by Candace Camp
“Making a fool of the Englishman?” He grinned. “I studied all the graces, my dear, including dancing.”
“Not dances like these.” Isobel laughed.
Jack leaned in, his eyes warm. “Will you give me the first waltz?”
Isobel ignored the flutter his closeness caused and put on a wide-eyed look of shock. “Goodness, no, we have no waltzes here in Kinclannoch. ’Tis far too scandalous. Why, since Andrew told Mrs. Grant that he had waltzed in London, she is convinced that he is going straight to hell. I have never waltzed.”
Jack curled his arm around her waist, pulling her against his side, and murmured into her ear, “I shall be happy to teach you, my dear. I think you will find it most enjoyable.”
The look in his eyes suggested that he was thinking of teaching her something other than a dance. Isobel felt suddenly a little breathless. She was saved from having to respond by her aunt and Meg, who swept them out onto the floor to join the set in the first reel. Afterward, her hand was claimed by first her cousins, then Coll, and Jack turned to partnering Aunt Elizabeth, Meg, and seemingly every other woman in the building.
He did well enough in the first reel or two, which were typical country dances, but as the songs and the dances grew more Scottish, his performance provided everyone with much hilarity. Isobel was relieved to see that Jack was laughing as much as anyone else. He was going a long way, she thought, toward making himself liked by the locals. Though she told herself she had no reason to care one way or the other, she could not help but be pleased and proud.
Her first time off the dance floor, she was surrounded by a number of the crofter wives, all of whom apparently had bits of wisdom to impart to the bride. Isobel gave a fleeting wistful thought to the feast at the other end of the room, then settled in to listen with good humor. She was surprised a few minutes later when a hand slipped in between her and Mrs. Grant, handing Isobel a plate piled high with food. Her eyes widened and she half turned, looking up, and met Jack’s twinkling gaze.
“Och, now there’s a lad worth keeping,” one of the women said.
“A husband must provide, must he not?” Jack tossed back, giving them all the full extent of his smile.
“Thank you,” Isobel said in a heartfelt way. “How did you know?”
He laughed. “By the emptiness of my own stomach. I thought you might have been as little able to eat as I was.” From the whiff of alcohol on his breath, Isobel suspected that he had located the barrel of whiskey as well as the table of food.
Mrs. Grant laughed. “I remember my own wedding day; I dinna eat a thing, you ken? I nearly fell doon at the altar, I was that weak. Davie had to grip my arm to keep me upright.”
The other women hastened to add remembrances of their own wedding days and the nerves that had afflicted them, each seemingly more horrifying than the last. Jack listened to each one gravely, shaking his head in amazement. But when he turned to Isobel and winked, bending over to kiss her cheek, she could not control the little flip of her heart. He smiled at the other women. “Dear ladies, I must leave, for I can see Miss Munro heading this way, and I must escape before she inveigles me into embarrassing myself on the dance floor once again.”
As soon as he left, the women immediately began to catalog Jack’s favorable characteristics, some of them so frank they turned Isobel’s cheeks scarlet, which set them all off into laughter. Isobel was grateful that Meg rescued her, pulling her away from the cluster on the pretext of an important task and leading her out into the yard.
“Thank you!” Isobel exclaimed. It was edging toward evening, the sun hanging so low behind the hills that only a glow of light was along the horizon. The evening breeze cooled her flushed cheeks, and she sank down on a stone bench beside the barn wall, letting out a sigh.
“I thought you might like a bit of peace.” Meg sat down beside her and stretched her legs out in front of her.
“Yes—and a chance to eat.” Isobel laughed and dug into the food.
“Everyone wants to talk to the bride. I noticed Mr. Kensington brought you your bite. That was good of him.”
Isobel nodded, and not looking at Meg, she said carefully, “What did you think of him?”
“Kensington?” Meg tilted her head consideringly. “I can see why you are tempted.”
“Meg . . . I’m serious.”
“As am I. He is a fine figure of a man, and he has a way about him. If he were not your man, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a flirt with him.”
