by Amy Jarecki
Her skin hotter than hands held to a fire, Mary could no longer stand if she’d wanted to. Her back stiff as a board, she eased into the chair. “Please tell me you haven’t gone off and promised my hand.”
“If only it were that easy.” Moving the slip of parchment in front of her, Da pointed. “I drew up a list of possible suitors from the gathering and our wee jaunt up the coast—I’ve had words with each and every man on this list and nary a one has been betrothed.”
Mary’s stomach churned with sickly bile.
“Och, mo peata.” Da said with a gentle tone. “A chieftain’s eldest daughter must marry into her rank or above, and an alliance with any one of these clans will help our wool trade. Now tell me, who on that list should I write first?”
Mary scanned the names, tears clouding her eyes. Of course, Da had scratched a line through Sir Donald MacDonald’s name. “Why are you so anxious to be rid of me?”
“Ye ken I would keep you here forever, but that wouldn’t be fair to you. Mayhap one day you’ll understand.” Da leaned back and wrapped his fingers around his armrests. “’Tis time for you to become a wife and a mother, and my duty is to see to it you make a good match—one that is respectable and increases our influence.”
She swiped a hand across her face. “And now you think my reputation could be ruined because of Sir Donald’s incarceration?”
“Do not read more into this than what is plainly before your eyes, lass. If things grow worse for the baronet and word spreads through the Highlands you were staying under his roof whilst he committed arson—”
“He did not commit arson.”
Leaning forward, a fire blazed behind Da’s eyes, telling her to stop trifling. “Mayhap he did not. Many a man has been sent to the gallows for crimes for which he was innocent.”
Mary’s stomach convulsed. How could Da utter such abominations? She picked up the parchment with a trembling hand. Never in her life would she choose one of the lairds on the list when her heart was already given.
A knock sounded at the door.
“I’m not to be disturbed,” Da bellowed.
“A galley has sailed onto our beach, m’laird,” Fyfe’s voice resounded through the timbers.
“Bloody hell. Come in.” Da pushed back his wheeled chair as Mary stood. “What standard are they flying?”
“Only the flag of Scotland, m’laird.”
Mary’s heart jolted as she snapped a hand to her chest.
Has word arrived?
Wheeling up beside her, Da grabbed her wrist and squeezed. “Go to your chamber and remain there until I’ve sent for you.”
“But I must greet—”
“Do as I say,” Da slapped her backside as if she were a child. “Fyfe, bring the master to me and post a guard outside Miss Mary’s door.”
Mary stopped mid-stride. “That will not be necessary.”
“Must you argue with my every word?” Da inclined his head toward the parchment. “Take the list with you, my dear. I want a name by the evening meal.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Don followed the Castleton guard up the stairwell to the chieftain’s solar. Though a dreary day, he’d hoped for a jovial welcome. Upon his arrival there were no children practicing shooting, no spirited lass wearing trews, no tents and definitely no air of excitement.
And from the guard’s cool welcome, he realized Miss Mary wouldn’t be running to the galley to greet him with open arms. He should have known John of Castleton would require an audience first. Ascending the stairs, Don rifled through the things he needed to say to Mary’s father. He only wished he knew what the chieftain thought of him. By Mr. Kerr’s report, Don feared he appraised poorly in the chieftain’s eyes, even if he was a baronet.
I swear on my father’s grave I will not fail.
The guard opened the door. “Sir Donald MacDonald of Sleat, m’laird.”
“Well, don’t just stand in the passageway. Come in.”
Don squared his shoulders and marched forward then executed a respectful bow—one far deeper than owed to a lesser chief. “Sir John. It is ever so good to see you.”
“And it is ever so surprising to see you, sir.” The man gestured to a chair. “Sit. I prefer to look a man in the eye.”
Doing as asked, Don folded his hands atop the table. “I came as quickly as time would allow.”
The lines on the old man’s face etched deeper with his frown. “You must have, because the last I heard, you were imprisoned in Glasgow’s Tolbooth.”
