by Dare, Lydia
“Rhiannon,” was all she said. He heard the dress as she snapped it, shaking the wrinkles from it. There was a naked witch behind him. At one time, he’d have been beside himself with lust. The beast would have tried to take over and consume her. Yet the beast wanted no part of this witch. Dash only wanted Cait. And he felt an instant sympathy for the weather-disturbing witch. It discomfited him a bit.
He took a deep breath. “Miss Sinclair,” he began. “Do you often stand naked at the top of Arthur’s Seat?”
“Only when I’m feelin’ particularly sad, honestly,” she admitted on a sigh. “When I’m in the doldrums, I like ta come here and let my emotions wreak all the havoc they like. Do ye ken the townspeople think there was a volcano inside the mountain?”
“There’s not?”
“There may have been at one time,” she shrugged. “But the disturbances here are usually mine.”
He turned to face her, happy to find that she was now clothed. “Would you care to discuss the cause of your melancholy mood?”
“No’ particularly,” she sighed again. A cold rain instantly drenched him. “Oh, drat,” she said as she wiped a tear from beneath her eye. “I’m sorry. I dinna intend ta do that.”
Dash shook his head, flinging cold water droplets in every direction.
“Come closer ta the fire. I’ll send a warm breeze ta dry ye off, Lord Brimsworth.”
The fog stirred, pushed by a gentle wind that did warm his bones a bit.
“I would offer ye some tea, but I’m no’ quite prepared for guests,” she said as she motioned toward a log by the fire. “But ye may sit, if ye like.”
“I should be going back,” Dash remarked absently. He was quite out of his element, stuck on a mountaintop in a circle of fog with a melancholy witch who controlled the weather.
“I’ll clear the fog for ye in a moment,” she said quietly. “I only want a few more minutes.”
Dash sat down cautiously on the log and held his hands out to the fire. The flames leapt toward him, coming just close enough to warm him but not singe him. That is, if he held very still.
“They willna harm ye. Ye can relax.”
“That’s not very easy to do around you, Miss Sinclair. I have a feeling I’ve only seen a small sample of your powers tonight.”
A smirk crossed her lips. “Quite true.”
“Why so sad?” he finally asked. He felt a great sympathy for this witch. Her pain was great. And he could nearly feel it in the wind, the rain, the cold.
“It’s difficult to say good-bye to good friends,” she said quietly. Then she blurted out, “Cait has seen a future for Sorcha. A happy one.”
“Has she not seen one for you?”
“No’ yet.” She shrugged. “If she has, she hasna told me. She hasna seen one for Blaire, either, so I’m no’ too worried.” Lightning cracked across the sky. “Blast it all,” she cursed.
Dash raised his brows and looked toward the heavens, then shot her a telling glance.
“Aye, that was mine.”
“I would wager you can throw a devil of a temper tantrum if you ever have the right provocation, Miss Sinclair.”
She finally smiled. “Doona tempt me.” She stood up and shook the dust from her skirts. Her delicate little hand rose to lie flat in front of her pursed lips. She blew gently, and the fog began to stir. Within moments, it had completely dissipated. The city of Edinburgh lay below them. He could even see Charlotte’s Square and Cait’s fashionable townhouse. He imagined her snug in bed, the counterpane tucked beneath her chin. Then he imagined himself wrapped around her.
“Make her happy, Lord Brimsworth.”
“Never doubt it,” he guaranteed. And, for once, the beast within him wasn’t demanding that he do the opposite of what his heart desired.
Twenty-Six
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. Dash needed Caitrin like he needed the air he breathed. Just a few more hours. He’d been waiting for nearly a fortnight. A few more hours wouldn’t kill him. It just seemed like it would.
Actually, he could use a strong whisky. That should take the edge off and help him sleep. The entire house was silent. So he quietly made his way to the first floor and down the corridor toward Angus Macleod’s study.
Dash could see a warm light under the door and cocked his head to one side. Had Caitrin’s father left a fire blazing in his grate? He knocked lightly.
“Come,” his future father-in-law called.
Dash pushed the door open and poked his head inside to find the older man poring over papers on his desk. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, sir.”
