“Oh, of course,” the bishop nodded as if he was still in a fog over the situation she’d just described. “It was the king’s decree.”
She blushed. “Not his decree, but his, well—” she stopped and wrung her hands. “He ordered our marriage in court as a solution to the dispute over Fyvie.”
The bishop stilled her hands with his gentle touch. “My dear, even in my home country of Italy, I would interpret the king’s insistence on your marriage a decree.”
She shrugged. “‘Tis a solution, your Excellency,” she said, hoping she sounded happy.
“God’s will and the king’s will are often the same,” he said, then brightened. “Congratulations are in order. I would be honored if you’d allow me officiate,” he said with a slight bow. “Of course, with both yours and the king’s permission. For an English and Scottish union, perhaps a neutral party will be best.”
Rosalyn bowed over the top of their joined hands. “I couldn’t be happier.” She raised her head and grinned at him. “Thank you.”
He squeezed her hands. “I shall be off to the king to discuss it.” When the bishop released her hands, Rosalyn hung on and gave him a tug.
“Your Excellency, I have one more favor,” she said, feeling her cheeks heating up. “I need a promise from the king that I remain a virgin after my vows.” She paused, embarrassed by her frankness. “You understand,” she added with a shrug.
It was the bishop’s turn for his cheeks to flush. “Lass, I’m an influential man, but that is an unusual request. I shall promise to do my best.”
Rosalyn smiled shyly when she finally released his hands. It was the best she could hope for and no doubt he’d have more influence over the king than she could. At least that’s what she hoped for.
Getting her bearings first in the corridor, then Rosalyn rushed down the hallway and soon made the turn toward the women’s chambers. In a matter of moments, she was briskly knocking on Ursula’s door, anxious to ask the herbalist to stand with her on the morrow.
A cautious Ursula cracked the door open far enough only a fly could navigate. When she recognized Rosalyn, the cautious healer opened the door enough to draw her in before the door snapped shut like a trap.
“Is it true?” the healer asked, her black eyes bulging like a bug’s.
“Is what true?”
“That you’ve abandoned our plan. What will I do now?”
“I, um, the plan has simply changed. You are still a part of it.”
“As the fool who will stand by and watch you throw your life away and marry your enemy?” She put both hands on her hips.
Of course Ursula was upset. The woman was reactionary before logic set in.
“Let me make a soothing concoction for you,” Rosalyn offered, gliding past Ursula, who looked more sorceress than advocate, toward the potion-filled cabinet.
But when Rosalyn reached into the cupboard, Ursula caught her elbow and spun her back around.
“I donna need a soothing concoction. I need a potion to bring you back to your senses. What are you thinking to marry Lachlan de Leverton?”
Rosalyn sighed inwardly, not wanting to tell her friend who the real Lachlan was. That would make her head spin even faster.
Then she remembered the bishop’s words. “‘Tis the king’s decree. I cannae fight our ruler.” When Ursula gave her a look she was unconvinced, Rosalyn defended her decision further. “The bishop told me ‘twas God’s will to be done.”
That made the healer laugh, and she released Rosalyn. “Go ahead and make that concoction. I am sure I will need it after all.”
Chapter 18
Light streamed in through the window as Rosalyn groaned and flipped over. She and Ursula had stayed up gossiping like sisters well past the time the fire had dimmed to embers in her chamber.
While her thoughts swam through the early morning haze between her ears, her heart skipped a beat. Eyes blinking rapidly, she sat bolt upright.
“‘Tis my wedding day!” she shouted as if to wake herself up from the fog.
Glancing around the vast guest chamber, Rosalyn felt her clarity return, reminding her that the actions of the past few days had not been a disturbing dream after all.
Today she’d be a bride. Fear and excitement battled in her belly. She wondered what her da would think of her marrying English. And not just any English. A Luttrell!
She threw back the covers, scooted off the bed, then knelt down to pray.
“Dear Lord, please help me through this day and don’t damn me to an unhappy marriage with this Englishman.” Then she added, “And please, if you see my father, tell him this is for the best. For Fyvie.” She sucked in a shaky breath when a knock on the chamber door shattered her silence.
Heart slamming in her chest, she rushed back to the bed and covered herself just as quickly. If it had been Ursula, the healer would be at her side already, chiding her for sleeping in. Curious though over who’d be calling, she gave the visitor permission to enter.
The curly head of the bishop popped into view. “Scusami. I heard a prayer coming from this room,” the holy man said. “May I come in for a moment?”
The bishop heard my prayer? Rosalyn’s mouth fell open. She didn’t respond, still shocked at the idea he’d heard her words.
“I would not have come unchaperoned on your wedding day,” he said apologetically. She wasn’t surprised when Ursula followed him in.
Stunning was the only word that could describe how beautiful her friend looked in her close-fitting, antique-gold gown, like an otherworldly fairy preparing for an enchanted ceremony.
Not only was Ursula breathtaking, but she’d gone as far as tying tiny sprigs of herbs throughout her hair, making Rosalyn wonder if Mother Nature wouldn’t claim Ursula as her own.
