“I will, I thank you. I have, and he passed. Now leave him be.”
“He’s one of us now, so I’ll not kill him. But he’ll have to hold his own among us, especially with him being English and the Gathering almost upon us.”
Mary Elizabeth turned to Ian and stood on the tips of her toes, putting her finger in his face. “You’ll leave him alone, or I’ll know the reason why.”
“I am the reason why,” Harry said, wrapping his hand around her finger.
Harry was actually laughing, though God alone knew why. Ian was the largest of the boys in her family, but they were all fierce. Mary Elizabeth was still frowning at her brother’s retreating back when Harry took her finger to his lips and kissed it.
“Thank you for defending me, love, but there is no need.”
Mary Elizabeth was about to open her mouth to tell him that he had not met them all yet when his lips came down on hers and silenced her. When he let her up for air, she checked his palm, so that she would not be tempted to kiss him again, or drag him off with her into the small antechamber behind the first spiral staircase. In lieu of debauchery only one oak door away from whatever family had gathered in the great hall—the family that were even now waiting for them—Mary Elizabeth cut her handkerchief into three strips and used it to bind his wound up.
“It’s a scratch, Mary. Leave it be,” Harry said, his voice a soft warmth in her ear. She did not look up at him, but finished her task before taking one step back for safety.
“Aye,” she said. “It’s a scratch that needs soap and water on it, but that will do for now.”
“Soap?” Harry asked, bemused.
“It’s a folk remedy my mother’s fond of. Clean a wound with water and whatever is to hand, honey or soap, then bind it to keep it cleaner still.”
“I always put something on a wound to keep it from bleeding on my clothes.”
Mary Elizabeth smiled at him and took his good hand. “That’s not enough. Not anymore. You’re in my mother’s house now.”
“I’m glad you finally came up to the castle, Mary Elizabeth. I was just sending Ian after you when he met you both at the door.”
Her mother’s voice was as calm and still as it always was. Mary Elizabeth could not tell if she was putting on calmness for their guest’s sake, or because she was saving up a tongue lashing for later. She supposed she would find out soon enough. “Mother, how did you get up to the house without me seeing you?”
“The duchess’s sloop brought us to Aberdeen, and a hired coach-and-six brought us home. Davy tells me you were down by the burn, watching the water go by, hoping to catch a trout for your father.”
“I didn’t catch anything.”
“Well,” her mother said, without a note of censure in her voice, “there is always tomorrow.”
Mary Elizabeth did not have long to puzzle out this new and odd acceptance of her unladylike habit of fishing because her mother turned to Harry and smiled.
“Duke, if you might give us a moment alone, I would like a short word with my daughter.”
Mary Elizabeth clung to his good hand tighter, but when she saw what she was doing, she eased her grip. Harry looked down at her and tilted her chin up so that she might meet his eyes. “I think you will want to hear what she has to say, Mary.”
Mary Elizabeth disagreed, for she had heard it all before, since childhood, but she did not tell him that. She smiled at him, and kissed his cheek, and let him go.
“Don’t turn your back on Ian,” she said as Harry strolled calmly toward the great hall, where a great racket had begun, as if one of her brothers had let the hounds in the house and they had taken to chasing William Wallace. Mary Elizabeth had not known the little dog long, but she knew that he would make short work of the bigger ones, much to their chagrin, as Robbie often made short work of men twice as large as himself.
In that moment, she heard a triumphant terrier bark, followed by a wolfhound’s whine for mercy. Connie said, “Good job, William Wallace. That’ll teach the brute some manners.”
So Mary Elizabeth was laughing as she stepped into the small sitting room, to hear whatever her mother had to say.
Thirty-three
Mary Elizabeth was not laughing long, however, for her mother was frowning. For once, her ma looked not angry but sad. As far as she and her mother were apart in how they thought she should live her life, she did not want her mother to be sad because of her.
