by Karen Ranney
He stared down into her lovely face. Her eyes had closed, her lashes long and feathery against her cheeks. In that moment she looked suspended and hesitant, poised upon a pinnacle crafted of both confusion and desire.
Cupping his hands around her face, he waited until she had opened her eyes and gazed up at him. To his delight, her cheeks deepened in color, her eyes widening as she stared at him. Speechless again, he thought, smiling down at her.
Brushing his thumbs against the corners of her mouth, he spoke again, his voice low and grave, the words those he’d never had a chance to speak.
“Marry me, Iseabal,” he said.
She stepped back, her hands at her side. Her silence didn’t surprise him. Nor did the fact that she seemed abruptly distant from him, as if she’d taken herself far away from this place and left only the shell of her body behind. He’d seen her do this before.
“Marry me, Iseabal,” he said again.
She looked up at him, her face flooding with color. “Why?”
Her habit of restraint had unexpectedly become his. He wanted to know why her eyes looked sad at times, or what irritated her. Why she sometimes trembled when he stood near. What she thought of when she stared out to sea, and what her thoughts were when her gaze lit on him and her face stilled into a somber mask.
Curiosity, however, was not enough of a basis for marriage. Yet he felt that they had been bound to each other by ties neither understood. Not merely Drummond’s command, or their mutual fascination for Gilmuir, but something else that he could not quite comprehend. Still, he could not tell her that, or explain his sudden confusion.
“Because you know how I awake in the morning?” he said, floundering for an explanation. “Or because we have such delightful conversations?” he added dryly.
She returned his gaze, her look as steady as his. By law they were not married, not in England or in his homeland. They were companions of a sort, only that. Escapees from a land that had nurtured her and beggared him. But he suddenly wanted more than that, and that was what he could not explain.
“What is your choice, Iseabal?” he asked again, impatient with himself. “Scotland or here? Marriage or no?”
“A woman has one choice,” she said simply. “To be happy or not.”
“And what would make you happy, Iseabal?”
“To be a decent woman. We are already husband and wife, MacRae. By Scottish law. How were your own parents married?”
She didn’t look away and neither did he, stunned by the emotions she’d incited in him. Lust, shame, anger, and confusion.
“By decree,” he admitted, beginning to smile.
“To think that Scots law is not valid, MacRae,” she said, leveling a surprisingly stern look at him, “is to commit treason. What would the Raven think of that?”
Alisdair felt himself vacillating between an odd compulsion to comfort Iseabal and a wish to kiss her words from her. Her words had a way of puncturing his skin and his resolve with near-deadly barbs.
“My father doesn’t belong here,” he said, smiling. He reached for her, bending to kiss her again. “Not while I’m kissing my wife.”
Her mouth fell open beneath his. One kiss and she’d learned to ensnare him. He smiled against her lips as he felt her arms looping around his neck. Softly, sweetly, Alisdair drew her closer to him, wondering how soon he could arrange another ceremony.
Chapter 18
T he next week was spent on arrangements, not only for their wedding—done properly this time—but also for their return to Nova Scotia. Between the trips to London and the duties attendant upon assuming the earldom, Alisdair hadn’t seen Iseabal for three days.
Because he was ennobled, Alisdair discovered with some amusement, doors were suddenly open to him, favors were granted, and a surprising amount of people proved to be ingratiating.
Leaving Daniel with a list of provisions for the journey back home, Alisdair returned to Brandidge Hall alone. A bit of vanity on his part, perhaps, not to invite his crew, but they had witnessed one wedding and had no reason to think it invalid.
There had been only one disconcerting experience prior to this, his wedding day, and it featured Ames once again. This morning the solicitor had handed him a sheet enumerating not only the property valuations of those estates he now owned, but also a carefully detailed account of the fortune accompanying the title.
“Are you certain this is correct?” Alisdair asked, wondering at his ability to speak.
