The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  Lighting his lantern, Colin pulled on his dark cloak and started preparing soothing fictions to pour into his ladylove’s troubled ears. Oddly enough, for once in his life he’d have preferred to tell the truth, but couldn’t risk the delay that might follow if revelation of his true vocation gave her pause. Let them be wed first. He would make his confessions after.

  He scratched at her door and then immediately slipped inside. It seemed wisest to give her no time for denial. Frances looked up from the hearth, where she was stirring the fire to life. Her expression was for one moment startled, but quickly smoothed into polite blankness, except for her eyes, which were unusually large and troubled as they studied him. He was not accustomed to such reserve in her expression and did not like it.

  She stood up slowly, her golden gown painted almost red by the fire as it rustled into its proper place. An impatient hand twitched her long dark braid tucked back behind her shoulder. He supposed this was not the moment to mention that her golden skin shamed the sun, nor that he would be unsurprised to discover that she could arouse even inanimate objects to desire simply by touching them, so lovely was she when gilded in firelight.

  “So, cherie, are you prepared to essay an adventure?” he asked quietly.

  The question got a slow blink and then the tight pressed lips relaxed slightly. “You have news to share with me?”

  “Aye, but more importantly, thanks to the bishop I have the means of executing a workable plan. A plan that shall make you and George safe even after the men return home.”

  The dark eyes blinked again. “You do not believe we shall be safe after the men return?”

  “From your neighbors? Perhaps, unless one is still determined to wed you. I suspect that the MacLeod at least will not stop pressing you until you are finally beyond his reach.” Colin walked toward her, being careful not to move too quickly or appear at all menacing. Even so, Frances remained unusually stiff and wary. Her posture was a subtle accusation.

  “But once the men return, we can defend the keep from the MacLeod!” she protested.

  “From danger without. But from within? It would not surprise me if some of the men were of a mind to encompass a marriage with you. There would be a great deal of pressure to have such an event come about to secure your fortune for the upkeep of the castle.” He let the words sink in and then added: “And have you forgotten that we have a traitor in our midst? What is to stop this person from opening the gate some night and letting the enemy within these walls?”

  “Mon Dieu,” she sighed, turning from him. She rubbed at her heart as though it pained her. “I have not forgotten. I was simply keeping the memory at a distance as I prepared for bed, for I like it better far from my dreams.”

  “That is most understandable, if not perhaps wise.” Colin stepped closer. He asked whimsically then: “Tell me, cherie, will you call out for help if I kiss you?”

  Her lips twitched once. “Nay—why cry for help? Unless you need assistance in this endeavor. But is this why you have come? To make love to me?”

  “Only in small measure. I have come, first and foremost, to entreat for your heart. And if I cannot have that yet, then for your hand. We can be wed on the morrow.”

  For a third time, the lady blinked. Any burgeoning playfulness left her as she considered this. “But…but how is this possible?”

  “The bishop has sent us a minister. Angus MacBride can marry us.”

  Frances sank onto her stool, a frown between her brows. “He did this at your urging?”

  “Aye.” Colin knelt beside her and took her hand. “I know it is sudden—and that you have long thought of yourself as Catholic. But consider, Frances. Marry me and there will be no more attempts made on George’s life, for our enemies shall doubtless expect me to kill him for them. They will also believe you subdued to my will. This gives us time to discover the entire plot and act against it. It will also prevent anyone else pressuring you into a marriage for reasons of finance.”

  Frances looked away. “And finance is not a consideration for you?”

  “Nay, I’ve wealth aplenty.”

  “You speak most sensibly, Colin.” Her voice was small and maybe a little hurt.

  He snorted. “Good sense be damned. Marry me because you would enjoy it, if you’ll not marry me for my money, or to be safe.”

  “Perhaps it shall be damned. Regardless, I would have some inkling of what is in your heart.” She flung out a hand. “Why do you even concern yourself in our affairs? Came you here with this intention to wed me? Is this proposal some plot?”

  “A plot? Never.”

  “Then what?”

  Colin hesitated. He did not want to appear irrationally hasty by speaking of the tidal emotion that moved him. Nor did he wish her to think him one of the courtiers who routinely practiced making love to pretty women for the sheer sport of it. That might happen if he answered too poetically.

  And there was also the matter of his occupation to consider. He flattered himself that he knew the female mind, at least a little. She might well think later that his omission of information now was a lie. And if he had lied about that, she might believe he had also lied about his feelings for her.

  Yet, she waited for an answer, her gaze so solemn and expectant. He had to say something.

  He wished he could delay this reply until it might be answered in full, but time was running out for them. There was no time for a courtship. The marriage needed to be encompassed before the Balfours returned home. He had not lied about that. Their traitor would probably assume that he meant to install himself as a master of the keep, and therefore that George Balfour was not long for the earth. It would stay the murder’s hand for a while.

  “I’d no plans to wed you when I arrived. Nor did my cousin MacLeod suggest it,” he added, forestalling her next question. He said lightly but with truth: “As to what is in my heart…From the moment I saw you, thought I to myself, this is the loveliest creature I have ever seen. How could I not wish to have you as wife?”

