With Love from the Highlands : A Highlander Love Story Duet, One

by Suzan Tisdale

  Josephine looked as though she either did not believe him or those were not the words she wanted to hear.

  He cleared his throat once, then again. “I did no’ want to think that about ye. I did no’ want to find ye beautiful.”

  “You mean you did not want to find me at all,” she told him. “I know you are against this marriage, Graeme. For what reasons, I do not know. I can only assume that you find me beneath you.”

  This was the most they had spoken to one another in years. She certainly did not mince words. Her words stung, but they were nothing but truth. No vehemence, no anger, just simply put.

  “That be true,” he said before quickly adding, “I mean, that was true.”

  He took a step toward her. “By now, I am certain me family has told ye that I can be a stubborn, hard-headed fool.”

  “I was able to glean that on my own,” she told him. “As for your family, they have only ever spoken your praises.”

  While he found that hard to believe, he sensed she was sincere.

  “Josephine, I be truly sorry. I have behaved like a fool, not just earlier, but for days now. I fear I do no’ deserve yer fergiveness, but I ask fer it just the same.”

  “Very well, I forgive you.”

  Just like that? There was no warmth in her voice, no note of hope which he could cling to. He supposed she was still too hurt, and he could not blame her. The fault lay at his feet and his alone.

  “Josephine, I would ask a boon of ye.”

  She tilted her head to one side and studied him closely. “What boon?”

  He cleared his throat again. “I would like a second chance.”

  Josephine was quite surprised by his request. He seemed sincere and genuine in his plea. Finally, after many days, she was seeing the Graeme she remembered from her youth. Not in his entirety, but a glimpse nonetheless.

  She had been profoundly hurt by his behavior at the evening meal. So much so that she actually thought of going to Marcum and Kathryn and asking to break the betrothal. It hurt too much to know that Graeme could not stand to be on the same small isle with her, let alone in the same room.

  He had begun to remind her of her brother. Cold, distant and arrogant. Always behaving as if she did not have the right to breathe the same air as he. And it hurt.

  But Graeme was not Helmert, even if there was a strong resemblance in character of late.

  Graeme’s request made her heart skip a beat and the hope she believed was lost, returned. ’Twas just a wee glimmer of hope, a spark really. Still, ’twas better than the despair and hopelessness she’d been feeling. “Why do you ask this?”

  She wasn’t certain, but she could have sworn his face burned crimson.

  “I had a good talk with me parents,” he began. ’Twas a fine line upon which he trod. How could he explain his change of heart? “I have been a fool, Josephine, and I would verra much like a chance to show ye that I am no’ always like that.”

  Aye, she knew that was true, for she had been the recipient of his kindness on more than one occasion. If she hadn’t known there was a kind part of Graeme MacAulay, she would never have agreed to marry him to begin with.

  “I give ye me word, Josephine, that I’ll ne’er treat ye harsh again. I ask fer a chance to prove that to ye.”

  There was no doubt in her mind that he was anything but sincere. “Then you do not wish to break the troth?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Nay, lass, I do no’ wish to break the troth.”

  They would be married in a sennight. Though she was not quite ready to trust him implicitly, at least now she felt there was some hope for the two of them. “Very well, I shall grant you your boon.”

  8

  Graeme felt much relieved that his betrothed had agreed to give him a second chance. Knowing he didn’t deserve it made it all the more important. She was, as her parents and brothers had repeatedly declared, a sweet and kind young woman.

  After escorting her back to her room, he climbed the stairs to the third floor and went to his bedchamber. ’Twas very late at night, and though he was weary from all the traveling these past weeks, sleep was evasive. Tossing and turning, he could not get his mind to stay quiet. How would he make up for his spiteful behavior? What could he do to prove to Josephine that he was sincere in his request?

  He finally gave up trying to sleep, tossed his blanket aside and went to stand in front of the small window. Pulling back the fur, he looked out at the land below. This was his home.

  While he loved being here among his kin, there was a part of him that missed Venice. There was something about the town that spoke to his heart. He felt quite at peace when he was there. Still, there was much to be said for being surrounded by those people who loved you and knew you better than you knew yourself.

  He left the window and set to pacing. His mother had said Josephine had dreams, dreams like his. How did Kathryn know that? His parents were confident that once he got to know his betrothed, he would adore her as much as they did. His brothers had all said the same thing. How had they come to know her so much better than he?

  The letters.

  While he had sulked like a spoiled child, his family had taken the time to get to know her. While he had ignored all the letters she sent with the false belief that they had been from her father or brother.

  He scanned the room in search of the trunks he had sent ahead weeks before he left Venice and was much relieved to see them stacked in the corner of his bedchamber. An idea began to form – one he hoped would prove not only to Josephine, but also to his family, that he was not quite the eejit and horse’s arse they believed him to be.

