by Mary Daheim
Though Dallas was determined not to cry, she saw that the threat of tears moved Fraser not an inch. Nor did he look as if he cared much about any explanation she might offer. She was legally his, he was going to take her, and there was absolutely no way she could stop him. For a brief, wild second, she considered running away—but his back was to the only door in the room, he could catch her easily, and it was his house and his servants. Dallas felt almost physically ill at the thought of her own helplessness.
Fraser put out his hands to grasp her by the upper arms. Slowly he pulled her away from the clothes chest and gazed down into the enormous dark eyes. He bent to kiss her mouth, leisurely at first, then with a growing intensity until Dallas felt his teeth against her lips. His hands had already slipped around her back and were working expertly at the hooks of her wedding gown. She tried to pull away, felt her fingers claw ineffectually at his chest as her bare feet glanced harmlessly off his shins.
He moved away just enough so that he could look again into her frightened face. “No, no, Dallas. It’s useless for you to act the outraged virgin. I have no intention of hurting you any more than I have to—but if I must, I will.”
She closed her eyes as the tears trembled against her lids. Dallas knew he was right. Clever! She had not been so clever after all; indeed, she had been extremely stupid to think that there was anything in life for which she would not have to pay a price. But the price of surrendering herself, even just once, to this philandering pirate was terrifying. Instinctively, she made one last effort to pull away.
“Dallas!” Fraser’s voice was sharp, even angry. “Are you willing or not?”
Dallas could see that his patience had run out. But from somewhere in the back of her mind came Lord Bothwell’s description of the docile, perfect wife; she could not be such a one, she had come into this marriage on her own terms, she was as determined as any Cameron Highlander to yield no ground to a marauding Fraser.
“No!” Dallas lurched sideways, momentarily catching Fraser off-balance. He cursed under his breath and yanked her back into his arms. One hand grasped both her wrists, the other pulled the satin from her shoulders as the sleeves gave way with a soft ripping sound. Dallas bent to bite the fingers which held her prisoner, but Fraser let go for an instant. It was Dallas’s turn to be caught off-guard; Fraser took advantage of her hesitation to scoop her up in his arms and dump her none too gently on the bed.
“I had hoped to make love to you as a man should love a woman,” he declared in a strange growl that was so unlike his usual indolent voice. “But now you’ve made that impossible.”
His knee had come down hard on her thighs. She felt his hands wrench away the rest of her gown and the fine lawn shift. Though her fingers clawed at the bare flesh of his back, it was only a few seconds before she was completely naked. With horror, she watched his eyes slowly appraise her body as the faintest hint of a smile touched his lean mouth. For an instant, she thought she saw something else in his face—regret? It was such a fleeting expression that she couldn’t be sure.
She was sure of one thing, however: Fraser would not have the satisfaction of thinking for one moment that she was willing. Dallas grabbed a handful of Fraser’s dark hair and pulled with all her might. His head jerked back and this time he swore out loud. As she tried to gain enough leverage to budge his knee he took both her wrists and pulled them taut above her head.
“Iain!” Dallas gasped as she saw the fierce, angry look in his eyes and the set line of his mouth. The pirate in him had never been so visible.
It appeared he hadn’t even heard her cry. “Christ! I’ve never had a woman so obstinate! Why would it have to be my wife?”
The genuine note of frustration in Fraser’s tone made her wonder if there was still time to reason with him. But he was already pulling off the rest of his clothes, and without even looking at her face, he spread Dallas’s legs apart.
As if transfixed, Dallas stared at his nakedness, at that hard, threatening ultimate weapon which he was about to use to defeat her. He had let go of her wrists; it crossed her mind to claw him in one last desperate effort of token resistance. But before she could translate thought into deed, he was upon her and she felt him probing between her thighs, felt the lunging sensation that was more strange than painful, and then a deep, hard thrust that made her gasp. Before her senses could recover, he plunged again—and again—and now Dallas cried out in pain and shock. Still Fraser did not stop and Dallas felt as if she would die from hurting—or from humiliation.