The healer gave her a nod and a knowing smile as she walked towards the bed. She was grateful they’d settled their differences the night before. What had surprised Rosalyn the most, after she’d given her kinswoman the details of the court hearing, was Ursula’s final approval.
It had taken the healer a few hours of stomping around the chamber, tossing herbs, and cursing at everything in sight before she agreed Rosalyn’s arranged marriage was the best judgment the king could have decreed. A device in the end to give Rosalyn what she wanted.
As she replayed the conversation in her mind, she was well aware that the wedding was permitted only after she promised Ursula she would consider an annulment later in the year. The healer had pointed out to her that once Rosalyn was able to re-establish the lairdship under the Macpherson name, she could cut the Englishman loose.
When the bishop clapped his hands together, Rosalyn swept her scattered thoughts away to focus on why he’d come. “You said you are responding to a prayer. Not everyone has a bishop who answers. Why am I so lucky?”
He paused to consider the humor in her words. “Si, it is not often one’s prayers are answered by a knock on the door.” He chuckled. “But in all sincerity, I would assume such on an important day as this.” He paused and studied her. “At least a prayer for a happy marriage. After all, I am your officiant. I’m here to see if you have any questions or special requests.”
“Special requests,” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
“As in the ceremony,” he clarified, then cleared his throat as if he wanted to avoid her request of an unconsummated marriage.
“Handfasting,” she said, almost shouting the word. “‘Tis tradition in most Scottish weddings.” She wasn’t certain what an Italian marriage ceremony would be like and she appreciated that the holy man wanted to make the process neutral, but if the bonds of marriage weren’t presented in the Scottish tradition, even with a man of God officiating and under the roof of the king of Scots, she’d never feel legally married. And as odd as th
at sounded, it was important to her.
He nodded and grinned. “Then you will have a handfasting. I will talk with the king’s clergy to prepare. I assure you, Rosalyn, you will have a wedding to remember.”
She smiled at Bishop Passarelli. Over the days they’d spent together, she’d become quite fond of him, and he’d treated her like a daughter. As if her prayer was being answered. As if her father was giving his permission and would be there in spirit.
Rosalyn had never favored any of the men her da had selected for her and she thanked the Lord every day that he never forced her into marriage. And even if she was marrying English, she had to admit, Lachlan had some good qualities. She was grateful she was going to have a grand ceremony on the grounds of Edinburgh Castle, with a holy man second to the Catholic Pope officiating. And with the gift of her Fyvie in return. Yes, she would have a wedding to remember.
It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the chamber door opening again and the soft chatter between Ursula and the bishop’s men, that she was drawn away from the group to the full-length mirror. Something or someone was calling to her softly.
As Rosalyn reached the mirror and gazed into it, she took a shocked step backward. Instead of her own reflection, she saw her father’s. When Rosalyn rubbed her eyes, then opened them again, he was still there. Her head spun a little, and the drone of conversation at the door faded away when she spoke to him. “Da, what are you doing here?”
“I wouldnae miss my darling girl’s wedding day. Even as a spirit, I have some privileges.”
Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath, wanting to run into the mirror and hug him. “Da, I miss you so much,” she whispered, emotion choking her. “Why haven you nae come to see me before today?” she asked, walking closer to his reflection.
“You didnae needed me afore now, my darling Rose. Simple as that.”
That made her pause. As much as it made her proud, it also made her angry. For now, she was determined to hold back the tears, the fear, the uncertainty, hoping the answer to her next question would be the one she wanted.
“Even though I donna hear you, can you hear me?”
He let out a gut-busting roar, one she hadn’t heard in four years past. “There are rules in the spirit world, and I cannae tell you much without penalty, but I can assure you, when you speak to me in prayer, I can hear you, darling Rose.”
Her eyes teared up. “There’s something I must tell you.”
“I know you plan to marry English.” He said it so plainly and without malice that her frown lifted.
“Y-You heard that part?” she asked. “Are you here to punish me, then?”
He laughed some more, holding his gut before answering. “Nay, darling girl. I came to give you my blessing.”
Her mouth opened, then stayed that way as she wondered how he’d come to terms with that. As much as she wanted to argue the point, she was stumped by his words.
His blessing?
While she stared at him in disbelief, he grinned at her. “You are a clever and resourceful girl, Rose. I’ve never questioned your judgment. If you are marrying English, I am sure you have a damn good reason.”
“Who are you talking to?”
The question startled Rosalyn. She looked at the mirror and then to where the voice had come from.
“What?”
Ursula came into view, meeting her at the mirror. “I said, ‘Who are you talking to?’”
Rosalyn pointed to the mirror. But when Ursula peered into the mirror with her, her da was gone.
She spun to face her friend. “You scared him away!”
Ursula’s friendly countenance turned dark. “I scared who away?” she asked hotly, putting her hands on her hips.
For a moment, Rosalyn considered telling Ursula she’d seen her father in the mirror, but the idea was so absurd, it made Rosalyn giggle uncontrollably instead. Her eyes clouded up with happy tears.
