by Scott, Tarah
“Father.” Kiernan stopped before the duke and extended his hand, but his father grasped his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace.
The duke released him, then turned smiling to Phoebe. He winked. “A bit sooner than you had anticipated, lass, but a fine thing, nonetheless.”
“Your Grace.” She started to curtsy.
He caught her hand, stopping her. “Father will do.” He kissed her cheek. “Now, let me look at you.” He took a step back. “A fine thing, indeed.” He drew her close and hugged her. “Don't fret,” he said into her ear. “All will be well.”
To her great surprise, relief rushed through her. The duke released her, and Phoebe turned to see Elise standing behind her. The duke stepped past Phoebe.
“Marcus.” Elise fell into his arms.
Just as a bride might fall into her groom's embrace, Phoebe couldn't help noticing, and a sudden urge to cry swept over her. She ducked her head with the intention of turning away, but the strong arm that slid around her waist startled her. She recognized Kiernan’s touch. He held her steady as the duchess withdrew from her husband’s embrace. Phoebe caught sight of her misty eyes and was sure she, too, would give into the tears that hung perilously close to the surface. When Elise embraced her, she remained silent, but gave Phoebe a squeeze, then returned to stand beside her husband.
Phoebe recognized the fiery redhead who next approached. Earlier, Elise had introduced Phoebe earlier to Sophie, the duke’s cousin, and her husband, Justin. “How wonderful that you have managed to settle this rascal down,” Sophie said with a lilt of Scottish brogue. She glanced affectionately at Kiernan, then looking back at Phoebe, added, “I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Ashlund.”
Justin stepped up and said, “Mille failte dhuit le d’bhreid, Fad do re gun robh thu slan. Moran laithean dhuit is sith, Le d’mahaitheas is le d’ni bhi fas.”
Phoebe frowned, and Kiernan's warm breath washed over her ear when he bent and whispered, “A thousand welcomes to you with your marriage kerchief. May you be healthy all your days, may you be blessed with long life and peace. May you grow old with goodness and with riches.”
She looked at Justin, though her mind was on the cool metal of the ring on the finger of the hand Kiernan held. Phoebe smiled. “Thank you, my lord.”
Justin kissed her cheek, then shook hands with Kiernan. “My congratulations,” he said, and moved on.
Mather stepped up. “Lady Ashlund.” He bowed.
“Mather,” Phoebe said with an unexpected rush of affection. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I'm so glad you're here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied, his face flush. He extricated his hand from hers and moved on.
Phoebe recognized the captain of Brahan Seer as he stepped up.
“Meal do naigheachd!” he said.
She gave him a bemused look.
“Congratulations to ye, Lady Ashlund,” he said with a smile, and went on.
The last guest stopped before them “Ye have a fine lad, there,” Winnie said. “I saw his father birthed, and have known Kiernan from nigh the day he was born.” Her eyes grew moist. “Fine lad.” She placed a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder and squeezed before brushing past her.
Kiernan angled his head toward Phoebe and said through the corner of his mouth, “Are you sure you're up for the celebration?”
“You can't disappoint your tenants,” Phoebe replied.
“I'm sorry, Phoebe, but they insisted on a celebration.”
“Don't trouble yourself, Lord Ashlund,” she said. “It's only fitting they should offer their best wishes.”
“You need stay only a few minutes, then you can excuse yourself. No one will think much of your retiring early for the evening.”
The small celebration, Phoebe noted, as they rounded the bend that led from the chapel to the castle, spilled from the great hall into the courtyard. She faltered, then decided it was far better to face a crowd of strangers, than any single anxious face. All were indeed strangers, aside from those few who had attended the ceremony, yet they greeted her as though she was no stranger, and certainly not English.
The guests hadn't waited for the bride and groom to join them before beginning the merriment. Though the food on the long table had remained untouched, scotch, wine, and other spirits had been indulged in without hesitation. A shout went up as Phoebe and Kiernan passed through the doorway. Kiernan’s arm jerked from her waist as he was pulled from her side by a rowdy group of men. He received hearty slaps on the back and comments in Gaelic, which no one translated. The men began dragging Kiernan away. He glanced helplessly over his shoulder. She raised a questioning brow, but he shrugged and turned his attention to his comrades.
