by Lauren Royal
A family.
Cam frowned. He’d never thought much about having a family before, though he’d always loved children and knew he wanted his own someday. What had brought on this unexpected longing?
Perhaps it was losing Cait. With his only close kin far away in England, Cam’s newly inherited castle would be empty. A family would fill it back up, with a companion to talk to and lively bairns underfoot—bairns who would grow up and help him make the Leslie estate into everything he and Cait had always dreamed it could be.
Clarice walked over to take Mary by the hand. “It’s time,” she said gently, and reluctantly the wee lass released her grip on Cam. The girl looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes lingering on him as the woman led her away.
“Her mother?” Cait guessed.
“Aye. Her name is Clarice Bradford. You’ll like her.” Cameron’s gaze followed the two as they walked toward the gatehouse on their way to Cainewood’s private chapel. Clarice’s golden hair gleamed beneath a pink-ribboned straw hat. Her pink dress was simple compared to those of Caithren and the other women, but it suited her perfectly.
Cam was simple as well.
He turned to take Cait by both hands. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“More ready than I ever thought possible.” Smiling at him, she squeezed his fingers. “You know, Mam always said it’s better to marry over the midden than over the muir.”
“I’ve heard that said, that it’s wise to stick within your own circle.” Unbidden, his gaze flicked over to Clarice. “But I’m not sure I believe it.”
“I don’t believe it, either.” Caithren’s own gaze trailed to her groom, waiting for her by the barbican. “I reckon even mothers are wrong sometimes.”
THREE
“A SCOTS FUNERAL is merrier than an English wedding,” the very-Scottish bride declared.
The fairytale wedding was speeding past. Clarice dragged her unfocused gaze from the dining room’s diamond paned windows to the long mahogany table, set with fine china and crystal she’d seen before only in stories. The stack of marzipaned wedding cakes that had sat in the middle had been reduced to one—hers.
“Thank you.” Dazed, she smiled up at the servant removing her supper plate, which was still piled embarrassingly high with the most delicious food she’d ever tasted. As another servant set the cake before her, she sipped yet again from her seemingly never-empty goblet of spiced wine.
No matter how ridiculous she told herself she was acting, all evening she had remained excruciatingly aware of the gentleman beside her. She’d smiled at the end of each loudly proclaimed wedding toast, striving to appear normal as she nodded and drank with the others. There had been a great many toasts, and now she felt lightheaded. Cameron Leslie—Sir Cameron Leslie, as it turned out, for she’d learned that he was not only young and handsome and boyishly charming, but also a baronet—had flirted outrageously through it all. When he wasn’t slanting her meaningful glances or touching her surreptitiously, he was being attentive to her daughter—a sure way to any mother’s heart. He was playing Clarice like a musical instrument, and he knew it, too. Perhaps he was older than he looked.
Now they all turned to the beautiful bride as she rose with a scrape of her lattice-backed chair. “Whatever happened to that bagpiper?”
Lord Cainewood shrugged. “I think he’s eating in the kitchen.” His face seemed to radiate a happiness Clarice had never seen. She was thrilled for him. He was a good lord. A good man.
“Well, would somebody fetch him already?” The new Lady Cainewood moved from the table and shook out her gleaming silk skirts. “I’ll be wanting to dance.”
Following the others’ lead, Clarice stood and listened to the bride’s instructions. “Hold hands in a circle, lads and lassies alternating.”
Clarice found herself between Sir Cameron and one of Lord Cainewood’s brothers, holding two strange men’s hands. Aristocratic men, no less.
Lud, this had to be a dream.
“That’s it,” the bride said. “Now, who has a handkerchief?” When one of the men produced one, she handed it to Sir Cameron. “You take the middle since you know what to do.”
Clarice didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed when Sir Cameron released her to do his cousin’s bidding. The piper arrived, and Clarice’s mouth gaped open when the bride kicked off her high-heeled blue satin shoes. Laughing, her two sisters-in-law did the same.