“Accused of crimes I did not commit, sir. Fortunately the culprit is now behind bars.”
“That would be Lieutenant Balfour MacLeod?”
“The same.” Don shifted in his seat. “He’s been stripped of his rank and I wouldn’t be surprised if the magistrate sends him to the gallows—especially for arson. Many a merchant lost his livelihood in that fire.”
“He was never well liked in these parts. I’ll attest to that. ’Tis a relief to see he’s received his comeuppance.” Sir John stroked his fingers down his greying red beard. “And you? How are your coffers faring?”
“I did lose an entire shipment of packing salt and another of wool, but my galley has been repaired, and my men in Trotternish have supplied a ship bound for the Americas with ample packing salt.”
“You’re back in favor with the American merchant?” John asked, his tone becoming more respectful.
Don explained how he intended to introduce the clan chieftains to Mr. Smith and encourage him to purchase goods from Scotland. All the while, Mary’s father sat eyeing him with an arch to his brow. “The Duke of Gordon is also arranging for American ships to sail to Aberdeen.”
“The duke?”
“Aye. Were you not aware? His Grace has resumed his support of the cause.”
“That is good news. And why am I just hearing of it now?”
“Because I have arrived faster than the mail carrier, sir.” Don leaned forward. “Evidently the duke has sworn off women for life.”
“You do not say?”
“I heard it from his very mouth. And the spring gathering will be at Huntly.”
“Perhaps things are looking up for the cause.”
“I believe so.”
Sir John leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “But that isn’t why you’ve come to Castleton, is it?”
Don made no outward indication of his jitters. Finally, the conversation had moved on to his reason for being there. He glanced over his shoulder as if he expected Miss Mary to burst through the door. Where was she? Why hadn’t she even been atop the wall-walk and waved? He clenched his fists. Mr. Kerr had said Sir John had appeared angry when he’d come to Glasgow. If he’d unleashed his ire on Mary, the chieftain would have more than an amputated leg to worry about.
“No,” Don answered. “I’ve come to discuss your daughter.”
“I kent it.” The chieftain rapped his knuckles on the table, snarling like he was about to commit murder. “You have debauched her. Dear God, I’ll never be able to make a match with her hand.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Gulping, Don maintained his poise. Did Sir John force Mary to tell him about their interludes? But if she had, wouldn’t Sir John be more condemning?
Is he fishing? Best get on with it.
“Sir, I must inform you that I only have the most honorable of intentions where Miss Mary is concerned.”
“Honorable is it now?” Sir John boomed, his cringe growing more menacing. “Do you now think such a bold statement allays the fact that you, a bachelor, allowed a highborn, unmarried woman to reside under your roof for two months?”
“But my sister—”
The man slammed his fist onto the table. “I care not that your sister posed to cover up what could have been a humiliating scandal.” He jutted out his chin, his face red as the coals in the hearth. “Do you have any idea how your actions could have tarnished my daughter’s reputation?”
Thrusting him
self to his feet, Don’s chair toppled over behind him. “Sir. I assure you I acted with the utmost decorum.” Don’s gut twisted. Where Mary was concerned, he might have lost control a time or two, but he fully intended to make amends for his actions. “That aside, I’ve come to you this day to ask for Miss Mary’s hand—not because you are backing me into a corner, conniving any manner of drivel to pin me into a suit of marriage, but because your daughter has won my heart. She is delightful and charming, and she brought a light into my life which I have never before experienced.”
Sir John blinked, a confounded look spread across his face as if Don had taken him by surprise.
The air grew heavy while they both froze; a duel of unspoken emotion. Don gulped. “Damn it man, say something.” Sir John may be Miss Mary’s father, but by God, Don was his superior clan chief, and was due a fair bit more respect than he’d received since entering this blasted solar.