“Quite certain, my lord,” Ames said, bowing slightly. Another change that had come with his title, the solicitor’s unctuous behavior. Alisdair didn’t bother telling Ames that it was a week too late, or that he was currently interviewing other firms just as capable but less intrusive. He didn’t want any further investigations about his background or his family.
“My father was Patricia’s adviser before he died,” Ames was saying now. “And prior to that, General Wescott managed the funds for your uncle.”
Alisdair nodded absently, staring at the account and once more tallying the figures in his mind. He’d just become wealthier than any man he knew. The money accompanying the title of Earl of Sherbourne was at least a thousand times greater than what he’d paid for Gilmuir.
He’d left the library without another word. Ames, no doubt, had wasted no time sitting in the earl’s chair and dreaming himself master of Brandidge Hall.
Now he was dressing for his wedding again. The sky had darkened, but with night, not rain. Even if the heavens opened above them, it didn’t matter. They could spend the rest of their lives in Brandidge Hall and never feel confined.
Alisdair glanced at himself in the full-length mirror, pulled down on the cuffs of his new black coat. His breeches were finished at the cuffs with silver buckles adorned with tiny diamonds. His stockings had been woven in France from the finest silk. A bootblack, attentive to detail, had given his diamond-buckled shoes a mirror finish.
He was dressed in the manner of a noble, one about to be married.
Before leaving the room, he walked to the mantel and picked up the candle, staring up at the portrait his grandfather had no doubt studied every day since his wife’s death. Alisdair’s attention was not drawn to his grandmother or his father, but to the fortress in the background.
The artist had depicted gray clouds rendered white as they drifted across the sun. Shadows hung over the landscape, but Gilmuir was lit by broad bands of light, touching upon the steep roof and towering walls, rendering the aged stones an old gold.
Alisdair had traveled the world and on those voyages had occasionally felt the longing for home. Yet he had never felt as he did now, sundered by his loyalties and the feeling that he was acting counter to a destiny previously ordained. All those people who’d ever lived and loved and died for Gilmuir seemed to call him, to tug at his sleeve and demand his attention.
A thought came to him with the speed of a storm on the ocean. He could rebuild Gilmuir, and barely make a dent in the Sherbourne fortune. And the sloping glens just outside the cove would make a perfect location for a shipyard. He could test the hull designs in the cove itself, even mount supports all around the shoreline to hold a half-finished vessel afloat.
The decision filled his mind, easing the feeling of something not yet accomplished.
Alisdair began to smile, thinking of Iseabal’s reaction when he told her.
For the second time in her life, Iseabal found herself about to be married.
Her wedding dress had again been pressed upon her by Patricia, but this gold-encrusted garment was much more modest than the first gown Patricia had offered her.
“I’m sure that Moira looked as lovely at her wedding as you, my dear,” Patricia said from her chair beside the window in Iseabal’s room. She again commanded the maids, tapping her cane from time to time in approval or demand. She didn’t look like an autocrat, Iseabal thought with a smile, dressed as she was in a gown of pale lavender adorned with trailing sleeves and a neckline of
lace.
Nodding in approval as the maid adjusted the high collar of the garment, Patricia smiled. “The dress has held up well after all these years.”
That Alisdair had accepted the title was another surprise to assimilate, along with the fact of this marriage. But when Fate holds out a blessing, only a fool declines. She was no fool, Iseabal thought.
She’d lived through the past week in a benumbed fog, remembering first Alisdair’s kiss and then the look in his eyes, tender and gently amused.
He’d been gone for days, and except for this moment, attired in Patricia’s wedding gown, Iseabal might have thought this a dream, a fanciful notion that she had wanted desperately enough to make it seem real.
She stood looking at herself in the pier glass once again, but the image reflected back to her was not shameful. The woman who stared at her did so with flushed cheeks, full lips, and green eyes wide with wonder. Her hair was left straight around her shoulders, in a maiden’s pose. She looked different, Iseabal thought, almost beautiful. Happiness was a greater cosmetic than any paint.