“I’m sorry I ran off, Ma,” Mary Elizabeth said. “It was wrong and foolhardy. I should have stayed and held my ground and fought it out with you, and then told Harry where I was going so that he could decide for himself whether to follow me or not.”
“Follow you he did.” Her mother did not censure her all at once, as Mary Elizabeth had thought she might. Lady Anna did not even sit down, but stood as still as a statue in the middle of the room. Mary Elizabeth wondered if this meant that it was to be a short dressing down, and hoped so, for she knew there was tea in the great hall, and dinner soon after that. She felt her stomach rumble. Making up with her man, and kissing him senseless, was hungry work.
“I see his ring on your finger,” Lady Anna said.
Mary Elizabeth raised her hand to the light that was coming in through the room’s only window. The rubies and gold gleamed like a promise of joy to come, and Mary Elizabeth smiled to see it.
“Yes, Ma. I did as you wished. But only because I wanted to. I came home and found that I love him enough to leave here and live with him in the South. I’ll raise my children as English and only come North for the summers. But in spite of Harry being a duke, he’s worth it.”
“You are in love with him, then?” her mother asked, though Mary Elizabeth was sure she had already said so, more than once.
“I am.”
Her mother sank into a chair and wept then, not even drawing out a fine linen handkerchief, but crying into her hands like a peasant woman, or like Mary Elizabeth herself.
Mary Elizabeth was not comfortable with another’s tears, so she was not certain what to do. She thought to call for her da, but instead went and sat beside her and patted her mother’s arm gently.
“I am glad you love him,” her mother said. “I am sorry that you will be going away, but I am glad you found the love of your life. I could not leave you here to molder and discover only too late that your youth had fled, and you had no husband and no children to show for it.”
Mary Elizabeth thought that notion daft, but then she reflected on her values and on what she loved. Left alone, she may well have stayed in the heather for years on end. And unless one of her brothers had brought a man like Harry to the North, she would never have laid eyes on a soul she had not been raised with. The thought of never seeing Harry, of never knowing that he was even alive, pained her. She felt her heart contract and she took her mother’s hand in hers.
“You did not send me away to be rid of me, then?”
“No, Mary. I would never do that.”
Her mother’s tear-streaked face was lovely still, in spite of the weeping. Mary Elizabeth wiped her eyes for her and offered her own handkerchief, that her mother might blow her nose. Lady Anna did so with a very tiny noise, almost like a bird tossing grass about. Mary Elizabeth swallowed the laughter that rose into her throat at the sound. Her mother was delicate and no mistake. Perhaps once they were both married women, they might deal along together a bit better. Mary Elizabeth certainly hoped so.
“I love you, Ma,” Mary Elizabeth said.
“And I love you. And I’m glad you know it.”
“And I love you both!” Her da came in from the entryway then and stood in the center of the room, his hands on his hips. “Now get you both into the great hall before Ian eats all the tea cakes and jam.”
Mary Elizabeth hugged her mother fiercely and then her da, then slipped out to leave them alone for a
moment. From the doorway, she watched as her father folded her mother into his arms, and she realized for the first time that her own mother had left her people for love, and it had turned out well. Mary Elizabeth could only hope that she and her children would fare as well among the English.
When she stepped into the great hall, it was Harry who greeted her with a fresh cup of tea just as she liked it and a plate piled high with cakes, two scones, and cream. She kissed him, lingering over his lips as she might linger when twisting together a good fly for her fishing reel, taking time with it, until the kiss spun out almost like a song between them.
“That’s enough,” Ian bellowed. “You’re making Davy blush.”
Her studious brother smacked Ian on the arm, which caused a ruckus, especially among the hounds and William Wallace, who joined in the fray. But Mary Elizabeth did not join in. She was content for once to sit and eat her cakes, with the man of her life beside her.
* * *
Harry took tea with his girl, listening to and watching the rollicking madness that was her family. By comparison, Mary Elizabeth seemed suddenly tame and demure, until she smiled at him.
