by Raina Wilde
She had not seen the horsemen returning. Did not see a keen-eyed young man, with pale hair that shone through the mist like torchlight. Did not see him run to where she had fallen, bending over her, a picture of care and concern. She was not aware of him lifting her in his arms, looking down into her face, brushing the hair back from her brow, feeling for a pulse. And, when he found one, she did not see the smile that lit his sea-grey eyes.
***
Many hours later Frances became aware, slowly, of the knifing pain in her head, of the feeling of sourness in her belly, and the deep after-ache of cold in her bones. With awareness came the need to move. She sat up, and the pain in her head magnified, growing to claim her.
“Ugh…”
A strange voice, male and soft and with a depth of tenderness answered her.
“You're here. It is well. All is well.”
Frances fell back onto the pillow, groaning softly. The pain was overwhelming, knifing back into her brain. She slit her eyes and looked through her lashes. It hurt less.
Images came to her hazily, and awareness with them. She was lying in a bed, each part of her body warm. Her head ached, but for the first time she felt truly warm. She could smell a fire burning cleanly, lavender and whitewash and dust. Where was she?
“Where..?” Her voice was faint.
“You're in Lanner House. We found you at the boundary wall.”
She tried to digest this information. All she could remember was the cold, and the darkness, and then pain.
“How..?”
“We found you. We had just returned from riding. I saw you, and...” Here, the voice stopped, and swallowed, then continued. “I brought you here. We thought you might not live.”
Frances said nothing. The pictures in her head coalesced, slowly, into clarity. When she said nothing, she heard the man clear his throat.
“My name is Duncan Lanner. Pleased to meet you.” His voice was hesitant, shy.
Pale, grey-green eyes looked into hers, earnestly. The skin around the eyes was pale, like porcelain. Beneath the eyes, straight lips curved into a smile so sweet it made her heart stop. He looked about as young as she was, and as uncertain.
“Hello..?” Frances blinked sky-blue eyes at him, shyness making her voice soft.
“Hello.”
The two of them sat in silence for a while.
Outside the window, the sea soughed over rocks, leaving the room washed in broken silences, like the sound inside a seashell. Frances closed her eyes, then opened them. The young man was still there.
“Duncan?”
“Yes?”
“How long have I been here?” Her voice sounded weak, softer even than it usually did.
“Two days. You were awake yesterday, but raving with fever. Doctor McGill would let no-one see you.” He smiled wryly at that. “I came in anyway.”
Despite the knifing ache in her head, Frances smiled at that. She opened her eyes; looked at him from under her lashes, curious.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his muscled form outlined by the white light coming in through the windows behind. The light shone softly on his pale hair, tousled with the sea air. His skin, too, was pale, and shone with an inner translucence. Frances drew in a breath, looking at his firm, strong shoulders, his fine profile. Was there really such a beautiful creature in the world?
He seemed to sense her gaze, and turned to face her. His smile, when he saw her open eyes, was a thing of beauty. Frances smiled back. It lit her face.
Duncan's hand found hers. squeezing, gently. She squeezed back.
Inside her, she felt a strange fluttering heat gathering in her womb. What was this feeling? She did not understand it; had never felt it. She just knew it was lovely, like Christmas and Easter and spring mornings rolled into one.
“What is your name?” Duncan asked, voice strained.
“Frances.” Her voice, too, sounded hoarse.
“Frances.” He repeated it, slowly, breaking the syllables. Fran-ces.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
“Would you...do you feel well enough to walk?”
“I don't think I can.” Frances' blue eyes looked into his. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Duncan nodded, biting his lip. “You have been deathly ill. I will let you sleep.”
“No...” Frances' voice was a whisper, pained. “No. Stay?”
“Of course.”
Duncan's hand found hers. Frances closed her eyes and smiled.
Soon, she slept. She did not see him stand, when her breath was even, and kiss her brow, very gently, before tiptoeing from the room.
***
The sea wind was high, keening over the cliffs.
Frances and Duncan sat on the wall of Lanner House, more of a seaside fortress, looking out over the sea. They had a loaf of bread, which they shared, crumbling between their finger and feeding the calling gulls which circled the hills. It was a week after Frances arrived.
Frances leaned on Duncan's shoulder, her blonde hair streaming out around them both.
“Duncan?”
“Yes?” His voice was as dreamy as hers. His arm moved to rest close to her, their hands together.
“I must go, yes?”
“Yes.”
They were silent. Over the sea, the gulls mewed, giving voice to a pain that neither of them could express. The quiet in between the cries stretched out between them.
Frances cleared her throat, buried her head in his shoulder. “Duncan?”
“Yes?”
“I...I will see you again?”
“I hope so.” He was silent. “With all my heart.”
His arm came around her. Very slowly, tenderly, their lips met.
His mouth tasted of salt, and honey, warmth and sweetness. His lips were gentle on hers, exploring her mouth. Frances leaned back, letting his mouth move over hers. Her own tongue entered his mouth, wanting to taste him, too. They stayed like that for what felt like hours.
When they moved apart, breath heavy, their eyes met.
