by Ranae Rose
The heavens had opened while they’d wed, and the charcoal clouds spilt their contents onto the wedding party, as if they were celestial well-wishers throwing grain. Alexander paused halfway between the kirk and the horses to bow his head and kiss Isla again, and she tasted the rainwater on his lips. “Thank God for storms,” she said when he raised his head again.
“Aye,” Alexander agreed. “I’ll never frown at a dark sky again.”
* * * *
Isla spent the fortnight after the wedding perpetually in Alexander’s company, walking or riding with him as he showed her every last nook and corner of Benstrath—when she wasn’t in his bed, that was. Seeing the sprawling estate and knowing that she’d someday be Lady of every last field and the crofters who worked them made her feel queasy with incredulity. She’d never imagined such a life for herself, not even before Hamish was slain. Her vision of the future had always included marrying a simple farmer and tending the land until she was laid to rest in it, returning to the earth she’d managed to scrape sustenance from. Then Hamish’s blood had stained that same soil, turning her prospects bleak and null.
Until Alexander had come along. He’d given her a truly new life, one she never could have imagined. Isla Gordon, Lady of Benstrath! Her stomach lurched, and she pressed a hand to her belly, willing herself to act at least a little bit the Lady she was destined to be instead of the crofter’s daughter she’d been born.
But getting used to her new role was difficult without Alexander by her side to remind her that she really was his wife. After a fortnight’s reprieve, spent in each other’s arms, he’d finally returned to his daily responsibilities around the estate—namely, breaking the three young horses that were ready to be introduced to the saddle. Isla would never have asked him to neglect his work, but that didn’t change the fact that without him by her side, awkwardness seemed to hang over her head like a storm cloud.
She laid down her hairbrush and sighed. Early morning light was just beginning to spill through the bedroom window, but Alexander had already left for the stables. Should she go too, to watch him begin the day’s work with the three colts?
No—she didn’t want to distract him, and procrastinating wouldn’t change the fact that she needed to find a way to spend her own days in the large estate house. She stood, smoothed her skirts and abandoned the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom, determined to be useful.
With Alpin and his mother silently brooding over Alexander’s marriage, tensions were already running high in the household and the last thing she needed was a reputation for idleness.
She drifted down the hall and stairs, unsurprised to find herself at the kitchen door. Aside from Alexander and his father, who were both busy outside the house, Mrs Mary was the only resident of Benstrath who’d shown her any real kindness. The pleasant aroma of baking bread greeted her as she pushed the door open, seeking friendly company as much as work.
“Isla!” Mrs Mary cried, looking up from the ball of dough she was kneading. “What can I do for ye? A cup of tea, perhaps, or—”
“Nae,” Isla interjected hastily, eager to dispel any impression of having come to be waited upon. “I only came to help as I might.” She smoothed non-existent wrinkles out of her freshly laundered skirts and scanned the kitchen for any sign of a spare apron.
“Surely ye’ve better ways to spend such a fine day than toiling in the kitchen with me,” Mrs Mary protested, working the pale lump of dough and chuckling as if the thought of Isla working in the kitchen was ridiculous. “Why, it’d be a fine day for a ride, with sunshine as we’ve not seen the likes of for a fortnight.”
“Alexander has returned to the stables, to break the three colts while the weather’s fair. I’d be ashamed to spend the day in idleness while my husband labours so.”
Several grey curls popped loose and bobbed around Mrs Mary’s temples as she tsked and shook her head, kneading the dough with renewed energy. “Och, well it’s lovely of ye to say so, dear, but I dinnae need any help. Truly, I’d run out of work if ye helped me with the day’s meals!” She shook her head and punched the dough as if horrified by the prospect.
Isla watched her handle the dough, her stomach giving a faint twist again as suspicion began to creep up on her. Did even Mrs Mary doubt her ability to contribute anything to the household? She crossed the kitchen, striding towards the counter where the matronly cook laboured, determined to prove her usefulness. “Mrs Mary, I—”
Mrs Mary dropped the lump of dough, and settled her gaze on the hem of Isla’s skirts. “How’s your foot, dear? It doesnae hurt ye to walk on it so?”