“I’m just emotional. ‘Tis my wedding day,” she offered, hoping the excuse of marriage day hysterics would allow Ursula to forgive her for anything out of character she’d do or say. “I was talking to da. Asking for his blessing. That’s all. If he were here, he’d be giving me away.”
Ursula’s face relaxed into a smile again.
“Well, that’s why the bishop’s men were at the door. You see, the King of Scots himself will be giving you away.”
At those words, Rosalyn swooned for a moment. She reached her arm backwards, hoping the edge of the bed was close enough to settle her knocking knees. She was even more nervous than before.
“He was fond of your father, and he said it was as if old Dengas had come to him in his sleep and asked him.” Ursula started making her way to the door while she continued to talk, leaving her alone at the mirror again. “According to the bishop’s aid, His Majesty woke this morn and sent out the decree for everyone in the castle to be ready at half-past five for the glorious ceremony.”
“Well, if the king is giving me away, there’s no going back now,” Rosalyn said more to herself than Ursula.
“No going back,” her friend echoed. “Only going forward,” she added. “Ready for the day to begin?”
Rosalyn sucked in a shaky breath. “I promise, I willnae run away.”
Ursula tossed her a warm smile and silently let herself out the door.
When her gaze returned to the mirror, she’d hope to see her da staring back at her again. Who knew what kind of rules spirits had to follow. She wished she’d had more time to explain why she was marrying English. Her da probably wouldn’t have cared if she loved Lachlan or not. And more likely, he would be happy it was all for Fyvie. For no one loved the land and castle more than her da had.
As she reach out to touch the cold glass where her father’s reflection had been, she took in the weight of Ursula’s words. “No going back. Only going forward.”
Chapter 19
Lachlan stood at his chamber washbowl splashing water on his face, grateful it was cold. Ruminating about his circumstances, he cupped another handful and tossed on more, slapping his cheeks.
Five days ago, life was simple. Today, it was damn complicated. He stared into the tinted mirror above the bowl while the water dripped down his face. Shaking his head like a horse, he blinked through the dripping water.
“Feeling more like an ass than a horse today, Lachlan?” he asked himself, then grinned at his reflection.
Marriage. He’d always thought of it like a sentence to the gallows. But not today. Had he finally found his match? Someone who didn’t swoon at his every advance? A woman who did not agree with him?
Ever?
But as he was getting comfortable with the idea, he was reminded why this wasn’t right either.
The bride didn’t want him. He was marrying a woman who hated the English, and worst of all, a woman who did not want to consummate the marriage. If that didn’t make this Sunday black, he was suspected of stealing Fyvie Castle and the Golden Rose from the Scots.
As he reached for a rag to wipe the rest of the water from his face, he thought back to what the bishop had said to him in his chamber. “I will deliver you from evil.”
No doubt, considering the evil nature of both his brother and father, Bishop Passarelli’s words were more gospel than gossip.
Yes, Lachlan thought, the chance to free himself of the Luttrell name was worth almost any sacrifice, for it would be legal and his documents would be signed by a king. The idea of hiding away with a fiery redhead in the Highlands of Scotland become more appealing as he thought more on it.
Whack! Whack! Whack! A fist pounded on the door. When Lachlan spun around, the unexpected guest had already burst into the chamber, like a charging runaway bull.
“There you are. Is it true?”
“Get out,” Lachl
an replied calmly, turning toward the mirror, still able to keep an eye on his unwelcome guest in its reflection.
“Well if it’s true, then I’m staying for the wedding. You need a witness, do you not?”
“If I kill you now, there will be no witness to your death.”
“Kill your own flesh and blood?”
“Only one of us would have the honor. I’d rather it be me.”
His brother’s laugh followed, reminding him it was the last sound he’d heard before his mother’s final breath. It was a sound that pained Lachlan like his cheek being slapped by the hand of a haughty courtesan wearing one of those oversized jeweled rings.
“Not welcome at my own brother’s betrothal? What would father say?”
“I don’t give a devil’s damnation what father would say. Frankly, I’m getting rid of the lot of you.”
“Rid of us? Your family? Pray tell, man, has the idea of marriage made you mad?”
“Actually, quite sane.” He squared his shoulders in the mirror.
“Brother, sanity can’t be measured by the one claiming it, you understand?”
“Nor can a family bond be honored by the one breaking it,” Lachlan declared, turning to face his twin.
“But family is about blood, not bond. Heraldry, not heart. Legacy, not love,” Ethan said.
Lachlan flung the wet rag toward his brother, but the bastard ducked just before it would have stung his face.
“I would expect a friendly gesture like that from a wench,” Ethan said, holding out his hand and taunting him with a flick of his fingers as an invitation to take him on. “Is that your best shot, Brother? Or has the impending wedding made you soft?”
Ethan should have seen it coming, but his face still wore a shocked expression long after Lachlan slammed him down on the chamber floor and the two began to wrestle on the king’s fine rug, Ethan taking wild swings at Lachlan’s head, but missing every time.
The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2) Page 12
