by Trisha Telep
Jeannie shrugged awkwardly. “It doesna matter.”
The older lady hugged her. “Well, you’ll not be lonely any longer with young Cameron Fraser for a husband. I’m amazed you two ever met, let alone had time to court. Right then, I’ll away and see if the men are ready. Take her to the church door, Morag, and when you hear the music send her down the aisle.” The minister’s wife bustled away.
Jeannie and Morag looked at each other. “Could I maybe—” Jeannie began. “Is there a looking glass somewhere, so that I could see …”
“Och, of course, lass.” Morag looked out into the hallway, then beckoned.
Jeannie stood in front of the looking glass in the hall and stared. Other than in a pool of water, she hadn’t seen her reflection in four years. Uncle Ewen didn’t believe in wasting money on such things.
She’d changed in four years. Grown up. “I … I look like my mother,” she whispered. “I look …” Pretty, she thought. She couldn’t say it aloud. Vanity was a sin. But she thought it and the thought gave her a warm glow. She was still a bit freckled and skinny and her cheeks were red from the cold and her mouth too wide and she still had that crooked tooth but she looked … nice. Like a proper bride. A real bride. She adjusted the beautiful lace veil. If not for Mrs Potts’s kindness …
Emotion surged up in her and her eyes filled with tears.
“Now stop that, lassie, or you’ll start me off as well.” Morag said briskly. “Time enough for tears later. Let’s get ye to the kirk.”
Four
They waited in the vestibule of the small stone kirk until they heard the full chord of an organ sound. Jeannie took a deep breath. One step and she was on her way to wed Cameron Fraser, a man she’d known but a few hours. And once married, there was no going back.
She couldn’t move.
“Go on lass,” Morag whispered and gave her a hefty shove that sent her stumbling into the aisle.
And there he was, waiting. Cameron Fraser, solemn as a judge and as fine a man as she’d ever seen. To her surprise he wore the kilt, the Fraser dress kilt, a splash of bright colour in the austere little whitewashed kirk.
Jeannie’s heart fluttered. She’d always been partial to the sight of a man wearing the kilt. And Cameron Fraser looked as braw and bonny as any man she’d seen. The man had a set of legs on him that fair took her breath away.
The music continued and Jeannie walked slowly down the aisle, drinking in the sight of her groom. He wore a white shirt with a lace jabot at his throat, the foam of the lace in stark contrast at the hard line of his jaw and square, firm chin. Over it he wore a black velvet coat with silver buttons. He looked like a hero out of a painting of old.
His expression hadn’t changed. He looked … no, she couldn’t read his face at all. He ran a finger between his throat and his jabot, as if it was tied too tight.
Was he having second thoughts?
She hoped not because she wanted him, wanted him with a fierceness that burned bright and deep within her. She quickened her step.
Cameron Fraser had made her want him. He’d caused all her long-buried dreams to surface, had tantalized her with possibilities she knew were foolish and impossible, but now she wanted him, wanted the house he’d promised her, the place, the home. Her home. And him. She wanted it all.
He was not going to back out now. She hurried the last few steps to where he waited at the altar and when he presented his arm, she grabbed it. And held on tight.
He stared down at her, looking faintly stunned.
Cameron couldn’t believe his eyes. This was his muddy little bog sprite? This? This lissom young woman walking towards him with shining eyes and a look of hope so transparent it went straight to his heart.
Behind him, one of his cousins said something but Cameron wasn’t listening. His attention was entirely on his bride as she made the interminable walk down the aisle, light and graceful in a pretty blue dress.
He straightened, glad now he’d stuffed his kilt and jacket into his saddlebag when he left, glad the minister had insisted it wouldn’t do for the laird to be wed in his breeks, even if nobody except a couple of young wastrels were there to witness it. His bride would remember he’d done her honour on this day, the old man said.
Cameron ran a finger around his neck. He hadn’t wanted the fussy lace jabot. The minister had pressed it on him at the last moment, completing the full formal dress.
