by Julia London
Nineteen
A s summer slid into early autumn, and the days grew cooler and shorter, Mared had become accustomed to living at Eilean Ros. She’d found a happy balance with Rodina and Una, helping out where she could without compromising her promise to never serve the laird Douglas. She’d even managed to befriend Beckwith somewhat, who had, since Payton’s illness, seemed to have developed a newfound respect for her.
She took long walks about the estate, usually accompanied by Cailean, Payton’s sheepdog. Sometimes she’d see Payton ride out on Murdoch, bent over the horse’s neck, pushing hard, as if he sought to escape. Other times she’d see his grand coach roll by, bound for God knew where. But he was, she noted, always alone.
When Cailean gave birth to pups that looked suspiciously like her dog at Talla Dileas, Mared delighted in the puppies and with the neckcloths she’d removed from the milk cows, she made little collars for them.
One day, when she was playing with the litter of pups, Payton walked out to the stables accompanied by the coachman. He paused when he saw her at the kennel with the puppies and strode over to have a look. She smiled as one of the puppies climbed over the toe of his boot.
Payton smiled, too, but as he looked down, the smile slowly faded, and he leaned down, squinting at them. “What…are those my neckcloths?” he asked incredulously.
Mared smiled pertly and picked up one of the fattest puppies, holding him to her neck to coo in his ear. “They are indeed. Ye said the cows were no’ to wear them. Ye said nothing of puppies.” She gave him a sly smile and turned and walked deeper into the kennel, leaving Payton to stare at eight puppies with purple collars.
While Payton grew noticeably stronger and more robust with each day, Mared worked to convince herself that she was merely biding her time until her year was up and refused to acknowledge that she did, in fact, long to see him each day. She likewise refused to acknowledge that during that late stretch of day that struggled into evening, she caught herself looking for him everywhere—in his study, the salon, the stables. The drawing room, the billiard room, the gardens.
She told herself the circuitous path she took through the long corridors of Eilean Ros was to check the rooms under her charge.
On the occasions she did see him—in the corridor, perhaps, or standing in the door of a room she was tending—she could feel the strength of his gray gaze, could feel it sink into her, its talons gripping her heart and lungs, then stretching down to the deepest part of her to drag up a jumbled heap of emotions. She could never hold his gaze for very long, for the depth of it oddly frightened her, made her feel more vulnerable than she’d ever felt in her life.
Yet she continued to seek him.
The one place she saw him routinely was the dining room. Night after night she’d walk quietly by that open door, and night after night she’d see him there, sitting alone in the vast room with no company but Alan against the wall, his supper laid on expensive china and silver, his wineglass full. The light of six candles flickering in the cavernous room.
He seemed to Mared to be the loneliest man in all of Scotland.
Almost a month had passed since Payton had survived the fever—which, thankfully, had not spread beyond the master brewer’s cottage. Life had returned to normal.
One night, Mared was in her room, seated on the edge of her lumpy bed, darning her old stockings and idly wondering how many more months she might make use of them, when there was a knock at her door.
Rodina or Una, she gathered. The two were constantly seeking advice on one thing or another. “Come, then,” she called cheerfully, without looking up, and continued to darn her stockings.
The door opened slowly; she barely spared it a glance. “What is it now?” she asked airily. “Mr. Beckwith has made you sullen, aye? Or another lad has turned yer head.”
“I should hope neither.”
He startled her so badly that Mared stuck herself with the needle. She awkwardly gained her feet and forgot the bloody stockings, forgot everything, and nervously tried to straighten her old green gown as she quickly surveyed her tiny room.
“I beg yer pardon, I didna mean to disturb ye—”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “I was…was repairing…” Repairing her stockings? She thought she’d keep that to herself and let her voice trail off as she forced herself to look at him.