He knew now why it was inappropriate for gentlemen to sample their ladies’ charms before the wedding. Not knowing what it was like to bed Mary Elizabeth was bad enough. Knowing how she tasted, what she sounded like, how she looked as she came apart beneath him was enough to drive a man truly mad.
The rest of the family, even his own mother, seemed to think the matter settled, and to everyone’s satisfaction. They seemed to have forgotten that less than a week before, his girl had bolted off into the night after giving him her sworn word that she would marry him. It was not that he disbelieved her now, for he did not. Harry knew that he would feel safe, and somewhat comfortable, only when they had both signed the special license and pledged their troth in front of witnesses and a vicar, making their alliance legal in the eyes of king and country.
He supposed that they must also have a priest. He cared little for religion himself, but his mother set great store by it, and the House of Northumberland had been Catholic even through the tides and wilds of King Henry VIII’s reign, when to be Catholic actually cost a man something. They had ridden the storms of history, however, and come out the stronger. Harry remained Catholic for that reason, if for no other. That and for the fact that his mother would take his liver herself and fry it over a fire in front of him if he ever deserted for the Church of England or, God forbid, the Methodists.
Harry was ruminating over this and over how to bring up the subject of his hasty marriage to the company at large when Mary Elizabeth’s brother Robbie strode up to him.
“Come with me, Your Worship. Ma’s ordered a room ready for you.”
“My thanks. And please call me Harry.”
“Of course, Your Worship. Harry it is. Mary, ye’d best get on with changing before Ma catches you in that old gown.”
Mary Elizabeth flared at her brother, but only halfheartedly it seemed to Harry, for she seemed for the most part as content as a well-fed cat to simply sit beside him and lean against his arm. Her breast was a delightful weight against him, reminding him of the delights in store for both of them if he might only get the bloody paper in his pocket signed and witnessed.
“Ye’ll keep a civil tongue in your head about ladies’ clothes, Robbie, or I’ll tell Lady Prudence on you.”
Robbie had the good grace to look chagrined at that and cast a guilty look at his wife, who was sitting with the duchess and Lady Anna, talking about God alone knew what. Harry prayed they were not colluding in some mad scheme that would keep him unmarried for six months or more while his mother planned the wedding breakfast of the year.
Mary Elizabeth did not seem concerned about their wedding breakfast or their wedding itself. She simply kissed Harry on the cheek, and when Ian glared at them from across the room, she kissed Robbie, too.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” she whispered, and promptly disappeared.
Robbie and Harry started for the guest wing, and Ian fell almost at once into step beside them. “So, wee Bantam, you like our man Harry here.”
“I do,” Robbie answered.
Harry did not try to puzzle out why Ian called his brother by the name of a chicken. He supposed it best not to inquire. As to referring to the hulking man beside him as wee, Harry assumed that any man next to Ian’s bulk might seem small. Harry was musing on the oddities of his soon-to-be relatives when the three of them stopped at the foot of a spiral staircase.
Harry looked around for the first time, wondering if he would be able to find his way back to the main hall. He had a sinking suspicion that Ian had taken him, not to the guest wing after all, but to the door of a dungeon.
Ian smiled pleasantly enough, and Robbie looked on, but somehow neither man’s looks gave Harry any comfort.
“So, Harry, me lad,” Ian said without preamble. “You’ll be sleeping in the tower this night, and every night ye bide here.”
“I will?” Harry asked, looking up the steep staircase behind him, lit only by torches.
“Aye,” Ian answered, still smiling, but his hand had transferred to the hilt of his large blade. “And I will be sleeping here, in this room, at the foot of these stairs.”
Harry began to see which way the wind was blowing.
“In case I might need anything in the night,” Harry said.
“Of course.” Ian’s smile most definitely had an edge to it now.