“I…you…ah?” John raked his fingers through his hair, a grin wider than the Firth of Forth stretched across his lips. “Och, Sir Donald, why didn’t you state the true reason for your visit when you walked through the door?”
“You ken as well as I it wouldn’t have been proper for me to do so.”
“Aye? Well it would have saved this old man from a fair bit of worry. Fetch us some whisky.” He motioned to the sideboard. “You say you’ve been cleared of all charges?”
Don was all too willing to pull the stopper off the flask and pour two tots—he even helped himself to a healthy swig and poured again. “I have, and the Duke of Gordon testified in my defense.”
“His Grace testified?” Sir John asked. “My, that is impressive.”
Don placed a glass in front of the gentleman, then resumed his seat. “I’m glad the whole pretense is over.”
The man turned the glass between his fingers. “So, you’ve come to ask for Miss Mary’s hand?” He sipped. “You are aware she means a great deal to this household.”
Don expected there to be a negotiation. “And it goes without saying she will become Lady Mary, the Baronetess of Sleat.”
Sipping his whisky, Sir John droned on and on, posturing to ferret out all he could from the arrangement. Don tolerated the negotiation with a lightness to his heart. On one side, he wanted to see Mary, pull her into his arms and shower her with kisses, but formalities had to come first, and he would be no Chieftain of Clan Donald if he sat back and allowed John of Castleton to swindle him out of more than his due.
After hours of negotiations and several tots of whisky, Sir John finally held out his hand. “Then we have an agreement.”
Don shook it firmly. “Aye, if Miss Mary will have me.”
***
Mary dabbed her eyes when, for the second time that day, Fyfe announced she was required in her father’s solar. She hopped to her feet. “Is there news of the baronet?”
The guard’s mouth twisted. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
Mary eyed him. “There simply must be important news. Did the galley bring news?”
With a flick of his fingers, Fyfe beckoned her. “Come Miss Mary, I’ve been sworn to silence.”
She picked up the parchment of names and shook it. “Da gave me until the evening meal.”
Fyfe shrugged. “Perhaps he has something to say that will raise your spirits. Goodness, you’ve been melancholy since your return.”
Dropping the paper, Mary moved to the wash basin and blotted her eyes. “You’d be upset if your life was ruined by an unfeeling ogre.”
“Mm hmm,” Fyfe said, again motioning for her to come.
She tossed the cloth beside the bowl and followed behind the guard, all the while praying good news had come about Sir Donald.
A hundred warring thoughts ratcheted up her fears. Why hadn’t Da allowed her to stay and hear the news? And why had she been locked in her chamber for hours? Was she to be treated as a prisoner now she’d returned and Mrs. Watt had won so much favor with her father?
Her skin perspired uncomfortably. Mary had learned about the desires of the flesh—had become wizened to the impulses of passion. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. How dare she rationalize Da’s relationship with Mrs. Watt? What kind of morals did his behavior impart to Lilas, Florence and, especially, Rabbie? At least Mary had been discrete—no one knew about her indiscretion and she intended to keep it that way…especially now her menses had shown.
Besides, she had far worse things to manage at the moment, the first being that abominable list. Holy Moses, she prayed Miss Barbara had already written with good news.
Fyfe opened the door. “Miss Mary of Castleton.”
Still in the passageway, she gave him a questioning look. Fyfe never formally announced her to her father. “Really, Fyfe, I—” Her mouth dropped. Her heart thrummed. Her palms perspired and tingles of pure elation fired across her skin. She immediately dipped into a curtsey. “S-sir Donald?” This was no time for her mouth to go dry. She gulped, willing a wee bit of moisture to her arid tongue. “I-ah-you’re…here?”
“I am.” He grinned like it was the first day of spring. “Your testimony combined with that of the Duke of Gordon was enough to have the charges against me thrown out.” He opened his arms.
From his chair Da cleared his throat.
Adjusting his posture, Don stepped forward, grasped Mary’s hand and plied it with a proper kiss, careful not to linger too long. Mary’s gaze darted to her father. He watched Sir Donald with the intensity of a peregrine falcon.
