The Border Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  Gillespie hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Mary Kate. His right hand still hovered near his sword.

  “Please go, sir,” she begged.

  He shrugged. “Very well, my lady, since you ask it of me, but the outcome of a match between us might not be as he predicts, you know. I am accounted an excellent swordsman.” He glowered at Douglas.

  “For the love of God, Gillespie, have done with these airs of false nobility and go. She is my wife. I won’t murder her.”

  Mary Kate was not so certain of that and watched Gillespie’s departure with misgiving. But whether she desired to be or not, a moment later she was alone with her husband.

  “What in the name of Christ do you mean, coming out here with that fellow?” he demanded before Gillespie was out of sight.

  She gathered herself to meet his wrath with as much dignity as she could muster. “I made a mistake, sir.”

  “You’re damned right you made a mistake,” he retorted. “Gillespie is naught but a hanger-on, a man who trades on his father’s position with the king. Indeed, were it not for his father, he would not so much as cross my threshold, for he’s a scoundrel with a reputation from here to John O’Groats, and you have no business to be private with him anywhere, madam, let alone in your own garden with Jamie himself nearby.”

  He had the right of it. She knew he was right, that his reaction this time was not the result of mere borderer’s possessiveness. Nevertheless, she had to try to make him understand her reasons.

  “I said I made a mistake, sir. I was angry because you were flirting, so I accepted his invitation, but I know right well that I must not make your behavior an excuse for my own. I shall avoid his company in future.” She held out her hand to him. “Please, Adam, I know it was wrong and I shan’t do it again, so can you not forgive me?”

  Though he ignored her hand, the wind had gone out of the sails of his anger. His mouth opened only to shut again. Then his eyes narrowed. “You were kissing him.”

  “No, I swear it. You saw!”

  “Aye, I saw you,” he agreed grimly. In two strides he was upon her, his hands gripping her shoulders. “I saw that he had his arms around you, and I saw that you weren’t putting up much of a fight. But if it’s kissing you want, madam, you will have to make do with mine, for I do not share my possessions.”

  With that his lips came down hard upon hers. Then his arms went around her, crushing her against him until she could scarcely breathe. She struggled briefly, but he only held her closer, and his kiss became more searching, less bruising, as his tongue probed for passage between her teeth. In nearly automatic defiance of his will, she resisted him only to suffer the hard grip of his fist in her hair. He yanked, jolting her head back, and her mouth opened involuntarily.

  Mary Kate tried to tell herself that it was humiliating to be treated in such a barbarous manner, that she longed for the courage to bite him. But her knees were weak, and the feelings coursing through her would not be denied. It had been too long since she had felt his hands on her, and her body yearned for his touch. Though she feared to swoon from lack of air, something deep within her longed for him to go on doing what he was doing. She began to respond with increasing passion.

  He released her.

  She staggered when her knees threatened to give way but regained control of herself quickly, motivated by the searching look in his eye as he gazed down at her. She reached out to him.

  “Adam?”

  He relaxed then, but his tone when he spoke was grim. “Don’t try to cozen me, lass, for I am still displeased with you. Over this matter and over others as well.” Before he could continue, a door crashed open in the distance and the garden was suddenly filled with shouts and laughter. Douglas turned with a growl of frustration when familiar voices called out, demanding to know their whereabouts. “Come along,” he muttered. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

  Not knowing whether to be thankful for the respite or sorry, Mary Kate went with him to meet the others, hoping her face would not betray the turmoil within her breast. A moment later, separated from Douglas by the merry searchers, she found a grinning Margaret at her side.

  “Did we rescue you?”

  “Not entirely.” Mary Kate sighed. She had a feeling that it would have been better for her had Douglas been able to say all he wanted to say before they were interrupted. As they made their way back to the house, she scarcely lent half an ear to Margaret’s earnest explanation that she had seen Mary Kate and Gillespie leave, followed by Douglas a moment later, and had feared the eruption of a difficult scene. She apologized for not coming outside sooner, but Mary Kate merely nodded, her attention still occupied with her own thoughts. Margaret’s next words caught her notice, however.

