Scottish Brides

by Christina Dodd

  The light in the cave was poor; Rose blinked rapidly, then headed for the corner. Duncan wriggled through the entrance behind her; she heard a rip as his shirt did not quite make it through with him.

  Then she eased around the corner, through a narrow constriction; looking hard, she could just discern the pool of shadow on the dusty floor—which was, in fact, a large hole. Crouching down, she looked in and saw the pale moon of a face looking up at her.

  “Oh, miss!”

  At Jem’s tearful wail, Rose reached down and tousled his hair. “Come on, now. We’ll need to get you out first.” She held out her hands to him. “Take them, and sort of walk up the side of the hole.”

  The hole was nearly six feet deep; when Jem’s hands found hers, Rose reached farther and wrapped her fingers around his wrists. “Now, up you come.”

  She braced herself to take his weight; luckily, he wasn’t that heavy. With a grunt and a sob, he was in her arms; Rose hugged him briefly, then pushed him toward the main passage. “Go on now, so we can get Petey out.”

  Clearly torn, Jem looked back at the small body, only just visible in the darkness at the bottom of the hole.

  “Jem—come on.”

  Jem looked up, blinking as Duncan, still in the entrance passage, beckoned him out. “Come out here, and let Rose get to Petey. She’ll lift him out to me; then we’ll need you to watch him while I get Rose out—all right?”

  The plan, including a part for him, reassured Jem. He gulped, nodded and slipped back into the main passage. In the dark, he didn’t recognize Duncan; Duncan gripped his shoulder reassuringly, then sent him to sit by the entrance.

  Looking around the corner again, Duncan saw—nothing. Precisely what he always used to see. Rose would taunt him, then slip into the cave and disappear; it had taken him forever to realize there was a hole there.

  Just then, her head popped up; she looked at him over the lip of the hole. “Broken bones—his arm at least, maybe more. He’s unconscious.”

  Duncan nodded. “Nothing for it—we’ll have to lift him out. Can you manage it?”

  Rose disappeared again—and came up with a small, twisted body in her arms. “Here.” It was an effort: she straining to support Petey, a dead weight on her arms, stretching as far as she could; Duncan, wedged as deeply into the contriction as possible, reaching, straining to get a good grip on the small body. Teeth gritted, he managed it and lifted Petey from Rose. Backing took a moment or two, easing out of the trap he’d forced himself into.

  “Don’t,” he said to Rose, seeing her place her palms on the lip of the hole. “Just wait, dammit.”

  He took Petey to Jem, and laid him down gently, then returned to find Rose trying unsuccessfully to hike herself out of the hole. “Here—give me your hands.”

  She did. It was the work of a minute for him to haul her out; his coat, of course, would never be the same, but it had gone in a good cause.

  Returning to the boys, he clasped Jem’s shoulder; when Rose joined them, he sent her out, then Jem, then handed Petey through and followed.

  They splinted Petey’s broken bones as best they could using strips torn from Rose’s petticoat. Then they set about the difficult task of climbing back up the cliff face, Rose leading Jem, Duncan carrying Petey. Rose insisted that Duncan go ahead; he tried to argue, but she refused to budge. It was full twilight by the time they reached the horses, and edging into night before the long, necessarily slow ride, with Rose carrying Jem before her, and Duncan carrying Petey—thankfully still unconscious—came to an end at the Swinson farm.

  The family hadn’t gone to join the festivities down by the loch; they’d been frantically searching every burn, every field, every hayrick.

  “Oh, thank the Lord!” Meg Swinson, the boys’ mother, spotting them as they neared the gate, came running, arms reaching. Her face fell when she saw Petey so still.

  Duncan quickly explained; then Rose reined in beside him and set Jem down. Meg pounced on him and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug; Doug Swinson, the boys’ father, gently lifted Petey from Duncan’s arms. Rose quickly reassured him, relieved when she saw the boys’ grandmother, Martha, squinting from the farmhouse door.

  The Swinsons hurried their lost lambs into the farmhouse; Malachi, Doug’s brother, nodded to Duncan and Rose. “Don’t know as how we’ll ever be able to thank you enough, m’lord, Miss Rose. But if ye’d like a pint o’ale and some biscuits before ye set out back, we’d be proud to supply both.”