  “Oui?” The delicate face finally turned his way. She seemed prepared to ponder deeply anything he might say.

  It was an effort, but Colin forced himself to continue to speak frivolously and yet with as much truth as he could safely share: “But what is in my heart at this moment I cannot know, for it has gone missing. It seems that you have stolen it away.”

  “Colin!” she scolded, but dimpled briefly. “This is no time to play the…the valet, the fop and flatterer. Can you not understand that I must know what you truly feel before I can give you an answer?”

  “I feel, mignonne. I feel many things, none simple. Answer me true. Is this marriage not what you want, petite cherie?” he asked, turning her palm upward and stroking gently toward her wrist. He spoke more seriously. “Aye, it is sudden. But not so unnatural or dangerous for all that. Men and maids have always wed—most often not knowing what was in the other’s heart, or even in their own. And thou art surely bold enough to risk this. I have seen your courage many times.”

  “And thou art bolder still to ask a lady in a night rail to wed!” she answered, retreating a step into formality. “You might have had the decency to let me don my best gown before speaking of such matters.”

  The complaint was merely a tactic of delay, but Colin answered it anyway.

  “Nay, for then you would also don your father’s lordly dignity. Though I admire your public display of spirit and courage, I am more interested in the woman than the role you play with such distinction. This woman in her nightdress intrigues me…seduces me.” He pushed her lace cuff aside and pressed a kiss into her palm. Instantly, he felt the pulse beneath his lips hurl itself against the soft skin. Encouraged, he persuaded softly: “Is it not a tiresome responsibility, caring for all in this keep? A heavy one, which you have wished to escape? Then let me take this burden from you, ma belle. As my wife, I can protect you and your kin as well.”

  Frances sighed, but she did not flinch or turn away. />
  Consent, he urged her silently. Consent, so that I need not accomplish this marriage willy-nilly. I had thought to seduce you into union with me, but now would have it be otherwise. Let me do this with honor and not trickery or force.

  “Do you not long for the chance to share intimacies without the danger of scandal?” he murmured, tempting her with the hunger he knew she had for the unknown pleasures of the flesh. “For we shall end as lovers if not as man and wife. You know this is so. We have been nearly discovered once already.”

  She colored, still looking at him with grave eyes that tried to fathom the meaning beyond the words. “You sweep all before you as if it were nothing: my duty, my plans. How can I marry a stranger?”

  “It is nothing, just…just everything. Ah, Frances! It is well enough to be a courtesan to duty—pay it court and be polite in observation of protocol—but be not its slave. No happiness will ever be found there. Duty is a cold bedfellow.” He spread his hands. “Though many would have you believe it is God’s will that we be placed where we are—and perhaps it is—we are also gifted with free will and minds that can see the way to other paths. We can take our destiny into our own hands. We can choose another road from the one where our births and parents placed us. Look into your heart. What does it say to you?”

  “But my plans—” she began.

  “Plans can be remade, even made better. Come, Frances, be not some milk and water maid. Have courage one more time. Say you will enterprise this adventure. We shall make a success of this marriage, I swear. Together we can do anything we can imagine. Come, be my consort.”

  “A consort…” Suddenly she smiled. “Colin! I have doubtless been driven mad, but—”

  “But?” He shook her gently. “Speak! If there is some bar, tell me so that I might put it aside. Tell me of this but.”

  She laughed once, a sound closer to hysteria than amusement. “But: I shall wed thee—and make thy life a misery if you be not kind and fair and a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman, I shall be,” he promised fervently. “But in a moment.”

  Colin pulled her close, allowing himself a single, relieved kiss, which held much passion but not blind lust. Then, his smaller prayer answered, he put her from him and rose to his feet. He’d ask no more of her or fortune that evening.

  “I must go now,” he said.

  “But Colin…” Frances also stood, her expression confused. Her small hands fluttered toward him, clasping his sleeve. She protested: “You cannot leave. We…we have discussed nothing of Lucien’s news, or what we are to do to discover the traitor.”

  “I believe I know who our traitor inside the castle is.” Colin added gently: “And I think you suspect her as well.”

  “But Colin!” Sadness filled her voice, replacing the brief music of happiness. She pleaded, “We cannot punish her on a suspicion. Even to accuse her would be a terrible disgrace. It might even kill her. And I do not know if I could punish her anyway. She is my cousin. She was also the wife of my brother. She came to me for protection when he died, and I promised to stand a sister to her. How can I forget this?”

  “You won’t have to punish her, cherie. That task is mine now. I know you would make the compassionate decision for as long as you could. I, too, prefer forgiveness and understanding whenever it is possible. But mark me well, mignonne. I give no parole to traitors, for with them the sin never ends. I shall not act against anyone without some proof, but if she again attempts to hurt you, or George, then she shall die, woman or no.” He added gently: “Get thee to rest now. I’d as soon not have my bride looking as pale as a ghost when she stands at the altar.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it fleetingly. He added with feeling: “Dream of me, cherie.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Arthur O’Bower has broken his band

  And he comes roaring up the land;

  The King of Scots with all his power

  Cannot stop Arthur of the Bower.