Their arms found each other then, their bodies pressing hard against each other. Frances felt the warmth pulsing through her again, and a strange, rising drive; to press her body into his, to feel him close. He seemed to feel the same. His arms clasped her to him, his breath aching in his chest. He pushed her backwards, slowly, and she moved her body to press into his.
They only partly-heard the steps coming up the hill behind them, running hard and scraping in the shale.
“Master Lanner?”
“Yes?” Duncan shouted down, suddenly impatient.
“The horses are here, Lord. We have to go.”
Frances and Duncan's eyes met, and locked, holding each other in a silent, meaningful gaze that spoke volumes more than words.
“I will see you again.”
“Yes.”
Their hands clasped fiercely, and then pulled slowly apart. Duncan slid off the wall, and wordlessly lifted her down. They walked down the crumbling cliff towards the horses.
A party of two servants had come to fetch Frances home, as soon as her father knew her whereabouts and Dr McGill declared her fit enough to return.
With them, Duncan's groom, Jem, waited. He held the bridle of Frances' horse, and Duncan helped her mount. His hand lingered at her knee. She reached down and clasped it. Her pale blue eyes locked with his sea-grey ones, and then, after a nod to Jem, they were off. Frances reached out her hand to grip his for the first paces of riding, and then their fingers gently parted. Duncan stayed on the rise over the cliff and waved. Frances, turning, did not look back. The sea wind blew into her face, chilling her tear-stained cheeks.
***
The hall was rich with light, blazing from the fire, from candles, from sconced torches. The light shone on velvet, on wood, on china plate, glowing off all the symbols of wealth that the McCraig estate could muster. It still seemed somehow strangely impoverished.
In the centre of the room
stood Laird McNeil. A bearskin hung from his shoulders, his red tartan kilt covering his knees. He dominated the space, with his stance and with the rank scent of the bearskin and unwashed body.
“So, this is who you offer me, eh?”
He had smiled at her father, knowingly, when she stepped out from behind his protective form.
She felt his eyes studying her body, lingering on breasts and hips and thighs. She felt shame at that; as if she, not he, had done wrong. She wished she was wearing a sack, not the well-fitting white velvet gown her father had ordered last year. She wanted to hide, wanted to disappear.
“Well. Not bad.” Laird McNeil had smiled at her father, slowly. “Your debts, in exchange for this...lovely thing.” He had walked forward then, each step ringing, his boots leaving mud on the dais. He shook her father's hand.
“We'll celebrate the wedding tomorrow, eh?” Laird McNeil asked, genially. “I'm sure this young thing cannot wait, and I know I cannot.”
He laughed at that, resting a large hand on her father's shoulder. He looked over her father's shoulder at Frances herself, where she lingered, wishing she could blend into the walls. The glance he gave her made her skin prickle with discomfort.
“I...” Her father was trying to speak.
Please, father, Frances thought. Do something.
But her father was shaking Laird McNeil's hand. The Laird clapped him on the shoulder again, and saluted at the door.
“Until tomorrow.”
He leered at Frances on the way out, smiling in what was meant to be a coy manner, but which came out looking simply predatory.
Frances, dismissed, ran up darkened stairs and crept into her bedroom, shivering. She undressed and slipped under the coverlets. Finally, as the blankets closed over her, she felt safe.
She closed her eyes, screwing them shut against the memories.
Duncan? She called with her mind. Duncan!
She lay under the bedclothes for a while, tossing, finding it impossible to get warm, impossible to settle her thoughts. She could not do it. Not now. Could not throw away her life for her father's whim, could not give up Duncan. No.
She sat up, suddenly, resolved, making her way across the room to her desk where it sat below the window. She selected pen and paper and began to write. Of all the gifts her father had given her, that he had found a tutor who could teach her letters was the one she was most grateful for in that moment.
Duncan, she wrote, simply. I am to be married. Tomorrow. This marriage is not of my heart. Please understand. I have to. I want you. I want only you. If we could be married, I would die of happiness. A tear fell, rolling icily down her cheek. As it is, I think I may die of sadness. I do not want him to touch me. She paused, and changed that line instead to, I want only you. .
She sat, looking out of the window to where the sea, wrinkled dark waves, moved towards the foot of the cliffs, crashing and roaring on the rocks.
On a sudden thought, she added, If you would send me a letter, send it to Jessie McGuire. She will send it to me. I send you my kisses.
She sprinkled salt on the letter. Folded it. Sealed it and started writing another, which she folded around it, and went to the door.
A minute later, summoned by the bell, her maid appeared.
“Give this message to Jessie McGuire.”
She passed the package to the maid who curtsied, and took it.
Then Frances shrugged off her shawl and slipped back into bed. Her mind full, but exhausted, she finally fell, deeply, into sleep.
***
Frances stood at the top of the stairs. Her face was blank and empty, but impossibly lovely, as pale and delicate as snowdrops along the banks.
Behind her, her maid stood, holding the long white gauzy veil. The train of her dress, pale plain white linen, swept the floor behind her. The gown was simply cut, falling straight to her feet, clinging here and there on the curves of her body. There were orange blossoms woven in her loose gold hair, settled on the glossy tresses like a crown.
