Tying the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

“Did I?” Alex was enjoying this conversation. He thought it was tipping favorably in his direction.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “So, you dinnae think I’m handsome?” He gave her what he knew was a charming smile, for it had worked often with other lassies. Rather than melting, though, like the kitchen maid at Ulbster Arms last spring, Lucy seemed off balance.

  “I haven’t given any thought to the way you look.”

  Alex’s grin grew wider. The woman was incapable of deceit. She might be able to mask her feelings with pleasantries, but a liar she was not.

  She examined him in the light. “You aren’t altogether unattractive.”

  “Shall I tell you how beautiful you are?” He was confident now. Perhaps overly confident.

  “I don’t want to hear it.” She turned her pretty head away.

  “I think you do.” He stepped closer. Closer to his target. Closer to Lucy.

  She moved backward a step. “We came out here to discuss the men who attacked us.”

  Bella nibbled at Lucy’s hair, startling her. She let out a shriek and stepped straight into Alex’s arms. She gasped and looked up at him wide-eyed but made no move to escape his embrace. This was his chance. He leaned down to kiss her.

  Fortunately, Alex saw the change in her expression and pulled back, catching her wrist before her palm made contact with his face.

  His anger instantly ignited. “Dinnae hit me again, or I’ll hit you back.”

  She jerked her hand away and lifted a defiant chin. “You said you would never beat a woman.”

  “A husband has a right to discipline his wife when she disobeys her master.”

  “Master?” she said, incredulous. “You see the role of husband as master? You think a wife is a mere servant, a slave, a thing to be owned by her master?”

  Realizing he had most likely plunged into dangerous waters, he retreated. “I use the word master in a metaphorical sense, ye ken.”

  “And are you using the word discipline in a metaphorical sense?”

  “I wouldnae beat you.” Alex didn’t like being talked into a corner. He lashed out. “But I’d gie ye a good tawsing wi’ ma belt.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she huffed. Lucy tried to leave the stable, but he stepped in front of her, holding his arms up in surrender, careful not to touch her lest he fan the fire he had already lit.

  “You’re right. I wouldnae. But I would know this; do you want to marry me?”

  Lucy’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “If you dinnae want to marry me, say so. I willnae marry someone who hates me.”

  “But your father—”

  “It doesnae matter what he wants. What do you want?” When Alex got no answer, he felt his temper straining at its thin leash. His voice, like his insides, shook. “Do you want to break the engagement and go home?” Too late, Alex realized he had once again allowed his anger to supersede his better judgment.

  Lucy became very still and, for a moment, he regretted having offered her the option to break their engagement. He added with less conviction, “If you want to go home, I willnae stop you.”

  The fire was back and raging in her eyes. “It’s that easy for you, is it? Just shirk your duty the instant things don’t go your way?”

  “I’ve never shied from my duty. Ever,” he said, burning with equal heat. “I made an oath to your father when I was eleven to serve and protect you. I honored that oath when he asked me to marry you.”

  “What?”

  Oh Christ. He had done worse than anger her. He had insulted her.

  The air around Lucy shimmered with rage. “Do you think he asked you to take me off his hands? That no one else wanted me? Well, you are mistaken, you…you… you horrible Scot. I’ll have you know that I am wanted by a far better man than you. At least he is a gentleman.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I—who?” Heat scorched the back of his neck as if someone had set him afire. He hadn’t considered that he might have a rival. “Who else wants you? What’s his name?” he demanded.

  Lucy straightened. She wore the same self-satisfied look she did when she hit her mark with the arrow. “Lord Langley. He is a viscount, the Earl of Bromley’s son.”

  Alex took a moment to absorb her revelation. He had abandoned hope of attracting the attentions of Elizabeth Ulbster and thought he might never recover. But after the duke’s letter arrived, he hadn’t considered Elizabeth again, all his thoughts turning to Lucy. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might have left Maidstone Hall at the cost of her own heart’s desire, to marry someone she might never love.