“Come along, Phoebe,” a woman said behind her.
Phoebe turned to see Elise step up beside her.
“Chances are, you won’t see Kiernan the rest of the evening. The women usually gather near the hearth and leave the rest of the room to the men.” She smiled. “Much safer that way.”
Phoebe looked at the men milling about, laughing loudly, slapping one another on the back, and generally ignoring the more civilized niceties. “Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “I see your point.”
Elise took Phoebe’s hand and led Phoebe through the crowd. “The women you are about to meet are rather unique. Teachers, healers, even one political activist. Each a leader in her own right.”
“Educated women, out here?” Phoebe asked.
“In their own way,” Elise said, and pushed through a wall of men.
“Och, m’lady,” one man said, jumping out of her way.
She nodded, moving on. “Only two actually read, however.”
A serving girl carrying a tray rattling with mugs and glasses of containing a variety of drinks stopped just ahead of them. Phoebe snatched one of the glasses as she passed the girl. Phoebe lifted the glass and was taking a large swig just as Elise brought them to a halt near the hearth.
“Ladies,” Elise said, “may I present the bride, Phoebe MacGregor, Marchioness of Ashlund.”
Phoebe sputtered and wheezed as the scotch blazed a scorching path down her wind pipe. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she swung her gaze onto the women. Through bleary eyes she saw their attentions’ were firmly fixed on her. She stared back.
“Rather odd the first time you hear it, isn’t it?” Elise asked, and the women broke into gales of laughter.
The faces of the women before Phoebe blurred. She sighed and took another gulp of scotch.
“Phoebe,” Elise said gently, “perhaps you would like to retire for the evening?”
Phoebe surveyed the crowded room. “What time is it?” she asked even as the clock on the mantle chimed. She grimaced. “By heavens, must they make such racket?”
“It's nine o’clock,” Elise replied. “Would you like to eat a little something before bed? You haven’t had a thing all evening.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Phoebe said, “but I have, indeed, had something.” She finished off the contents of her glass. Phoebe didn't miss the look the duchess exchanged with one of the women. “Don't trouble yourself, ma'am,” Phoebe said, “I'm quite capable of holding my liquor. Much to my misfortune,” she added under her breath.
“Still,” Elise persisted, “let’s have something to eat.”
“Thank you, but no.”
“Bed then?” Elise said.
Phoebe thought for a moment. “Yes, I think that would be a fine idea. Where am I to sleep?”
“Come along, I’ll show you.”
There was a moment Phoebe thought she would be ill. The long corridor they traveled seemed to be a maze. She didn't recall such twists and turns in her previous stay at Brahan Seer. At last, they stepped into a brightly lit corridor much wider than the one they had been in and she took a deep breath.
“Are you all right?” Elise asked.
Phoebe nodded. Elise gave her an unsure look, but continued down the hallway. She stopped in fron
t of the fourth door, opened it, and stepped back, indicating Phoebe should enter ahead of her. Phoebe stepped inside. A fire burned in the hearth on the far right wall. Four candles burned in the candelabra that sat on a table against the wall in front of her. A canopied bed sat to the left, and on the silk cover lay scattered the petals of various flowers. The nightgown laid out with obvious care on the foot of the bed, however, is what snagged her attention.
“A bridal chamber,” she muttered.
Elise whisked past her without a word, yet, Phoebe knew the duchess understood she had forgotten the reason for tonight’s revelries.
“Shall I have a bath drawn for you?”
“Good God, no.” Phoebe gasped. “Oh, forgive me, Your Grace, I didn’t—”
“No bath, it is, then.” Elise turned down the bed. “We're in the south wing, in case you wondered.” She stopped and looked at Phoebe. “Do you plan on standing in the doorway all night?”