“Just a flirt? Nothing more?”
“Nae.” Meg shook her head and looked a trifle wistful. “Cam Frasier told me I have a heart of stone. He may be right.” She shrugged. “But I think a number of women would take him up on something more.”
“No doubt they have,” Isobel said tersely, and poked at the potato on her plate.
Meg glanced at her, frowning. “Do you mean he’s been sneaking about with some other woman?”
“Not here. Not sneaking either, really. But he went to Inverness.”
“Ah, I see. You think he found some doxy there.” Meg shrugged. “Did you ask him why he went there?”
“No! I could not!” Isobel turned a shocked face to her. “He would not tell me, anyway. He was very evasive about it when he bid me good-bye, which is why I feel so certain that was his reason for going. Besides, to ask him would make it seem that I care whether he was dallying with some light-skirts. And I don’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. We agreed that we would have separate lives.”
Meg studied her friend for a long moment, her eyes warm with concern. “Isobel . . .”
“No.” Isobel set her jaw. “I will not have you feeling sorry for me. I will be fine. I have made my bed and I’ll lie in it.”
“Or not.” Meg sent her a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth quirking up.
Isobel relaxed and chuckled. “Or not.”
“Ladies!” They looked up to see Cousin Gregory walking toward them across the yard. “What are you doing out here? Hiding from all your admirers?”
“Just taking a wee rest. And giving Isobel a chance to eat.”
“I can see why you sneaked out. It’s a crush in there. Isobel, you are too popular by half. I have been able to get only one dance with the bride. You would think a cousin would get more consideration.”
“I like that!” Meg joked. “You want another dance with Isobel and you have not asked me to dance a single time.”
“Ah, you have had an unaccountable antipathy for me ever since I dipped your braid in the inkwell.” He sighed theatrically. “I know my hopes are doomed with you.”
Meg rolled her eyes and stood up. “Hah! Just for that, I’ll prove you wrong and dance a reel with you. Isobel?”
“Yes, I’m coming.” Isobel set her plate aside and followed them into the barn, bracing herself for another round of socializing.
But when she stepped inside, she saw far worse than a gaggle of curious and talkative women. Jack and Coll were standing in the opposite corner of the room, and their rigid postures and tight faces told more clearly than words that they were in the midst of an argument.
Isobel hurried across the room toward the two men. As she neared them, she heard Jack say, his voice hard and clipped, “I’ll thank you to remember that Isobel is my wife. If she needs a defender, I shall be the one to do it. Your protection is neither necessary nor wanted.”
A dull red flush rose up Coll’s neck, and he balled his fists at his sides, but before he could retort, Isobel reached them, sliding one hand around Jack’s arm and placing the other on Coll’s.
“Gentlemen!” She smiled fiercely, pinning first Coll, then Jack, with her gaze. She went on, her voice low and hard despite the determinedly pleasant expression on her face, “What in the name of all that’s holy do you two think you are doing? I will not have my wedding ruined by a brawl.”
Isobel felt Jack’s arm tighten beneath her hand, and the look he sent Coll would have made most men take a step back. For an instant, I
sobel feared that Jack would pay no attention to her words, but then he relaxed, visibly smoothing out his expression, and turned to sketch a bow to Isobel. “Of course, my dear. I would not presume to mar this happy occasion.”
Isobel looked toward Coll, and he gave a short nod. “Of course. I beg your pardon, Isobel.” A fulminating glance toward Jack made it clear that Coll’s apology did not include him.
As Coll strode away, Isobel hooked her arm through Jack’s and did her best to look as if they were on a casual stroll as she steered him toward the outer doors. His walk was steady, but the scent of whiskey clung to him like perfume. She peered up at him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are drunk, aren’t you?”
“Nonsense.”
“You smell like a distillery.”
“Of course I do. How could I not when every time I turn around someone is shoving a ‘wee dram’ on me? But I am not bosky.” He cast a disdainful look down at her.