Then the pain began to recede and she was conscious only of his incessant thrusts until at last, with one great effort, he let out a long, deep sigh and relaxed his body against hers. Dallas lay very still, her shaking somewhat abated, the sensation of Fraser’s manhood feeling so foreign, so astonishing, and yet so—what? She dared to open her eyes, but all she could see was the outline of Fraser’s dark head buried in her shoulder. He had defeated her; he had forced her surrender; he had invaded her very being and caused her pain and yet—the emotional drain was just too much to make comprehension possible. She wished Fraser would move.
He did, slowly withdrawing himself from her and getting up on his knees. Then he glanced at the counterpane and frowned. “Damn, you’ve stained it. I bought that two years ago from an Oriental trader in Tripoli.”
Dallas gaped at him. The man had violated her and now he was fretting over his damnable counterpane! Dallas felt rage rebuild and began to sputter incoherently.
“Look, Dallas,” Fraser said, tracing the outline of delicate silken embroidery, “these are oranges and this is some sort of melon and those are pomegranates. At least I think they’re pomegranates,” Fraser added, looking slightly bemused.
“Pomegranates!” Dallas exploded. “You—you fiend! You care more for your silken pomegranates than for what you’ve done to me!” She snatched at the counterpane and pulled it around her body to hide her nakedness. “A pox on your pomegranates! I hate you!”
Fraser stretched his tall, lean frame and shrugged. Dallas wished to heaven he’d either put on his clothes or go away. The sight of his naked body made her nervous. But instead, he came to the bed and pulled back the covers. “Don’t fash yourself so, lassie. The bargain’s sealed and from now on you’ll have it your own way. But for Christ’s sake, let’s get some sleep.”
It took Dallas several minutes to resign herself to slipping between the sheets next to Fraser. But the silken counterpane was little protection against the winter night and Dallas reasoned that there was no point in adding illness to her other problems. She lay rigid on her back, careful not to touch Fraser. But he was already asleep.
Even in Dallas’s extensive vocabulary, there were not enough invectives to describe her new husband. Still, she had to be fair—her native Scots inclination for legality made her appreciate Fraser’s firmness concerning consummation. She also had to admit that if she had not been determined to fight him off, he might have behaved more civilly.
And there was something else, too—something that she had experienced after the shock and pain, while he remained inside her—what was it? She rummaged through her mind to bring back the feeling and associate it with a similar sensation .... Yes, she was beginning to put her emotions back in some sort of order, which permitted her to think rationally. That feeling she had had in the supper room when Fraser had attempted to make love to her ... the fire banking in the pit of her stomach, that’s what she had felt again, but in the turmoil of resisting him, she had not recognized her own response.
Slowly, she turned over on her side and looked at her husband. He was sleeping flat on his stomach, his head turned away from her. Dallas frowned into the darkness; surely that strange fire was not born of desire? Or pleasure? Dallas had read enough love poems and folklore to know that women could derive as much joy from mating as men. But such carryings-on were not for her; had she not already surrendered far more of herself than she had ever intended?
And even i
f the pleasure could be worth the price, certainly a man such as Iain Fraser, who worried more about his Oriental counterpane than his terrified bride, wasn’t the kind to offer more of himself than just carnal satisfaction.
Dallas turned again to look at her husband. He shifted in his sleep, the dark hair ruffled slightly against his neck, one, long, sinewy arm lying on the much-maligned counterpane. She stared at him for some time, observing his rhythmic breathing, the lean hardness of his shoulder, the outline of his hand with the signet ring.
Dallas buried her head in the pillow and wept soundlessly, letting the tears flow for the first time since her mother had died.
