Yesterday's Promise

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Laird MacDonald turned a furious look— one I prayed he’d never use on me— on Alistair. “It was not I who was late.”

  “I’d run away, too, faced with the prospect of marrying a Macdonald,” one of the younger Campbells muttered. This time it was Alistair who sent a silent and stern warning to the man.

  “Now that acquaintances have been made, shall we begin?” A before unseen clergyman appeared at the head of the crowd, near the stairs. Given his height over the others in the room, I guessed he had to be standing on the bottom step. His accent was as thick and foreign as that of the others, and my horrible suspicion grew.

  Laird MacDonald took my hand in his once more, without so much as asking, and towed me forward as the crowd parted— brooding MacDonalds to one side, merrier Campbells to the other. Once in front of the priest, Collin let go and took a sideways step away from me, as if I’d some sickness he wished to avoid.

  I don’t want to be close to you either. But I felt almost hurt and strangely lacking with the absence of his touch. I clasped my hands together, the warmth of his hand still lingering— nearly unraveling my composure.

  I focused on the priest, noting that he stood on the second stair, not the first, and that this made him only slightly taller than my husband-to-be.

  Mother appeared at my side, likely to keep me from running, and I willed my nerves to calm. Behind and beside and all around us the men crowded closer until I knew if I moved at all I would touch at least one. The air seemed to thicken, and I looked at the stairs longingly, wishing I might escape to my attic once more.

  The priest began speaking— in a language foreign to me. I glanced at Mother, but she was staring straight ahead, as if nothing was amiss.

  As if her daughter was not about to marry a Scottish laird.

  The priest droned on, and it was all I could do to keep myself still. Only the thought of two dozen weapons being directed at me kept me from movement. Whenever I had imagined my wedding— a rare occurrence— I had never envisioned anything like this, standing in our foyer, packed tightly with a group of Scottish clansmen I did not know and with whom I would be leaving shortly. It seemed too bizarre to be real, and so it became unreal to me.

  I felt disembodied, almost as if I was a stranger looking down on some other unfortunate girl. I knew the moment would soon come when I fully realized that I was the one in this predicament, and it was then that things would likely become most difficult. But I held that moment off as long as possible. I did not wish to cry in front of these strangers— or, even worse, give into hysterics. But how else was I to feel with all that was familiar slipping away and a new, and not particularly friendly, husband who spoke a language I did not understand?

  To calm myself I thought of the scene as I would one I wished to paint. Several of the men, including Laird MacDonald, would make interesting subjects. My mind turned to my art, and I began imagining bold strokes on a large canvas. A light background, the men at the forefront. Maybe posing with their swords?

  “...take Katherine Christina Mercer to wife.”

  My eyes snapped to the priest. When had he begun speaking in Latin? I glanced nervously in either direction, but no one appeared to be looking at me. I willed my frantic heartbeat to slow. I’d not missed anything important.

  Nothing important! I was about to be wed.

  I forced my attention to the ceremony, trying to listen as I should and, for the first time in my life, feeling immensely grateful for tutors who had required me to study Latin.

  At last he ceased speaking, and Lord MacDonald turned to me. Following his cue, I moved stiffly within my cramped confines, angling my body toward him. His mouth set with a look of grim determination as he took both of my hands in his, not firmly as before, but with the barest touch.

  Nonetheless it affected me. I glanced down at our joined hands, wondering at the tremor I felt at our contact.

  It is anxiety. Calm yourself, Christina.

  Not quite looking into my eyes, Laird Macdonald began to speak.

  “I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine—”

  If he intended this to be romantic, he was failing miserably. His voice seemed to lack all emotion— as it should. We don’t even know each other. I found his promises extreme. I hoped they weren’t literal and that I would be allowed to cut my own meat and have my own cup at dinner.

  “From this day it shall only be your name I cry out in the night and into your eyes that I smile each morning.”