  Lighting a candle, he went to search through his trunks. He found what he was looking for in the second one. There they were, all the letters Josephine had ever sent him, on the bottom under his most prized possessions — books. He had not thrown away the letters; he simply hadn’t read them. He had saved them on the off chance that he might be able to find some loophole later that would help him out of the marriage contract. He hadn’t read them out of fear they would not contain such a reprieve.

  Five thick bundles of letters, each bound with string. He removed the bundles and returned to his bed. Setting the candle on the table beside him, he began thumbing through the bundles, until he found the first letter Josephine had ever written him.

  Why he suddenly felt excited at the prospect of reading these old letters, he was uncertain. But there it was, flopping about in the pit of his stomach, as tangible as the letters he held in his hand. Carefully, he unfolded it. The ink was faded from age, but still legible.

  The Twentieth Day of April, the year of our lord, thirteen and seventy one

  Graeme,

  A sennight ago, my father informed me that I am to marry you after I reach the age of eight and ten. I would have written sooner, but I felt I should wait until the astonishment of my father’s announcement wore away. At first, I was uncertain just how I felt about this arrangement. I have come to the conclusion that I am relieved, in that you and I are not complete strangers. You probably do not remember me as, according to both my father and my brother, I am quite an unremarkable and easily forgettable person.

  But we have met on three occasions. The first time so long ago that sometimes I wonder if it happened as I remember, or if the memory is skewed by the child I once was. I believe I was five or six and had hidden my brother’s pup. He was quite angry with me, so I went to hide in the oak tree. You were very kind and very patient with me that day, and much to my relief, you took me to my mother.

  It is that display of kindness you showed to me then, and again when I was hiding under my father’s desk, and years later, when I was hiding in the garderobe. You must think me a girl prone to flights of fancy or exaggeration. Mayhap I am.

  Your mother tells me you are in France, studying with monks. I envy you that opportunity, to live abroad and to drink up all the knowledge and wisdom the world has to offer. My mother was French, from a li
ttle village in the north called Laon. Mayhap you have visited there? Maman used to tell me stories about living in Laon, the merchants, the scenery and its people. Mayhap someday I will be blessed by being able to visit there.

  Your father tells me you speak many languages. Alas, I am limited to French, Gaelic, English, Latin and Italian. While I do not dare lead you to believe that I am as educated as your parents tell me you are, I am interested in learning everything I can about the world. Philosophy, Science, Politics all interest me, even though my father and brother tell me that women cannot possibly comprehend the complexities of these topics. I dare not argue with them.

  I look forward to getting to know you better through correspondence. Feel free to ask me anything you wish and I shall answer it honestly and with forthrightness. I ask one boon of you. When you write, could you please tell me in vivid detail what France is like? The sights, the colors, the smells? I would also very much like to know what it felt like when you saw the ocean for the first time. Was it as magical as my mother always told me? Do the waves truly sound like a thousand lovers whispering to one another all at once? I eagerly await your response.

  With respect and admiration,

  Josephine MacAdams

  Unremarkable? Forgettable? He grew angry that a father could say such a thing to one of his children. Regret had sunk in, for he had thought along similar lines, that there was nothing special about Josephine MacAdams.

  Had he read that first letter, he imagined he would have come for her sooner. After reading the next, he would have been waiting outside the gates of her keep like a besotted fool and carried her off at the first hour possible. By the time he read her sixth letter, he was certain of it. He would have written to her and told her all about France and its culture. He would have told her he thought the ocean rather loud but now, after hearing her mother’s description, he would have looked at it in a much different light. And he would have eagerly anticipated seeing her face when she saw the ocean for the time.

  Suddenly he was struck with what he thought a tremendously clever idea.

  He would respond to each and every letter. He could only hope the gesture was enough and not too late in coming.

  Josephine took some measure of pride in knowing she was not the type of young woman to burst into tears with any amount of frequency. Nay, she considered herself to be a level-headed young woman with a good measure of common sense.

  Whether it was from sheer exhaustion or the fact that Graeme had apologized and begged forgiveness, or a combination thereof, she did something she hadn’t done in an age. She cried herself to sleep.

  ’Twasn’t a loud, obnoxious, screeching or wailing kind of cry. Nay, she cried as she had done after her mother’s death. Softly and quietly so no one would hear her. Laurin had heard her weeping and had come to let her know that all would be well and to not give up hope. “Ye’ll feel better in the morn, Joie.”

  Josephine’s mind would not settle. Her thoughts ran hither and yon, from missing her mother to worry over the Gladius to the way Graeme had treated her, and then his apology. In less than a week, she would marry, and her mother would not be there to help her celebrate. Nor was she here to help her work through the confusion assaulting her heart.

  Being the guardian of the Gladius was a tremendous responsibility. Her mother had been convinced it was cursed, destined to bring heartache to anyone who possessed it. Unless, of course, the woman who possessed it could give the Gladius to her one true love. Josephine closed her eyes and could almost hear her mother’s voice. “Only true love, love built of trust and respect, can break the curse. If you give it to the wrong man, he will use it for evil, Joie. If you cannot trust your husband with your heart, your life, or your love, nothing else matters.”