In two weeks she had gone from dreading her marriage to wishing fervently for it to continue. Yet at the moment, she was filled with both anticipation and a strange sort of fear. She was about to become a wife, in truth.
This time the bridegroom was not a stranger, but a man she’d come to respect and admire. His appearance made her tremble; his touch incited other, stranger feelings, as if her body melted inside. He annoyed her occasionally, amused her at times, and endlessly occupied her thoughts.
Iseabal turned from the mirror to meet Patricia’s smiling face. The older woman slowly stood, surveying Iseabal carefully.
“I never had a daughter, my dear,” she said softly. “But if I had one, I could not wish for her to be more lovely than you. You are quite the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”
A mist of tears blurred Iseabal’s vision. She blinked them away, impulsively reaching out to hug the Countess of Sherbourne.
A few minutes later Iseabal followed Patricia through the hallway, down the sweeping stairs, and into another long corridor leading to the private chapel. Her feet felt numb, her knees almost weak. Twice she had to stop, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Not because the dress was too tight or because she was afraid. Her breathlessness came from anticipation and a wonder deep enough to change her entire life.
She was marrying the man she most wished to have as husband. From this moment on, words would mean more, silences would be deeper, the capacity to be wounded would be greater.
Two footmen each opened one of the double doors, and she found herself moving down the aisle toward Alisdair.
Most weddings were performed in the morning, but Patricia had insisted upon this ceremony being held in the evening. Iseabal instantly understood why. The chapel was a blur of candlelight, a shadowed nook that gleamed with the gold of the plates and goblets on the altar and sparkled with a hundred crystal candleholders.
An enchanted place, she thought, walking toward Alisdair. Behind him stood a cleric dressed in white-and-gold robes, and no doubt there were people sitting in the pews of the private chapel. But she saw only him, smiling at her in wordless encouragement. What would he think, to know that what she truly wished to do was run down the aisle?
There was something in his eyes, an expression that tightened her breath even further and escalated the beat of her heart. An answering emotion swept through her so quickly that she was taken aback by it.
He stretched out his hand to her, and the tiny, delicate leaves of her love began to unfurl.
“Iseabal,” he said. Just her name, no more an inducement than that. But the slow, dawning curve of his smile made her smile in return as she took one step forward, then another, until their fingertips touched.
He stretched one arm around her as they turned to face the altar. The ceremony was quickly done, the words she spoke more formal than in Fernleigh’s clan hall. As they turned once more to face the back of the chapel, Iseabal realized that the pews were, indeed, filled. Patricia sat in front; Simon, the majordomo, beside her. Behind them looked to be the entire staff of Brandidge Hall beaming at the bride and groom.
A screeching noise unexpectedly swelled throughout the chapel. Startled, Iseabal turned. There in the corner of the room, shadowed by candlelight, was a man attired in kilt and sporran, a plaid draped over his shoulder. One of the Highland Regiment, she realized as he began to play. Never before had she heard the sound of the pipes, since they’d been outlawed in Scotland before she was born. The music was raw yet powerful in this place of worship, as if the tune were a summons to God Himself.
She reached out and gripped Alisdair’s hand, and he squeezed back just once in wordless acknowledgment.
He had always been so certain of what he wanted in life, Alisdair thought, only to have another destiny foisted upon him. The strangest thing was that this life was proving to be more interesting than the one he had planned for himself.
Iseabal was trembling, her hand nestled in his. He had never seen a woman as beautiful as she was at that moment, limned by candlelight. Ionis’s lady, he mused, had truly become his.
He doubted that Patricia’s idea of a celebration ended with their wedding. But instead of leading the way to the dining room, or to another one of Brandidge Hall’s cavernous chambers, she walked to the foot of the curving stairs, gesturing upward.
“You must pardon me, my dears, if I call it an early night. I find that all this excitement has left me exhausted.”