  Just the thought of being beside him come nightfall terrified me. But that he might cry out my name... I felt a blush steal across my cheeks. I was powerless to cover them or turn away, as Lord MacDonald held me in place with both his hands and eyes, now staring directly at me. Or through me. Though his gaze was directed at my face, I felt as if he was looking past me, as if his mind, too, was in another place entirely.

  He did not seem to notice my discomfort but continued his vows. “I shall be a shield for your back as you are for mine, nor shall a grievous word be spoken about us, for our marriage is sacred between us, and no stranger shall hear my grievance.”

  Easy enough for him to promise. He was surrounded by people he knew. Everyone was a stranger to me. I’d have no choice but to keep any grievances to myself.

  “Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor you through this life and into the next.”

  The room fell silent when Collin finished. I stood there looking at him, moved by his last words, though I tried not to be. What would it be like to be cherished by him? I found that I very much wanted to know, even as I struggled to control my breathing and worried I was expected to know all those vows by heart and say them next. It seemed much to promise someone I’d just met. Yet, strangely, it felt as if he’d meant every word.

  “Repeat after me, Miss Mercer,” the priest said in Latin.

  I managed to nod and struggled through my pledge to Laird MacDonald— Collin— those same vows he had just given to me.

  “Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor you... ” Might I someday feel such a depth of emotion for this man? And might he feel the same for me? The idea both terrified and enticed me. Perhaps my girlish dreams had not entirely vanished. Or, perhaps he would finish them off once and for all, if the cold stare he gave me now was any indication of the future.

  I ended my vows feeling very somber indeed.

  Laird MacDonald dropped one of my hands and turned back to the priest. In spite of his light touch, the hand still held in his began to sweat.

  “Collin Ian MacDonald and Katherine Christina Mercer, by the authority of the Almighty God and the Church of England, and before these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Words so final that a ripple of fear shivered up my spine.

  “Bear up, lass. You’re almost done,” one of the Campbells reassured me. I felt a comforting hand on my back and leaned into it for a second, feeling a slight buckling of my knees.

  “She’s only just started,” a man on the other side of the room said, and when I looked his way I could have almost sworn I saw Laird MacDonald’s— Collin’s— mouth twitch.

  Annoyed with me already? Or merely amused at my nervousness? I hoped for the latter, though I was not overly fond of being a source of amusement.

  “Ahem.” Finlay Campbell cleared his throat. “You haven’t forgotten—”

  “No,” Laird MacDonald said a bit too sharply for a man who had supposedly just experienced one of the happiest moments of his life. He dropped my hand, and I glanced over at him as he fumbled with a tiny parcel he’d drawn from his pocket. His brow furrowed as he untied the string, and when he looked up at me, I saw a misery in his eyes that I felt sure mirrored that in mine. It occurred to me, then, that I was not the only victim here. My husband had not wanted that title today any more than I had wanted the title of wife. Yet he had come all this way, gone to all this trouble, and gone through with it.

  Why?

  �
��The ring ceremony is an old Scottish tradition,” he said. “Or a Campbell one, at least, and as you’re a Campbell—” His expression said the rest.

  And as we’re surrounded by armed Campbells, and I’ve no wish to start a war—

  But there had been a war, many years ago when I was a child, and Father had fought in it. In Scotland. Against Scotland.

  I glanced at Mother, whose face seemed to have turned to stone. Father was sympathetic to the Scots’ plight, because my real mother was Scottish.

  How had I not realized this before now? Why hadn’t Father ever told me?

  I counted backward quickly, calculating that my father and mother would have been together around the time of the Jacobite uprising, when that imposter Charles came from France to try to claim England’s throne. Many English troops had been dispatched to Scotland during that time.

  Was theirs a love match? How could that even be possible? Father is English. I am English.

  Or at least, I’d thought I was. Everything I’d ever known or believed to be true was crumbling around me. Uncertainty and fear crept into the farthest recesses of my mind with a dizzying effect.