“Nae, not a bit,” Isla lied, fearing the gleam in Mrs Mary’s eyes that told her she was about to be subjected to an examination.
Mrs Mary would have none of it. After wiping her hands on her apron, she rushed Isla across the kitchen to a stool and pulled off her shoe and stocking to begin unwinding her bandages. When Mrs Mary had removed them and laid them in a neat pile on the floor, she began a thorough inspection of Isla’s foot. “It doesnae hurt when I press here?”
Isla clenched her teeth and suppressed a groan. It did ache, though not nearly as badly as it had two weeks ago, and she wasn’t about to admit it and give Mrs Mary an excuse to usher her from the kitchen. “Nae. I reckon I’ve healed.”
Mrs Mary simply tsked again and continued to palpate Isla’s aching foot, a technique that Isla suspected might be an effort to drive her from the kitchen. “Mrs Mary,” she half-gasped, in an attempt to avoid outright groaning, “do ye not think I know one end of a kitchen from another, or are ye simply loath to share my company?” In truth, she was unfamiliar with the estate house’s large, well-stocked kitchen, but that was beside the point. She knew how to cook, and that was what mattered.
Mrs Mary donned a sober expression and slowly lowered Isla’s foot to the floor, taking her hand instead. “Isla, dear,” she whispered, “Alex told me how your poor mother died when ye were young, leavin’ ye to be raised by just your father. I would never humiliate ye by asking ye to cook when ye’ve never had anyone to teach ye how.”
Isla stared into Mrs Mary’s sympathetic eyes, dumbfounded as the woman patted her hand in what was obviously intended as a comforting gesture.
“Alex loves ye, I can tell. Ye dinnae need to turn to the kitchen to impress him—there are other ways to keep a man’s affection, as I’m sure ye’ve found by now. Why, a beauty like yourself…nae, ye dinnae need to cook a thing.”
Searing heat crept into Isla’s face, and she realised that she’d been listening with an open mouth. She clamped it firmly shut as shock began to give way to relief. “Ye think I dinnae know how to cook?” She suppressed laughter for the sake of Mrs Mary’s feelings.
Mrs Mary patted Isla’s hand again, obviously mistaking Isla’s strangled giggles for confirmation. “It isnae your fault, and dinnae fash yourself—I shallnae breathe a word of it to Alex.”
Isla kept a straight face with considerable difficulty. “Who do ye think put dinner on the table every evenin’ then, with my mother gone?”
Suddenly, Isla was pressed against Mrs Mary’s generous bosom, pinned in an embrace by the woman’s surprisingly strong arms. “I’m sure ye tried your best, dear. Your mother would have been proud.”
Isla pulled out of Mrs Mary’s grip as soon as she dared, pushing a stray lock of mussed hair out of her eyes. “I’m none so bad in the kitchen, truly. If ye’d only let me help, I—”
Rapid footsteps interrupted Isla’s assurances, and a slight, tow-headed figure burst into the kitchen. Isla recognised the boy as a young cousin of Alexander’s.
“Mrs Mary!” he cried, panting as he leaned against a counter to catch his breath. “Look what I hae found in the wood just out back!” He opened one fist, and a handful of dark, round berries tumbled onto the countertop.
“Currants!” Mrs Mary cried, clapping her hands together and matching the boy’s enthusiasm. “Well done, Ian. I suppose ye want me to make somethin’ swe
et with ‘em?”
Ian grinned, revealing a mouthful of red-stained teeth, evidence that other berries had never made it to the house. “Will ye, Mrs Mary?”
“Of course,” she said, beginning to usher the boy from the kitchen, “but only if ye get out from under foot like a good lad.”
Young Ian skipped happily from the kitchen, apparently buoyed by the promise of a treat. When Mrs Mary turned back around, Isla had already scooped up the handful of currants and had donned a grin of her own.
“You’re busy enough, Mrs Mary. I reckon I can make something to satisfy the lad’s sweet tooth, and ye willnae have to worry over it.”