Chapter 7
When Dallas awoke the next morning, Fraser was gone. There was no sign of his clothes and even the dirk had disappeared from atop the canopy. A small French clock on the mantel indicated it was almost noon. Dallas lay alone in the big bed, wishing her head would stop aching and wondering where Fraser had gone. After a few minutes had passed, she decided it was just as well he had risen before she did. She wasn’t sure she could face him just yet, not in broad daylight, in this very room where .... Abruptly, she turned her thoughts away from last night. What was done was done, and she might as well get up and face her new life.
Her trousseau was stored in one of the clothes chests. She took out a lapin-trimmed dressing gown and put it on quickly, for it was very cold in the bedchamber. As soon as she had slipped into a pair of mules she rang for Flora.
The tall, gaunt maid appeared promptly, looking efficient and alert.
“I’d like a light breakfast, just eggs and bread,” Dallas ordered. “And maybe a slice of ham and some hot chocolate. Oh, bring honey for the bread, please.” She sat on the edge of the bed, frowning at her fingernails. One of them had been broken in the tussle with Fraser.
Flora stared at Dallas for a moment longer than was necessary, then said, “Yes, madame,” and closed the door.
“Prune,” Dallas said aloud, and wished she’d asked Flora to lay a fire in the empty grate. Of course, she could do it herself; she’d certainly had sufficient practice over the years. But if she was supposed to be a lady, she’d have to learn to act like one. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t really know what ladies did. How did they spend their days? What would she do to occupy her time now that there were no floors to scrub or beds to change or bargains to search for in the marketplace? It was too soon to go back to the house in Nairne’s Close and visit her sisters. People would wonder at her haste to be reunited with her family. Grimly, she forced herself to face the empty day.
Flora returned just as Dallas had finished filing her nails. The maid set the tray down on the bed and, without being asked, began to build a fire from a bundle of wood which was stored in a small cupboard by the hearth.
“What time did Master Fraser say he’d return?” Dallas asked casually as she spread honey on a thick slice of bread.
“He left no word, madame,” Flora replied coolly. “I understand he seldom does.”
Dallas said nothing. She shivered suddenly and was glad that Flora’s back was turned. The fire crackled brightly as the maid got up from her knees and swept some bits of wood and ash from the hearth. “Do you wish me to wait until you are ready to dress, madame?” she inquired.
“No,” said Dallas, carefully picking up the mug of steaming chocolate from the tray. “I shall dress myself this morning.”
Flora’s eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly. Dallas felt as if she were under surveillance from this bony, sharp-eyed woman. Was Fraser paying the maid to watch his wife?
But Flora merely said, “As you wish, madame,” curtsied perfunctorily and withdrew from the bedchamber.
The cheerless January day droned on. Dallas straightened up the room, sorted through her wardrobe, wrote a letter to Fiona and Walter Ramsay to thank them for attending the wedding, and read for a while from a collection of Du Bellay’s poems which Iain Fraser kept next to the bed on a shelf with several other books. She had a small supper about six and some time later she heard the clatter of hooves outside in the street. A muffled command to one of his servants informed her that the master of the house had returned.
Dallas sat in the armchair by the fire, anxiously gripping her book. At any moment she expected to hear Fraser’s tread on the stairs. But the little French clock ticked away the minutes and there was no sign of her husband. Over a quarter of an hour passed before she heard the distinctive sound of a coach rattling over the cobbles and creaking to a halt outside the house.
Hurrying to the window, Dallas peered between the draperies into the street. Torches blazed on each side of the coach while the driver scratched himself vigorously and muttered at the four big horses. Then the front door of the house banged open and shut as Iain Fraser sprinted down the four steps and crossed the close to the coach.
A masked woman, her hair covered with a furred hood, leaned out from one of the coach’s windows. She called out something Dallas could not hear and then laughed as Fraser climbed into the conveyance. The driver stopped scratching himself long enough to start the horses moving through the High Street.
Dallas picked up the object closest to her hand—an Italian porcelain statue of Venus—and smashed it against the wall. It was one thing to keep a mistress or two in some discreet place he could visit secretly—but it was something else again to flaunt his whore in front of her and his household the day after their wedding! She stalked the room from wall to wall until she felt her headache returning. At last she sat down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands. But she would not cry again, not for any reason he might ever give her.