  Laird MacDonald finished untying the package and withdrew a small, silver ring from the paper. He took my hand once more, his touch no less impactful than a moment before. I closed my eyes briefly, thinking I might have enjoyed it, had the one touching me not been so reticent. He slid the band over the third finger of my left hand. Over the vein that leads straight to my heart. My overly sentimental sister had shared with me this tidbit about wedding rings, and I’d thought it a lot of nonsense at the time.

  But now... The band felt strange on my finger, unfamiliar.

  Unwanted.

  My heart felt the same, with a queer tugging at it, as if it was no longer mine to control. This ring, or the man who had given it to me, had laid claim to me, body and soul, and I feared or sensed it was my heart that would most suffer the consequences of our union.

  He cleared his throat. “I give you my heart at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars. To love and to honour through all that may come.”

  More vows, I thought, anguished. Will this never end? Even Anna’s ceremony at the grand church in London had not seemed to go on this long.

  I’d thought Lord MacDonald’s voice devoid of emotion before, but now it sounded positively anguished as he rushed through this second set of promises.

  “Through all that may come. Through all our lives together. In all our lives, may we be reborn that we may meet and know and love again, and remember.” He released my hand, as if holding it had pained him.

  It had tortured me.

  “Now the lass,” the priest coaxed.

  “No.” My husband’s command was swift. “It is enough. She needn’t say anything more. We are done here.”

  The priest glanced toward the Campbell side of the room, then nodded, and the men behind us stood in silence.

  It is finished, then. I am married. There was no we to the equation in my mind until, beside me, Alistair cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Seal it. With a kiss.”

  “Pagan,” the priest muttered. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and gave each of us a pointed stare.

  Slowly Laird MacDonald turned to me. Alistair nudged me so that I faced Collin as well.

  He looked as reluctant as I felt for what it appeared was expected to happen next. I did not intend to make it any easier for him. Even if I’d wanted to, I’d no notion how. Having missed my season and any chance at suitors, I hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about conversing with, let alone kissing a man.

  He closed the space between us. I didn’t look up but stared at his chin. A throaty chuckle sounded behind us. “He’s not so bad as all that, lass.”

  Another voice chimed in. “She’s a shy’un. You’d best be kind to her, Collin.”

  Someone jostled me from behind, and I stumbled forward, straight into my husband’s chest. He grasped my shoulders, steadying me.

  “Sorry. Thank you,” I mumbled. Our eyes met, and his were filled with an unfathomable pain. Sharing a kiss seemed the last thing either of us wanted. Yet the onlookers pressed closer, insisting. I closed my eyes, shutting out his look of discomfort and hoping that would make it easier.

  Quickly now. Just get it over with.

  His lips covered mine gently, in the barest meeting, but filled with such surprisingly sweet promise that I felt shaken. Then he turned away from me, took my hand again, and faced us both toward the crowd as a loud hurrah— from the Campbell side— went up.

  “There’s the matter of signatures,” the priest reminded us, and Laird MacDonald turned us around again and marched us up the first stair, near the papers resting on the newel post. He released my hand to sign his name first.

  I felt lightheaded— either from his kiss or all that turning, or possibly trying to decipher the conflicting emotions my new husband was displaying. He’d first seemed impatient with me then angry, and then indifferent. But something painful had followed. Speaking the vows that accompanied giving me my ring had cost him. And his kiss...

  What could possibly have caused him to look so tormented? Feelings of self-doubt crowded my mind. The grey dress was not good enough. I shouldn’t have been late. I shouldn’t have spoken so boldly at first.

  “Ian, you’re to sign here,” Laird Macdonald said when he’d finished. I moved aside as another of the MacDonalds came forward. Like most of the rest of the lot, his eyes and hair were dark— nearly black, in this case. Shiny and sleek, it fell below broad shoulders. Next to Laird MacDonald, I guessed him to be the best dressed of the men. But there was a look about him that did not speak of anything gentlemanly. The sleeves of his shirt were taut, his breeches as well, narrowing into black boots, one of which boasted the rather ornate handle of a dagger. He didn’t look any happier than the rest of them but grabbed the quill and slashed his name across the paper. When he’d finished, he stepped back, casting a loathing glare at me.