  “Sir Reginald Somerville,” she said, “arrived but a few moments ago. He is talking to my father now.”

  Mary Kate had assumed from his absence that Sir Reginald had not yet arrived in the city, but as they entered the house, Margaret explained that he had only been delayed by a previous engagement. A moment later she nodded toward a large, portly gentleman with close-cropped gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard who was talking to Megan.

  Mary Kate watched curiously. For a moment, the conversation between the two seemed to be perfectly ordinary, he speaking, she listening. Then Megan nodded hesitantly in response to something he said, causing him to frown heavily. He spoke further, and a moment later Megan’s gaze fell away from his and color suffused her cheeks.

  Mary Kate’s glance met Margaret’s. “That doesn’t look to be going very well.”

  Margaret shook her head, then smiled widely at the same time a cheerful voice spoke from behind Mary Kate.

  “You’ve become devilish elusive, mistress.” Sir Patrick Ferguson stepped up to join them, and Margaret grinned at him saucily.

  “Did you miss me, sir?”

  “Aye, wench. And I find it deuced inconvenient to have to search you out in a crowd like this. Take a turn of the room with me now. I would have speech with you.”

  She indicated Megan and her husband. “We have been watching them. I fear he looks none too pleased with her.”

  “Mayhap he is not,” Sir Patrick agreed, “but ’tis none of our affair, mistress. Come away now.”

  Margaret wrinkled her nose at him. “It may not be my affair, sir, but Megan is my cousin, and I cannot wish to see her in difficulty. Just pause a moment,” she pleaded hopefully, “till we determine which way the wind blows with Sir Reginald.”

  Sir Patrick said nothing, but the very faintest trace of annoyance creased his brow.

  Margaret looked away from him with a shrug. “Oh, very well, sir, if you will insist.”

  Pointedly, he offered his arm, and Mary Kate could not suppress a chuckle at her memory of Margaret’s airy insistence that Sir Patrick always let her have her own way. It was clear that Douglas had described him more accurately. Margaret, hearing the chuckle, tossed her a grin as she went off on Sir Patrick’s arm, and Mary Kate’s attention was soon claimed by another guest.

  A few moments later she realized that Sir Reginald had joined the group surrounding the king. Douglas and Lord Strachan were there, too, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Megan was nowhere to be seen. Condemning all men for a set of heartless villains, Mary Kate set out in search of her and soon found her in the little sitting room upstairs, blotting her eyes at the Venetian glass over the fireplace.

  Megan turned with a watery smile. “I hope you do not mind.”

  “Of course not. Was it so dreadful?”

  Megan shook her head. “No, I am thankful to say it was not.” Her smile was more natural now. “Do not regard these foolish tears. They are no more than a reaction to having the matter over and done at last. He was displeased, of course, that my conduct was less than perfect, but my uncle has actually told him little about what happened.”

  “Sir Reginald certainly doesn’t seem angry now,” Mary Kate told her. “When last I saw him,
he was laughing.”

  Megan’s eyes twinkled. “I am not surprised to hear you say so. You see, he might have been angrier with me but for the fact that I was able to tell him that I am shortly to bear his child.”

  “Megan! Why didn’t you tell us?” She remembered the older girl’s various indispositions, but there had been no pattern to them, and she had always been told that a lady with child might expect to be ill only in the mornings.

  The older girl chuckled. “I was not perfectly certain myself until several days ago, and I thought it best to ensure that he would hear the news from no one else first. I knew how he would react, you see, both to my uncle’s information and to mine, and I thought my best recourse would be to hold my news in reserve until he had begun to scold. I believe I gauged the matter admirably well.”

  “I’ll warrant you did.” Mary Kate smiled, firmly suppressing all thought of her own troubles in the light of such delightful tidings.

  But Megan looked at her searchingly. “You appeared to be brooding when you came in. Is anything amiss?”