Wordlessly, she walked down the stairs. Outside, the church bells were ringing, to herald her marriage.
She alighted from the staircase, and raised her hand for her father to take it. All in silence.
They walked, together, through the corridor of what had been her home, and to the chapel.
At the altar, Frances stood beside Jamie McNeil. He looked almost presentable, his kilt clean, his beard combed. He stood beside her, the warmth of his body stretching out to Frances, where she stood in the icy spring chapel. The rank scent of his body still reached her, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, appraising.
“Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”
“I do.” The voice rang out, filling the space.
The priest continued, monotone, and then he was looking at Frances. She blinked. Her thoughts were miles away.
She felt a nudge from beside her. The priest, Father McLuney, looked concerned.
“I do.” Her voice trembled. She looked away.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The words were like a death-knell, and she could not quite believe that she heard them. No!
But there was nothing she could do. Beside her, the man she had just committed herself to forever turned and lifted her veil. His body was close to her, closer than it had ever been. His scent overwhelmed her, masculine and raw and overpowering. His mouth was on hers. It tasted strangely sour. His lips parted over hers. She closed her eyes. Inside her, she could feel her stomach heave, as if she would be sick. She stiffened her back and closed off her mind.
I will not be sick. I will stand tall. I will not be sick...These words played around Frances' mind, a litany to keep her standing.
The guests lined the path outside the chapel, the bells ringing as Frances walked outside on her new husband's arm. Frances threw the bouquet, and her new husband threw pennies to the children, as was traditional. Frances kissed her father's cheek, lips icy on his skin. He held out a hand, helping her into the bridal carriage.
Then they were going forward, to the wedding party at her new home.
“My wife.”
Opposite her in the plush-lined carriage, Jamie McNeil was looking at Frances. He had started drinking already, a hip-flask in his hand. The whiskey had spilled into his beard and the fumes of it filled the close space.
His hand reached out to hers, rough and making her cringe as it took her fingers, crushing them. He drew her hand down to his waist, forcing it against his thighs. His other hand caressed the back of her neck. Frances closed her eyes.
Breathe, Frances. Breathe.
His mouth found hers. This time, it tasted of alcohol and sourness, and was warm and wet. She really wanted to be sick then, the bile rising in her mouth. His tongue pressed between her lips, and he forced her head back, so that she felt she would choke. His fingers tickled her throat. His other hand pressed her hand against his thigh.
He sat back, laughing.
“I should save something for tonight, eh?” His eyes gleamed. “I shouldn't expend myself now.” He laughed.
Frances had no idea at all what he meant. The “duties of the bedchamber”, as her nurse had referred to them, were a haze of half-heard phrases. She was terrified and confused. How was this connected to the feeling she had when Duncan held her hand?
Frances opened her eyes, as her new husband sat back. He lifted the whiskey flask and drank again, deeply. She looked through the window and wished she was outside. She counted things—the posts on the fences, the trees, the milestones—trying to forget where she was. One tree. Two trees.
After two milestones, the coachman started to slow.
A swaying, drunken Jamie McNeil laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her flesh. He kept it there as the carriage slowed and stopped, and only moved it when he slid out off the seat and helped her, clumsily, out of the coach. They walked across the gravel path and into the hall.
“May I present
my wife?”
He stood, swaying, on the dais, his hands on her shoulders. The men of the hall cheered and saluted him, mostly his men and a handful of her family.
They took their places on the dais. The meal was rich and long. Frances could barely eat, she felt so nauseous. And so tired.
After an age, the light outside the windows was darkening, and musicians started playing. It was time to put the couple to bed.
France was crying. She tried to hide it, did not sob aloud. Her husband took her hand and lifted her, and then he was trying to pick her up, to pass her over the threshold of their bedchamber. Three of his friends had to support him while he did it. His arms around her body felt like a prison. Frances closed her eyes, tears running down her chin.
Then they were in the bedchamber, and the door was shut. They were alone.
“Take off your clothes.”
Frances looked at him, her face pale and frightened.
“Come on.” His voice was raised, angry. “Or I will.”
She had no idea what she was supposed to do. She was frightened, perversely, of doing the wrong thing, and shaming herself. What was happening?
He reached for her, impatient, tearing the dress at her throat. The costly linen parted fast.
Frances gasped as he reached through the gap. His hands were insistent, and bruised her where they grabbed for her breast.
She writhed and tried to move away. He pulled her back, and then collapsed backwards onto the bed, swearing.
His breathing was heavy. He sat up, ponderous, and found her mouth. His hands were in the rent in her dress, squeezing the flesh of her breast until it hurt. His lips slobbered on her face. He smelled rank and his body felt heavy, unwashed and weighty on hers. She tried to move away, but his mouth choked her.
“Stay still,” His hand came out and tried to swat her shoulder. She cringed. Stayed still.
“Got to...undress.”
He stood, unsteadily. His hands undid his plaid from around his shoulders, fumbling with his shirt buttons. His body was stubby with muscle, a swollen liver marking his drinking habits, coarse hair covering his chest.
He collapsed next to her, with an arm that went round her waist, and he dragged her dress down. His body was pressed against hers, the chest hair prickling against her pale skin.