  They hadn’t eaten since luncheon; Duncan slanted a glance at Rose, who kicked her feet free of her stirrups and slid down. “Just a small glass for me, Malachi, but I’m sure his lordship would like a pot.”

  They sat on the bench beside the front door, their backs to the wall, and sipped their ale, their gazes roaming the valley spread before them, a mass of dark, not-yet-black shadows, with the loch a smooth slate under the light of the rising moon.

  Behind them, inside the cottage, the Swinsons fussed and fretted; Petey had yet to regain consciousness. Duncan rolled the ale on his tongue, then swallowed. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

  Rose leaned her shoulder briefly against his. “Old Martha Swinson knows what she’s about—if she says Petey will be all right, he will be.”

  Night slowly fell; a deep silence enveloped them, not empty, but enriched with the glow of shared achievement from a challenge successfully met, of harmony from shared goals successfully served. Neither moved; neither needed to look to sense what the other felt.

  And in that timeless moment, Duncan finally understood all that Rose meant to him. She was terror and delight, irritation and gratification—a thorn in his flesh who had bloomed into his Rose. His. She had always matched him so effortlessly, so instinctively, it had been easy not to notice. Yet when she was by his side, his life was whole, complete, somehow richer—he never wanted another day to dawn when she wouldn’t be by his side.

  The night deepened, and still they sat, each quietly savoring their mutual contentment, neither wanting to break the spell, the magic of perfect accord.

  Beside the loch, on the bank close to the bridge, a torch flared; then a bonfire surged to life. The Midsummer’s Eve revels had begun.

  Then a reedy wail issued from the cottage; a minute later, Doug Swinson emerged. “Praise be, but he seems well enough.” The big man grinned with relief. ‘‘Two broken bones, Ma says, but clean breaks—and she’s already set them, thanks be. Once he drinks some of her sleeping potion, he’ll be down for the night. Safe, thanks to you.”

  Duncan shrugged and stood. “Just luck that we were there.” He drained his tankard.

  Rose grinned and handed Doug her empty glass. “Tell Meg her biscuits were delicious as always, and her ale as well. I hope you both get some time to join in the fun.” Scrambling into her saddle, she nodded to the bonfire, now a roaring blaze leaping into the night.

  “Oh, aye.” Doug looked at her and Duncan. “But I’m thinking it’s you should stop at the bonfire.”

  Mounting, Duncan laughed; atop her mare, Rose laughed, too, rather less sincerely. “Good night, Doug.” With a wave, she headed the mare out of the gate; Duncan’s powerful chestnut quickly came up alongside.

  She felt his gaze on her face. After a long moment, he asked, “Want to stop by the bonfire?”

  It was tempting, so tempting. But . . . “Your mother would wring your neck—and mine—if we did.”

  “Actually . . . I don’t know about that.”

  “With half the Argyll waiting in your ballroom? It’s a certainty.”

  “Hmm.” Duncan grimaced. “Well, if we must, we’d better hurry. As it is, we’ll be lucky to make the last waltz.”

  Rose shot him a glance. “Race you.”

  She sprang her mare on the words; Duncan whooped and followed. They thundered over the fields, down tracks they didn’t need to see to follow, tracks engraved in their memories. Duncan had the more powerful horse, but he rode much heavier; over the distance a
nd terrain, they were evenly matched.

  The ride was wild, neither giving an inch or expecting any quarter. They rode like demons, on through the night, skirting the loch, the glittering magnificence of his home their ultimate goal. Their route took them close by the bonfire—roaring, spitting flames high into the night. Despite their streaking progress, or perhaps because of it, they were recognized. People called and waved; by unspoken accord, they reined to a walk as they approached the bridge and waved back.

  Some of the men called suggestions through the night; breathing quickly, her blood stirred by the ride, Rose blushed and set her mare onto the bridge. She reined in at the center and sensed Duncan doing the same, to look down the length of the loch, at the reflection of the lights of Ballynashiels dancing on its dark surface.

  Her heart thudded; her nerves tingled, sensitized to the excitement flickering in the air, the anticipation evoked by traditions older than time. Her wayward senses reached for Duncan—and he reached for her.

  One arm snaked about her waist, lifting her from her saddle, locking her against him; his other hand framed her face as she turned, gasping—and his lips covered hers.

