by Amanda Scott
Needing time to think before confronting him with his misdeed, she grasped at the straw. “You know I can read, sir. You might have written.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “I should have done. There just never seemed to be time, what with dancing attendance on Jamie one moment and flitting hither and yon the next. But I ought to have known you’d be lonely, cooped up here as you were. Geordie tells me you’ve scarcely ridden outside the gates at all.”
“I do not like being followed everywhere I go by a host of armed guards.”
“Well, I’ll make it up to you then. Would you like to ride with me this afternoon?”
She nearly refused out of pique before an idea came to her, flashing into her mind so brilliantly as to be almost blinding. She knew at once how she could punish him, and the justice of it nearly made her smile. Instead, she looked up innocently through her lashes at him and said, “Aye, sir. I fear you must think you have returned to a shrew. Perhaps I do need a diversion. May we go into the village again? I-I need to purchase some embroidery silks,” she invented swiftly.
His relief evident, Douglas agreed readily. “Valiant will be glad of the exercise. Geordie tells me he’s been moping.”
Her face fell. She had not considered Valiant; the stallion was too well trained by half for her purpose. She thought quickly. “Could we not take the horse cart, Adam, like we did before?”
Laughing, he admitted that sitting in the cart might be a relief after nearly two weeks in the saddle. “And is that all?”
“Oh yes…that is…”
“Well?”
“No escort?” Eyeing him beseechingly, she held her breath.
When Douglas threw back his head and laughed loud and long, Mary Kate regarded him with no little trepidation, fearing he had somehow managed to read her thoughts. But at last he said, “Oh, lassie, you have been cross. Not accustomed to having your movements curtailed, are you?” When she shook her head with a smile—had he but known it, one of profound relief—he said, “Ah, sweetheart, I know my absence must have been difficult for you, but Geordie says you have been very good, so today we’ll do as you wish. But first I must eat. Come dine with me.”
Mary Kate agreed at once, and when they went downstairs, she led the way to the new dining parlor, where places had already been set for their meal.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
She explained, and he was as pleased as she had hoped he would be, saying that wives were undeniably useful creatures. He was spared an acid retort only by the prompt entrance of a maidservant with their dinner, which turned Mary Kate’s thoughts once more, inevitably, to the cook. She decided the cittern-headed old trot would suppose her day had been turned upside down and inside out by now. Hiding a smile, she wished she could tell Douglas what she was thinking, for she knew the joke would tickle his ready sense of humor. But in order to tell him, she would have to betray her awareness of Susan Kennedy’s condition, and she had no wish to do that just yet.
She realized, as she watched him devouring his food with gusto, that she was glad to have him home. He had done only what men did, after all. Perhaps, now that she thought about it, he had not done anything so dreadful. But no, she told herself, the incident was a clear example of the sort of thing she meant to put an end to, and when she thought of Susan again, resentment welled up within her. The seduction itself was perhaps a moot point, considering border tradition, Douglas’s masculinity, and the fact that he had been unmarried at the time, but for him to flaunt the results of that seduction under her very eyes was unforgivable. She must and would punish him for that, and in a most satisfactory way, one that would see her revenged upon him in more ways than one.
8
DOUGLAS WAS READY TO leave as soon as he’d finished his meal, saying he didn’t wish to chance being on the road after dark. He had sent word to the stables, so the cart was ready, and they were soon off. While he drove, he regaled her with gossip from Edinburgh, mentioning that he had seen his sister Margaret there and had paid his respects to Lady Aberfoyle.
“I even met his lordship. No one ever mentioned his existence before. I had thought your aunt must be a widow.”
“Oh, no,” she said, laughing, “but Uncle William is never much thought of, I fear. Even Father is surprised to see him when he accompanies Aunt on her visits. She rules the roast, I promise you.”
“I don’t doubt that. She scared me silly. Don’t giggle. She’s a tartar, a truly redoubtable old woman.”
“Good God, sir, don’t let Aunt hear you call her ‘old.’ ‘Redoubtable’ she would appreciate, but never ‘old.’ Did she like you?”