Diah, but he looked fully recovered—strong and vital and terribly, terribly alluring. He was dressed to go out. His hair was neatly combed over his collar. His navy coat was superfine—she knew because Grif had come home from London with something similar, a coat made of an exquisite cloth. He wore gray trousers and a gray silk waistcoat heavily embroidered with dark blue thread, and his neckcloth, naturally, was perfectly pressed, thanks to Rodina.
He quite literally made her pulse leap to her throat, made the blood rush to her temples and pound like a drum, for she’d not seen him look so…healthy…in weeks.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her damp palms on the side of her gown as Payton just stood there, gazing at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable. She felt ridiculously apprehensive—since when could this man make her feel like a blushing maiden? “Was there something ye required?” she asked, privately cursing herself for sounding so breathless.
“No,” he said softly and stepped into the room, slowly closing the door at his back. He leaned against it as his gaze traveled down the length of her and up again. His gaze felt blistering, scorching. She’d seen this look before, recognized the desire in it, and suddenly believed he’d come to tell her he would have her in his bed. Unthinkingly, Mared stepped backward.
Her movement seemed to shake him from his thoughts; he glanced at the threadbare rug, then lifted his eyes again. “Ye should have a warm rug.”
“It is warm enough.”
But he was shaking his head. “No. A warm rug.” He looked at her again. “I’ve come to remind ye about Kinlochmore, and I will require ye to attend with me.”
Mared’s heart dipped. She thought he’d forgotten or reconsidered his decree that she would accompany him to his cousin’s wedding ceilidh. Certainly he hadn’t mentioned it since she’d written his reply to his cousin more than a month ago. She had a sudden image of herself surrounded by dozens of Douglases, the whispers of her curse spreading like fire, the looks of censure, the disdain for her name. “No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “No.”
A lock of dark sandy hair had fallen over his eye, and he looked so very different now, as if it pained him to tell her this. “I need ye with me, Mared,” he said quietly. “I’ll consent to bringing one of the maids along so that ye may rest assured of yer virtue. But I need ye with me.”
“Please donna ask this of me. Please, Payton,” she begged him. “I’ll be humiliated—”
“No! I’ll no’ allow that to happen, on my life. But I…” He tore his gaze from her, looked at the ceiling, ran a hand over his hair, then abruptly pushed away from the door, walked to her bureau. “I must have ye there. That is my decision.”
“But I—”
“’Tis no’ open to debate,” he said evenly.
Mared gaped at him, her mind whirling, and Payton turned from the bureau. “We will depart Monday morning at dawn, then. Choose one of the maids to travel with ye, aye?”
“Mi Diah, ye are a bastard,” she whispered.
The muscle in his jaw flexed, but Payton said nothing; it seemed to Mared that he did not know what to do or say. He sighed and lowered his head, looked at her from beneath his lashes, his lips pursed.
“What?” she asked angrily. “What is it ye would say?”
“I need ye in Kinlochmore, and that is final.”
Mared glared at him.
“Good night.” He walked to the door of her room and opened it. With one last look at her, he stepped out and shut the door.
“Bloody hell,” Mared whispered and sank onto her lumpy bed, staring at the wall, her mind racing ahead to the horror of a Do
uglas wedding ceilidh deep in the Highlands.
That Sunday, at Talla Dileas, Mared, Ellie, Natalie, and Anna, who in her pregnancy had grown as big as a walrus, stared at the gowns spread on Anna’s bed. “They’re all lovely,” Mared said. “Where did ye get them, then?”
“My sister Bette sent them after last Season.”
“They are a wee bit fancy for the likes of the Douglases,” Mared muttered as she sorted through them.
“Will you tell us all what he said once more?” Natalie asked, looking wistfully at the gowns.
Ellie smiled at her daughter. “Natalie’s head is full of romance, thanks to several books she found in the library and Anna’s penchant for telling stories.”
“Well, it is rather romantic,” Anna said dreamily. “A handsome lord takes a lowly wench to a mountain castle.”
“The opinion of this wench is that it is no’ the least bit romantic. ’Tis servitude,” Mared said morosely.
“Not even a little romantic?” Natalie asked hopefully.
