by Aileen Adams
In a matter of moments, they sat, sipping tea, Bruce and Alasdair making small talk. No discussion about the wedding on the morrow. Alasdair was impressed that Beitris appeared rather independent, finding her way around so well. Not only that, but she had grown into a pretty young woman, her hair tamer now, her features delicate and her slightly tanned skin broken only by a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. Rosy pink lips and brilliant bluish-gray eyes. She was petite though well-proportioned. Definitely not the gangly child he recalled from the past. Abruptly, Beitris placed her teacup on the small table between herself and her father, then turned to Alasdair.
For the first time, he noticed uncertainty.
“Alasdair,” she began. “Ye know I am blind.”
“Aye.” He nodded, then felt foolish; she couldn’t see that.
“I see the world, in a sense, through my hands, through my sense of touch, my sense of smell and my hearing. Does that make sense to ye?”
He started to nod again and then stopped himself. “It does,” he said quietly, glancing at her father, who watched the two of them.
“I would like to see ye, if that’s all right.”
He frowned. “See me? What do ye mean?”
She glanced uncertainly toward her father, but he said nothing. Alasdair also looked toward the older man, who simply gave him a small nod.
“If ye are to be my husband, I should know what ye look like, shouldn’t I? See ye as ye can see me?”
He dinna understand. “But how—”
She took a step toward him, lifting a hand. He suddenly understood what she was about. Nervous, he stood to meet her. What if she could see his wounds and his scars and deemed him unworthy of her? Preposterous, he decided. She had few choices, actually no choice in the matter. Their fathers had agreed to a contract, and that was that. It dinna matter if she dinna like him. It dinna matter whether she found him suitable. They would be married on the morrow, and that was that.
Yet, he stood, not sure of the emotion or feelings that surged through him at this moment. Curiosity? Regret? Anticipation? What would delicate, slim fingers of hers feel like skimming over his skin? What would—
“May I?” she asked, stopping just in front of him.
How had she known when to stop before bumping into him? Could she smell him? Sense the heat emanating from his body? Feel his breath or did she actually hear him breathing? Finally, he nodded, then responded with a verbal yes.
Both hands extended tentatively in front of her, and her fingers made gentle, hesitant contact with his chest. He watched her expression carefully, saw the flash of surprise and a near grimace on her face as her hands explored the breadth of his chest, then upward, to skim along his broad shoulders, then tracing those upward still toward his neck, and then his jaw, her touch for very light, fingertips exploring. She lifted one hand, found the top of his head, touched his hair. Gentle, flitting, exploring its texture and length.
“What color is it?”
“Dark brown,” he replied, his fascination growing.
The fingers of her left hand found the beginning of the scar over his eye, near the hairline. Her other hand traced along the opposite side of his face, her fingers gentle as they tentatively explored. The fingers of her left hand followed the trail of the still-healing scar, her eyes widening slightly as she felt its depth.
“It’s still healing,” she said softly.
He furrowed his brow in dismay. How did she know that? How did she know that the edges of the gash were still red? Her exploration stopped momentarily, and he relaxed his features, and then she commenced again, feeling his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the shape of his nose, and the stubble of a beard on his cheeks. Then, ever so gently and her face turning pink with shyness, her touch so brief and light he barely felt it, she traced the contours of his lips and then his chin.
By the time she lowered her hands, her face was flushed darker pink, her eyes even wider, she stared at him as though she could see through him, reaching deep into his thoughts and—
“Thank ye, Alasdair,” she said, then abruptly turned and returned to her seat, carefully reached for her teacup and brought it to her lips, sipping calmly.
He gazed at her for several moments, then turned to her father, who merely shrugged, an eyebrow lifted.
“Everything settled now?” Bruce abruptly asked, breaking the awkward silence.
Alasdair took a moment, not that he really needed one, but one that made him feel like he was more a part of this decision than not.
“The land and the house for the dowry,” Bruce said. “It’s suitable, is it not?”