“Ah, Lord Brimsworth, come in, come in. I stayed at the Fergusons’ for dinner tonight. I hope ye dinna miss me.”
Dash shook his head and then shut the heavy oak door behind him. “I actually took dinner in my room.”
“Nervous?” the Scot asked, gesturing to one of the dark leather seats in front of his desk.
“A bit,” Dash affirmed. But only because he would have Caitrin all to himself the next day. She’d be his. And all he could think about was their wedding night. It wouldn’t do for him to tell the man that all he could think about was rolling his daughter beneath him and taking her as a husband takes a wife.
As Dash dropped into the chair, Mr. Macleod rose from his. “Would ye care for a drink, my lord?”
He nodded, hoping he didn’t appear too eager. He didn’t want the man to think he was a drunkard. When did he start to care what others thought about him? “Thank you. That would be nice.”
Angus Macleod began to pour some whisky from a decanter on his sideboard, and then he raised his gaze to Dash. “Caitrin tells me ye’re of the same variety of beast as Benjamin Westfield and Desmond Forster.”
“Does that bother you?”
His future father-in-law smiled, stepping forward and offering Dash one of the snifters. “Who am I ta judge, Brimsworth? I married a witch, and I sired one.”
Well, that was generous of him, though it wasn’t quite the same thing. Dash relaxed just a bit.
“Since ye’re awake,” Angus Macleod began, “we might as well finish our earlier conversation.”
“Sir?”
“Caitrin’s dowry.”
Somehow, with all the events of the afternoon, he’d forgotten about that. “Of course.”
“What lands do ye possess?”
Dash shrugged. “I have a set of rooms in London. Everything else is part of the marquessate. Eynsford’s holdings are extensive. There’s the family seat and manor in Kent. A hunting box in Derbyshire. A home in Mayfair. Cottages in both Gloucestershire and Cambridgeshire.”
“Well, ye can add a home in Berwickshire ta the list.”
Dash sat back in surprise. He hadn’t expected that. Honestly, he hadn’t expected anything save a few hundred pounds. He’d have given up his entire inheritance for Caitrin. “Your daughter doesn’t like to travel.”
“Ah, well,” the man laughed, “ye’ll have ta wait for me ta stick my spoon in the wall before ye can take Macleod House from me.”
A rare warmth rushed up Dash’s neck. “That’s not what I meant, sir. I—”
Angus Macleod just laughed some more. “Doona fash yerself, Brimsworth. I ken ye dinna mean that.” Then his smile vanished as he resumed the seat behind his desk. “Anyway, the Mordington property is Cait’s. Really, it was her mother’s dowry, and someday it’ll belong ta yer daughter.
“It’s the ancestral seat of the seers, though only Cait’s line has survived the witch hunts of the last few centuries, at least as far as we ken. Since ye have a secret of yer own, I doona think I have ta tell ye how imperative it is that no one outside the family discover what she is.”
Then why did it seem as if Alec MacQuarrie already knew that piece of information? Dash shook the errant thought away and swallowed the rest of his whisky. Cait chose him, not MacQuarrie. “I’d protect her with my life, sir.”
Angus Macleod nodded. “I am glad ta hear it.
It sounds as though yer firstborn son will be quite taken care of. On the other hand, daughters are often ignored. As Cait is my only child, that isna the case for her, and I’d like ta ensure that it willna be so for her daughters. Upon my death, I’ll leave everythin’ else ta my granddaughters ta be split evenly among however many ye have.”
Dash didn’t quite know what to say to Macleod’s unorthodox idea. So, he grunted out a quiet, “Thank you.”
“What does yer father think about this marriage?”
“He doesn’t know about it yet, Mr. Macleod. It’s been quite some time since we’ve exchanged correspondence.”
Caitrin’s father rose from his desk and looked down at Dash. “Well, ye’ll need ta fix that, lad.”
Dash bristled at the censure. Angus Macleod didn’t know the first thing about his life.
“There are all sorts of circles within the Còig, Brimsworth. The first is between the witches themselves. If they are not in harmony with each other, it can play havoc on their powers. And the second circle is within their family. Repair whatever rift ye have. Cait needs her family circle ta be strong.”
