel, nearly sweeping every thought from her head. She bent to retrieve the sword, grateful her aunt had instructed her on the MacCraig wedding ceremony.
Once she straightened, Catriona stepped to her side, took the sword, then stepped back, leaving her and Morgan looking at each other.
He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on it and allowed him to lead her away from the altar.
“Your Ladyship . . .”
Jean stopped, not because of the oddness of the label, but because Morgan had laid his hand over hers.
A little boy with black hair and wide blue eyes was standing in the aisle, looking up at her. In his hands, he held a small pillow, and on the pillow rested a rusty horseshoe.
Abruptly, he thrust the pillow at her. Morgan gripped the horseshoe before it slipped to the ground.
“It’s for luck,” he said, handing it to her.
She almost laughed, but contained herself. Bending down, she thanked the little boy, and he bowed to her, an arm at his waist. How long had someone made him practice that?
Standing again, she gripped the horseshoe with a sweaty hand. She’d need more than luck. Perhaps it wouldn’t be amiss to say a prayer for divine intervention and forgiveness.
As they moved out of the chapel, Morgan stopped and grabbed two small drawstring bags from the shelf by the door. After handing one to Jean, he opened his, revealing hundreds of coins.
Gathering up a handful, the two of them walking again, he scattered them over the chapel steps and out into the courtyard.
“Is this for luck, too?” she asked, doing the same with her coins. Children clambered around them, the adults laughing and talking as they bent to retrieve as many coins as they could.
“It is,” he said. “The tradition is, whatever we give out will be returned to us throughout our marriage.”
She threw more coins, hoping they’d do something to offset the lie she’d just uttered.
Chapter 19
RULES FOR STAFF: Be punctual in rising and dutiful when seeking your bed.
Was she supposed to sit here, like a good little countess, and wait until Morgan came to take her virtue? Did women simply wait for the man? If she were brave, daring, and shocking like Catriona, she would go to the Laird’s Tower.
Could she do that? Did she even want to?
This whole business of a wedding night was a chore, something to be done before the rest of her life might proceed, a turnstile over which she must jump.
Should she feel differently because she knew she wasn’t truly married?
Perhaps Morgan wasn’t going to come to her at all. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Perhaps Mr. Seath had told him she wasn’t who she claimed to be.
Very well, she should count Morgan’s absence as a blessing, then. She would not be living in sin. She would not be perpetrating fraud against the earl or the inhabitants of Ballindair.
And she most certainly wouldn’t be the Countess of Denbleigh.
She stood, walked a path from the door to the fireplace and back to the door again.
Did men go through the same thing? Surely not. Surely a man’s first adventure at lovemaking was eminently easier. Were they afraid?
She honestly doubted Mr. Seath had said anything. She knew her aunt and Catriona had kept silent. Of them all, she was the only one tempted to tell the earl the truth, and as the hours passed, she realized it would be a hideous scandal to admit her identity now.
Did he intend to make her wait?
Had she misunderstood? Should she go to his room? That would be the act of the sacrificial lamb, wouldn’t it?
Your Lordship, I am here to divest myself of my virginity.
No, if he was going to take her maidenhead, he would have to come and fetch it.
She sat, folded her hands in her lap, her knees together, her feet perfectly aligned. There, the proper pose of a countess. Is that how they sat all the time? She relaxed a little, enough so her elbows touched the arms of the chair.
Tilting her head to one side, she surveyed the door and willed him to come to her.
Another quarter hour, and he still hadn’t arrived. Was she supposed to be asleep? Was she supposed to be awakened by Morgan, as if he were the prince in his French fairy tale? That hardly seemed right, either.
What a pity they couldn’t handle this matter with more practicality. He would come to her door; she would let him in, and they would be about this business of making her a wife.
What a pity she couldn’t just offer up her virginity to him on a silver salver with a card attached. From your wife to my husband.
He would examine it, then store it somewhere where he could take it out to periodically look at it.
What would virginity look like—a small gold star, perhaps? Or a little statue of Aphrodite?
