by Karen Ranney
But Riona didn’t speak and neither did James, for which she was profoundly grateful. What could she have said to him?
Stay with me and be my lover. This shall be our trysting place. Ours alone.
Not a role a man like James would accept. Not a road she should travel.
“It’s late,” she finally said.
He nodded, agreeing wordlessly.
He retrieved his horse, and they descended the path to the Witch’s Well and beyond, to Tyemorn Manor.
“We never blessed your land.”
“Yes, we did,” he said, and they exchanged a look. She was the first to glance away.
The rest of the journey was made in silence, both of them walking with his horse trailing behind. From time to time their hands would brush, and cling, then part. Once, he pushed a tendril of hair back from her face and she brushed at his jacket sleeve to remove a blade of grass.
Back at the house she waited until he’d removed the saddle from his horse and settled it for the night before walking in companionable silence to the rear of the house.
They entered by the kitchen door to find that Abigail and Polly had returned before them. Both women were still dressed in their finery, and each of them was staring down into a deep bowl of wine where two blocks of charred wood rested.
“I didn’t think you would believe in that custom, Polly,” Riona teased. “I thought you said that it would take a rare man to coax you into matrimony again.”
“It would at that,” Polly agreed, retrieving her block from the wine and placing it on a stack of old toweling to drain. “But I see no reason not to be prepared just in case it happens.”
At James’s look, Riona explained. “The wood comes from one of the bonfires,” she said.
“In the morning,” Polly added, “we’ll break the wood open and the color inside will be the shade of our true love’s hair.”
Abigail fished out her block and stood staring at it, smiling.
“Would you like to try, Riona?”
She shook her head. What was the use? The shade of her true love’s hair would be black, his eyes would be blue, and he would be the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
But he wouldn’t be the man she’d marry.
Chapter 28
“Y ou look so beautiful, Riona,” Maureen said, an expression of awe on her face.
“Indeed she does, my dearest,” Susanna replied from a similar seated position. “When you wed, Maureen, we shall have a dress as lovely made for you.”
Two seamstresses knelt on the floor, waiting for instructions. It was the final fitting of the dress and it fit perfectly, even if the dressmaker frowned and ordered everyone about with an insistence reminiscent of Mrs. Parker. Riona fingered the pale blue garment at the throat. The high neck of the gown felt as if it were choking her.
“Please do not move, Miss McKinsey,” the seamstress said. “If you do, we shall just have to take longer at this task.”
Obediently, Riona dropped her hands to her sides, staring through the parlor window. Beyond was the expanse of lawn and the path leading to the village. Still farther was the road that led to Edinburgh. Or Inverness. South to England, north to Gilmuir. She was not, however, inclined to flee. Only in her imagination could she give rein to such wicked thoughts of stepping down from the small pedestal, grabbing her skirts in her fists, and racing from the room. Any destination as long as she was no longer here, poked and prodded and pushed into the role of an Edinburgh wife.
No more waking at dawn. No more standing on the hill and watching as the sun crept shyly over the horizon. No more greeting the day with excitement and enthusiasm and a huge swelling feeling of anticipation.
Her life had come full circle, and once more she would be a city woman, expected to be but one of a thousand proper wives. Expected to dance and to hold polite conversation while hiding her boredom. Perhaps she would entertain on a modest scale, although she would be more comfortable birthing a calf than acting as hostess.
If she were wise, she’d consider marriage to Harold an adventure, something akin to piracy. She was as little suited for that profession as she was for being a wife.
Would he waste her money? She might well find herself back here in time, dependent on her mother’s charity to survive. If that were the case, she would convince Harold to become a farmer and instruct him as she had another man.
No. She would not think of James, and certainly would not voluntarily recall those moments of lessons given in such amusement. The first time he’d milked a cow, or helped in the weeding. In fact, it would be better if she did not remember him at all, pretending that memories of him did not cling to every separate room or spot at Tyemorn.
Recollections of Lethson night stood out. Images of James, limned by moonlight, flashed into her mind. Her fingers curved as if to touch a shoulder, smooth down a thigh, hold his erection cradled in her hand.
Her mother stood, addressing the seamstress with a question.
“Whatever are you thinking, Riona?” Maureen asked her.
Riona blinked at her sister.
“You have the most unholy look of glee on your face.”
Riona motioned to Maureen, who leaned forward.
“Did you ever wonder what Captain Hastings looks like without his clothes?” she whispered.
Her sister blinked slowly, her expression changing to incredulity. “Is that what you were thinking?”
She nodded. “Do you never think of it?”
Maureen stared down at her interlocked fingers. “I like the feel of Samuel’s arm beneath his sleeve,” Maureen confessed.
Riona eyed her sister with impatience. That wasn’t exactly what she meant.
“Are you wondering about Harold?”
For a horrified moment, Riona tried to envision Harold without his clothing, but the image would not come to her. Yet it was all too easy to recall James. Perhaps Mrs. Parker was correct after all and she was hopelessly wanton.