Then the man started for the door. “That’s all the unsolicited advice I have for ye tonight. I’m goin’ ta bed as I have ta give away my only daughter inta yer keepin’ tomorrow.”
Mr. Macleod slid into the darkness of the hall, leaving Dash to gape at his disappearing form. Repair the rift with his father? He’d honestly hoped never to see the old man again. Dash shook his head at the thought. It would be a cold day in Hades before he’d send as much as a couple of lines to the vindictive buzzard.
He rose from his spot and made his way back to his room. The whisky had helped dull his senses, and he prayed that sleep would find him soon.
***
Caitrin glanced in the mirror at her reflection. Her light blue silk gown was nice, but just nice. It wasn’t exactly what she would have wanted as a wedding dress, but it would have to do. She didn’t have time for something new. A wide white ribbon rested beneath her breasts and made them appear a bit larger than they actually were. Hopefully, Dash wouldn’t be disappointed. Of course he’d already seen them through her wet chemise. He had some idea of what he was getting.
Behind her, Sorcha gasped. “Oh, Cait! Ye look beautiful.” The young witch dropped a small valise on Cait’s bed and then rushed forward to kiss both of her cheeks. “Such a pretty bride.”
“Ye are a bit partial. I hope his lordship likes this old dress.”
“Doona frown,” Sorcha ordered. “Only smiles on yer wedding day. Ye doona want lines across yer brow. And the dress isna old. Ye wore it only once right before ye left for England. And I’m sure Lord Brimsworth will love it. Ye are radiant.” She paused only to take a breath. “He’s already gone over ta the church. I think he’s quite anxious.”
Cait nodded. “I suppose I’m fairly nervous myself.”
Sorcha’s dark eyes lit up. “Oh, Cait! Promise me ye’ll tell me what ta expect on my weddin’ night. I doona want ta get the talk from my aunts.”
Cait’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t had any sort of talk with anyone, and the only person she’d feel comfortable asking questions of was Elspeth, though she was still in England. Cait figured she’d have to make do on her own. After all, Dashiel knew what he was doing.
“I promise,” she somehow managed to say.
Sorcha laughed. “A pretty blush. That is nice.” Then she returned to the bed and opened her valise. “I brought armfuls of honeysuckle for yer hair. I think ye should wear it up. Rhiannon promises an unseasonably pleasant day.”
***
The church was sparsely populated with only the Macleods’ closest friends. Dash figured that was good; the fewer people he met, the fewer he’d have to remember—and his mind was already preoccupied.
He paced a path in front of the altar of the small church, trying not to focus on the vicar, Mr. Crawford, who sat in the front pew rehearsing his lines. The vicar rubbed his balding pate more than once, and just watching the man made Dash’s nerves even worse. Where the devil was Cait? She wouldn’t run out on him again, would she?
Mr. Forster patted Dash’s arm. “She’ll be here soon, lad.”
Angus Macleod walked in through the door at the back of the church, a large grin upon his face. “Ye all right, my lord? Ye look a bit queasy.”
“Fine.” Dash managed to nod.
“Ah, Angus.” Mr. Crawford rose from his spot. “It is surprisingly warm today. That’s a good sign for a long and happy marriage, is it no’?”
Dash noticed Rhiannon Sinclair smother a smile as she sat in the second row of pews. So this was her handiwork? What an intriguing lass.
He didn’t have long to contemplate that before the back door opened again and Caitrin stepped into the church with Sorcha Ferguson following closely behind her.
Dash’s mouth went dry. Cait was breathtaking, even more so than normal. Her blond hair was piled high on her head, and she wore a crown made of honeysuckle.
Sorcha took Cait’s pelisse from her and handed her a bouquet of pink and white roses. Dash couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. As soon as the ceremony was over, he was going to peel that blue dress off his bride. She blushed, as if she could read his thoughts, and Dash wished for a moment she could see what he had in store for her.
“Caitrin is here, Mr. Crawford,” Mr. Macleod said, bringing Dash back to the present. “Are ye ready ta begin?”
