Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  But her promise was given and she saw the flare of triumph and satisfaction in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

  “But not tomorrow,” Lucy said quickly. “In a few days...” She fell silent as he shook his head.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  She understood his insistence. It was the ultimate test of her trust in him. She met his eyes and knew she could not fail, could not fall now, at the very first challenge. If she was going to try to overcome her fears and be a true wife to him, if she was going to give him the heir he needed, she had to have belief in him equal to the faith he had in her.

  “Very well,” she said. “We wed tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ROBERT STOOD ON the jetty staring out to sea. It was late. The ocean had fallen into darkness and only the roar and hiss of the waves hinted at its endless ebb and flow. Somewhere out on the northern horizon floated Golden Isle, the one part of his patrimony he had shamefully neglected since his brother had died. Since inheriting the Methven marquisate, Robert had diligently visited every one of his estates and spoken to as many of his people as he could. He had poured endless time, money and effort into tending to their welfare. He had defended these northern lands against Wilfred Cardross’s incursions, but Golden Isle was the one place he had never set foot. It was the one place he never wanted to see again. It held too many memories; memories of Gregor’s death, memories of his quarrel with his grandfather and his estrangement from all he had held dear.

  He had a factor, an estate manager who undertook all the business of the islands. As far as he was concerned, that was good enough. It had to be because he was not prepared to do more. He never asked McTavish for a report on Golden Isle, and the man never offered any. It was as though the place did not exist.

  Tomorrow he would leave Findon with his bride and travel south and never think about Golden Isle again.

  He shifted as guilt scored him like a knife.

  That is not good enough.

  It was Lucy’s face he could see, Lucy’s words he could hear, as clearly as if she had spoken them to his face. Over dinner she had tried to draw him out on the subject of his brother’s death and that painful quarrel and estrangement from his grandfather. He had rejected her attempts because he was ashamed of the stubborn boy he had been, sacrificing so much for his pride. He had not wanted her to see his weakness. He had not wanted her to know he had been so rash and reckless, so determined to prove to his grandfather that he cared nothing for Methven, that he was prepared to go thousands of miles away and hurt those he loved in the process. He did not want her to know that it was his fault that Wilfred Cardross had the means to claim Methven land because he had been abroad and thereby given his enemy the advantage.

  Lucy was gallant and strong and brave. Now, having heard her story, he was astounded by her courage. Lucy, he knew, would not approve of him neglecting even one acre of his estate. She was prepared to risk all on marrying him to thwart Wilfred’s greed and cruelty. If she had the faith to do that, he should have the courage to lay his own ghosts to rest and visit Golden Isle again.

  Cursing softly under his breath, he bent and picked up a pebble and shied it into the water, listening to the splash it made and the hiss and the pull of the waves on the beach. As a boy he had loved Golden Isle. He and Gregor had spent so much time there.

  There were no lights showing out at sea tonight. In times of war the islanders used a chain of beacons to warn of danger and summon help, but now all was calm and quiet.

  Suddenly restless, he turned his back on the sea and set off back toward the inn. The cobbled streets were wet with rain. The warm candlelight showing behind the inn’s diamond panes drew him, but the window of Lucy’s chamber was dark. He wondered if she was asleep or if, like him, she felt restless tonight. He felt a sudden rush of possessive pride that on the morrow she was to marry him. Lucy MacMorlan was everything he wanted in a wife, but he could see how profoundly terrified she had been by the experience of her sister’s pregnancy and death in childbirth. It was little wonder if she was petrified to face the same perils as Alice had when she had gone through such an ordeal at the age of only sixteen. It made sense of the perfection she had striven to achieve. In trying to atone for what she saw as her failure in causing her sister’s death, she had forced herself into a pattern-card existence that no one could maintain, so her passion had escaped in other ways. And now she was lost and confused because she felt such a strong attraction to him—he knew she did—yet she was too afraid of the consequences to give herself up to it, to give herself to him.