  —Scottish nursery rhyme

  There was little time to prepare for the wedding ceremony, as Colin did not announce their intention until after everyone had broken their fasts, and law dictated that nuptials and the bridal feast had to be performed before the sun had set on the shortening autumnal day. This suited Colin fine, as it meant everyone was kept busy with preparations and would have no time to warn the outside world of what was afoot. After the event was accomplished, he would be pleased to have events known to all who passed for society in those northern parts. But he wanted no last-moment interruption from thwarted suitors to mar the occasion, or to interfere with the Archimedes lever he meant to employ to save George and Frances Balfour.

  A visibly stunned Cook, after slave-driving the sculleries in a manner worthy of any of history’s great tyrants, declared herself prepared for a wedding feast just an hour before sundown. As the pale bride also agreed that she was ready, the ceremony went forth at once.

  Though it caused some murmurs, they were not using the small Balfour chapel for the ceremony. The tiny room that had served her Catholic masters was decorated with a stone cross and a likeness of the Virgin Mary, which would offend their Reformist guests. Also, the small, cold room would not have comfortably held all of the Balfours and their somber visitors.

  The children, free from any understanding of the whys of what was about to take place, were not so solemn as their harried elders. They were arrayed with bride laces and had sprigs of rosemary tied about their sleeves. They looked quite gay and excited to be participating in their first wedding.

  Colin knew not everyone was so pleased. A swift look into the far corner of the room located a stonyfaced Anne Balfour. She looked pale and frozen with disdain, her face as unforgiving as an executioner’s, her eyes as cold and hard as a headsman’s axe. It was probably a good thing that Angus MacBride was unlikely to ask the congregation for objections to the marriage, because Colin wouldn’t put it past Anne to find one.

  Colin thought about approaching Anne with a word of warning about interference, but a loud atonal wheeze from the grand staircase interrupted before he could decide what to say to this woman he suspected of betraying her kin.

  The processional began. Frances appeared on the steps, her hair loose as a maiden’s should be, and dressed in scarlet finery. She was led into the great hall between George and Morag, looking a bit pale and dazed, the silver and gold of her traditional bridal ornament pulling down the shoulder of her low-necked gown where it was fastened to the soft fabric. Colin had to wonder at the size and style of the brooch she wore. It had to be some ghastly Balfour heirloom, because it was far from the delicate, modern silver seal that symbolized a bride’s chastity. He wondered idly if Michael Balfour had had the hypocrisy to force it on his wife before their own wedding.

  Though it was an uncharitable thought on their wedding day, Colin felt rather glad that his father-in-law was no longer among the living. His own gift to the bride, a plain ring he wore for luck on the small finger of his left hand, was one that had belonged to his maternal grandmother. It was inscribed in Gaelic with the loving phrase For the pulse of my heart. It was much smaller and better suited to the delicate Frances, though he planned on giving her another ring—perhaps set with pearls—once they returned to Pemberton Fells. It would be his pleasure to give her many things. If she wished it, he would even clear away a part of the woods to make a meadow where she and George could play golf.

  Colin, taking his place at the altar, was amused to see that Harry the hound was also in attendance, tied to the long table with a short stout rope, but allowed to share in the festivities by wearing a sprig of rosemary in his borrowed ruffed collar, Colin’s second-best, lent to George for the occasion. The neck was stretched obscenely and the pleats would never be the same again, but Colin counted the loss worthwhile. Still enjoying the effects of his first bath, Harry very nearly looked like the lion he was named after. He did not behave as a lion, though. The pipes had set him to sympathetic ho
wling, which caused those standing nearby to draw back with their ears covered. Fortunately, no one muttered anything about ill omens at the hound’s howling as the bride went to the altar.

  A richly if darkly clad Lucien went toward the makeshift altar before Frances, carrying a large bride cup overhead, which was filled with a goodly bundle of rosemary, hung with silken ribbons and scraps of lace dyed all colors, so the absence of flowers was not so keenly felt. A few late marigolds were also mixed in with the herbs. Colin hoped he would not be called on to eat them. He had never subscribed to the belief that eating the yellow flowers would provoke lust. In any event, the provocation of such desire was unnecessary. Frances was lure enough.

  A completely dressed Tearlach came next, playing the pipes as softly as he was able, which was still entirely too loud in the enclosed space, but Colin did not complain. It was tradition and supposed to bring luck—something they all needed.

  Then came the unmarried Balfour women, some bearing small bride cakes filled with seeds and grains, and others festive garlands of feathery seagrass also dyed pretty autumnal hues. It was a strange but still grand wedding party, and Colin felt something akin to genuine pleasure stir in his breast. Was it not fitting that their wedding be unconventional?

  Colin was likewise finely appareled, though not in red like his bride. He knew that scarlet was a favored color by the Gaels at weddings, as it represented fertility, but he preferred the more dignified appearance of somber brown. It was also more in keeping with the preferences of their guests, who served as his groomsmen. Though not entirely wanted on this occasion, he also had a bridal escort, made up of men in hodden gray and also reluctantly wearing laces on their sleeves. Though they sported this bit of frivolous color on their clothes, their miens were uniformly solemn, as weddings were not considered riotous occasions.