  The kiss was as wild as their ride—untamed, unrestrained, hot and demanding, He took her mouth and she gave it, sinking into his embrace, returning every caress greedily, avidly, unable to mask the desire he evoked, incapable of reining it in. She had more chance of stopping the moon in its orbit than controlling the passion he unleashed in her.

  Sensations battered her; compulsion dragged at her. Her wits, what was left of them, reeled. Where they were headed, she had no idea, but they were still riding far too fast.

  When his hand dropped to her breast, already swollen and aching, she dragged her lips free. And groaned, moaned, then managed to gasp, “Duncan—we have to go home, remember?”

  If they’d stopped anywhere but on the bridge, if there’d been grass beneath them rather than stone, he would have taken her down, off her horse, and taken her, then and there. She sensed it, knew it—heard it in his eventual, reluctant groan.

  Breathing deeply, his chest expanding dramatically, he rested his forehead against hers. “Am I forever destined to have to let you go?”

  She managed a shaky laugh, but gave no other answer.

  With a frustrated sigh, Duncan set her back in her saddle. He was prepared to wager a significant sum that both his mother and her father would rejoice if he stayed out all Midsummer’s Eve with Rose, but there were benefits to be had in returning to Ballynashiels. A bed, among others. He picked up his reins. “Let’s go.”

  No longer racing, they still rode like the wind, neither seeing any reason to do otherwise. It was indeed late; to make any appearance at the ball at all, they needed to fly.

  They clattered into the stableyard. Duncan leapt from his saddle; Rose all but fell out of hers. Duncan caught her hand and hauled her upright; grinning widely, ignoring his startled stablemen, he raced across the cobbles, dragging Rose, giggling, behind him.

  They erupted into the servants’ hall. Duncan flung orders left and right, striding without pause for the back stairs, leaving chaos in his wake. Maids and his valet fell over their toes in their rush to follow; the housekeeper set houseboys drawing hot water from the kettles and dispatched burly footmen to fetch the copper baths.

  Duncan didn’t wait; he hauled Rose, giggling helplessly, up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped in the private gallery—and kissed her witless.

  When he raised his head, she was reeling. Eyes glittering, he looked down at her face. “Hurry—I’ll wait for you here.”

  With that, he let her go. The first of the maids bustled up the stairs; turning on his heel, he strode for his room.

  Rose watched him go, then laughed, pirouetted once—and dashed for hers.

  The next half hour was the essence of madness. A bevy of maids helped her strip; others filled the bath; still others raided her wardrobe at her instruction. Her own maid, Lucy, stood at the room’s center issuing directions. Everyone grinned—a sense of wild excitement had infected them all. Rose bathed, dressed and had her hair coiffed in record time. Lucy scurried behind her, still fastening the clasp of her necklace as she headed out of the door.

  “Your shawl, miss!” One of the maids dashed out of the room and quickly arranged the spangled silk over Rose’s arms.

  Flashing her, and all the others gathering in the doorway to watch her go off, a wide and grateful smile, Rose glided toward the gallery.

  Duncan was waiting, so tall and darkly handsome that Rose’s heart skipped a beat. In sheer self-defense, she sent him a teasing, sultry, knowingly alluring glance.

  Taking her arm, he ducked his head and ran his lips along the edge of her earlobe. “Later,” he murmured.

  Rose shivered—and shot him a warning look.

  Duncan grinned, wolfishly, and headed for the main stairs.

  Older guests thronged the ballroom’s foyer, chatting and gossiping; all heads turned as Duncan, proud and assured, descended, Rose poised and elegant on his arm. Smiles greeted them, along with nods of approval; they were known by everyone. Whispered comments abounded; as they reached the tiled foyer and slipped effortlessly into their social roles, Rose heard someone say, “Aye—a striking couple. They’ve always dealt well when they’re not scrapping.”

  Rose smiled. She curtsied and touched cheeks with two of the local grandes dames. Music drifted from the ballroom—the evocative strains of a waltz. Yielding to the pressure of Duncan’s fingers about her elbow, Rose excused herself. Duncan led her to the arched door of the ballroom; they swept in as the last waltz died.

  Duncan slanted her a glance. “Too late.” His murmur was swamped as his mother descended, a host of neighbors in her wake.