“Of course not,” she agreed drily as they stepped out into the cool air of the yard. “That is no doubt why you were about to get into fisticuffs with Coll.”
“I was about to get into fisticuffs with Coll because he is a smug, meddling, self-righteous—” Jack stopped abruptly and turned to her, flinging his arms out to the sides. “What exactly is it that everyone here thinks I am about to do to you? Your friend Munro is the third person today to tell me that I had best not hurt you or I will have to answer to him.”
“Oh, dear.” Isobel pressed her lips together to hide a smile. “That many?”
“Yes. But the day is not over yet, so I suspect there will be many more.”
He looked, she thought, somehow charming this way, his hair mussed, a boyishly put-upon expression on his face. It made her want to laugh, and it made her want to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him until he gave way and laughed with her.
“Before Coll,” Jack went on in an aggrieved tone, “while I was fetching a plate of food for you, your cousin Gregory accosted me with dire warnings of my fate should you be unhappy. The first threat today was from your friend Meg.” He paused, then added judiciously, “I must say, I believe hers was the most frightening of them all.”
Isobel chuckled, and he reached out, curling his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into him. “Ah, Isobel, you are a bonny, bonny lass.”
“Och, you canna say it right,” Isobel retorted, but she could not disguise her shiver as his hands slid down her back and over her buttocks, pressing her firmly against him.
“I don’t need to speak to tell you what I feel for you.” He nuzzled his face into her hair.
“No, I think that’s clear enough.” She strove for a tart tone but was dismayed to find her words came out breathless instead.
“I have been thinking about this night for a long, long time. . . .” He pressed a kiss against her temple. “Wanting you.”
“You’re only saying this because you’ve been drinking.”
“No.” She could feel his smile against her skin. “Drink may have loosened my tongue. But the desire has always been there.”
“Jack, I don’t want to—” Isobel broke off with a little gasp as he took her earlobe between his teeth, sending a sudden flood of heat all through her.
“Don’t you?” He raised his head and grinned down at her. “You are the one who asked me to marry you. What’s a man to think at such a proposal?”
“Tease all you want, but you know that I . . . I . . .” Looking into the depths of his eyes, she lost her train of thought.
“I know you tremble when I touch you.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “I know your mouth is sweeter than honey, and when I kiss you, you kiss me back.” His lips went to the other side of her mouth. “I know that when I returned home, you threw yourself into my arms, and it felt like heaven.”
His mouth settled on hers, all teasing done. She felt his body surge with heat against her, and his arms tightened, crushing her into him. In that moment, all thought was lost to her, and she knew only the pleasure shimmering through her, the ache swelling deep inside.
“There’s the lucky couple!” a slurred voice sounded from the open doorway of the barn.
Jack cursed under his breath, letting go of Isobel, and they turned to face the group of men who had just emerged from the barn.
“Aye, and we’re just in time to see them off to their wedding night, from the looks of it.” A chorus of suggestive laughter followed this quip, and one of the men turned to call to the festive crowd inside the barn.
“Another Highland custom?” Jack gave Isobel a quizzical look. “Do not tell me they plan to accompany us to the bedroom?”
“Weddings have been known to get a trifle rowdy,” Isobel allowed. “But, no, I think they want only to see us safely across the threshold.”
The partygoers trickled out of the barn, gathering around the couple and sweeping them, amid laughter and jests, across the courtyard to the front door. Isobel turned to Jack as the door was flung open, saying, “You have to—”
“I know.” He bent to sweep her up into his arms. “I have been well instructed by your aunt.”
Carefully stepping over the threshold and thus avoiding whatever ill luck happened to those unfortunate enough to tread on it, Jack set Isobel down in the entry. As the others spilled after them into the house, Jack took her hand, drawing her up the staircase to the whoops and cheers of the crowd below. As they passed from the view of those below, he darted up the last few steps and whisked Isobel into his room, closing the door after him and turning the key.
“I am taking no chances with that group,” he said, and Isobel laughed.