Alasdair glanced at Beitris, then at Bruce, unable to even get an inkling of what she felt at this moment. Her face blank and expressionless, she sat calmly, hands folded in her lap. Only the pulse throbbing in her throat betrayed any hint of her emotions.
8
Beitris stood beside Alasdair in the small church, her best friend and companion, Elspeth, nearby. She and Elspeth had spent numerous hours after the declaration that she was betrothed to Alasdair Macintyre making adjustments to the dress her deceased mother had worn at her wedding to her father. When she slipped it on this morning and emerged from her bedroom, her father had gasped, his voice choked with emotion.
“Yer as beautiful as yer mother on her wedding day.”
“I wish she were here,” Beitris said softly, her hands skimming over the skirt of her gown. Elspeth had told her what it looked like, how she had updated it even though the pale-yellow color of the fabric had also faded over the years, wrapped in its protective cloth in a chest in Beitris’s room. She told Beitris that nevertheless, the color exquisitely complemented her skin tone.
The underskirt was a basic checked dark blue and black, clan colors of the Boyds for who knew how long. A white long flowy-sleeved tunic was tucked into the skirt. Over that, a tightly fitted cap-sleeved bodice and flowing overskirt of dark velvet green opened at the waist to display the plaid along the front of the skirt.
Beitris didn’t feel like herself. It wasn’t just the clothing. It was everything. She had prided herself on maintaining her emotions, keeping her expression blank as her fingers had skimmed over Alasdair’s face. It wasn’t the scars, those dreadful, deep scars that frightened her nearly as much as had his wide forehead and cheekbones, the seemingly frowning eyebrows and the downturned lips. Except that he hadn’t seemed upset or angry, not by the tone of his voice when they had met yesterday. She had felt no laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and while he tolerated her exploring fingers, she had sensed his stiffness, his… disapproval? He was a big brute of a man, towering over her, her head barely coming up to the middle of his chest.
Standing beside him now, the ringing in her ears so loud she barely discerned the droning intimations and words of the preacher performing the wedding ceremony, she felt his body heat, a whiff of lye soap. She felt overwhelmed, standing beside the stranger who would in moments be declared her husband. A husband she was bound to obey and serve. At least he had bathed, not that he had smelled bad yesterday, just of horse and sheep, of the wild outdoors. Had he shaven those whiskers from his cheeks for the wedding? She had dared not ask Elspeth. She already knew what Elspeth thought. She didn’t like Alasdair. Never had. All she had offered regarding Alasdair’s appearance before they stepped into the small church was a brief description of his own style of dress.
As with Beitris, he had had to make do with what was available, based on Elspeth’s description. Alasdair wore a traditional woolen cloak in his clan colors, a simple red and black check cloak that she said had been modified from the traditional Feileadh Mòr gathered into pleats and secured by a huge leather belt. The upper half of the cloak draped across his left shoulder over a simple white long-sleeved léine or shirt. She whispered to Beitris that the clothing looked somewhat worse for wear, and Beitris wondered if he had worn it when he joined the Jacobites. The cloak stopped at his knees, his calves snuggled in woolen
socks with garters wrapped in a crisscross pattern from knee to ankle, his feet tucked into well-worn leather shoes.
“He would be a handsome man if it wasn’t for his fierce expression and those ugly scars,” Elspeth had whispered, finished with her description. “I dinna like him. I dinna trust him.”
What was Elspeth talking about? Was there something she didn’t know? And what was she to do with such information?
“I have no choice!” she hissed back, after which Elspeth apologized profusely, then said nothing more.
She’d had no time to ask any additional questions as they’d been called into the tiny church and the ceremony abruptly began. Informal, private, but a ceremony honored by the church nevertheless. She felt Alasdair take her hand; large, rough, and calloused. Yet oddly comforting while at the same time intimidating. The abrupt movement startled her, almost prompted her to snatch her hand from that of her soon-to-be new husband, but she quelled her fear.