Dallas was awake early the next morning. She would have preferred sleeping late again, for the prospect of another long, boring day stretched before her. She would not spend it sequestered in the bedchamber, however. After all, this was her house, too, and although Cummings had shouldered that responsibility in the past, it was a wife’s duty to take over.
Yet when she broached the subject with Cummings later that day, he seemed strangely indifferent to the idea. “We have our routine, madame. The house is well run, as I’m sure you can tell.”
“Certainly it is,” Dallas responded amicably enough. “But you must have a great many responsibilities besides the house. As Master Fraser’s wife, I have an obligation to relieve you of some of them and make your tasks easier.”
Cummings shrugged but appeared rather amused in his dry way. “As you say, madame. I shall mention it to Master Fraser when he returns.”
Inwardly Dallas fumed. Mention it indeed! Was there nothing she could do in this house on her own? She wasn’t used to being restricted; until now her life had been relatively free, to come and go as she pleased, to accept responsibility, to make up her mind for herself.
She was still steaming with indignation when Kennedy brought her a message. It was from Fraser and couched in formal terms: “You will be pleased to learn that I have secured for you an appointment at court as one of the Queen’s ladies. Your official summons to join Her Grace at Holyrood will arrive shortly.”
The message was simply signed, “Iain.” Dallas was pleased at the content but annoyed that Fraser hadn’t told her in person. Where was the man? Obviously, he was still in Edinburgh. He must be at court already, she decided, and vowed that she’d greet him with a rebuke for his neglect.
But as she headed upstairs with the note clutched in her hand it occurred to her that it wasn’t neglect on his part. It was the bargain, after all. They were to go their separate ways, and that was precisely what Fraser was doing. Well and good, Dallas thought savagely, for I’ve no desire to see him anyway. And she stomped up the rest of the stairs and into the deserted bedchamber.
Dallas met the Queen of Scotland on a chilly February afternoon as the drizzling rain splattered the windows of the royal audience chamber. Iain Fraser’s bride was received by the Queen in the presence of her four Marys, the lifelong attendants who had lived in Fra
nce with their sovereign.
Mary Stuart was not beautiful in the classic sense but her flawless white skin, her innate grace and the radiance of her smile set her apart from other women. She wore a honey-gold gown of taffeta and a heart-shaped cap with a flowing veil which covered most of her auburn hair.
“We bid you welcome, Mistress Fraser,” Mary Stuart said as Dallas made a deep if somewhat awkward curtsy. “I’d hoped your husband would be able to join us but he is away from Holyrood with my brother, Lord Robert.”
As Dallas had not seen her husband since their wedding night, she was hardly surprised that he was absent upon her formal presentation at court. Indeed, she was relieved, since his presence would have made her doubly nervous.
The Queen, however, was exerting her charm to put Dallas at ease. “Your late father was a well-known tutor and scholar, I’m told. I also understand that he never veered in his support of my mother. It pleases me to greet the daughter of such a loyal subject.”
“And it pleases me to meet the Queen he so wanted to see.” Dallas’s nervousness had abated; Mary Stuart was younger than she, after all, and though she wore her royal demeanor as gracefully as her taffeta gown, Dallas perceived a vulnerability in her sovereign’s character. “Even though my father died the day you came to Edinburgh, I went out that night to watch you on the balcony at Holyrood.” Dallas thought back to that August evening and how mesmerized she had been by Mary Stuart’s brief appearance. Now, seeing the Queen at such close proximity, the magical quality was less potent, but the personal charisma made it clear why Mary Stuart could win such steadfast devotion from her adherents.
Yet not all the courtiers reacted as graciously as their Queen. Dallas was snubbed by some, excluded by others and gossiped about by most. Who was this little chit who had come from nowhere to marry Iain Fraser? A tutor’s daughter? How strange! But then Fraser himself was enigmatic.