“No’ even a wee bit, lass. ‘Tis no’ romance when one is ordered about like a dog.”
Anna laughed, but stopped at once when Mared turned a pointed gaze on her.
“What precisely did he say?” Ellie asked, her brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
Mared sighed impatiently. “He said that he needed me to be with him. That I should take one of the maids to guard my virtue, but that he needed me there.”
“Ooh,” Anna and Natalie sighed at once.
“Ach, ye’d find romance in nothing more than the morning mist!” she scoffed at the two of them.
“But he loves you, Auntie Mared,” Natalie insisted.
“He doesna love me, Nattie, or he’d no’ ask this of me.”
“He does, Mared,” Anna said. “You can’t possibly deny it.”
With a shrug, Mared picked up the blue silk and held it up to her as she stood before the old mirror.
“Oh, that’s lovely, isn’t it, Ellie?” Anna said, and to Mared, “Try it on.”
Mared, who was already in her chemise having tried on a coral-colored dress that they all agreed made her look sickly, stepped into the pale blue silk and struggled to pull it up. “It’s rather tight,” she said.
“Natalie, be a love and fetch a needle and thread,” Anna said. “Blue thread.”
“Yes, mu’um,” Natalie said politely and skipped to the door and out as Anna came to stand behind Mared, admiring Mared’s reflection. “Oh, Mared. You look beautiful. He won’t believe his eyes when he sees you in this.”
“You should carry a kerchief so that you might mop up his drool,” Ellie added, and the two of them giggled.
“I’m happy that ye can laugh,” Mared said petulantly as Ellie tried to button the back of the gown.
“Don’t be silly,” Anna said, pushing the cap sleeves off her shoulders. “We adore you, Mared. We want you to be happy. We just think that you are perhaps denying what is in your heart.”
Had they been speaking to Donalda? “What is in my heart is that I shouldna march into the midst of so many Douglases.”
In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Ellie and Anna exchange a glance with one another. Then Ellie stepped forward, put her hands on Mared’s shoulders. “Mared. He’s a fine man. It doesn’t matter in the least that his last name is Douglas. What matters is that he adores you completely. Do you know how many women there are in this world who would give all that they had for a husband who adores them?”
“Husband!” Mared cried, shocked.
“Here’s a piece of advice, darling,” Anna added, her head popping into view over Mared’s right shoulder. “Allow him to make love to you before you commit to marrying him.”
“What?” Mared cried, whirling around. “Have the two of ye gone completely daft, then? Marry him? Make love with him? What madness!”
“Don’t be so prudish,” Ellie said cavalierly. “It’s just that…compatibility in the marital bed is very important, and as you have nothing to lose—stop looking at me like that will you? You’ve nothing to lose! From your very own lips hath come a vow to never marry!” Ellie insisted, touching Mared’s lips with her fingertip. “Do you truly intend to go to your grave a virgin?”
Mared could feel the heat rising rapidly in her neck and face and looked down at her gown. “I intend to go to Edinburgh and live my life. I deserve that chance.”
“Of course you do,” Anna said soothingly. “But in the absence of that opportunity, you’ll be here, and you’ve very few chances for remedy, isn’t that so?”
It was so. Mared groaned and looked at the gorgeous blue silk. “But what of my virtue? Would ye have me throw it away?”
“Of course not,” Ellie said sternly and grabbed Mared by the shoulders and turned her around to face the mirror again. “You must always guard your virtue, for it is all a young woman has. Just don’t guard it too closely, or you will become quite miserable and spinsterly and lose any hope of ever experiencing a man’s physical desire for you.”
“And that, Mared, is one of the most sublime pleasures on this earth,” Anna added. “Don’t allow it to pass you by.”
“Ye’re both as mad as hens,” Mared said, but she was looking at herself in the blue silk, thinking.