She sensed him looming over her, and though he might very well have been watching the preacher, she couldn’t help but feel as if his gaze constantly studied her, maybe with disdain, maybe with impatience and frustration. Maybe simply in curiosity. After all, he was now saddled with a blind wife. She could imagine how excited he was about that. The thought of him staring at her, watching her, prompted a shiver of dread to run through her body. She listened as his deep voice rumbled the words from the depths of his chest as the preacher asked him a question.
“Aye, I will.”
He didn’t sound at all enthusiastic or excited. His voice sounded subdued. More like a tone of dread. And then it was her turn.
“Beitris Mary Boyd, do ye take Alasdair Macintyre to be yer lawfully wedded husband?”
She tried to speak, but no words came out. She quickly moistened her lips, worked up enough spit to swallow, and then croaked out her answer. “I do.”
And then it was over. No kiss. No cheers or congratulations, but then, why should there be? The ceremony had been private, Beitris’s father and Elspeth the only guests.
“Well then, that’s done,” her father said.
He sounded relieved, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. He placed his hands on Beitris’s shoulders, gave them a squeeze, and then kissed her quickly on the cheek.
“Godspeed to ye, lass,” he said.
Before she could say anything, before she could cry out for him to wait, not to leave her, she heard his footsteps receding down the aisle toward the church doors.
Moments later, the door opened and closed softly. She stood, frozen, fear holding her in place. The preacher awkwardly cleared his throat, wished them well, and also left the church, though his footsteps were not as rushed as her father’s had been. That left her, Elspeth, and Alasdair standing alone at the altar.
Alasdair cleared his throat and spoke. “I’ve arranged to have yer belongings brought to the stone house on the moor by the lake later this afternoon.”
She nodded and then turned her face toward Elspeth, eyes wide with worry. She gasped and for the first time realized that she might lose Elspeth, that her new husband would certainly not want—
“Elspeth!” she croaked, reaching for her friend.
Elspeth’s fingers clutched her forearm as she too suddenly seemed to realize the ramifications of the marriage. Beitris’s heart pounded, and true fear snaked through her. Elspeth had been her friend and companion since they were little girls. The thought of being without her now filled her with a sense of dread and more fear than she had felt in a long time. She clutched her friend’s hands in hers and as she turned to the looming shadow hovering above her, around her, surrounding her… she felt stifled and panicked at the same time. She also knew that what Alasdair said was law. She could argue, she could cry, she could beg, but she had learned long ago that she was subject to a man’s wishes, whether that man be her father or her new husband.
Warm tears brimming in her eyes, determined not to cry just yet, she looked upward, hoping that her eyes somehow made contact with those of her new husband, that he was even looking at her.
“Alasdair,” she said, as calmly as she could, striving to keep the tremble from her voice. “I know it’s—”
“Ye want Elspeth to come with us.”
His voice sounded wooden, emotionless, and yet he had known what she wanted. Would he send Elspeth on her way? Would he laugh at her? Would he—
“Elspeth, do ye wish to accompany Beitris to her new home?”
Beitris’s heart skipped a beat and hope surged through her, a smile of relief, and even gratitude playing around her mouth. He was considering it! She turned toward her friend, wishing more than anything she could see her face, could see Alasdair’s face as just the three of them stood in the church, alone, negotiating.
“Beitris and I have been friends since we were children,” Elspeth said, her voice cool.
Would Elspeth refuse? Did she dislike Alasdair so much that she would refuse her wish? Nay, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t—
“I cannot formally pay ye to be her companion.” He paused, then continued. “I can provide ye with a roof over yer head and food on the table, but I will tolerate no interference on yer part when it comes to my relationship with Beitris. She is my wife; I am her husband. Is that understood?”