Mary cradled her kissed hand to her stomach, hoping not to wipe away the tingling sensation of Don’s lips. Dear Lord, she may never wash the back of her hand again. “Have you come to Skye to replenish your supply of packing salt?”
“Ah…” A distinct flush filled the baronet’s cheeks as he looked to Da. “I—um.”
Da rolled his hand through the air. “Well, have out with it.”
Sir Donald’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Here, sir?”
Spreading his arms wide, Da looked from wall to wall. “Why ever not here?”
“Och.” Don gave Mary an uncomfortable grimace. “Would you mind if we went for a stroll atop the wall-walk?”
Da eyed him again—goodness, what on earth was going on?
“If Fyfe chaperones us?” the baronet asked—sounding a wee bit obsequious, which wasn’t like him in the least.
“What is this about?” Mary wrung her hands. Had Sir Donald come to apologize? To make amends and walk out of her life forever?
“Come,” Sir Donald grasped her arm rather firmly and gave the poor guard a sharp glare. “We shan’t be long and I do not need an armed escort.” He shoved past, pulling Mary in his wake.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked in a sharp whisper.
“Not at all.” He said not another word while they continued up the stairwell—three flights until they stepped out into a brisk wind.
They moved to her favorite vantage point—the one that overlooked the bay. Gannets called overhead, fishing for their midday meal.
Clutching her arms around her ribs, Mary chanced a look at Don. He’d been acting ever so peculiar. “I must apologize for leaving Glasgow so abruptly.”
He brushed her cheek with coarse fingertips, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Och, lass, you had no recourse but to go with your father. I was remiss not to send you home sooner.”
A lump the size of a cannonball sank to the pit of her stomach. He hadn’t wanted her there all along. Their mutual attraction had always meant more to Mary than it had to Don. All manner of his plans must have altered during his incarceration. Curses, why did her eyes have to tear up? She blinked and looked out to sea. “I love to come up here ever so much. Please do not make this a memory that will crush my heart.”
His lips thinned as if he might be suppressing a smile. “Forgive me. I truly hope what I have to say will be received with much happiness.”
Her eyebrows drew together in question. “Sir?”
&nb
sp; Taking her hand between his warm palms, the Baronet of Sleat lowered to his knee. Then his midnight blue eyes caught a ray of sunshine peeking through the dense clouds. They sparkled like magic. “Miss Mary, I have not always been the most well-mannered man when in your company and for that, I ask your forgiveness. Please ken that I intend to make up my shortcomings for the rest of my life.” He released one of his hands and slipped it inside his sporran. “Ah—I have loved you since the moment we met and I realized you were the most beautiful, most wily woman in all of Scotland. My love for you grew every day we were together and the only thing that kept me sane while I sat in the Tolbooth was the memory of your smiling face with its adorable freckles, your scent, your red tresses that pick up the breeze and flicker like fire as they are doing now. And I love, I love, I love you from the depths of my heart.”
Tears streamed from both Mary’s eyes, her lips trembled, her throat constricted with so much happiness, she couldn’t utter a sound.
He held up a ring set with a brilliant ruby. “Mary of Castleton, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Drawing a hand over her mouth, she didn’t trust herself to speak. But she nodded in rapid succession while blinking her tears of happiness at bay.
“Will you?”
“Aye,” she managed with a warble holding her hand out. “I will marry you and none other.”
He slipped the ring over her finger. “This was my mother’s and now it is yours.”
Admiring the stone, a tear streaked from her eye. “’Tis beautiful.”
After kissing the ring, Don stood and pulled her into an embrace, one filled with love and warmth and hope. “You have made my life complete. I do not ken what I would have done if you’d refused me.”
She dabbed her nose as daintily as possible and gazed up at his bonny face. “I do not ken what I would have done if you had rejected me.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead and held them there. “Dear God, I swear I will love you until the end of my days.”