  He drove his clenched fists into the pockets of his coat. It was fortunate that Hamish Purnell was already dead or he would have hunted the man down and killed him for the way that he had ruined Lucy’s future as well as betrayed her sister.

  With a sigh Robert lifted the latch and went inside. He wanted to see Lucy. He was taken aback by how strong was the desire to hammer on her door and demand she let him in. He needed her, and not simply to fulfill the terms of his inheritance. He needed Lucy in ways far more profound and disturbing. He scowled. Such vulnerability was alien to him and he did not care for it.

  There was only one solution. He pushed open the door of the taproom and went in search of the brandy bottle in lieu of his bride.

  * * *

  LUCY WAS DREAMING. She was running down dark corridors with no ending and no way out, desperately seeking something she could not find, her heart racing, dread snapping at her heels like a hunting dog.

  She woke panting and drenched in sweat, tears wet on her cheeks. The blood was pounding in her ears, the bedclothes tangled about her limbs like shackles. Gradually the terrified flutter of her heart steadied and she started to breathe more easily, but the rags of the nightmare clung to her senses.

  Alice.

  She was swamped by an enormous sense of loss and grief. She felt sick and frightened.

  Blinking, she could see the gray light of morning edging its way around the bed curtains. The shreds of the nightmare faded. It was her wedding day. Immediately the nausea and fear swamped her again. It was her wedding day and all she could think was that she felt terrified: terrified that Robert would not keep his word and that he would insist on consummating the marriage and that she would suffer, as Alice had, and lose her life and fail her child.

  Her heart was starting to pound again. She could feel the familiar panic welling in her chest, threatening to smother her. She lay still and breathed deeply. She tried to tell herself that she trusted Robert and that he was a good man, but the words of reassurance were like a bat squeak in the dark compared to her fear. She felt trapped and panicked. She had to find a way out.

  And then she remembered Mairi’s words: “There are ways to be safe....”

  She stilled, thinking. Isobel McLain had said that there was a wise woman in the village, out on the Thurso Road, a woman who treated the ills of the townspeople with tinctures and medications. Perhaps that same woman also brewed medicines that were sovereign against pregnancy. Perhaps that was the way to ensure that she would be safe.

  She slid from the bed, shivering in the cold morning air. The servant had not yet been in to light the fire, and the room felt chilled. Her bare feet winced at the cold of the floor.

  She pulled on her clothes haphazardly, opened the door of her chamber and trod quietly down the stair. The inn was awakening slowly. There were clatters and crashes from the kitchen and the sound of voices. She knew she would have to be quick.

  She let herself out of the main door, giving silent thanks for the fact that the hinges were well oiled and the door did not creak. The morning air was fresh and cold. A sea mist had blown in and it clung around the houses like a shroud, muffling all sound. Damp tendrils of mist soon soaked Lucy’s pelisse. The light was strange, pale gray and eerie. No birds sang in the silence. It felt extraordinarily lonely.

  Before long the press of houses and shops thinned out and the road snaked away into the mi
st toward Thurso. There were only a couple of crofts here, still and quiet. A few lights glowed behind the shutters, but they were all barred against the weather. Lucy trudged up the track toward the last cottage. A chicken was scratching in the pen. The ducks ran quacking ahead of her, the noise suddenly loud in the silence.

  She knocked at the wooden door and waited. There was no answer. Nervousness rose in her and she was about to turn and run when the door swung open. A woman stood there, younger than Lucy had imagined, her face serene, her smile warm. She showed absolutely no surprise to be disturbed so early on such an inclement day. She did not curtsy but she inclined her head.

  “My lady.”

  She knows who I am.... That alone was almost enough to make Lucy turn and run, but the woman had drawn back and Lucy found herself stepping over the threshold after her.

  Inside, the croft was warm and dark, lit by a peat fire smoldering in the grate and with one lamp burning on the dresser. There were leaves drying in baskets before the fire. The woman gestured her toward one of the high-backed chairs made from woven rushes. They were filled with brightly colored cushions. The whole croft was neat and cosy and such a contrast to the cold misery that filled Lucy that it felt quite incongruous.