  Could she truly trust Graeme? There had been a time, long ago, when she would have been completely certain she could. Until these past days, she did not know he could behave so nastily toward another living soul, let alone her. But he had come to her, had begged for her forgiveness and a chance to start anew. That, she believed, had to count for something.

  As the night wore on, she tried to envision what her life with him would be like, but could only come up with more questions and lingering doubt. Would he be as kind as he had been when they were younger? Did that kindness continue to exist? Would his heart soften toward her? Could she eventually trust him with her heart, her life and her love? Mayhap not now, but at some time in the distant future? And what, pray tell, had made him change his mind? Why had he come to her asking for another chance?

  Eventually she succumbed to sleep. If she dreamt at all, she could not recollect it when she finally woke late the following day. The cold ache that had settled into her bones was now gone. The throbbing in her head had also passed. Mayhap all she had needed to clear her mind was a good night’s sleep.

  When she sat up and looked around the room, she noticed first that Laurin was not abed. Then she noticed the fire had gone out and a chill had settled into the room. Grabbing her robe from the end of her bed, she slipped her feet into her boots and crossed the floor to start a fire. Once she had it going, she headed toward the basin to wash up. ’Twas then she noticed something on the floor in front of the door.

  When she knelt to inspect it, she realized what it was: a bundle of letters, bound together with twine. On top of the bundle was a note.

  Dearest Josephine,

  I should have read and answered your letters long ago. Because I am at times a fool, I do not always see as clearly as I should. Please accept these as a token of my apology and admiration.

  Graeme

  Her heart skipped a beat or two. She scanned the note twice to be certain she had read it correctly. Holding the bundle to her chest, she grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapped herself in it, and returned to sit by the fire. With trembling hands — and just why they trembled she didn’t know — she opened the first letter.

  Dearest Josephine,

  I apologize for not responding to your letter sooner. As you’ve learned by now, I am at times a foolish man who tends to make assumptions instead of seeking the truth of the matter. I beg your forgiveness.

  I move on now to answer your questions from the first letter you wrote to me. I have enclosed it for your reference as it was written long ago.

  I too, was surprised to learn of our betrothal. You’ve proven far more mature and common sensical on the matter than I, for you were able to get over the shock much faster than me. I now hold you in great esteem for that.

  I pray you will forgive me the blunt manner in which I am about to speak, but your father and brother are fools. As I reflect back on our three encounters, I remember each with vivid clarity. And upon closer inspection — and from what I have learned from your subsequent letters — you are, in fact, a quite remarkable young woman. That you taught yourself to read, write, and speak Italian proves my point.

  The French countryside is most beautiful, especially in the summer months, when the grass is greenest as flowers of varying kinds blossom and bloom. Though no land could ever compare with the beauty of Scotland, France does come close. I have not been to Laon, but after you have described it so eloquently, I hope to someday visit. I can only pray you will do me the honor of accompanying me there.

  As for the ocean, aye, it is quite loud, but in a most spectacular way. As I reflect upon it now, I believe it closely resembles many things. If you happen by fate to be on a vessel during a great storm, it sounds like the angry roar of a thousand cat-o-mountains, all snarling and hissing at one another. When it is quiet, the gentleness of it reminds me of being a wean and in my mother’s arms and the soft way in which she used to sing me to sleep.

  I, too, look forward to getting to know you better.

  With much respect,

  Graeme MacAulay

  A flood of emotions washed over her. Surprise, relief, happiness and hope. His next letter was even longer than the first and just as endearing. Again, he begged forgivene
ss as he answered the questions she had written in her second.

  And so it went for eight long letters, each one sweeter and filled with more emotion than the last.

  This was the Graeme MacAulay she had remembered, the one she had admired all these years. This was the Graeme she had longed to see again.

  His last letter was one that brought tears to her eyes.

  Dearest Josephine,

  Dawn has come and gone. The more of your letters I read, the more hopeful I am about our upcoming marriage.

  However, I feel I must be completely honest with you, so that you understand why I behaved so poorly toward you all these years.

  I have come to realize many things about myself whilst reading your letters. To begin with, I am not nearly as smart as I so often held myself out to be. I may be able to recite poetry or numerous Greek mythological stories, or cipher large numbers in my head. Those things alone do not make a man intelligent. It only means he is book smart.

  Apparently, I was not born with the same good sense that my brothers or my parents were. I seem only to know what I’ve read in books. I was so busy learning that I forgot to live. I forgot that there are other, far more important things in this life than poetry, art, or philosophy.

  When my father first wrote to inform me of our betrothal, I was horrified. I had assumed that, because I was the youngest son, I would be able to take a wife of my choosing. I was certain that, had I been given the chance, I would have chosen a smart, witty, worldly, intelligent woman whom I could impress with my boundless knowledge of the world.

  I assumed you were not that woman.

  I assumed that you were not educated, that you could not even read or write your own name. I assumed that I was doomed to a boring life with a boring woman who could never appreciate just how highly intelligent I was.