Cameron was glad of it now. His bride was … He took a deep breath and faced it: his bride, his little bog sprite was beautiful. Not the perfect, polished beauty in the portraits of his mother, nor the ripe, sensual beauty of Ailine, the widow who’d first taught a brash boy how to please a woman.
Jeannie Macleay’s beauty was something quite different.
She was the scent of heather on the wind, the softness of mist in the glen, and the clean, fresh air of the mountains. It was a subtle beauty, like that of his homeland, not delicate and whimsical and demanding as his mother had been, but strong and free and bonny.
She wore a softly draped veil of lace over long, glossy chestnut hair that fell clear to her waist. Where had she hidden that hair? His fingers itched to run through the silken length of it. Her skin was smooth and fresh with a dozen or so small freckles, like brown breadcrumbs sprinkled over cream, her cheeks a wild rose blush echoed in her soft, full lips.
Cameron straightened under his bride’s clear gaze. She liked how he looked too, he could tell by the feminine approval in her wide blue eyes. He drew himself up, glad now he’d worn the kilt and even the stupid, fussy jabot.
She gazed up at him, clinging tightly to his arm, and gave him a hesitant, shy, faintly anxious smile that pierced his heart.
His bride.
“Dearly beloved.”
They turned and faced the minister. It passed in a blur. Cameron heard himself making his vows. His bride spoke hers in a clear, soft voice.
“Time to sign the register,” the minister said. He handed Cameron the pen. Cameron signed it and passed it to his bride.
She took it, but made no move to sign. Her thoughts seemed far away.
Of course, she wouldn’t know how to read or write, he realized, and his stomach hollowed as he took in the implications of his rash act.
“Dip the end in the ink and make your mark,” Cameron told her in a low voice. “A cross will do. Or a thumbprint if you prefer.”
She gave him an odd look, then dipped the quill in the ink and swiftly wrote her name in a stylish copperplate hand.
Cameron blinked. How had a simple shepherdess learned to write like that?
He was still pondering that question while the minister recited some advice about marriage. And then the words, “You may kiss the bride.”
Cameron lifted the veil back off her face. To his surprise, his hands were shaking. She turned her face up to him, her eyes shining, trustful, her lips rosy, slightly parted.
He stared down at her. This thing he’d done so carelessly, this marriage he’d made without consideration, thinking only of his inheritance: it had become something momentous. This girl had given herself into his care, forever. She was his.
He bent and touched his mouth to hers, intending to make it brief, but her lips softened under his and she sighed and leant into him, and before he knew it he was kissing her deeply, his senses swimming with the taste, the scent and the feel of her.
“That’s enough for now, lad.” The minister’s voice cut in dryly. “Save the rest for the honeymoon.”
Cameron released her, dazed, still hungry. He stared at her in shock. She blinked up at him, blushing, a little dishevelled, her mouth soft and moist, her eyes dreamy.
His wife.
Afterwards, they returned to the minister’s house for tea. “It’s not much of a wedding breakfast, I’m afraid,” Mrs Potts said, “but it’s the best Morag and I can do at such short notice, and it’ll keep you going until you get home.”
“Your best is very fine thank you, Mrs Potts,”
Cameron assured her. There was shortbread and egg-and-bacon tart and Selkirk bannock and fresh-baked baps with butter and honey. And if Cameron and his cousins thought it a poor celebration to be washing such fine food down with tea instead of whisky, they knew better than to say so. Not in front of a minister.
Not that Cameron cared. He was watching his bride eat her way through every piece of food offered her with an expression of utter bliss.
Halfway through a slice of Selkirk bannock, she set it down with a huge, regretful sigh. “I’m sorry, but I canna eat a single mouthful more. It’s the most delicious meal I’ve had in forever, Mrs Potts, Morag.” She laughed. “Uncle Ewan thinks porridge is all a body needs.”
He recalled what her uncle had said about her eating too much. She was as slender as a reed.