“Mrs. Bradford?” Sir Cameron tapped her on the arm. “Are you not going to take off your shoes?”
She looked at the women’s silk-stockinged feet and then down to her own, clad in wool stockings concealed by shoes both flat and sensible. Surely she could dance in them. Lud, she wouldn’t take them off, regardless. Not in front of Lord Cainewood and all his family.
She shook her head, glad when Mary provided a distraction by pulling off her own little brown shoes and gleefully tossing them into a corner. Laughter erupted all around when her stockings followed.
“Very well.” The new Lady Cainewood turned to the piper. “We’ll have a reel, if you please.”
Around and around they went in time to the rousing tune, until Sir Cameron came from the center to his cousin. The circling stopped, and he laid the lace-edged hankie in a neat square at her feet. They knelt on either side, and she bestowed him with a kiss on the lips. This met with laughter and Clarice’s startled gasp. The cousins pulled faces at each other, and Clarice could sense a pleasing affection between them. They would miss each other, she realized.
Lady Cainewood snatched up the handkerchief and took her place in the middle. Around they went again, dancing until she chose her new husband. Their kiss was long and deep. Clarice’s cheeks warmed, and she averted her eyes, only to find Sir Cameron watching her in a way that made her cheeks even warmer. Casually his hand slipped around her waist, making her more discomposed, and somehow she thought he was enjoying her discomposure. Or rather, his own ability to make her so. When his arm dropped and he reclaimed her hand, she wondered if she had imagined it all.
The spiced wine had surely gone to her head.
After much throat-clearing and a smattering of applause, Lord Cainewood finally went into the center, and the circling resumed.
The dancers spun by in a blaze of color. The men wore deep jewel tones, the women mint and plum, and the bride sky-blue. The fabrics were rich and sumptuous, shot through with silver and gold, adorned with ribbons and lace. The ladies’ stomachers were embellished with intricate embroidery, their skirts split in front and tucked up to reveal glorious matching underskirts. Clarice’s Sunday gown seemed so ordinary in comparison; when the dance paused for another kiss, she had to stop herself from fidgeting with the plain pink linen.
“You look beautiful,” Sir Cameron whispered in her ear. She was saved from putting her hand to her cheek when he grabbed it to begin the dance again.
After several more rounds, Mary was picked, and no one was surprised when she selected Sir Cameron. She bestowed her new favorite with a wet, smacking kiss.
Clarice was the only one who’d yet to be chosen. And it was Sir Cameron’s turn again…
But he’d no sooner tapped her on the shoulder when the piper quit the tune. Perhaps it was just as well—her face was likely as pink as her dress. But she heard Sir Cameron grumble, and it gave her an odd little thrill. If she didn’t know better…
But no, she did know better.
She didn’t believe in love at first sight. Long experience—as a young wife in an arranged marriage, and then a widow alone in the world—had taught her not to trust love at all.
And now she had Mary, and they were happy together. Alone together.
But she was at the castle for this one night… Just this one night, could she not live a fairytale fantasy? Even ever-so-practical Clarice Bradford was entitled to a harmless fantasy now and again, wasn’t she?
“A kissing dance!” Her red curls glimmering in the light of the dining room’s fire, Lady K
endra, the groom’s sister, breathlessly made her way to a chair. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“There’s much kissing at Scottish weddings.” The bride winked at Sir Cameron, who was still hovering close by Clarice. “A kiss can be claimed at the beginning and end of each and every dance.” That announcement made Clarice’s stomach flip over. “Now, get up, all you lazybones. We’ll have a strathspey next, and a hornpipe after that.”
The strathspey was energetic, a sort of line dance with much weaving in and out—no easy opportunity for kisses there. And the hornpipe was wild. After those, the piper played some lively English tunes, country round dances, until they were all worn out.
Mary curled up on a chair and promptly fell asleep. Finally, when Clarice was certain she’d collapse, the piper launched into a slow, unfamiliar tune.
