by L. L. Muir
“And here we are. Full circle.” Grandmother squeezed Bridget’s hand. “Now it's your turn and I wish you the happiness I only had for a few short weeks.”
Bridget smiled, but said nothing. Eventually, her grandmother turned to watch her memories out the window. Bridget would have fond memories, too, but hers would not be of her husband. They'd be of the Highlander.
~ ~ ~
They arrived at Falstone late at night. In the morning, Bridget and the nervous butler showed the others around the mansion. Phinny was unusually cheerful, as if he’d been looking forward to Bridget’s marriage since the day she’d been born. If he’d known the truth about the estate around him, she’d have been offended. But he couldn’t know, so she couldn’t be angry. Instead, she smiled at his jests and pretended enthusiasm for a future in the lovely house, though she knew that future would be brief indeed.
The following night, at a late hour, the baron arrived. She hesitated to answer the knock at her door, but it was the weary butler, twice as nervous as before, offering her a note written in a quickly scribbled hand.
We will wed at two in the afternoon tomorrow, or not at all.
She cried until her pillow was so wet she had to use another. Then she determined the tears on the pillow would be the last she would shed until she was a widow.
~ ~ ~
She woke thinking of Rory, then tried to tuck his memory away for a much later date. Another indulgence she would save for widowhood. After all, there was nothing and no one who would ever get Rory Macpherson onto English soil ever again. No question.
After a maid helped her dress in a morning gown of white with an overlay of tiny black roses, she dismissed the girl and fixed her own hair, promising the maid she could do it again later, before the ceremony. Then she slipped knives into two discreet little pockets she’d had the clever seamstress add to all the dresses she’d ordered—without her grandmother’s knowledge, of course. Just before she left the room, she checked her weapons again, like Connor used to, and smiled at the memory.
Braithwaite joined her at the end of the hallway and she suspected he’d been watching for her in order to happen upon her alone.
“Have you reconsidered?” He offered his elbow and raised a doubtful brow.
“No,” she said firmly and laid her hand on his sleeve as if it didn’t pain her to do so. “I trust you are prepared to close the mine this afternoon.”
He nodded and led her toward the stairs. “I will keep my part of the bargain. That mine will close. Other mines will require further negotiations, of course.” He paused as if he expected her to object, perhaps with violence. She had, after all, struck him before, when she’d been trying to get back inside the cottage to save the Jameson’s baby.
“Of course,” she said, keeping her surprise and outrage behind a calm façade.
He seemed disappointed as they made their way to breakfast. Grandmother was relieved to see them arrive together, appearing to get along. Phinny had lost his cheer and though he remained in the room, he added little to the conversation.
At last, when he realized he could not easily upset Bridget without upsetting the rest, Braithwaite excused himself. “As you can imagine, I have quite a bit to organize before the wedding. And some business to attend. So I will meet you all in the chapel at two.” And with that, he left the room.
Phinny got to his feet, gave his grandmother a bow, and walked to the doorway.
“Phinny!” Bridget instantly regretted her volume.
He turned back. “What is it?”
“I… Where are you going?”
“To help your bridegroom all I can.”
She shook her head frantically. She couldn’t help herself. If Phinny witnessed the wrong thing… “I’m certain he would have asked, if he needed help.”
“Still…”
“Please. Don’t go. Stay with me. We’ve only a few more hours together.”
Phinny relented, but after a quarter hour, they’d run out of conversation and he was eyeing the doorway again.
Vivianne laughed. “Oh, Bridget. Let Phinny go. Perhaps he can find something interesting the read in the library.”
Phinny jumped to his feet, gave Viv a wink and kissed Bridget on the head before he disappeared. Grandmother announced she’d be dozing in the sun room if she was needed, and Mal and Viv dragged Bridget out to the gardens, determined to find some flowers for her hair.
“I doubt Falstone has any white heather.” Mallory squinted and put a hand up to shade her eyes while she took a quick survey of the yard.