Despite Isla’s claim, Mrs Mary looked quite alarmed to see the currants in her custody.
Chapter Six
A little over an hour later, Isla surveyed the results of her labour with satisfaction. The scones had risen into perfect, golden-brown puffs, dotted with fat, juicy currants. They looked and smelt heavenly, and she suspected them to be her best ever, courtesy of the exemplary berries young Ian had delivered. Still, only a taste test could confirm her high hopes.
“Mrs Mary, would ye like to do the honours before the wee devil shows up and gobbles ‘em all down?”
Mrs Mary emerged from the pantry, into which she’d disappeared a few moments before the scones had finished cooking. Isla suspected that she’d done so in order to allow her enough privacy to quietly dispose of whatever substandard product came off the griddle. She was barely able to hide a grin as the woman rounded the counter, unnecessarily smoothing her flour-dusted apron.
Mrs Mary’s eyes widened as she surveyed the scones, plump and resplendent with berries. Slowly, she reached out and took one, tearing it in half to inspect the insides, which she looked at as if expecting some monster to leap out of the treat instead of a few wisps of steam. When none did, she raised one half to her mouth and took a bite.
“Well, what do ye think?”
After chewing with excruciating slowness, Mrs Mary finally swallowed. “Wonderful,” she whispered in tones of awe. “Isla, they’re wonderful!”
Isla grinned. “So, ye think they’ll meet wee Ian’s standards, then?”
Mrs Mary flung a protective hand over the scones, looking scandalised. “Ian, phaw! Ye must take these to Alexander straight away!”
“Alexander? But ye promised—”
“I’ll save a couple for the lad, but you—ye must go!” She seized Isla’s apron by the corners, dumped half the scones into it and shoved the warm bundle into her hands. “Such a bonny face, and a miracle-worker in the kitchen too! Alex will be so pleased, he—”
“I thought ye said it didnae matter if I couldn’t cook?”
“Och, well, I lied!” She seized Isla’s shoulders, whirled her around to face the door and prodded her unceremoniously in the small of the back. “Get one with ye, while they’re still warm!”
Isla let herself be pushed from the kitchen, bemused. While she wasn’t so sure the scones were the key to marital success, she was glad for an excuse to visit Alexander. Her time in the kitchen was the longest she’d spent without him since they’d met, and she felt his absence as acutely as the dull ache in her healing foot. She cradled her apron full of scones, regretting that he’d have to eat them without cream.
She found Alexander close to the stables, mounted on a grey gelding that danced beneath him, tossing its head irritably. It was one of the three colts he’d shown her, a young charge he was busy acquainting with the idea of carrying a rider. When she rounded the corner of the stable, he glimpsed her and turned in the saddle, a smile spreading across his face as he reined the animal in.
“Watch his head and feet,” he said, indicating his mount, which had turned a curious gaze upon Isla. “The bugger’s none so sure he likes this ridin’ business, and I amnae so sure I like ridin’ him, either. He’s got a stupid streak as wide as the day is long.”
Isla beamed, wishing Alexander wasn’t so high up so she could plant a kiss on his smiling lips. The horse was a good fifteen hands high though, so she settled for unbundling her apron, revealing its contents.
Alexander’s eyes lit up, and his smile widened. “Scones, and with currants. There’s nothin’ I’d like better at the moment. Give my thanks to Mrs Mary.”
He eagerly held out one large hand, and Isla pressed a scone into it, a pleasant shiver racing up her spine as his rough fingertips brushed hers. His grin made it difficult for her to suppress a smile of her own that was fighting to emerge.
“You’re an angel for bringin’ em’ to me,” he added, rendering it doubly challenging for Isla to keep a straight face.
The look of surprise that transformed his features as he bit into the pastry sent Isla over the edge. She grinned, and when he popped the other half into his mouth and eyed her apron hungrily, she laughed.
“Have ye tried these?” he asked. “Mrs Mary hasnae ever made anythin’ so delicious.”
“Well no,” she said, handing him another. “I havnae had one just yet.”