Silence. Beitris’s heart pounded. She felt Elspeth stiffen, heard the rustle of cloth beside her. She knew that Elspeth had a temper, as she brooked no insolence or arrogance from anyone. Yet she so desperately wanted her friend to stay with her, to guide her through these early days and months of her marriage that she turned her friend, whispered a soft, barely audible plea. “Please.”
Finally, Elspeth replied, her tone icy. “I understand. I’m to mind my own business.”
“Good,” he said. “Ye may come along then.” He paused, then spoke again. “Ye will leave Beitris to our privacy tonight. Ye may come to the stone house tomorrow. I’ll have a wagon sent over to transport what ye need.”
Beitris breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short when Alasdair grabbed her hand and started down the short aisle of the church. Then she realized what he’d said. She and Alasdair were to spend the night alone in the stone house. Her heart beat with renewed dread, her relief gone, her head pounding apace now with her heart. If Alasdair didn’t have such a tight grip on her hand, she felt sure she would have collapsed to the floor.
9
Alasdair held tightly to the lass’s hand, because despite her blindness, he feared if he let go she would run. Run from him. Run from their agreement. Run from the marriage contract even though they had just been legally bound. He had seen the color drain from her face as she stood beside him in front of the preacher, her face growing whiter and whiter, her eyes wider, more frightened. He had seen the flash of panic cross her features when he’d told Elspeth to leave them alone this night, likely assuming that since tonight was to be her wedding night, he would naturally expect to be consummating the marriage, with her a willing partner or not. He assumed the latter.
He would never force a woman. He wasn’t in any particular hurry either. He was a healthy man of course, but any woman he took to him would be willing, not frightened. Any woman he lay beside would want him there. He felt the same. Besides, the thought of taking Beitris to him now, her unseeing eyes looking up at him, caused a knot of dread in his stomach. Nay, he was in no rush, and he doubted she would be either. Perhaps it would be best if they just got used to each other first, learned more about one another…
He thought of the night to come, and he decided he would do what he could to put Beitris at ease. Allow her to adjust to the fact that he was her husband. That she now had a new protector, a new home, and new responsibilities. That thought brought him to Elspeth.
He shook his head. Not only was he now saddled with a blind wife, but he was also responsible for her companion. He knew just by the scowling expression on her face at the church that Elspeth didn’t care for him. Not that he cared
. He remembered her from his youth also, an outspoken, often belligerent, somewhat intelligent girl who had grown into a still outspoken, obviously still belligerent, and likely intelligent young woman. He shook his head. How had this happened? All he had wanted to do when he came home from war was to be left alone, to try to start his life over as a farmer. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d never returned home.
He heard a gasp that jolted him from his thoughts, and he glanced down at Beitris, suddenly realizing that he was walking too quickly, and she was having trouble keeping up.
He mumbled an apology and slowed down, then glanced down at her again, his gaze taking in the small stone church behind her, where he saw Elspeth watching them both, arms crossed over her chest, the familiar scowl on her face. She was always scowling, warning everyone away from her mistress with her eyes like a mother bear protecting its cub.
But she wasn’t Beitris’s mother. She was her friend and companion, yes, but now it was his job to provide for Beitris and to protect her. He didn’t understand why Elspeth was dissatisfied about that. And he had offered to allow her to accompany Beitris to their new home, to provide her with shelter and food, and he could give her a small chamber in their new home. What did she have to be angry about? She could still be Beitris’s companion, do whatever it is that they did all day long, but she would no longer have complete control over Beitris. Then again, he didn’t think she did anyway. From what he had seen of Beitris, she was as independent as possible. He didn’t think she was under the control of Elspeth. If anything, it was the other way around. He wondered which woman relied more on the other; Beitris or Elspeth. He would bet the latter.
He again glanced down at his new bride, recalled her sense of confidence and surety in her home, and he felt satisfied that Beitris was under her own control. That she, given time, would come to know her new home as well as she had known her old. Whether she would adapt to her new life, Alasdair didn’t know. He paused, took a deep breath, strove for patience, and then spoke to his bride.