“I believe so.” He grinned. “She scolded me fiercely for our hasty wedding. Said Duncan must have mismanaged everything in the worst way. But when I pointed out that a court wedding was out of the question at the moment, she pounced on what she calls Jamie’s ‘false mourning.’ By the time she had finished reviling him, she was applauding my good judgment in having avoided his presence at our wedding.”
Mary Kate chuckled. “My, you did get on well with her.”
“Well, I think so.” He told her more about his journey, and she noted quickly that he told her little of substance about what he had done, only bits and pieces about people he had seen, hardships he had endured, and anecdotes he had heard; so it was easy to let him ramble on, answering only when necessary, while she savored her own plans.
Some time later her attention was caught again when he mentioned his sister. “Margaret is to be married the end of next month, you know,” he said. “The timing is excellent, since the meeting of the border lords takes place about ten days afterward. We’ll go to Edinburgh well before the wedding, of course. I thought you might like to spend a month or two there.”
“Oh, Adam,” she exclaimed, “to think that I was disappointed at not being able to spend a month in the city with Aunt Aberfoyle! It will be much more fun with you. Shall we go to parties, and shall I meet the king?”
“Easy, lass.” He grinned at her delight. “My plans are not yet settled. First you must meet my lady mother, and she will not wish to wait until Margaret’s wedding day for that.”
“Then your mother is well enough now to travel?”
“Aye. She is still too weak, Margaret says, to manage all the planning, but Margaret is now with my aunt and uncle from Braelairig and will be married from Ardcarach House. All my mother need do is to enjoy the company. But she wants to meet you at once.”
“Then we must go to Strachan Court. When?”
“Well, today is Tuesday.” He calculated swiftly. “How does a week from today suit you?”
“Perfectly.” She was silent again, her mind on the promised visits. “I like Margaret,” she said a few moments later.
“I, too.”
“Do you think she will be happy with a man like Sir Patrick? Though she said he’s border-bred, he sounds something of a weak old meacock to me.”
“The devil he is!” he exclaimed. “Where the deuce did you get the damned-fool notion that Patrick is either weak or effeminate?”
“Well,” she said, “Margaret told me that he is much older than she is and that he always lets her have her own way, so he must be a weaker man than most.”
“Patrick Ferguson is only a year older than I am,” Douglas declared indignantly. “We were at university together in Edinburgh. And as for ‘weak,’ I’d say he is mild of manner, perhaps, but he manages Margaret well enough.”
“But if she always has her own way—”
“Nonsense. I have seen him bring her out of her altitudes with a quirk of his eyebrow. He is not temperamental, but he does know his own mind. I think you will like him.”
“Oh.” Privately she retained her doubts, thinking that Douglas was merely defending an old friend. Perhaps she would like Sir Patrick, but she couldn’t imagine Margaret’s exuberant spirits being quelled by any man’s eyebrow.
Sight of the village ahead reminded her of the purpose of
their outing. Soon Douglas would be brought to realize at last that his own wife was not to be so easily managed. He would learn that it behooved him neither to dictate to her nor to flaunt his cast-off women beneath her nose. Thoughts of Strachan Court and Edinburgh retreated, and she fairly quivered with the anticipation of sweet revenge.
They left the cart near the draper’s again and wandered from shop to shop. Mary Kate purchased some hairpins and various other unnecessary items before they returned to visit with Michael Scott and his wife, Sybil, a buxom, fair-haired young woman with bright blue eyes and a dusting of freckles across her nose. Mary Kate, remembering her expressed need for embroidery silks, asked Sybil to help her make a selection.
“Since we are here,” Douglas said, smiling, “why do you not have a look at some fabrics as well. You will be wanting a new gown for the wedding.” He turned to Scott. “Have you something suitable for my lady?”
Michael Scott shook his head. “Not in the shop, sir, but there be a shipment coming, end o’ the week.” He smiled at Mary Kate. “What stirs your fancy, m’lady?”
She turned to her husband. “The wedding is to be very grand, is it not?”