“Ye must.” He began to devour the second without hesitation. “They’re heavenly.”
Isla took one of the scones for herself and chewed thoughtfully for a few brief moments. They had turned out well, and the currants were so flavourful they almost drove thoughts of clotted cream from her mind. Pleased at the realisation that the batch was probably her personal best, she dropped the charade. “I’m glad ye like them. I spent the morn makin’ em.”
Alexander’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “Ye made these?”
Isla nodded, using the back of her hand to hide a grin under the pretence of wiping away a smudge of currant juice. “Ye didnae think I could cook?”
His broad shoulders rose and fell as he shrugged. “I never thought of it, to tell ye the truth.” His swept his gaze over her from head to toe and grinned mischievously. “I had other things on my mind.”
A thrill of excitement rippled through Isla’s consciousness, but she held his gaze as she sidled up to the horse, close enough to lay a hand on his knee. Warmth blossomed in her core, too, as she brushed the inside of his thigh with her fingertips and saw in her mind’s eye what lay beneath his kilt. After two weeks of marriage—during which they’d frequented their bed, along with a few other less conventional places—she was able to effortlessly summon a perfect mental image of that considerable length of flesh.
“Oh, aye? Like what?” After two weeks as his wife, she knew perfectly well what, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear him say it.
He caught her hand in his and drew it under the tartan fabric. “I think ye ken—”
His demonstration was abruptly cut short by the horse, which turned its head to nose in Isla’s apron. Surprised, Isla came perilously close to losing her now one-handed hold on its corners, and one of the scones tumbled to the ground. Another was seized smartly by the grey gelding and promptly consumed.
Alexander cursed and swung out of the saddle, seizing the animal’s head and stepping between it and Isla. “Sorry. I should hae been payin’ closer attention to the beast.”
“I suppose ye had other things on your mind again,” Isla said, drawing close to Alexander as she cradled the couple of remaining scones in her apron.
She’d caught quite an eyeful of the rapidly stiffening flesh beneath his kilt as he’d swung down from the horse, and they were close enough now that his erection pressed against her through the fabric. It bulged against her belly, and he made no move to usher her away. The only attention he gave the horse was a firm hold on the reins—the rest he devoted to her. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and clutched her against him, crushing the scones between their bodies.
“Aye, well, can ye blame me?” he asked. “‘Tis the first day since we met I’ve had to spend without ye.” He grinned. “Ye’ve turned me into a useless lout, I’m afraid.”
She privately thought of a very specific use for him and the growing hardness against her middle, but no sooner
had she prepared to voice the suggestion aloud than a figure on horseback interrupted their solitude.
The animal was galloping, its rider’s kilt flapping dangerously around his knees. Isla had seen the red-bearded man before and knew him as one of Benstrath’s tenant farmers, though she struggled to recall his name. Whoever he was, he appeared to be riding with significant purpose, half-standing in the saddle with his blue eyes wide and fixed on Alexander.
The young grey gelding whinnied shrilly at the sight of the other horse and began to dance. Alexander handled his mount skilfully, finally tearing his attention from Isla to divide it between his horse and the man who was swiftly approaching.
“What is it, Will?” he asked when the red-haired man had reigned his horse to an abrupt halt.
“A stranger,” Will huffed, his eyes shining as he delivered the news, “down at the mill pond!”
“The mill pond?”
“Aye, he’s fallen in. The fool had galloped his horse into a lather, and he fell straight off the beast as he passed the pond and tumbled right into the water.”
Alexander frowned. “Ye didnae leave the man drowning to come and fetch me, did ye?”
Will shook his head silently while pausing to draw breath in apparent preparation to tell the rest of the story. “Nae. I left my boys there, and they were just wadin’ into the pond when I set out to fetch ye or your father, whoever I found first.”
Alexander climbed onto the grey’s back and settled into the saddle with a pensive frown. “I’ll ride with ye to the pond, then.” His expression softened as he turned to Isla. “Go straight to the house, mo chride. I must see to this and I dinnae want ye alone with a stranger about.”