She turned away, her laughter dying in her throat as she looked around her, the reality of the situation sinking in. The massive, old bed, long a symbol of the laird’s position and authority, towered against the wall between the windows. With thick, square posts and topped by a tester of dark green brocade, it dominated the room. The room was suddenly airless, and Isobel didn’t know where to look.
Jack came up behind her, putting his hands on either side of her waist, and she jumped, startled.
“Shh, now.” He slid his hands around her, encircling her lightly, and rested his cheek against her head. “There’s no need for that. I have no intention of forcing you into my bed tonight. I am not the beast everyone seems to believe.”
“I know.” She did not think it was wise to add that it was not the possibility of his forcing her that caused her tension. “It is just, the day has been . . . difficult.”
He let out a little laugh, his breath stirring her hair. “You have the right of it there. But it would not do, would it, for someone to see you leaving my room only a moment after you entered it?”
“No. You are right.”
“Come.” He pressed a light kiss into the crook of her neck and released her, walking away. “We’ll sit down and gather our breath. I think a bit of brandy will help.”
“I am not sure I want any liquor.” She put a hand to her stomach. “I already had ‘a bit’ of whiskey with Meg last night.”
“Isobel!” He pulled a face of mock horror. “You got foxed on the eve of your wedding.” He began to laugh. “And to think you were ringing a peal over my head about my slight condition of inebriation.”
“I was not foxed!” Isobel retorted, though she had to laugh, too. “I had only two, well, perhaps it was three little drams.”
“ ‘Three little drams.’ ” He grinned as he walked over to a cabinet and picked up the decanter of brandy. “I have seen tonight what a dram is—apparently a glass of whatever size you make it.”
“They were wee!”
“Not to mention the fact that your whiskey is like to take the top of one’s head off.”
“You do not like our whiskey?”
“I didn’t say that.” He strolled back to her, carrying two glasses of brandy, and handed her one. “Here. This will take away whatever ill effects you still have. I have it on good autho
rity that brandy cures all.”
He took her hand and led her over to the fireplace, sitting down in the large wingback chair and pulling her into his lap.
“Jack!” she protested. “You said you had no designs on me.”
“I didn’t say that.” His eyes twinkled. “I said I had no intention of forcing you.” He looped his arm across her legs, his hand settling at her waist, and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Isobel sat primly on his lap, her hands folded around her glass, unsure what to do. It seemed much too familiar to sit like this, his legs pressing into her, only the thin material of their clothes between her skin and his. However, there was no other chair, and it would be silly to stand. She carefully refrained from looking at him, though she was intensely aware of his gaze on her. She took a nervous gulp of her drink, then coughed as it seared through her.
He moved his thumb in small circles against her waist. “It is all right, you know; you may relax. We are married now. And there is no one here to see.”
Perhaps he was right. Isobel felt her muscles loosening under the warmth of the brandy. She took another, more careful sip and allowed herself to lean back a little against him. Taking another drink, she moved about a bit, trying to settle herself more comfortably. He made an odd, muffled little noise, and taking her glass from her hand, he set it on the small table beside them, then laid his palm on her shoulder and gently pressed her back against him, his other arm curving around her back.
Isobel let out a little sigh and gave way, leaning her head on his shoulder and curling her legs up, letting his body support her. It was amazing how well her head fit into the curve of his shoulder, how easy it was to lie against him. His hand slid slowly, rhythmically, up and down her arm. The steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, the warmth of his body, soothed her. She realized how utterly weary she was. Her eyes fluttered closed, and in another moment she was asleep in his arms.
Isobel woke up and lay for a moment, disoriented. A thick, dark curtain lay to one side of her, and above her was an equally dark canopy. She turned her head and looked out the opened hangings on the other side of the bed. The room was still dark, though the faintly lighter sky outside the window indicated that dawn was not far off. Jack was silhouetted against the window, gazing down at something below. The trappings of a gentleman were gone; his feet and legs below his breeches were bare, and his shirt hung open, revealing his chest.