“Aye, in the Abbey Kirk at Holyrood,” he replied, “since Jamie himself has agreed to honor the occasion and since the Calvinists object to the use of the Chapel Royal.”
Sybil Scott, who had been eyeing Mary Kate thoughtfully, said, “Green would suit ye doon tae the ground, m’lady. I expect our Michael could acquire some lovely Venetian silk.”
Mary Kate glanced at Douglas. “Could we, sir? And perhaps cloth of silver for the bodice and over-skirt?”
He shook his head. “Not silver cloth—not at Holyrood. Dress restrictions are still enforced in the city, lass, and even an earl’s wife does better these days not to appear in public in gold or silver cloth. A lot of the common folk will gather to see everyone emerge after the ceremony, and Jamie’s got troubles enough without your adding to them.”
“But I wore silver cloth for our wedding.”
“In the highlands,” he reminded her, “and it was your mother’s gown, not a new one. To flaunt such stuff in Edinburgh where the Calvinists hold sway would be most unwise.”
Her face fell. “What then? Must I wear wool to my chin?”
Sybil chuckled and began to wrap the silks they had selected in brown paper. “’Twould be a shame tae case sae bonny a lady in wool, sir. Lace would be a better choice, I’m thinking. Top-o’-the-milk-cream color over that green silk would be right fetching. Wi’ a lovely high ruff tae frame her bonny face. D’ye sew, m’lady?”
Mary Kate hesitated. “I suppose I sew well enough, but I have no hand for cutting or patterning,” she admitted, accepting her parcel from the cheerful young woman.
“Never mind the pattern,” Michael Scott put in with a smile. “Sybil has pictures of the new French and English fashions. You just choose what you will, and she can help wi’ the rest if you like, or perhaps…” He glanced at Douglas. “What about Elspeth Kennedy, sir? She was used to sew for your lady mother, and I’m told she likes to keep her hand in.”
Mary Kate drew a quick breath at hearing the name Kennedy, but Douglas didn’t notice. He was frowning thoughtfully.
“’Tis a good notion,” he said. “I’ve small opinion of Kennedy. He’s a harsh man and uses his wife and daughters ill. But I like Elspeth, and she can use the gelt. We’ll speak to her.”
Lost in her own thoughts, Mary Kate heard no more of their conversation. No doubt, she decided, Elspeth Kennedy was Susan’s mother, but how like Douglas to make such a decision without so much as consulting her wishes. It was no more than what one might expect.
Her resolve strengthened by the exchange, she readily agreed when Douglas said they must leave. They left the draper’s with Michael Scott’s assurance that he would send a message to the castle when the fabrics arrived. Mary Kate waited until Douglas had turned the cart toward home. Then, with a hasty shuffle through her packages, she flung up a hand in dismay.
“Oh, Adam, I’ve left a parcel. ’Tis the hairpins. I must have left them on the counter in the chandlery, for I remember setting them down to look at those queer rose-shaped candles. ’Tis a small brown packet. Will you be so very kind as to fetch it for me, please?”
He gave her a look of husbandly reproach, because the candlemaker’s shop was at the far end of the village. It was not, however, far enough away to be worth the trouble of twice more turning the cart in the narrow roadway, so he obligingly handed her the reins and jumped down to do her bidding.
Mary Kate watched him go with smiling satisfaction, grateful for the nearly empty road. Except for an ancient crone walking with her market basket and a middle-aged shopkeeper taking his ease on his front stoop, there was no one in sight. She was certain Douglas would have sent a boy to run the errand had he but seen one.
He disappeared into the candlemaker’s, and Mary Kate watched over her shoulder, nerves atingle, until he reappeared on the threshold with her parcel. Then she slapped the reins sharply and, as the startled horse began to lurch forward, shouted back at the top of her voice, “Enjoy your walk, Douglas, and give a thought to Susan when next you speak of Kennedys!” She caught a fleeting glimpse of astounded fury before her attention was demanded by her horse’s rapidly increasing gait.