Cameron stood. “We’d best get along home now. Thank you for all you’ve done, Reverend Potts, Mrs Potts, Morag.” He bowed to each. “You’ve turned this into a very special occasion.”
At his words, Jeannie jumped up. “Oh, your dress,” she said to Mrs Potts. “I should change back into—”
The older woman shook her head. “Keep the dress my dear, with my blessing. And here’s a wee wedding present for you.” She gave Jeannie a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Open it tonight, before you go to bed.”
For the sake of politeness Jeanie made a few half-hearted protests but she was glad to leave her old clothes – and her old life – behind. She hugged the motherly minister’s wife and thanked her again.
Then it was time to mount up again, this time with Jeannie riding in front of Cameron, seated sideways across his saddle because the blue dress was too narrow-cut to allow for sitting astride – not without a scandalous amount of leg showing. Jeannie was made comfortable enough with a cushion borrowed from Mrs Potts and in a short time they were off and heading towards her new home.
With her new husband. The thought took her breath away. It was like a dream. His arms were wrapped around her holding her steady, warm and strong. Her husband.
Five
They breasted a hill and stopped to take in the view. A rocky promontory jutted deep into into the loch where a castle loomed, gloomy and forbidding. A village nestled at its foot, a scattering of neat cottages.
Jeannie eyed them eagerly. One of them would be hers. She couldn’t wait. “Which house is yours?”
“The big one.” He pointed.
Two cottages were larger than the others. One was on the outskirts of the village and the other was in the centre, facing the village square. “Is it the one in the town or the one next to the wee burn,” she asked. She didn’t mind which.
“The big one,” he repeated.
“But—” She broke off. Did he mean? “You mean the castle?” Her voice came out in a squeak.
“Aye.”
She twisted in the saddle to look him in the eye. “You’re not some kind of a servant, are you?”
He grinned and shook his head.
Jeannie swallowed. “You mean to say you live in the—” She could see the answer in his eyes. He did. “But you said I’d be the woman of the house.”
“You will.”
“What job do you do in the castle?”
He just grinned. His cousins, who had recovered their high spirits once out of sight of the minister, guffawed. “He’s the laird, lassie. From the moment you married him. You’re the laird’s wife.”
“The laird’s wife?” she echoed faintly. A hollow opened up in her. “You mean to say I’ll be in charge of that, that enormous place?”
He smiled down, pleased at her amazement. “Aye.”
They all beamed at her, as if it was some huge treat to be put in charge of a castle with no warning. Or training. Or even any clothes.
She thumped him on the shoulder, hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He gave her a bemused look and rubbed his shoulder. “Would it have made any difference?”
“Yes! No – I don’t know. You should have warned me.” Oh Lord, the laird’s wife.
“What good would it have done?”
She thumped him again. “I could have prepared myself.”
“Clothes, ye mean?” he asked cautiously.
“No, ye great thick-head! Where would I get clothes?” She tapped her forehead. “I mean up here. You told me I’d be mistress in my own home—”
“Well you will be—”
“—not the laird’s wife—”
“It’s the same thing.”
She went to thump him again and he caught her fist, laughing.
“It’s not the same thing,” she said crossly. “A woman in her own cottage answers to nobody. A laird’s wife answers to everyone. Everyone will have an opinion, from your uncle to the lowest scullery-maid. And if they don’t think I’m up to the job – and they’ll see at once I’m no fine high-born lady – they won’t respect me, and they won’t obey me – oh, they’ll pretend to and be sweet as pie to the mistress’s face but they’ll resent me and the work will be done shoddily and—”
“For a shepherdess, you seem to know a lot about how a big house runs.”
“I’ve only been a shepherdess for four years,” she told him impatiently. “Before that my mother was housekeeper of a large house – she took the position after my father died and left us with no money. So believe me when I say—”
“Housekeeper?” he interrupted.
“Aye, she—”
“Then you’ll know fine how to run a castle, won’t ye?” he said, leaving her dumbfounded. He gave a pleased nod and, still holding her fist in one large hand, he urged his horse down the slope towards the castle.