  “So, you love him—this viscount—but your da made you marry me?” He was aware he was beginning to sound defeated.

  Lucy looked away and folded her arms in front of her. “My father didn’t make me do anything. He asked me to agree to our union, and I accepted like any dutiful daughter.”

  “Duty?” Alex said, nodding slightly. “This marriage is nothing to you but duty?”

  She shifted again. She opened her pretty mouth to say something and closed it. What seemed like a very long silence passed between them broken only by the rustling of hay in one of the stalls.

  “Well, then. I’ve a mind to release you from your duty,” Alex said, his voice laden with resentment. “Say the word, and I’ll return you to your precious viscount.”

  Lucy remained mute.

  “I’m waiting for your answer, lass.”

  …

  Lucy entered her bedchamber, trembling. She scooped Hercules into her arms and sat on the bed, allowing the warmth of the little dog to comfort her. She hadn’t answered Alex when he’d offered to return her to her father because she was too proud to tell him she wanted to stay. But what if he made good on his threat to release her from her duty anyway? The thought of being sent home stung her deeply. And yet, she had begged her father for months to be released from this engagement. Now that she had what she so fervently desired, she should be overjoyed. Instead, she was distressed beyond reason. Why?

  And why had she pretended Langley wanted to marry her? It had been clear by the time she’d left Maidstone Hall that he had no intention of asking for her hand. He was engaged to that ninny, Virginia. Langley’s choice of bride rankled her, stung her pride, but he hadn’t broken her heart.

  At one time, she had believed that if she held a title, she would, at last, be impervious to the barbs of petty London Society. At one time, she would have given anything to marry a viscount. Any viscount.

  Any viscount. Oh, dear.

  How foolish she’d been with the desperate histrionics she had demonstrated daily, only when her father was watching, of course. Lucy had felt false even then, but had a childish need to get what she wanted—to get her way. How was her father faring now? Did he miss her as much as she missed him? Lucy resolved to write to Papa and reassure him of her love.

  When Alex asked her if she wanted to marry him, she should have answered yes, but her pride wouldn’t allow it. Pride. Phillipa had always cautioned her not to be ruled by pride.

  “But what’s wrong with being proud of one’s accomplishments?” she had asked when Phillipa chided her for the dozenth time. “There’s no harm in thinking well of oneself, is there?”

  “Non, ma petite. But you must never let pride get in the way of your happiness,” Phillipa had said. “Do you remember when your papa wanted to take you for riding lessons, but you were afraid?”

  “I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t want to go.”

  “You see? Still you hurt yourself with pride. You wanted very much to go. You know it. If you had admitted your fear, your papa would have taken extra care with you. But you were too proud. And so, you do not ride.”

  “Merde.”

  Lucy flopped back on the bed and stared up at the canopy. Their conversation hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to go. Alex was supposed to apologize to her. Get on his knees and ask for her forgiveness. Beg for her forgiveness. Instead, he had belit
tled her, embarrassed her, and provoked her into lying about Langley.

  Beastly, beastly man.

  A crash in the next room brought her up short. Lucy tiptoed across the carpet and put her ear against the door to Alex’s adjoining bedchamber. Heels thudded on the floor. Alex stomping around the room, she supposed. Something banged against the door, and she let out a startled cry.

  After Lucy caught her breath, she put her ear to the door again. Alex touched the other side or leaned against it, she couldn’t tell which. She could hear his heavy breathing.

  “Lucy,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  There was what seemed like a long silence and then Alex said, “Good night.”

  The words were there, but they caught in her throat. She wanted to say good night, but she couldn’t. Something strangled her—her pride. She heard Alex walk away from the door, then the creak of bed ropes.

  The next morning, Alex was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  When Lucy joined Flora at the breakfast table, she casually enquired about Alex’s whereabouts.

  “He’s gone hunting for the red deer with his cousins,” Flora said, unperturbed by her son’s departure. She passed Lucy a plate of sausages.

  “Where is Laird John?”

  “At the stable, most likely. Getting ready to leave.” Flora took a bite of sausage and chewed.