  A pirate if I ever saw one. I had the absurd thought that I must paint him someday. Why do you hate me? I wanted to ask, my feelings of hurt and inadequacy multiplying. Instead I met his gaze with what I hoped was an equally fierce one. Who was this man to ruin my wedding day? Another ridiculous thought. What was there to ruin?

  “Ian.” Laird MacDonald’s voice was sharp. “What’s done is done.” He stepped between us. “Go sign the document, Katie.”

  Katie? For a half second I wasn’t certain he meant me. No one ever called me that, and it seemed a far stretch from Christina or even Katherine. But a small part of me liked it, liked that so quickly my husband had determined what he would call me, and it sounded personable and friendly. If I only knew what I should call him.

  I climbed to the second step and took up the quill. With a steady hand, I filled the line with my carefully practiced script. Katherine Christina Mercer.

  Now Lady MacDonald.

  A twinge of panic worked its way to the surface again. I took a deep breath and struggled to tamp it down, while pretending interest in the paper before me. I noted that my husband’s signature was fine, but our witness, Ian’s, was little more than chicken scratch. Though he’d been upset when signing, I’d have wagered he couldn’t have done any better had his emotions been in check. It was funny what one could tell from a simple signature. I’d been studying them a long time, mostly on paintings I’d been fortunate to view in London’s cathedrals. In this case, I surmised that Laird MacDonald had some level of education. Ian, on the other hand, did not; his letters were ill-formed and little more than squiggles and lines.

  Alistair Campbell came forward next, his grin as welcoming as Ian MacDonald’s had been threatening. He signed as the other witness, and then there were no more delays to be had. I sensed my husband was anxious to be off.

  I was simply anxious.

  The small sea of men parted as I followed him toward the front doors. I felt a hand on my arm and saw i
t was Mother’s. I leaned forward, wanting to feel her comforting embrace, but she pushed past me to stand in front of my new husband.

  “Lord MacDonald, there is the matter of our settlement.”

  I felt myself pale and blush at the same time. To so brazenly ask—

  He reached into the pocket of his coat to pull out an envelope. A small square of tartan came with it and fluttered to the ground. I held back a gasp. Though the fabric was tiny, I knew from Father that having even that much of a clan’s plaid was open rebellion. But Laird MacDonald seemed unconcerned. He handed the envelope to Mother.

  “This is all there will be. Spend it wisely.” He bent to pick up the scrap of fabric, which I quickly saw was not one square of tartan, but two, sewn crudely together.

  “For you.” He pressed the cloth into my hands. “This is the Campbell plaid— your mother’s people.” He flipped the square over to a brighter, bolder pattern. “The other side is the Macdonald’s. My clan. Yours now as well.”

  I sensed strain as he spoke the last.

  “Blasphemy,” someone on the Macdonald side said. I feared it was Ian.

  Laird Macdonald pretended not to hear. “Keep it well hidden. We’ve no desire to lose our heads on this trip.”

  We. The word chilled me. I was one of them now. I had been all along. No wonder Father had protested the treatment of the Scots. His own daughter was one.

  My fingers closed around the scrap as a burning began behind my eyes.

  Long ago my father had taken me from Scotland, knowing that someday I would return.

  “My only child lies dead,” Laird Campbell began. “Her only child, my granddaughter, is but four years old. She is a Campbell at heart.” The laird thumped his fist loudly over his chest. “But half of her blood is English.”

  I gasped. I couldn’t help myself. Nor could I help the surge of bitterness and repulsion that filled me. “Was her mother—”

  “She was not forced.” Laird Campbell’s voice was eerily quiet again. “She chose this Englishman, a soldier— against my wishes, mind you— but he was her choice.”

  I couldn’t fathom how Liam Campbell was laird when he couldn’t even control his own daughter.