  Lady Hermione was all gracious absolution, insisting that they relate the whole tale, then declaring that she herself would visit the injured culprits on the morrow. Their neighbors understood completely; all nodded approvingly—they would have reacted in exactly the same way. Clan—or any for whom one was responsible—always had first claim on a chieftain’s time.

  Only Clarissa, hanging back at the edge of the crowd, appeared less than impressed. Eyes on Duncan, she all but glowered; then she noticed Jeremy approaching quietly to one side, softly smiling at Rose. Clarissa’s eyes narrowed; after a moment, she headed his way.

  Some time later, Rose slipped from Duncan’s side and joined Jeremy and Clarissa. Jeremy smiled. “You were successful, it seems.”

  “Yes, thank heavens.” Rose returned his smile. “There were two of them.”

  “We’ve heard,” Clarissa acidly informed her.

  Rose looked at her, without comment, then smiled again at Jeremy. “But it’s late—I won’t keep you.”

  “Indeed,” Clarissa stated. “I was about to ask Jeremy to escort me upstairs.”

  Jeremy’s eyes did not leave Rose. “I’ll speak with you tomorrow.”

  Smoothly, Rose inclined her head. “Tomorrow.”

  “Rose!” They all turned to see Lady Hermione beckoning.

  They parted, and Rose rejoined Duncan and his mother—the guests were leaving. As a trio, they stood on the front steps and waved them away, Rose on Duncan’s right, Lady Hermione on his other side.

  As the last carriage rumbled away, Lady Hermione sighed. “That’s over.” She nodded decisively and picked up her skirts. “And I’m for bed, my dears. Good night.”

  With a regal nod, she swept indoors and straight on up the stairs. Duncan, with Rose on his arm, followed more slowly, his gaze resting thoughtfully on his mother’s retreating back.

  He halted in the front hall; behind them, Falthorpe shot the bolts home. Duncan looked down at Rose; she looked up at him and lifted a brow. He grinned. “I’m famished.”

  Rose’s dimples winked. “So am I.”

  They raided the buffet in the supper room, then carried their piled plates into the ballroom so the staff could get on with their clearing. They loun
ged on a chaise and ate as they talked, comparing notes of who had been present and said what, helping themselves to morsels from each other’s plate at will. About them, staff set the room to rights, straightening furniture, pushing wide brooms across the polished floor. Footmen used ladders to snuff out the candles in the chandeliers and wall sconces; Duncan shook his head when asked if he wanted any candles left burning. Gradually, all activity about them ceased, leaving them in peace, the room lit by wide swathes of moonlight slanting through the windows.

  When they’d devoured every last crumb, Rose licked her fingers, and, looking out over the dance floor, sighed. “It’s a pity we missed the last waltz.”

  Duncan shot her a glance, then reached out, relieved her of her empty plate, set it aside, fluidly stood—and swept her an elegant bow. “My dance, I believe.”

  Rose chuckled and gave him her hand. He drew her to her feet, into his arms, into the slow revolutions of a waltz. Rose hummed softly and let him sweep her away; they dipped and swayed in perfect accord, physically in tune, in time, in step. She felt the strength in the arm about her, felt the lean, steely length of him pressed against her, the hard column of his thigh parting hers as he swept her through the turns.

  Moonlight bathed them, a shimmering silvery glow—the essence of midsummer magic. A deep silence held them, filled with the beat of their hearts and a breathless anticipation.

  How long they revolved, Rose couldn’t have said; when Duncan slowed and halted before one of the long windows, she was far past breathless.

  She looked up and saw the dark glow in his eyes; she reached up and traced the harsh line of one cheekbone. Then she stretched up—and lifted her lips to his as he bent his head to kiss her.

  They kissed simply, sincerely, without barriers, limits or restraints, simply sinking into the other until there was only one. One sense, one heartbeat, one emotion, one longing.

  Rose eventually drew back; she had to breathe. Eyes closed, she leaned her forehead against Duncan’s shoulder. “We should go to bed.”

  “Hmm—my thought exactly.”

  Duncan turned her; his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, they slowly climbed the stairs. They reached the private gallery; Rose started to turn toward her room. Duncan’s arm tightened; inexorably, he led her on—toward his.