  “Naught to speak of,” she prevaricated. “I am tired, I suppose.” She did not know whether to be glad or not when Megan accepted her at her word, but there was nothing to be done, and she could only be pleased that her friend was her normal self again when they went downstairs.

  Gillespie had departed, but it was not long before Mary Kate realized that a good many of her guests were aware that something had occurred in the garden. Even James glanced at her oddly more than once. She wondered if he, too, had seen her leave with Gillespie. That thought brought others upon its heels until she was mentally scourging herself for her stupidity in allowing Gillespie to take her outside at all. When everyone except the last few male guests had departed, she took herself wearily up to bed. Douglas, she knew, would stay below until the last man had gone, so perhaps she might contrive to be asleep before he came upstairs. He would not wake her then, surely.

  Annie was waiting for her, and once her dress was off, Mary Kate sat down at the dressing table in her night rail and let the maid take the pins from her hair. As Annie began to draw the brush through her thick tresses, she closed her eyes, relaxing to the familiar, relaxing rhythm. She did not hear the door open.

  “Leave us, Annie.”

  The hard note in Douglas’s voice stopped even Annie’s courage. Laying the brush gently upon the table, she left without a word.

  Mary Kate’s eyes had flown open at the sound of his stern command, and it took all her strength of purpose now to remain where she was when he advanced upon her. She wanted to escape but knew it would be impossible, so she gathered her dignity and turned to face him. One glance was enough to tell her that his temper had not been improved by the delay.

  Douglas leaned over her menacingly enough to make her toes curl in their fleecy slippers. “You are not so much as to speak to Gillespie again. Do you understand me, lass?”

  “Aye, sir,” she replied, striving to keep her voice level. “I have already apologized. I know not what else to say to you.”

  “How could you be so feebleminded in the first place?” he demanded tightly. “Surely, you must be able to judge a man of his stamp by now, so I cannot think what demon possessed you. Why, half the company must have seen you go out with him, madam! Would you cuckold me in my own house?”

  The tight rein bridling her emotions snapped at these harsh words, and her temper flared up to match his own. She jumped to her feet, pushing past him, startling him with the magnitude of her fury. “How could I, you ask?” She whirled to face him again, arms akimbo. “I will tell you, sir, that the one true thing you say is that I ought to recognize a man of Gillespie’s stamp. Am I not married to such a man myself? Did you not seek to seduce me at our first meeting? And furthermore, did you not flirt openly right here in our own house, this very night, with that chitty-faced wagtail who clung like a limpet to your arm? Why, you fawned over her like a…like a—”

  Her words broke off with a sharp cry when he slapped her. The blow was not a hard one, but it stung, and her hand flew to her cheek.

  “That will do!” he snapped. “’Tis time and more, madam, that you learned to keep a civil tongue in your head.” He went on, growling at her first, then shouting, fanning himself into a tirade that grew more fiery with each new accusation he flung at her, as though every word provided fresh kindling for the blaze.

  Her mind absorbed but few of the harsh words he lashed at her, though she read the gist of them well enough. Once again, his behavior was unimportant, her own central. But when he added that he was disgusted with her, that he could not think how he had been so foolish as to marry her in the first place, the words cut through her like knives. Her face went white, and a flood of hot tears spilled silently from her eyes and down her cheeks.

  His anger collapsed at once. “Mary Kate, I didn’t mean that. None of it! I swear I did not. That was temper speaking, lassie, and jealousy. You must believe me. I was angry and didn’t think about what I was saying. Forgive me!” His voice cracked on the last words. “Oh, sweetheart, you must forgive me.” He held out his arms, and with a choking sob, she flew into them, her knees nearly giving way completely as his strong arms closed tightly around her.

  “Oh, Adam, I am sorry, too. I knew I was wrong the moment I went outside with him. Only I was angry, too. But you are right. That was no excuse.” She looked up at him, blinking away her tears. “Has everyone gone?”

  “Aye, lassie,” he answered gently, stroking her silky hair. “I sent them away. Come to bed now. ’Tis time we learned to be friends again, I think.”