Maureen was looking at her strangely, and Riona hurried to reassure her. “I’m going to be a bride,” she said. “Of course I would think such things.”
Her sister looked doubtful, but she was silenced now that the seamstress was returning to her side.
Riona was made to lift her arms, round her shoulders, all to allow the seamstress to inspect her creation. The boredom of the fitting was momentary and barely noticeable, however, in the wake of her thoughts.
Pity was an emotion to be spent on those more unfortunate than she. The lame war veteran, the mother who cradles a dying child, a young boy with the pox. A hundred examples of worthwhile candidates, two in her own family. Her mother, for example, losing the husband she dearly loved and being told the story of his loss at sea nearly a year after it happened. Or Polly with her daughter, lost to her since she’d emigrated.
She wasn’t an object of pity, for all that her future wasn’t what she wished.
Suddenly, she heard James’s footsteps in the hall. Why didn’t the other women in the room seem to note his approach? Riona froze, waiting, her breath trapped in her chest as he entered the room.
Even plainly attired as he was during the day, in his dark breeches and white shirt, he had an almost commanding appearance. Yet there was more to him than his attractiveness, more than simple physical beauty. He was a man to come to in need or lack. A leader, someone to inspire confidence and hope. Old Ned and the other men of Tyemorn had nothing but praise for him.
He had suggested that the irrigation channels be cut deeper, and the main sluice emerging from the River Wye dug at a different angle. The upper pasture had been left as grazing land for the cattle, and sheep moved to a different location. He and Ned had met with the other villagers, and they’d agreed to plant oats in twice as many fields next year. For a man who had known little of farming before coming to Tyemorn, he’d learned much.
Was it being a ship’s captain that gave him such an aura of power? Or was it the man himself, beneath all his roles?<
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“Forgive me,” he said, bowing and taking a step out of the room.
“Not at all,” Susanna said, standing. She went to the doorway and, taking his hand between both of hers, drew him back into the room. “Will Riona not be the loveliest bride?” The question gave him permission to turn his attention to her.
Look away, she told him silently as he regarded her. Look away and I will pretend not to see you, either. So that the thought of you is not placed on the inside of my eyelids and in my heart as I take my vows.
He held his thoughts inside most times, making her wonder at them. Some were transparent and could be divined by the curve of his lips. Some were deeper still, as if his studied expression was deliberate in order to hide his opinions.
She could not fault him for his silence, because she felt the same caution with her speech. With James, words could not be taken back. A casual rejoinder could not be erased with a smile. She could not easily tease him as Maureen did. Each sentence seemed important, each separate voiced thought mattered.
A look stretched between them, and she wondered if all other voices faded away for him as they did for her. She no longer heard her mother’s voluble chatter or the seamstress’s disapproval or Maureen’s comments. She heard nothing, and in that strange and silent tunnel that stretched between them she spoke, finally, of what was in her heart.
Forgive me.
Forgive me for being foolish before I met you. Forgive me for being rash before you came into my life. Forgive me, if you will, for seeing the hurt on my sister’s face and wishing her happiness more than my own. If I had known that you were to come, I would have been more cautious. But what is done is done.
But words didn’t flow between them, only a silence that grew larger and larger as neither spoke.
Abruptly, he was turning on his heel with military precision, gone from the room without a word to anyone.
Pressing her hand against her waist, Riona forced herself to breathe.
Susanna gazed after him before turning and glancing at Riona.
“Are you finished?” she asked the seamstress with uncharacteristic abruptness. When the other woman nodded, she waved her hand in the air in an almost rude gesture of dismissal.
They began to remove her dress, Riona actively helping them. More than once she looked in the direction of the doorway. Once attired in her simple day dress, she hurriedly left the room. A moment later the seamstress and her helpers departed Tyemorn Manor.
Susanna moved to pick up Riona’s wedding dress, smoothing her hand over the pale blue silk. She frowned at the mess the seamstress and her helpers had made.
“Harold McDougal is a grasping lout, and if your sister had no funds at all, he would be looking for another plump pigeon,” she said angrily.
Maureen looked a little surprised at her vehemence.
“She can’t marry Harold. You saw that yourself, Maureen.”
“But she’s betrothed to him.”
Susanna nodded. “Then I suggest we both start praying for a miracle.”
Chapter 29
R iona had escaped to the village church. In a matter of days, her wedding would be held here.
“Dear St. Margaret,” Riona began softly, well aware that she was committing a sin in beseeching a saint here in this lovely, shadowed church where people did not believe in such things. The altar, dappled by the muted colors from the stained-glass window, had been transformed to a communion table. If there had once been statues in this place, they’d long been discarded, leaving an empty, cavernous space for only God to fill.
Riona wondered how many other women before her had considered St. Margaret a patron of sorts. The woman who had found refuge in Scotland a thousand years earlier had been welcomed by the man who would become her husband. A match made due to power? Or the heart?