The vicar nodded and retrieved his bible from the front pew. Dash held his breath as Caitrin walked up the aisle, never removing her eyes from his. Mr. Macleod met her halfway and offered her his arm.
“My darlin’ girl,” he whispered, “ye are beautiful.”
She smiled at her father and then turned her attention back to Dash. Cait stopped before him, and Mr. Macleod placed her hand in Dash’s. Then he slid behind them and took his seat.
“I’m glad you made it,” Dash said beneath his breath.
“I was right on time,” she informed him.
He sighed, knowing he was foolish. “I’m just anxious, angel.”
Mr. Crawford cleared his throat, garnering everyone’s attention. “Slainte mhor agus a h-uile beannachd duibh.”
Whatever the devil that meant. Dash glanced down at Cait who smiled beatifically at him.
“Repeat after me, Lord Brimsworth. ‘I, Dashiel Jameson Aberdare Thorpe, take ye, Caitrin Louisa Macleod, ta be my wife before God and these witnesses.’”
Dash took a deep breath. A month ago, he’d never have envisioned he’d be in Scotland, holding the hands of the one girl who knew all his secrets and who somehow wanted him anyway. “I, Dashiel Jameson Aberdare Thorpe, take you, Caitrin Louisa Macleod, to be my wife before God and these witnesses.”
Beside him, Caitrin sighed and he squeezed her hands, loving her more than he’d ever thought possible.
Mr. Crawford looked down at Cait and smiled warmly. “And now ye, Miss Macleod. Repeat the words: ‘I, Caitrin Louisa Macleod, take ye, Dashiel Jameson Aberdare Thorpe, ta be my husband before God and these witnesses.’”
Her voice only shook a little as she repeated the words, her light blue eyes boring into his. Dash’s heart leapt at the sound. She was his.
“Do ye have a ring, my lord?” the vicar asked, breaking him from his quiet celebration.
Caitrin’s gaze shot up to reach his, her eyebrows drawn together. “It’s all right if ye doona have one,” she mumbled.
Dash patted his pockets until he found the bulge of the ring box. Then he pulled it out and said, “I have everything you need, angel.” He opened the small box and showed her the contents.
Her gasp could be heard around the church as she raised her fingertips to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.
“May I put it on you?” Dash didn’t even care if the smile on his face was as juvenile as a puppy who received a treat.
She nodded swiftly, holding out her hand.
“Fits you perfec
tly,” he whispered as he slid it onto her finger.
“So do ye,” she whispered back.
Twenty-Seven
Caitrin stood on tiptoe to press her lips to his, expecting a quick kiss before they greeted their guests and headed off to their celebration with friends and family. But Dash obviously had other ideas, because when she kissed him, his hands grasped her elbows, encouraging her to wrap them around his neck before his hands slid around her waist and he drew her to him.
Gone was the teasing exploration of her mouth that she’d become used to. Gone was the gentleness that he’d shown when he held himself in check. In its place was a fiery passion that took her breath away. His lips immediately parted hers, his tongue sweeping inside. She nearly felt the need to weep with passion when he groaned and began to move his hands down toward her bottom.
Suddenly Dash jumped and pulled back. “Ouch,” he grunted as he released her.
“What is it?” Cait asked, reaching up to touch the side of his face.
“I don’t know, but it hurt,” Dash mumbled.
“Ye’re in a church,” Rhiannon said, smiling as she walked by them.
“Rhi!” Cait hissed. “Tell me ye dinna!”
“Oh, it was only a tiny bit of lightnin’, and it was for yer own good,” she whispered back then had the audacity to wink at Dash.
“Did she just…?” Dash let his voice trail off, shaking his head with wonder.
“Aye, she did. I’m so sorry,” Cait hastened to add. “She should behave like she has some manners.”
“He deserved it, Caitrin,” her father said from behind her. “He may be yer husband, but he needs ta behave in polite company.” He leaned closer to Dash and said, “Be very happy she only hit ye with a little of it, lad. She has a lot more she could have thrown at ye.”
Dash coughed into his hand, hiding the smile upon his face. At least he hadn’t offended Caitrin’s father terribly when he’d tried to devour her without thinking. “My apologies,” he offered.