  Willingly did she go with him, and willingly did she respond when, naked beside her, he began to arouse her as only he knew how to do. She gloried in the feeling of his hands on her body again, and in the sense of power she experienced when he reacted to her lightest caress. And when his lips sought pleasure where his hands had gone before, she threw her inhibitions to the winds and followed where he led, delighting him with her ardor and enthusiasm. It became a game—a laughing, teasing game—to do to him whatever he did to her, until passion overwhelmed them both, sending them soaring together to a fervent climax, after which they collapsed to the pillows again, satiated and fulfilled.

  Smiling contentedly, Douglas drew Mary Kate close, and she nestled there, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, her body limp beside his. He moved only once, silently, to kiss her, and moments later, when his breathing changed to the slower, more measured rhythm of sleep, she smiled, well satisfied with the way their evening had ended. He still had expressed none of his feelings about her abduction or the business with Megan at Strachan Court, but his burst of temper had eased the tension between them at last, and she had no wish to discuss the other matters further if such discussion could be avoided.

  19

  THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were filled with Margaret’s wedding festivities, culminating the night before the wedding itself with the groom’s feast at Ferguson House. When Douglas announced after supper that it was time for the foot-wash, Mary Kate expected a ritual similar to that of the Highlanders, where bride and groom washed each other’s feet. However, it quickly became obvious that lowland tradition was somewhat different when with great pomp and ceremony a huge washtub was borne sloshing into the great hall, accompanied by servants bearing towels and soap.

  The tub was set carefully upon the floor in front of the groom while Douglas, in a prepared and amusingly pompous speech, begged that Sir Patrick would permit his friends to show their great respect for him by washing his feet. Laughing, Ferguson agreed, but no sooner were his bare toes plunged into the water, than the true nature of the exercise became clear. Strong masculine hands clamped down upon his shoulders and arms, and from behind a number of backs there suddenly appeared coarse bristle brushes and buckets of grease mixed with soot.

  Sir Patrick’s legs were soon smeared with the horrid stuff and then scrubbed clean with the brushes, but no sooner was the task
completed than the results were declared unacceptable, and the whole procedure was begun again. The men were energetic and so boisterous that the ladies began to fear for Sir Patrick’s very safety. At last, however, he emerged, well-soaked from top to toe, but laughing as loudly as any of his friends.

  The following morning, Mary Kate and Megan attended Margaret while she prepared for the bridal ceremony. Once her glossy, unbound curls had been parted to fall in two loose plaits framing her glowing face, the lovely biscuit-colored gown of Florentine silk was slipped carefully over her head amidst expressions of excited approval from her attendants. Boasting sleeves of exquisite Morisco work and a high pleasance ruff, the gown was cunningly designed with as few ties as possible, so that Margaret could adhere to tradition without being in danger, as were so many other brides, of losing her dress.

  At last the wedding party wended its way to the Abbey Kirk at Holyrood amidst much pomp and ceremony, but no skirling pipes, for as Mary Kate had discovered to her astonishment, music in the streets was forbidden in Edinburgh. A huge crowd had gathered in the street outside the kirk, but the people laughingly made way for the bridal party.

  Inside the kirk, the pews were filled to overflowing with friends and relatives of both bride and groom, and since the pews alone did not provide sufficient seating space for all the guests, many had brought their own stools to place in the aisles and at the rear of the kirk.

  Mary Kate was fascinated by the differences between highland and lowland traditions. Edinburgh celebrations were said to be at once rowdier and more formal than their counterparts in the north, and she quickly saw the truth of that statement.

  Ordinarily, and but for the king’s wishes, Mary Kate knew Margaret would have been married in her parents’ home. There would be no walk around the kirk today and no formal bedding ceremony tonight. However, some things would be the same, including the loosening of the knots and the business of the bride’s garters. Gold and silver ribbons had therefore been threaded through the Morisco work of Margaret’s sleeves, and when the marriage had been solemnized and the minister’s exhortations exhausted, those ribbons were stripped away before the new Lady Ferguson emerged from the Abbey Kirk.