If she listened to Catriona, she would think being with a man was all instinct. There had been something intrinsically wrong with her younger sister lecturing her about lovemaking.
“You don’t need to worry,” Catriona had said earlier that night. “I’m sure the earl is a kind and generous lover.”
Shocked, she’d wordlessly stared at her sister.
“According to Andrew, the earl cut a wide swath through the women in London. Not as wide as Andrew, of course.”
Jean remained silent because Catriona had managed to steal the words from her mind.
“I promised Father,” she finally said. “I promised him I would look after you.”
“And you have. Perfectly,” Catriona said. “You’ve been as maternal as any mother hen.”
“I haven’t,” Jean said, shaking her head. “I haven’t, if you know anything about lovers. If you know enough to discuss a man’s prowess.”
Catriona faced her, hands on her hips. “What shall I do, sister? Lie to you?” She fluttered her lashes and pasted a simpering smile on her face. “I am as virtuous as you, dear Jean. I have never lain with a man. I have never known the meaning of passion. I do not scream a man’s name when he brings me pleasure. I do not like to have my breasts suckled. And I don’t enjoy kissing.”
Once again Catriona had shocked her.
“Are those lies good enough?” Catriona smiled, a genuinely sweet smile.
If her sister could manufacture that expression so easily, how many other times had she been deceived by her?
“Anything I’d say would sound foolish, Catriona. I’m only sad you gave yourself away so freely.”
Amazingly, Catriona’s expression was one of humor.
“I agree,” she said. “I was going to only settle for an earl, but my sister tricked me. I was left with a mere mister.”
When Jean remained stunned and silent, Catriona bent to kiss her on the cheek, then left the room.
Two hours had passed. What was the reason for Morgan’s delay? Was there some ritual a new bridegroom had to endure? Another horrible thought occurred to her: They wouldn’t be coming to her room in a procession, would they? Morgan, Andrew, and the piper?
She went to find her cloak. Anything to make her feel less mentally and physically exposed as she felt at the moment.
The seamstress had provided her with a nightgown and matching wrapper, the color a pale yellow and the fabric entirely too diaphanous. Now, with her cloak, she felt a little more proper.
How much longer was she going to have to wait?
She opened the door of the Countess’s Suite and stood there, staring down the empty hall. Should she go to him?
She stood outside her roo
m for several minutes. If she turned left and went down the main staircase, she could intersect the corridor leading to the Laird’s Tower. If she turned right, she could take the stairs to the Long Gallery.
The French Nun better not whisper a warning to her tonight, when it was days too late. The time for advice had been when she tried to save her sister, an act for which she’d only been punished.
Catriona hadn’t wanted to be saved, and that was the true irony of this entire situation.
For an hour Morgan argued with himself. This marriage needed to be different from the beginning. He was not going to be a doting husband. He was not going to be enamored with his wife to the exclusion of his common sense. He was not going to be in love.
No, this union was for an entirely different purpose.
He expected absolute loyalty from Jean, as well as fidelity. That was not too much to ask, given he’d raised her in status and his wealth was at her disposal.
He had no intention of going to her room like some besotted idiot, grateful for her compliance. He was not going to be eager. Perhaps it would be better if he dispensed with the wedding night entirely, poured himself one of his favorite whiskeys and read a good book.
No, it would be better if she came to him. However, given her stricken look at their wedding, he had his doubts that she would.
Would she consider bedding him to be payment for his kindness and generosity? He doubted that, too. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have argued against the marriage.
He waited another hour before he was certain she wasn’t going to come to him, then went to the Countess’s Suite. After the first knock, he was annoyed. The second had him irritated. When he opened the door, it was to find his new bride wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She wasn’t waiting for him in bed. She wasn’t even in the room.
Damned if his wife wasn’t missing.
Clouds scurried overhead, revealing a full moon, then hiding it, then exposing it again like a maiden flirting behind a fan. The tops of the trees, emerald turned to ebony by night, shivered in the restless wind.