Alisdair inclined his head, regarding her with a smile. At that moment Patricia looked like an aged elf. Her eyes twinkled with the mischief of a child’s, and she appeared more enlivened than weary.
“Your wedding dinner will be served shortly,” she said.
“Another tradition?” he asked doubtfully. But he smiled at her nonetheless, accepting her plan for the affectionate gesture it was.
“If you will come this way, my lord,” Simon murmured, bowing in front of them.
Alisdair bent down and, kissing Patricia’s cheek, whispered, “Thank you.” She had been welcoming and open not only with her hospitality but with her love. Pulling back, he noted the sheen of tears in her eyes, and wordlessly acceded to her wishes, following Simon up the stairs, Iseabal at his side. Their destination was not, evidently, to be Gerald’s room. Nor was it the chamber Iseabal had occupied since their arrival.
Instead, they found themselves before a broad set of mahogany doors, each elaborately carved with half of the Sherbourne crest.
“The royal chamber, my lord,” Simon intoned, bowing slightly before opening the doors. In silence, the married couple entered the room, Alisdair closing the doors behind them.
Chapter 19
T he royal chamber, like the chapel, was illuminated by dozens of candles, each pillar resting in a small silver plate. The walls were covered in ivory damask, and on either side of the room, mirroring themselves, were twin fireplaces, their ebony mantels sleek and polished. Covering one wall were dozens of gilt-framed miniatures, and below their feet, a heavily patterned carpet in ivory and blue. In front of a windowed alcove, curtains drawn for the night, was a small oval table set with gold-edged dishes, crystal stemware, and a vase filled with white roses.
The focal point of the chamber, however, was the wide bed covered in ivory fabric heavily embroidered with the Sherbourne crest in a deep blue. Standing on its own mahogany pediment, the bed was easily four times wider than Alisdair’s bunk aboard the Fortitude.
Tonight would mark the tenor of their marriage, the essence of it. He wanted the experience to be one of grace and favor, respect and humor, friendship and need. At least he had kissed her, he thought ruefully, glancing at her. Only a few moments had elapsed since they’d entered the room, but her cheeks had grown paler, and her smile now seemed forced.
There was something to be said for experience. Alisdair thanked God that he, at least, had enough to note that his bride was
terrified. After all, words spoken before an Anglican priest and a room filled with observers didn’t make them more married than they had been. Or this occasion any less awkward than their first wedding night.
“Why do you think it’s called the royal chamber?” Iseabal inquired, moving to the wall of miniatures. He followed her slowly, wondering why he’d never watched her walk before. She did so with an alluring sway of her hips.
“No doubt because of the kings who stayed here,” he said, noting the arrangement of the palm-sized portraits. “The Sherbourne earls evidently took this opportunity to remind each monarch of years of cooperation.”
A chronology of history itself, with the depictions of England’s kings hanging side by side with those of the Sherbourne earls who had served them. Strange, but he had never before given thought to these ancestors of his. His brother James took after their great-grandfather, Alisdair realized with a smile, and there was a touch of Douglas in one of the portraits.
His father was not pictured, and Alisdair had not expected it, but he halted at the likeness of his grandfather. One sat for a portrait grudgingly, if the stern, brown-eyed glare was any indication. If there was an air of sadness to Gerald Landers, it did not reveal itself. Instead, he had the appearance of a man who’d seen his duty and resolutely performed it despite any personal tragedy. Or perhaps Alisdair’s grandfather had simply been adept at hiding his emotions.
In the next tier of paintings was David, his father’s half brother and Patricia’s son. Like the portrait in the sitting room, it revealed him as simple-minded, perhaps, but a kind man who lived in an isolated world, protected by his mother and stepfather.
“I wonder if life was kind to him,” he said absently, touching the edge of the gilt frame housing David’s portrait.
Iseabal glanced at him curiously, and Alisdair suddenly realized she didn’t know the entire story. “He was the last Earl of Sherbourne,” he explained. “A man who never grew beyond boyhood in his mind.”