Phoebe looked about her as if suddenly realizing where she was. “No, ma’am, of course not.” She stepped into the room, despite a sudden desire to turn and run. “The, er, south wing, you say?” she said, taking each step as if it were her first.
“Yes.” Elise fluffed the pillows rather vigorously. “On the third floor.”
“Ahh,” Phoebe said.
Once no more fluffing of the bedcovers and pillows was humanly possibly, Elise straightened. “Let me help you out of that dress.” She started toward her.
“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I prefer to do it myself.”
Elise stopped. “I can have someone sent up."
Phoebe shook her head. “Really, I prefer to be alone for a little while.”
“It's customary for someone to sit with the bride, you know.”
“I know. I appreciate your concern, but really, I am best left to myself now.”
Elise nodded. “If Kiernan remains below, I'll check on you a little later.”
Phoebe grabbed her arm as she passed. “I beg you, Elise, don't hurry him.”
Elise patted the hand that gripped her. “Perhaps a little sleep will do you good.”
“Indeed.”
Elise went to the door, but paused in the doorway. “If you need anything…”
“I promise to call for you.”
Elise closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Phoebe turned to the sideboard beneath the window, centering her attention on the decanter there. “I believe I have all I need.”
Kiernan opened the door to the bridal chamber. Phoebe wasn't sleeping as she should have been, given the wee hours of the morning. Though, upon first glance, one might have thought she slept, he knew she only lounged. It wasn’t the fact she was still fully dressed that gave away her state, or that only the blonde lock that had come free earlier was the only hair out of place, but more the way she sat on the bed, head back against the pillows propped up behind her. A crystal tumbler sat listed slightly in her lap, yet, her grip on the glass clearly held the object in check. Brandy, by the look of things. Kiernan smiled, the decanter, only a third full, sat on the table beside the bed, near enough to reach without inconveniencing the drinker from her leisure.
“Where are your merry wishers?” Phoebe asked, a slight slur in the word ‘wishers.’
Kiernan stepped inside and closed the door. “Thank you for reminding me.” He bolted the door. “The moment they realize my absence, they'll be upon us.”
Phoebe lifted her head from the pillow and finished her drink with a quick flourish of her hand and a backward jerk of her head. She laid her head back again and, eyes closed, groped with her right hand for the decanter. Finding it, she brought it onto her lap and poured a fair amount of liquid into the tumbler. When trying to place the decanter back on the table, however, she missed, and was forced to open her eyes to keep from dropping it on the floor.
Kiernan crossed to the sideboard and got a glass, then went to the bed and sat down beside her. As he poured a drink, Phoebe opened one eye.
“If you finish that off, Lord Ashlund, I will ask that you fetch another decanter.”
He placed the nearly empty decanter back on the night stand. “What are we drinking to?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Don't tell me you are wishing for my demise already.”
Her eyes shot open. “Fool,” she muttered. “Adam.” The single word was clear, but her hand shook slightly as she downed another swig of her drink.
“Ah, yes.” Kiernan raised his glass. “To Adam.” He saluted and finished his drink in one swallow.
Phoebe lay back, once again, as though dozing.
Kiernan glanced at the decanter, then at her glass. “You’ve been up here for some time,” he commented.
“This is where the bride is supposed to be.”
Kiernan sat his glass on the table. “His death isn’t your fault, Phoebe.”
Her eyes opened and she regarded him. “You don’t know that.”
“You didn’t shoot him.”
“Ohh,” she said, jerking her hand. Brandy sloshed over the rim of her glass onto her hand. “Now, see what you’ve done.” Phoebe transferred her glass to the other hand, then sucked the brandy from her fingers.
“We have more brandy,” he said. “You needn’t worry about a few spilt drops.”
“I’ll worry about anything I please,” she retorted.
“So I see.”
Phoebe halted the sucking and regarded him. “You think I'm foolish for caring about—about—” She stopped, her eyes widening.
“Adam,” Kiernan prodded gently.
Tears abruptly filled her eyes.
“Phoebe.” Kiernan scooted closer to her.
“Oh, go away,” she blubbered.