They managed to fasten it, and while she could scarcely breathe, she realized that she looked pretty, as pretty as she’d ever been. And while she might deny it to the entire world, she could not deny to herself her curiosity about men and their love and, well, how Payton would react when he saw her in this gown, and how…how he might go about making love to her….
When Natalie returned with the needle and thread, they made a few hasty adjustments that would allow Mared to breathe, then fussed over her undergarments until they were quite certain she had everything she needed for a night of bliss. Only then did the three of them descend to the main salon where the rest of the family was gathered.
Duncan lay on a blanket near the hearth with the puppy Mared had brought him. Natalie attempted to play the pianoforte, but it was terribly out of tune, and since leaving London, her lessons had fallen by the wayside. But they endured her determined efforts all the same, nodding and smiling politely.
They were just about to retire to the dining room when Dudley walked into the room carrying a tarnished tray, on which there was a letter. “A messenger, sir, from Laird Munroe.”
“Munroe?” Carson muttered, and took the letter, broke the seal, and scanned the page. “Ach,” he said after a moment and flicked his wrist dismissively.
“What is it, Father?” Grif asked.
Carson frowned darkly and looked at Mared. “A wee bit of rubbish. Munroe claims to have seen MacAlister. Says he’s about in the lowlands.”
Grif quickly strode to where his father was sitting and took the missive.
“But this is wonderful news!” Aila cried.
“No!” Carson said sharply. “We’ve gone down more rabbit holes than a bloody rabbit! The bastard is no’ in Scotland, and he’ll never return to Scotland. No, mo ghraidh, he’s living quite high on the hog at our expense in some foreign land.”
“Aye,” Grif said, nodding as he folded the letter, having read it. “That is undoubtedly true, Father. But we canna ignore any rumor that he’s returned.”
Carson shrugged. “I’ll no’ raise our Mared’s hopes again. He’s no’ come back to Scotland, and he never will.”
He looked at Mared. She smiled reassuringly at her father, for she had resigned herself to that truth several weeks ago.
Twenty
T he weather held for the journey deeper into the Highlands, and the Douglas party from Eilean Ros arrived at the tiny village of Kinlochmore in two days’ time. Another mile and they reached the old castle on the banks of Loch Leven, surrounded by the Mamore Forest.
The castle was typical of highland fortresses, built high against a hill. About half of the old castle wall was still intact, along which carriages and carts were parked and servants
were carrying in the luggage of guests. There were two towers anchoring the structure at the west and east ends, and between them stretched a massive stone structure that housed the great room, the dining hall, and various old chambers turned into sitting rooms and parlors.
Entrance to the main living area was made across a narrow bridge which led into an even narrower and dark corridor that had once served to keep invading enemies from entering in droves. It was the same sort of entrance as the one at Talla Dileas, and in fact, the only difference between this old castle and Talla Dileas was that Talla Dileas had been expanded over the centuries, so that now it was a peculiar mix of architectural styles and different kinds of stone.
It was along those narrow corridors that Mared and Una were led by a very congenial footman, who had, apparently, caught Una’s eye, judging by the way she giggled and hurried to stay beside him.
Mared followed stoically behind, carrying her own luggage, watching carefully where she stepped, for she knew from her own home that years of foot traffic had worn down some of the stones and made them treacherous.
They walked along, Una chattering like a magpie, the friendly footman pointing out various features of the old castle, including the dungeon, which he found particularly amusing, until they reached a narrow curl of stairway that rose up. Mared struggled to fit herself and the luggage within that narrow space, until they reached a small landing. There was a door to their right and another corridor stretching out to their left.
“Here ye are, lassies,” the footman said, and opened the door, gesturing for them to precede him through. Una and Mared walked into the small, circular tower room. The ceiling was low and beamed with thick slabs of wood; the walls were made of stone. There was a single bed, big enough for two. A worn Aubusson carpet covered the flagstone floor, a vanity and bureau were near the hearth, and a pair of narrow windows looked out over the Mamore Forest.
“’Tis lovely,” Una said, her fingers trailing across an old tapestry that covered a wall.