  Lucy stared at the tablecloth, shocked. So, Alex had made good on his threat after all. He hadn’t even waited for her answer. Rather than returning her to Maidstone Hall himself, he’d left the chore to his father.

  “Laird John will be taking me home today then?”

  “What?” Flora asked, another forkful of sausage poised in front of her mouth.

  “Will Laird John be returning me to Maidstone Hall? Shall I pack my things right away?”

  Flora set her fork down carefully. “Why ever would he do that?”

  “I thought that’s what you meant when you said Laird John was getting ready to leave.”

  “Do you want to leave? Have we made you unhappy, dear?” Flora reached out and laid a gentle hand on her arm.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. Alex is…” How much should she tell Mother Flora?

  “Och, pay Alex’s temper nae mind. He’s hot-headed and says things he regrets later.” She shoveled a heap of scrambled eggs onto Lucy’s plate. Her voice didn’t indicate any distress. “Have some breakfast. You’ll feel better. Then you and I can spend the day together. Alex will be home tomorrow and you two can sort things then. Dinnae fash. Everything will work out.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so. You need time to adjust to each other. That’s all. Be patient.”

  Lucy brightened a little. “All right.” Her appetite returned along with her spirits. She slathered a piece of toasted brown bread with sweet butter and strawberry jam and took a big bite.

  “Good. It’s settled then. We’ll be making candles today.” Flora had a youthful exuberance about her this morning. It must have been contagious, for Lucy felt her excitement build, too. “We’ll need plenty of candles for the wedding celebration. And honey. I’ll show you my hives. They’re my treasure.”

  “You mean you make your own honey and candles?” Lucy wiped a glob of jam off her chin and licked her finger.

  “Of course. How else would we come by them? Do you have a plain frock to wear? I wouldnae have you ruin such a fine gown as the one you’re wearing.”

  After breakfast, Mother Flora helped Lucy change into her brown serge morning gown and gave her an apron to wear. She also insisted Lucy wear a dreadful white mop cap to cover her hair, explaining that, “a hairpin gone amiss could spoil a batch of honey.”

  They collected the necessary tools from the candle shed, and Flora led Lucy down a path past a small spring-fed duck pond to an open field of wildflowers and clover. Groupings of three to four coiled hemp beehives sat atop wooden platform benches spaced eight to ten yards apart. Flora called them skeps.

  “This will be the last harvest of the summer. We must allow the bees to keep their remaining honey over the winter so they won’t starve.” Flora pulled the netting bunched on top of her wide-brimmed straw hat down over her face and neck. Then slid her hands into long, heavy leather gloves. “My bee armor,” she said, smiling.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be stung?”

  “No. That’s why we harvest at mid-day when the bees are at the height of their work. There will be fewer in the hives, ken. Stand back a wee bit.” Flora gave one of the skeps a sharp rap on the side and stepped backward. A flurry of bees exited, buzzed excitedly over the hive, then flew away.

  “This is the delicate part.” Flora turned the skep over and removed the bottom slat. Retrieving a short knife from her apron pocket, she cut several irregular waxy slabs from the hive and placed the dripping combs into the wooden bowl Lucy held.

  Lucy peered into the bowl and caught the sweet scent. “We’ll make honey from these?”

  “Honey and candles. Come. We’ve more hives to harvest.”

  Lucy marveled at the skill and confidence Flora demonstrated as she moved from hive to hive, graceful and serene. After watching her carefully, noting each step in the process and the care with which Flora took to preserve the lives of the tiny bees, Lucy asked, “May I try?”

  Flora happily transferred her bee armor to Lucy. Aside from some difficulty removing the slat from the bottom of the skep, Lucy successfully harvested three good honeycombs from the last hive all on her own.