Filled with exhilaration by the success of her plan, she set a wicked pace, bouncing and jolting nearly all the way to the castle. The poor horse was blowing hard when she drove up the last hill and into the yard, his condition causing her to give brief thanks for the fact that Geordie Elliot was nowhere in sight. Flinging her reins to a skinny, red-headed, wide-eyed groom, she ordered him to have someone carry her parcels inside, then hurried up the spiral stairway to her sitting room, pausing only long enough to send a gillie to fetch Susan Kennedy. After all, she decided, her triumph ought to be shared, and who better to share it than Susan? Had she not suffered, too? For Douglas to have left the poor young woman to face his wife alone was but another example of his heedless arrogance.
When Susan presented herself some few moments later, Mary Kate was hugging herself with delight. “Oh, Susan, you’ll never guess what I’ve gone and done!”
Susan looked rested and responded with a smile. “What then, mistress? Ye do look right pleased.”
“I am.” Mary Kate’s eyes sparkled. “I have paid him back for the both of us. I left him to walk all the way home from Tornary village.”
Susan gasped. “Ye’ve done what, mistress?”
“There, I knew I’d surprise you.” She executed a skipping dance step. “’Tis the perfect punishment, for he left me to walk home once, and the distance was nearly as far.”
“Ye came away home wi’oot the master?” Susan’s mouth fell open with shock when she finally took in the full meaning of her mistress’s words.
“Aye, I did.” Mary Kate hugged herself again with glee. “I will teach him to have a care for my wrath. We had the cart, and I just drove off and left him standing like a market cross in the roadway. Oh, the look on his face! I do wish you had seen him.”
“But, m’lady—mistress, please listen—he will be fit to spit fire! Oh, mistress, ’tis small wonder he didn’t catch ye up on the road.” The maid shook her head, muttering, “He’ll be ripe for murder, he will.”
“But how should he have caught me, afoot as he was?” Mary Kate demanded, ignoring Susan’s final comment for the simple reason that she had not heard it.
“Och, mistress, there be horses aplenty in the village, and he be the master. He could ha’ taken any one o’ them.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Mary Kate admitted slowly. “I wonder why he didn’t catch me, then.”
Face to face with Susan’s alarm, she began to recognize the enormity of what she had done. Once the idea for revenge had come to her, she had acted with her usual impulsiveness and without considering all the possible ramifications. She had known Douglas would be angry, but she had thought he
would see humor and a certain ironic justice in what she had done. Now she wasn’t at all sure of that. At least, she reassured herself, she hadn’t lied to him. She had left a parcel in the shop, purposely, of course, but she had left it. And, although he had warned her against lying, he had never said anything about leaving him stranded. No sooner had that thought crossed her mind, however, than it was followed by the uncomfortable memory of what he had said about airing her grievances in public. She tried to convince herself that the village roadway hadn’t been all that public, but…
“You think he will be really angry, don’t you, Susan?” Triumph had evaporated. Her voice was small.
“Aye, mistress.”
“What will he do?” She didn’t wait for the answer she saw forming itself on Susan’s lips. “Never mind. ’Tis enough that I have put him in a rage. He may decide not to let me go to Edinburgh for his sister’s wedding next month, or he may punish me more severely.” She swallowed hard. “He may even b-beat me.”
Douglas had threatened her often enough, she remembered belatedly. Her face paled when she recalled not only his comments to Duncan about her petticoats but also the suggestive flick of his riding whip against his leg, the day he left her to walk home, when he had warned her not to put him to the trouble of fetching her.
Susan was nodding slowly. “Aye, he may be angry enough,” she agreed. “But perhaps he will not.”
“He will. Oh, I know he will!” Mary Kate tried to stifle rising panic in order to think clearly, but memory intruded, memory of the casual threat Douglas had made before leaving for Edinburgh when he had warned her against attempting to countermand his orders. His tone at the time had been light, but it occurred to her now that she had not doubted his sincerity. “He will if I am here. I must get away. Quickly, Susan, run to the stables, or send a gillie—you will be too slow. Order them to saddle Sesi at once, and you’d better say I want a groom for just a very short ride, or Elliot won’t allow it. Quickly, now, haste!”