“I don’t want white heather, for pity’s sake,” Bridget said. “What if some of the good luck rubbed off on him?”
They laughed together and she wished she’d committed the sound of it to memory too. For it was the sound of the most precious moments of her life.
The other two shared a guilty look, then Viv bit her lip.
Bridget pointed a finger at each of them. “What is it?”
Mallory shrugged. “We’ve been talking…”
“And?”
Viv wrinkled her nose. “We’ve decided we’re not ready to go home yet.”
Bridget shook her head vigorously. “You cannot stay here. I mean it. What happens between Braithwaite and I—”
“We don’t mean to stay here.” Mallory rolled her eyes. “We want to go back.”
Bridget’s entire body flooded with envy. “You mean Scotland.”
Mal nodded. “After all, you got your kilt, if only for a day.”
“But you enjoyed a bit of romance too.” She realized she was whining and stopped. “Are you saying you’re going back for them? For Connor and Ian?”
Vivianne bit her lip again and looked away. Bridget was tempted to tell her there was nothing interesting in that direction, but she knew it would be easier to get the truth from Mallory than to pry words from Vivianne.
“Mallory? Do you think you can find them again? And if you do, what then? Grandmother has already saved our reputations. Are you willing to forfeit them again?”
Mallory closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she finally faced Bridget, she was grinning.
“As a matter of fact, Vivianne knows where they are. We’re going to send word… Or rather, a rumor—”
“We’re going back to Scotland,” Vivianne whispered, “because Mallory still needs a piece of pirate’s treasure. And I still need to find my poet. If Ian and Connor happen to get wind of it, so be it.”
Mallory laughed aloud. Vivianne burst into giggles. All Bridget could manage, in her envious state, was a smile as they started another circuit around the gardens.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“Right after the ceremony.” Mal lowered her voice. “We’ll pretend to be ill, like the baron was, and slip away during your wedding dinner—”
“That is, if you don’t mind,” Vivianne added.
Bridget dreaded the meal and what would surely come after, but that didn’t mean her friends needed to sit through the awkward tradition.
“Of course I don’t mind. If you see Connor and Ian, give them a kiss from me. And if you never see them…”
Viv’s eyes widened. “Yes?”
“Give your pirate and poet a kiss instead.”
CHAPTER FORTY-S IX
Pink was never a flattering color for women with red hair.
It was precisely why Bridget chose the color for her wedding gown. When she looked back on the day, as any woman would, no matter the circumstances—she didn’t intend to look upon it with fondness. Also, she didn’t particularly want her bridegroom to see her at her finest. She’d rather have him remember the day as the beginning of his personal nightmare—a nightmare that would cease with the last beat of his heart.
A ghoulish thought occurred to her—would a red dress might have been more appropriate?
The maid brushed a bit of pink on her cheeks before Bridget thought to stop her. Unfortunately, it improved her image. But at
least it would appear as though she’d tried to look presentable. No doubt Grandmother would chide her yet again for choosing the fluffy pink concoction for the big event.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Mal and Viv were waiting for her with uncontainable grins. She would have thought their excitement inappropriate for the sacrifice she was about to make if she didn’t know about their other plans. They looked as thrilled as they had the first day they’d fled toward Scotland. How she wished they could all go back to that day and start it all again. Though, if she’d been given a second chance, she would have run straight into Rory’s arms and held on until the hour she’d been expected at Falstone.
“I’m sorry.” Mal hurried to the door. “The baron has been kept waiting. We need to hurry.”
And so, without a chance for farewells, the three of them hurried for the chapel at the far end of the property.
The church was small, but the yard was well-kept. She supposed a man like Braithwaite rarely had use for the place, but it might serve as a refuge for her.
Vivanne stood impatiently holding open the arched door. “Come on.”