  She basked in Flora’s words of praise. The intoxicating thrill of her newest accomplishment left her breathless and beaming. If someone had told her before she left for Scotland that she would spend her first day at Balforss up to her elbows in bees, harvesting honey like a common laborer, she would have laughed in their face. Yet, here she was, out of doors, in the middle of a field of wildflowers, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  She spent the balance of the day learning the arduous task of separating honey from the wax combs. The process of rendering purified honey and clean wax required a series of steps: draining, straining, boiling, and filtering. It was as much a science as an art. How much more satisfying than passing one’s day in idle conversation over tedious needlework.

  Exhausted and triumphant, they took their afternoon meal in the kitchen. Surprising. Lucy had never eaten in the kitchen in her life. The casual setting didn’t seem at all disagreeable to Flora. It suited Lucy quite nicely, too.

  Leaning their elbows on the table, Lucy, Flora, Mrs. Swenson, and Haddie ate from a platter containing a dizzying assortment of savory treats. They drank sweet tea and swapped amusing stories about Alex as a boy. Most of the stories were about Alex instigating some mischief or calamity, ultimately resulting in a spanking by his father. The walls of the kitchen echoed with shrieks of laughter. Lucy enjoyed this glimpse into her betrothed’s childhood.

  “Do you recall the time he tried to kiss your niece, Mrs. Swenson?” Flora asked. “I ken Alex was barely twelve and already crazy for the lassies.”

  Mrs. Swenson, red with laughter, said, “Och, aye. Katie was fifteen and thought herself a grown woman. I’ll never forget the look on her face when Alex snuck up behind her.”

  “And I’ll never forget the way Alex looked with a bowl of parritch on his head,” Flora cried. More shrieks of laughter. Wiping her eyes, Flora added, “Oh, God. I think he thought you got a woman by stalking her like a deer.”

  “From what I can tell, he still believes that,” Lucy said.

  One breath of silence and the women erupted in laughter again, nodding and congratulating her on her astute observation.

  They made no attempt to disguise Alex’s shortcomings. According to his mother, Alex was bad-tempered, impatient, cranky in the morning, and prone to brawling. On the other hand, he was kind, fair, loyal, and fiercely devoted to family. Add to that his good looks and impressive size, and one could hardly do better, Lucy thought.

&n
bsp; With each story—the formative experiences that made him the man he was today—she grew more inclined to forgive his recent transgressions. Perhaps, when Alex returned from his hunt, they could start again. That was, if he was truly repentant.

  …

  Alex had roused Declan and Magnus from their beds before dawn, shoving them stumbling and grumbling to the stables where he’d gathered rifles and provisions for a two-day hunt.

  “But we just got here,” complained Magnus, mounting his big bay mare.

  “We’ll need meat for the wedding celebration. Would you have my da shamed with a meager table?”

  Declan said, “I thought the wedding wasnae for another—“

  “We’re going now,” Alex said in his do-as-I-say-or-die voice.

  When dawn had broken, they’d set out west with a mule in tow. They would use the beast to carry the burden of their hunt back to Balforss. The three cousins rode in silence, Alex brooding, Magnus dozing in his saddle, and Declan marveling at the rainbow arched across the moor.

  “It’s a good sign, aye,” Declan said, turning in his saddle to look back at Alex.

  “What?”

  “The rainbow. It’s a good sign.” Declan was always prattling on about signs and dreams and the old gods. Alex never gave him chaff about it, though. Cousin Declan was prescient. He dreamed of future events with starling accuracy. Once, on the eve of a battle, Declan had dreamed where the French would attack their line. As a result, they had been prepared. His dream had saved their lives.

  “My mam says it’s God’s promise he willnae flood the earth like he did in Noah’s time,” Declan said, a dream-soaked look on his face. “But her granda called it the Bifröst, a bridge to the gods only warriors most skilled in battle may cross.”

  “What do you think, Declan?”

  “I ken it’s a sign we’ll have a good hunt.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Magnus woke. “What?”

  “Go back to sleep,” Alex said with no particular animus. In truth, he didn’t care if they were successful or not. He just needed to get away from Balforss. Put some distance between him and Lucy. He needed time to cool down. Stop speaking out of anger.