  She did not want to sit. She felt too on edge. She pressed her gloved hands together.

  “Some tea, my lady?” The woman nodded toward the kettle that was humming softly on the hob.

  “Oh,” Lucy said, “no, thank you. I—” The words stuck in her throat. Now that the moment had come she had absolutely no idea how to ask for what she needed.

  “There’ll be something you’re wanting,” the woman said. She had her head on one side like a curious bird. Her eyes were suddenly very bright. “How can I help you?”

  Lucy met her gaze and had the disturbing feeling she already knew exactly what she wanted.

  “I am a little anxious for my health,” she said rapidly. “I understand that there are medications that you make...”

  The woman nodded slowly, the secretive look still in her eyes.

  “I have been a little fragile these last few months,” Lucy continued, “and my doctor warned me—” She swallowed hard, the lie so difficult to force out.

  “I need to wait a little before I have children,” she said, the words coming in a sudden rush now. “Wait and build up my strength. So I am anxious to avoid...That is, I should try not to conceive...”

  The woman nodded again. “You and the laird will be finding another way around the inheritance, then.”

  “That’s right,” Lucy said, smothered in guilt. “We have already discussed it. The courts will rule in Lord Methven’s favor—” The lies dried up in her throat, but the woman was already nodding again, turning away toward a little wooden cabinet on the wall as though the workings of the king’s courts were of absolutely no interest to her.

  “There is a tincture of herbs that might help you,” she said. “Rue and pennyroyal.”

  Lucy’s relief was so great that she felt her knees weaken. She grabbed the back of the chair for support. “It works?” she whispered.

  “It works well.” The woman smiled. “There is more than one woman in the town can attest to that.” She opened the cupboard with one of the little keys that hung on the chain at her waist. “I’ll get you a jar.”

  Lucy put several sovereigns down on the table. She saw the woman’s gaze rest on them; then she scooped them up and they disappeared into the deep pocket of her gown. She placed the jar softly on the table. “Take it every day,” she said. “That way you will be safe.”

  Lucy’s hand was shaking as she grabbed the pot and shoved it into the pocket of her cloak.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was shaking too. The wisewoman nodded one final time, the same incurious blank gaze back in her eyes now, and then Lucy was out of the cottage, gulping in the cold air and stumbling down the path.

  Outside, the fog was as dense as before. It seemed to wrap Lucy about with sorrow as she hurried up the road, past the kirk where she was to be married that afternoon, back toward the inn. The hard shape of the jar bumped against her leg as she walked, reminding her at each step of her betrayal. Instead of relief now, she felt guilt and unhappiness and shame at what she had done.

  “To keep you safe...” Mairi’s words echoed in her head and she told herself that the tincture was no more than a safeguard and a way of protecting herself if Robert did not keep his word.

  Nevertheless she felt miserable. Robert had been honest about his need for an heir and had told her that with time and trust he believed she would feel safe enough to consummate the marriage. Lucy hoped so too; she desperately wanted it to be true and she was desperately afraid that it would not be, that the damage the past had done could never be undone.

  She had not expected to feel so unhappy to be deceiving Robert. He was too good a man to blame her for her failure to conceive. He would go to the courts and argue his case, and with luck and a good lawyer he would win and keep his northern estates. And he would never know that she had deceived him.

  Lucy was shivering as she lifted the latch and hurried back into the warmth of the Methven Arms. She met Isobel coming down the corridor toward her. The landlady’s anxious expression dissolved into relief when she saw her.

  “Thank goodness!” she said. “We thought you had run off!”

  Lucy’s teeth were chattering with cold and reaction. “I needed some fresh air,” she said.

  Isobel’s eyebrows shot up. “You are soaked and chilled to the bone! Come inside and get warm. It’s almost time to start getting ready.”