Even if Harry had hoped to find his lady in the dead of night—or she, him—and anticipate their vows once more, he saw that he would not be able to do so without getting blooded by her brother again, and this time in earnest. Harry would not be able to get a sandwich from the larder, much less time alone with his girl. He sighed and acknowledged defeat.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, falling back on the manners he was raised with.
Ian smiled and so did Robbie, this time with warmth. “Welcome to the Highlands.”
Thirty-four
Mary Elizabeth was content to eat the duck her cousin Gregory had shot, and listen to the sound of her family fuss and talk over dinner. She could not remember the last time all four of her brothers had been under the same roof, for Davy went on book-buying trips often, and Ian was almost always at sea.
So she sat and drank in the gathering of her small family, even as she anticipated the larger Gathering that would happen in a little less than two weeks’ time. She had no doubt she could persuade Harry to stay with her in the Highlands that long at least.
Harry, for a man who had finally won the prize he had been hunting for, seemed more than a little out of sorts. Instead of eating a bit of the duck, or even the fine mutton that was on offer, Harry fiddled with his fork and fidgeted in his chair.
“Do you not like the meat?” Mary Elizabeth whispered, careful to keep her voice low enough that none of her kin could make out her words over their own cacophony.
“The mutton is quite good,” Harry said.
“Is it the sauce, then?” Mary Elizabeth asked. “Cook McCrery makes a fine mustard sauce that goes well with this. I might ring for it, if you like.”
“No, thank you,” Harry answered, forcing down a bite with a bit of soft bread. “This is delightful.”
Mary Elizabeth did not try to soothe him again, but applied herself to her own dinner. She would ferret out what the matter was with him when they were alone later that night. She knew that Ian had hidden him in the top of the tower, like a prince in some fairy story, but Mary Elizabeth had never let a brother of hers nor a small thing like a tower stand in the way of her desires. She certainly had no plans to start now.
Only after the cheese was served, along with the last of the wine, did Harry finally speak his mind. And he did not speak low to her, but addressed the whole table. Clearly his duke-ish-ness was going t
o be a problem among her kin. Luckily, it was a problem she could overlook.
Harry stood before the ladies rose to leave the men to their whisky. He cleared his throat, and then spoke, his voice as beautiful and melodious as any song she had ever heard, in spite of his accent. She could not think of him as English even when he sounded priggish and bossy. He was her Harry, first, foremost, and always. The priggish and bossy bits were simply something she would have to live with. God willing, those bits of him did not drive her mad by May Day.
“Good people, I find myself at a loss,” Harry said.
The chatting among her family fell silent as even her da and Ian attended him. Da looked vaguely amused and pressed her mother’s hand. Ian picked his teeth with his dinner knife until Ma shot him a look, and he set it down.
“I am in possession of a special license, arranged by the Bishop of London, and given to me by Robert here.”
Robbie waved to the whole table as if he had done something grand. Davy glowered at him, and Robbie made to toss a bit of cheese in his direction, but Lady Prudence stayed his hand.
Harry drew the license from his coat pocket and laid it on the table with a flourish next to Lady Anna’s Brie.
“I would like your permission to have Mary Elizabeth sign this with me, and for us to say our vows this night, that we might be man and wife.”
There was a long silence as the family looked at him as if he had run mad. Mary Elizabeth was grateful Ian did not speak, but her da did.
“Your Grace,” her father said, “we’re in Scotland here. There is no need for your fancy license, all due respect to yourself and his lairdship the bishop.” He nodded to Mary’s mother, as the bishop was her brother. Da spoke on. “In the Highlands, ye might marry when and where ye please.”
Harry smiled, and Mary Elizabeth sighed to see it, for it lit the whole room for her. “Excellent,” her man said.
“We have sent for Father Murphy, but he will not be here until tomorrow afternoon before tea. So settle yourself, Your Grace. You and your mother are family now. Relax and be welcome among us, and forget your English ways, if only for a night.”
How to Train Your Highlander Page 24