Sir Cameron took her by both hands and swept her into the dance. But not before claiming one of those before-dance kisses his cousin had mentioned. He darted in, fingertips skimming her cheek, and lightly touched his lips to hers. It was so fleeting, she couldn’t be certain it had happened.
What had they put in the spiced wine?
Her lips tingled as Sir Cameron led her into position, a funny, secretive little smile on his face. She knew her own face wore an expression of shock, not only because he’d kissed her—the tingling proved it—but because she wanted him to kiss her again.
Clarice Bradford, who had never really wanted a kiss from anyone.
Her heart pounded with new and not entirely welcome feelings. “Wh-what is this dance?” she managed to stammer out.
“A galliard. All the rage at King Charles’s court. Or so I’ve been told. Kendra taught it to me yesterday.”
He danced courtly dances, and with the likes of Lady Kendra. Clarice rarely found herself tongue-tied, but she couldn’t think of anything proper or significant to say. Not a word. Besides, she was busy watching everyone’s stockinged feet as she mimicked their steps.
Sir Cameron’s hands felt very warm in hers. She’d never danced a dance designed for a couple—all the country dances she knew were done in lines or a circle. She had to concentrate very hard, and she always felt a beat behind. Step forward on the toes with the left foot. Bring the right to meet it and lower the heels.
“Just repeat on the other foot,” Sir Cameron whispered.
So far, so good. She was almost enjoying herself.
He squeezed her hands. “Now the same, but twice forward. That’s right.”
They came close and then pulled back again. It struck her that the dance was rather provocative, its movements mimicking courtship. Once more her cheeks betrayed her thoughts.
She hated that.
“Do you like it, Mrs. Bradford?”
“It’s…difficult.”
“You’re doing beautifully.” He flashed a broad smile that creased his faintly stubbled cheeks and made her heart stutter.
Dimples. Sir Cameron had dimples. Her lips curved at the sight.
“Is something amusing?” he asked.
“Ah, no. It’s just…” The dimples made him look even younger. But she couldn’t tell him that. “You’re doing beautifully yourself, having learned the dance just yesterday.”
“I’ve many to learn before Friday.”
“Friday?”
“Jason—Lord Cainewood—will be hosting a ball to celebrate his marriage. All the local gentry are expected, and some from London as well, I’m told.” He sighed theatrically. “Three days to learn a host of dances.”
She wished she could see the ball. Not attend it, of course, but just see it, perhaps hiding in the minstrel’s gallery. She remembered noticing a minstrel’s gallery in the great hall last Christmas Day.
The castle was centuries old and terribly romantic. But other than the great hall, she’d never been inside it before, and odds were she’d never be inside it again. Clarice Bradford did not belong in castles. Which was perfectly all right with her. Tonight was a dream, though, a lovely dream…
“And a week from today I’ll be gone.”
“Gone?”
The music ended, and the single word seemed to vibrate in the beautiful chamber.
Gone…
Why did the thought make her suddenly sad? She’d only met the gentleman tonight, so surely she wouldn’t be missing him.
“Aye, I must get back to Leslie. The harvest approaches.” He held on to her hands for a few extra moments before dropping them. “I shouldn’t have been away this long, but I couldn’t think of missing Caithren’s wedding. And then the ball, just a few days more…but after that I must leave.”
“Oh.” Surely it wasn’t proper for her to care about him leaving. She certainly wouldn’t admit it.
But he was looking at her hopefully, as if he wanted her to.
Impossible. Wishful thinking was leading her to see something that wasn’t there. And regardless, he was too young.
It was past midnight, and the music hadn’t resumed. With a lot of final kisses and good nights, the wedding party were stumbling off to bed. The women even gave Clarice hugs, which rendered her speechless. Titled ladies hugging her.
One of Lord Cainewood’s brothers went off to fetch a footman to see her home. Mary didn’t wake when Sir Cameron lifted her and beckoned Clarice to follow him through the castle to the double front doors.
Reluctantly, it seemed, he handed over her daughter. “It was a lovely evening.”