  While the landlady hurried away to commandeer hot water and hot food, Lucy went upstairs. There was a fire burning in her chamber now and the room felt warm and cheerful. She spread her cloak over the back of a chair and heard the pot in the pocket bump against the wooden frame. Quickly she grabbed it and pushed it to the bottom of the Armada chest.

  She could hear Isobel’s step on the stair and Bessie’s excited voice. It was time to dress for her wedding.

  * * *

  THE FOG HAD lifted by the time that Lucy was ready to go to the church and a pale sun was peeking through the clouds. Iain McLain was taking the role of her father and giving the bride away and he, Bessie and Isobel walked beside Lucy through the town to the kirk. It was very quiet. There were no crowds lining the streets or people hanging from windows to see her pass. The silence was so deep it almost felt funereal. Lucy felt her spirits sink still further at the silence.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “I knew no one would want to celebrate the marriage of the laird to a relative of Wilfred Cardross, and who can blame them?”

  Robert was waiting for her at the door of the kirk, as was traditional. He looked shockingly handsome, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. When he saw her his expression relaxed almost as though he had truly been afraid that she had run out on him. Lucy remembered Dulcibella leaving him standing at the altar and felt a sudden and fierce pride that she would be the one standing beside him today. Her feelings shook her. They were so unexpected when she had been prey to such nightmares and dark fears. But Robert was here now and he looked so strong and so steady and protective that Lucy’s world steadied too.

  As she walked up the path toward him, there was the clatter of hooves on the road behind and she swung around to see two riders galloping toward them, cloaks flying. One of them Lucy recognized as Robert’s handsome cousin and groomsman from the ill-fated marriage to Dulcibella. The other...

  “Mairi!” Lucy’s voice wobbled as her sister flung herself from the saddle and ran toward her, grabbing Lucy into the tightest hug.

  “Tell me we’re not too late for the wedding,” Mairi said. “We’ve ridden all day and all night.”

  For a moment Lucy could not speak, she was so overcome with emotion. “Don’t cry,” Mairi said, seeing her brimming eyes. “It is not a good look for a bride.”

  “They’re happy tears,” Lucy said. She rubbed her
palms against her wet cheeks.

  “I couldn’t resist standing as your groomsman a second time,” Lucy heard Jack Rutherford saying as he clapped Robert on the back.

  “I’m not sure I should allow it,” Robert said. “The first time was a disaster.” But he was grinning as he shook Jack’s hand.

  “It depends on how you look at it,” Jack said, bowing to Lucy and giving her a wicked smile. “Lady Lucy, your servant. I’d say Rob had a lucky escape last time around if it means he can marry you. Thank you for your sacrifice in taking him on.”

  “Well, at least he did not have to marry me,” Mairi said.

  “That would have been a sacrifice too far,” Jack said with feeling, and they glared at each other through a very taut silence.

  “Tell me,” Lucy said quickly, looking from her sister’s flushed, angry face to Jack’s tight one, “how you got here in time. Lord Methven only proposed to me last night.”

  “Robert always was confident,” Jack said. “He sent word from Durness four days ago.”

  “And Jack always was tactless,” Robert said, into the heavy silence. “I took nothing for granted.”

  “Arrogant,” Lucy heard Mairi murmur, “just like his cousin.”

  It was turning into the most awkward wedding day on record and they had not even reached the altar yet. Once again Lucy threw herself into the breach.

  “Well,” she said, “we must not keep the minister waiting.” She grabbed Mairi’s hands, drawing her along the path toward the door. “You may be my matron of honor. Bessie is my bridesmaid.”

  “I’m scarcely dressed for it,” Mairi said, looking down at the splashes of mud on her hem, “but I would be delighted.” She smiled at Bessie, who dimpled and dropped a curtsy.

  “...a complete nightmare,” Lucy heard Jack say in a stage whisper to Robert as they made their way in at the door. “Almost strangled her several times on the journey. I hope for your sake that the sister is different. I had a letter from Forres, by the way, sent by special envoy. The duke sends his best wishes to you both and thanks for the brandy.”