Clasping her hands in front of her, she bowed her head. Dear St. Margaret, she began again, this time silently. I need some intercession, please. God has not seen fit to answer my prayers, and a word from you would not be amiss, I think. I have made mistakes in my life, not all of which I have confessed, but you and I know that God sees all. So I cannot claim purity in all my deeds and thoughts. In fact, I have sinned, and enjoyed it.
No answer was forthcoming. St. Margaret did not whisper to her, but thunder rumbled overhead, as if the approaching storm was the voice of a stern and admonishing deity. She had a sudden sinking feeling that perhaps God was displeased that she’d gone to St. Margaret instead of directly to Him.
Please, take the vision of James from me, so that I might not remember him. I want not to recall the day we loved, or his smile, or any of his kisses. Or think of all those times we’ve met and talked. Or if he must remain in my heart, God, then let me see him as only a friend, a dear and valuable and cherished acquaintance. Do not let me wonder what my life might have been under different circumstances.
Something was wrong with her chest because it felt so tight that she could barely breathe. There must be something in the air, some dust or pollen from the flowering plants. That was the only reason her eyes felt gritty and near to tears.
She opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the stone floor, pocked in spots and worn smooth in others by generations of worshippers. Had any of them prayed as selfishly as she?
Leaning forward, she lowered her forehead to rest against the backs of her hands. For a long time she simply sat there, waiting for the peace of the sanctuary to heal her. But peace couldn’t enter where tumult lived, words she’d once heard the pastor speak. Then how did she quiet her mind? Become resigned to the future?
She hoped James would be leaving soon. She didn’t want him there for her wedding. The sharing of vows was a sacred thing. She could not stand before the communion table and say the words binding her to Harold when he was in the room.
Do I wish this man for my husband? No. Do I want to bind my life to his? No. Will I promise to be a good wife? Yes, but only reluctantly. She would not lie to God.
Agreeing to marry Harold had been a necessity, but not a disaster, all the same. Granted, if he’d not threatened ruin she would never have considered his suit, but there wasn’t anyone else she’d wanted to have as husband among all the men she’d met. No one to tempt her humor or her curiosity. No one to impress her with his judgment, fairness, and strength.
She’d found him too late.
Riona heard a sound, an intrusion in this world of silence, and sat up straight. Glancing behind her, she saw James. Did God have a sense of humor that He would send her the very person she did not wish to see?
“I didn’t mean to disturb your prayers.”
Riona stood, arranging her skirts. At least she hadn’t given in to tears. There would be no sign of weeping to explain away. “Did you follow me here?”
“Yes.” Was she to receive no more an explanation than that? A moment later, he spoke again. “You left the house very quickly. I was concerned.” There, too much of an explanation. He shouldn’t be so kind.
If he had flaws, let her see them now. Let him be parsimonious to a fault, or uncaring for the poor, or cruel or hateful. Let him be arrogant and vain. Or let him be more like Harold.
She glanced at him, wondering if he knew what she felt. But the expression on his face was guarded. Perhaps she should ask him how he masked his emotions so well, and do as he did.
“Sometimes I think I know why mankind creates churches. So that God can come and rest here. He can blow His breath and give life to this place, yet never needs to prove anything.”
He smiled, an almost encouraging expression. Two small words were all she needed to speak, and he would accede to her demands. Please leave. But she didn’t say them.
“Do you think God gets tired of the endless prayers He must hear?”
“I doubt He has the impatience of mortals,” James said with a smile. “He is, after all, omnipotent.”
“When I was a little girl, I believed that God only gave you a few prayers at birth. As if
He said, Here, I bequeath you twenty prayers, Riona. If you waste those there are no more. Feel free to keep saying them, for devotion is a wondrous thing, but do not expect them to be answered.”
“What if you were a greedy child? How unfortunate if you’d expended all your prayers in your youth and have nothing left.”
She considered his remark. “Perhaps, in that case, a person could be the recipient of another’s prayers. A mother’s prayer that you are happy, for example. Perhaps you’re even the answer to a prayer. A woman might pray for an end to loneliness, and a man without any prayers left finds himself happily married.”
“Perhaps I have none left, according to your premise. I’ve prayed my way through enough typhoons and gales.”
She smoothed her hand against the wooden pew, finding the wood warm to her touch. “But they must have been granted, James, else you would not be standing here.” How adept she was becoming at hiding her emotions. A few moments earlier, she’d wanted to weep. Now she was discussing religion.
His smile grew broader. “You make God sound finite and prayers no more than wishes.”
“Do we not use them as such?”
“Your pastor would not approve of your thoughts,” he said.
She nodded. Not many people would. “The kirk holds that you must accept all that you are told without questioning the why of it.”
“Perhaps they believe that freedom of thought is a dangerous thing.”
“Sometimes that’s the only freedom we have,” she said, thinking of the choices she had in life. To marry. Or remain a burden to her mother.
“I once found it easy to be free,” he said, surprising her with that declaration. Perhaps it was the church itself, a structure dedicated to worship and contemplation, that encouraged such candor. “You must be part of society in order to live by its rules. As the captain of a ship, I was free to choose no one’s company but my own and my crew.”