She shoved at him, tipping over the glass on her lap and spilling brandy on her dress. He rose and Phoebe swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She attempted to brush the liquid from her dress while he hurried to the armoire and returned with several handkerchiefs. He tried dabbing at the liquid but she pushed his hand aside.
“It's too late for that.” Phoebe stood. She swayed, and Kiernan gripped her elbow to steady her. She shook him off. “I'm all right.” But in two steps, she fell straight to her backside.
He pulled her to her feet, then scooped her into his arms. “If you're going to drink, my dear, I suggest you stay in bed.”
“Oh, you’d like that.” She hiccupped. “Wouldn’t you?”
Kiernan laid her on the bed, then sat beside her and rolled her onto her side. He began unbuttoning the row of buttons that went down the back of the dress.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Getting you ready for bed. I’m surprised Elise didn’t help you.”
“Told her not to,” Phoebe replied in the voice of a petulant child. “And I don’t want your help either.”
“You’re going to have a devil of a headache in the morning. Sleeping in this tight gown won't help your mood.”
“My mood is fine.”
“Indeed.” Kiernan finished the last button and turned her onto her back. He brought her to a sitting position and began pulling the long sleeves from off her arms.
“I ought to shoot you for this,” she mumbled, then more tears appeared. “I told Adam he made me wish I had shot him. Oh, but men are abom-abommmniible.”
Kiernan halted in tugging off the second sleeve and looked at her. “Why didn’t you simply marry him, Phoebe?”
“Abomb-abomnbe—”she frowned ferociously as if it were his fault she couldn’t speak. “Abob-abib—Oh! Horrid! That’s what you all are.”
He pulled the sleeve off, then, standing, stripped the dress from her. She shivered in the chemise. Kiernan tossed the dress onto a nearby chair, then gently pushed her back onto the mattress and sat beside her. He ignored her breasts, straining against her chemise, the nipples dark beneath the fabric, and reached behind her. Kiernan brought her to a sitting position, hugging her to his chest as h
e attempted to free the covers she sat on.
“I’m not in the mood for this.” She jammed her forced between her breasts pressed and his chest.
He continued to struggle the blanket beneath. “I would suggest, then, keeping your hands to yourself.”
She gave a halfhearted swipe to his chin. “Self-defense,” she mumbled into his neck.
“God help me.” He slipped a hand beneath her buttocks and lifted her enough to free the covers.
Phoebe batted at his arm. “I’m not interested in your attentions tonight.”
“My dear,” he said, laying her back onto crisp linen sheets, “as much as I might like to, I am not in the habit of taking advantage of women who are deep in their cups, even if the woman is my wife.”
Phoebe’s eyes popped open. “Wife,” she said as her hand went to her mouth and she belched.
“Phoebe,” Kiernan said sharply.
“Oh dear,” she said through another belch.
Kiernan whirled and, spying the object he was searching for sitting near the nightstand, scooped it up and faced Phoebe.
“By heavens,” she cried, “not the chamber pot again.”
He dropped to his knees, hoisted her into a sitting position and shoved the pot under her nose.
Phoebe shook her head. “Out of the way, Ashlund.”
Kiernan started to argue, but she scooted to the edge of the bed and shoved to her feet. She dropped to her knees and it was clear her stomach would not be put off any longer. Kiernan once again shoved the chamber pot in front of her. She grasped its edges and vomited.
Laughter abruptly echoed in the hallway outside the door.
“Damnation,” Kiernan cursed as the laughter grew louder. The entire male population of Brahan Seer had decided to congregate outside their room.
Phoebe retched again.
A loud pounding sounded at the door. “Bhalgaire!” said John, a man from the village. “Ye canna’ escape us.” Shouts of agreement went up and more pounding followed. “You may be anxious to see the lassie, but you won't get off so easily.”
“Too late, lads,” Kiernan called.
More laughter. “It’s never too late,” another voice answered in between Phoebe’s gasps. “Now open the door. We won't look.” At this, raucous guffaws abounded and were mingled with more bawdy comments.