Jeannie swallowed. She wanted to hit him for being so unreasonably blithe about the problems she faced, but somehow his confidence seeped slowly into her. She did know a little about running a grand house. From the wrong end of things, but still …
Besides, she had no choice. She was wed.
She could do this, she could. As long as nobody found out he’d fished his bride from a bog, she just might be able to pull it off.
Her confidence seeped away as the castle loomed closer. They trotted over a bridge and through an archway and came to a halt in a courtyard.
Ostlers ran out to take the reins of the horses. Cameron Fraser – she had to stop thinking of him by his full name, he was her husband now, not a stranger – Cameron dismounted and lifted Jeannie down. She stretched her cramped limbs in relief, shook her crumpled skirts out and tidied her hair.
“Ready?” Cameron asked her.
She wasn’t, she wanted to run in the opposite direction but she nodded, and without warning he swept her into his arms and carried her up the steps to the great iron-studded oak door.
“What—?”
“Stop struggling. It’s tradition. Carry the bride over the threshold,” he said. His cousins ran ahead and banged loudly on the door, shouting that the laird had brought home a bride. As they reached it the door swung open. Cameron strode through it.
Jeannie clung to his neck, gazing around her, trying to look graceful. Her stomach was a battlefield of fluttering butterflies.
People came from everywhere, popping out of doorways and flowing down stairwells, staring at her, crowding in after Cameron, flocking to see the laird’s bride, laughing and clapping and buzzing with surprised speculation.
“He married the first woman he found,” Jimmie shouted exuberantly to the crowd. “Fished her out of a bog and married her!”
Jeannie’s fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to kill your cousin,” she muttered into Cameron’s neck.
He laughed. “Best it’s out from the beginning. You’re my wife, nothing can change that.”
“I’m still going to kill him.”
Cameron carried her into a room they called the Great Hall. It was a big, barren-looking room with an ancient fireplace as big as a horse stall.
Cameron set her carefully on her feet, took her hand and raised it. “Meet your new mist
ress, Jeannie Macleay of the Isle of Lewis, now Mrs Cameron Fraser. And I am now running this estate.”
There was a roar of approval and clapping. Jeannie was under no illusion that the approval was for her. It was Cameron they were cheering, and that he was, at last, the laird.
They came forward to be introduced, one by one, first relatives, of whom there were a surprising number. Jeannie tried to remember the names but they soon became a blur.
Of his newly deposed trustee uncle, there was no sign.
“And this is the housekeeper, Mrs Findlay,” Cameron said.
Mrs Findlay was a tall, austere-looking, middle-aged woman. Dressed in crisply pressed shades of grey, she exuded efficiency.
Facing her, Jeannie felt tired and crumpled and inadequate, but everyone was watching and she would not be intimidated. She held out her hand pleasantly. “Mrs Findlay.”
Instead of shaking Jeannie’s hand the housekeeper handed her a large bunch of keys on a round metal circlet, saying stiffly, “The keys to the household, madam. As the laird’s wife, they are yours by right.”
The ring of keys weighed heavily in Jeannie’s hand. Her mother had carried just such a collection on her belt. She took a deep breath, praying it was the right thing to do, and handed them back to the housekeeper, saying in a clear voice. “Thank you Mrs Findlay, but I’m sure you know what to do with these much better than I. I learned a little about the running of a great house from my mother, of course, but I’m a new bride and still have much to learn.” She smiled and added, “I can see for myself the castle is beautifully run. I hope we’ll work well together.”
There was an almost audible sigh in the room as the housekeeper took the keys back. Thawing visibly, she said in a warmer tone, “I’m sure we will, madam. If it’s convenient, I could show you the house and its workings tomorrow.”
Jeannie nodded. “That would be very convenient, thank you.”
As the housekeeper turned away, Cameron slipped Jeannie’s hand in his and squeezed it briefly. “Perfect.”
She felt a small glow of satisfaction, and as the rest of the household came up to be introduced, she addressed them with added confidence.