Bridget shook her head. She refused to run to her own doom. But in order to get her feet moving at all, she had to remind herself of those four babes lying in a pen while their parents toiled away in the tunnels below. The memories of their cries urged her to move quickly and she set aside all thoughts of rebellion.
She paused just inside and allowed her eyes to adjust. There were two rows of short pews and one aisle that ran from the door to the altar. At the head of the aisle and just to the left stood Braithwaite. He didn’t bother to turn.
Phinny appeared at her side and offered his arm and she allowed him to lead her toward the monster.
A rolled, powdered wig made her unwanted groom appear even taller. He wore a green frock coat with bronze piping. Not quite as shiny as his brown and gold, but as she neared, she could see an intricate scrolled pattern in the green cloth that made her wonder how much coal had to be produced to purchase such a thing.
She came to a stop beside him and forced herself to let go of her brother. His duty done, he stood off to her left.
The priest seemed nervous. No doubt he knew the groom far too well to be comfortable within his reach. With no preamble whatsoever, he began the ceremony.
When the time came, Bridget closed her eyes and imagined the priest asking Alistair Rory Macpherson if he'd take this woman to wife. He said he would. A squeeze on her hand brought her back to reality and she realized the priest was looking at her expectantly.
“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
Someone behind her laughed and she cringed, dreading how the baron would react to the mockery of his own wedding. She had to keep him happy until her friends and family were safely away.
“My fault entirely,” she assured loudly. “Would you repeat yourself?”
The priest smiled. “Can you repeat after me?”
She nodded.
“I, Bridget Kennison.”
“I, Bridget Kennison.”
“Take thee, Alistair Macpherson”
“Take thee, Alist—” Good heavens, Braithwaite would surely kill her now. She'd nearly said, Alistair... But hadn't the priest said...
“Take me, Bridget,” said the man beside her. “Say it.”
Her chest exploded. What kind of joke was the baron playing at now?
She grabbed the back of her head and wrenched off her veil so she could see clearly. Her hair toppled to her shoulders. The man standing next to her truly was Rory Macpherson. He pulled the wig from his head and cast it aside. His other hand held hers. She wrenched it away.
Someone laughed again and she swung about to find Ian trying to contain his mirth. Connor was sober, but smiling. Mallory and Grandmother Kennison grinned and hugged each other. Vivianne beamed, her cheeks dripped with tears that may or may not have been inspired by the blond man sitting incredibly close to her. It was she and Mallory who made her feel betrayed.
How could they? When they know this cannot be?
She turned back to Rory. “I won't marry you, Macpherson. Where is the baron?”
“I'm here,” Braithwaite barked as he marched down the aisle.
The chapel fell silent.
“Getting started without me, Kennison?”
Phinny tried to step in front of her, but Rory was already there. He lowered his chin like a bull preparing to charge. “When you were late, someone else volunteered.”
Suddenly it occurred to her that her brother had been aware of Rory’s plans. But she couldn't spare the time to consider it; she had to defuse the baron's temper.
“There is only one opinion that matters here, Baron.” She stepped around Rory. “And that is mine. I fully intend to marry you, not the Scot.”
“Let's see to it, then, before your brother aids in your kidnapping.”
He stepped forward, but Rory wasn't willing to relinquish his position. Bridget had to move off to one side and bid the baron and the priest to join her there.
“Just a moment.” Phinny came to stand next to her, as if suddenly willing to be a witness. “What kept you, baron?”
Bridget heard a growl, like the one she'd heard just before Braithwaite had turned his horses toward the pigman's child.
“I'm having difficulty finding my own servants,” he said between clenched teeth.
He reached for Bridget's hand and faced the priest, who had suddenly grown so red in the face, she feared he might be choking. Something else was going on here. She'd seen none of Falstone’s servants that morning save the baron’s manservant. Food, but no staff. Lights and fires had been burning, but she'd seen no maids other than her grandmother’s. Was he holding them as some sort of blackmail? Or might he have done something horrible to them? Among those who knew him best, how would they dare defy him on such an occasion?