“Yes, it was. Like a dream, almost.” In her arms, slight Mary felt limp, warm, and overly heavy. “A beautiful dream of castles and lords and ladies. A fairytale come true. And now I must return to the real world, but I’ll carry this memory with me.”
“I’ll remember our dance,” he said in a low voice.
His words flowed over her like warmed, sweet honey. Her own words failed her once again.
His secret little smile reappeared, and he touched her on the arm. “May I see you tomorrow?”
“P-pardon?” She looked down to where his fingers still rested on her pink linen sleeve. Long, strong fingers, so unlike her late husband’s older, coarse ones.
“May I see you tomorrow?” When he removed his hand, her arm felt cold. “I thought perhaps you’d like to come out walking.”
With some surprise, Clarice realized she would like that very much. But it mattered not. The dream was over, and there could be no point in seeing him again. She looked away. “I have work to do tomorrow.”
Mary slumped in her arms, and Sir Cameron leapt to catch her, righting the girl with gentle hands. “The next day, then?”
“No, I—” She broke off, not knowing what to say.
He pulled away, but not before he brushed the hair from her daughter’s face. “You don’t want to see me,” he said flatly.
She winced as she saw his eyes fade and his mouth settle into a grim, straight line. “No, it’s not that, my lord—”
“I’m not a lord, Mrs. Bradford. Only a mere sir.”
“Oh. Sir. Well. It’s just—” She drew a deep breath and tried again. “It wouldn’t be…seemly…for me to be seen about the village with one so…” She looked down at Mary’s tumbled curls. “Young.”
There, she’d said it. She looked up.
“Do you really think I’m too young?” Part of her was mortified that she’d said it—in doing so, she’d as much as admitted she thought he was interested in her. Yet the light was back in his eyes. Clearly he didn’t consider this objection insurmountable.
But he didn’t know about her other objections—ones more deep-seated and not easily brushed aside.
Just then the door opened and a footman presented her with a brief, snappy bow. “Mrs. Bradford? I’ve been sent to escort you home.”
She knew him. John Foster, Mrs. Foster’s oldest son. And John Foster knew her, too. Moved to the castle from the village, he was dressed in Cainewood livery and had acquired the manners to go with it.
She could acquire manners, too, if she wa
nted to. But John Foster belonged here, and she didn’t. Not here or anyplace like it.
“Shall we leave, then?” she asked, following him down the steps.
She didn’t dare look back. But she knew Cameron Leslie was watching her. Sir Cameron Leslie.
And lud, it felt entirely too good to know that.
FOUR
LATE THE NEXT morning, Cameron paused in front of Clarice’s white thatched-roof cottage. A profusion of carefully tended flowers bordered the pristine raked path through her tiny garden to the unassuming front door.
He wondered what she’d think of the small castle in eastern Scotland he’d recently inherited. It was no palace, to be sure, but her cottage would fit onto half of one of its four floors.
Then, with a rueful smile, he wondered if he was truly contemplating taking a woman he’d known less than a day to live in his home. Was he daft?
He sneezed as he approached the door, then nearly fell in when it jerked open unexpectedly and Mary launched herself into his arms. “Oh, Sir Cameron,” she gushed. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again!”
“Did you think I’d abandon my precious Mary?” He shifted the barefoot, pink-cheeked lassie to balance on a hip as his gaze swept the dusky one-room cottage.
Her mother was stirring something in the kettle over the fire, something that smelled fruity and sweet. Though not half as sweet as her shy smile when she set down the spoon and turned to look at him.
“Ah, there you are,” he said.
“Whatever brings you here, my lord?” Clarice wiped her hands on the apron that protected her trim fawn-colored dress, then gestured to the kettle. “I am hard at work, as you see.”
“And I am not a lord, as I told you,” he replied mildly.
“Sir—”
“Please call me Cameron.” He set Mary on her feet. “As to what brought me here, I just happened to be walking by—”
“Walking?” Clarice seemed a bit flustered. He hoped that would keep her from wondering how he’d located her house. “You walked all the way from the castle?”