She envisioned a dungeon filled with bodies, just below the floor upon which her wedding celebrations would be held, the baron dancing about with his disturbing smile, knowing full well what lay deep beneath his bouncing heels.
For the second time that morning, she snatched her hand from the groom's grasp.
“What have you done with them?” She looked bravely into the eyes of the beast. “Where are your people, baron?”
“I've told you, I've no idea. As soon as we're finished here you can be assured I will find them.”
He tried to take her hand, but she twisted away, grateful, for the moment, that her brother was at her back.
“That's not good enough. You know why I agreed to marry you. You asked me what I wanted. Do you remember my answer?”
He growled again, but it didn't cause the chills to bounce through her chest as it had before. Not with Phinny and Rory near. The baron could get away with nothing while there were witnesses.
“You will have what you want, as soon as you speak the vows, darling.” He held out his hand, his smile strained.
“She cannot protect your people, baron, if you have no people to protect.” Rory took a threatening step toward the man’s back. Braithwaite turned quickly about and backed toward the priest.
“What do you mean?” he spat. “My tenants are a legal part of the land, property I own. If Kennison lures them away, he'll hang for his thievery.”
“I haven't lured your people away, Braithwaite. You and your magistrate can turn my land upside down, but you won’t find them there.”
Braithwaite grew vicious. “Where are they? What have you done?”
Phinny waved the questions away. “By the way, Braithwaite, where is your magistrate? Marlowe? Wasn't that his name?”
“I believe it was, yes.” Rory nodded.
The past tense said it all. That horrible man was no more. And she would never need to face him again!
“I will have you all hanged for this.” He sneered at her as he passed and moved back up the aisle, turning again and again for fear of being attacked by the uninvited wedd
ing guests.
Phinny shrugged. “I think not, baron. Even now, my captain is petitioning the new queen for an audience. He has my signed testament as to what you've been doing here. Queen Anne is a friend of my grandmother's, did you know? But feel free to hang about for Her Majesty’s decision on your fate, old man. I will be leaving some of my men behind to protect you in the meantime.”
The baron growled again, but Ian's laughter drowned it out. Red-faced, the man fled out the doors.
Had she just lost the chance to save those people? Or could she trust her ears, that they were hiding from Braithwaite? Had the horrible future, for which she’d been bracing herself , been wiped away?
~ ~ ~
Bridget's legs deserted her and before Rory could reach out, she collapsed into a pink confection.
He stepped toward her, but she held out a hand to stop him.
“Where are they?” She was breathless, as if she'd been running for her life. “Where are his tenants? The miners? Have you checked the coal mine? Made sure everyone is out? Don't leave anyone in the cottages. He likes to burn them. And...and...the children.” A sob broke her voice. “Make sure they're all accounted for.”
He dropped to the floor beside her and took the lace jabot from his neck to dry her tears.
“We got all the children, lass. All the babes are in their mother's arms. The mine is no more. It was collapsed on Marlowe’s own head. Everyone else is safe and forever beyond Braithwaite’s reach.”
She nodded and tears splashed in a race down her cheeks. Happy tears, he hoped. To his right, the priest crumpled gracelessly on a step. Tears filled his eyes as well, but he succeeded in not sobbing. The man had held up grandly for the past four days and nights. They were lucky he'd been able to pretend a normal mien thus far.
“Bridget? Sweeting? Do you think ye'd mind living a wee bit to the north?”
She stared at him, suddenly sober. “You didn't come just to ruin the baron's wedding?”
“I did not. Ye see, my grandsire's clan was in dire need of women and young folks. Braithwaite's people were happy to fill the need, happy to leave this torment behind and have the entire Northumberland Forest and the Middle Shires between themselves and Braithwaite. If the Queen gives the land to someone new, they are free to return. We're hoping more than a few will wish to stay on Graham lands by then.”