by Amanda Scott
“Aye, we would,” Mackinnon agreed, his relief plain. “And later we’ll ha’ a game o’ chess, lad. Ye’ll no beat me a second time, I promise ye.”
“One moment,” Sleat said gruffly. “I’ll hear from the lass’s own lips that this marriage meets wi’ her favor. We still ha’ laws in Scotland, even in the Highlands, and I’ll no see her forced into any union against her will. What say ye, lass?”
Fin forced himself to keep silent, resisting the impulse to beat Sleat to his knees and order him dragged out and hanged for the deaths of Ranald Mackenzie and Gilchrist MacRae. Highlanders did have certain rules that they lived by, and one was that a man did not order the death of another who sought hospitality in his house. Still, the temptation was heady, especially when every eye in the hall shifted to Molly, and everyone waited to hear her answer.
As Molly returned Donald the Grim’s challenging look, her dilemma suddenly resolved itself, making her choice clear.
She could remain with Kintail, who promised to protect her and whose word seemed trustworthy, or she could declare that she had no wish for the marriage and trust Donald to keep his word to her. Just hearing a declaration of the rule of law from the man who was exerting himself to raise the west Highlands against his king made her wonder why everyone in the hall had not laughed him to scorn. Deciding which man to trust was easy.
“Well, lass?” Donald said. He had thrust back his cloak to hook his thumbs over his belt, and he looked supremely confident of her reply.
“I am content, sir,” she replied quietly but nonetheless firmly.
“Ye want to marry this fellow?”
“I will marry him,” she said, raising her chin. Just so that no one could mistake her decision for anything else, she added firmly, “I shall then be done with being a hostage that my guardians may pledge whenever they want to achieve political gain. I’ll have a husband instead, and a proper home.”
Continued silence greeted her words, but it was now silence fraught with tension, and it lingered, as did the angry glint in Donald’s eyes. Then he jerked a nod and said curtly to Kintail, “Your people will look after mine, I expect.”
“They will,” Kintail replied with a gesture commanding Tam to see to it.
Molly turned to Lady Mackinnon. “May I take you to your room, madam?”
Lady Mackinnon accepted the offer with visible relief.
As they left the hall, Molly allowed her ladyship’s familiar chatter to divert her mind from what Donald might be planning.
Having sent Sleat and his body servant off with Tam, who would show them to a bedchamber, Fin turned back to Mackinnon, saying, “Now then, sir, what the devil is that scoundrel really doing here?”
Mackinnon shook his head ruefully. “Truly, lad, there were naught else t’ be done wi’ him. He came t’ me, demanding I throw me lot in wi’ his. I want naught t’ do with any of it, o’ course, but I dinna want Donald banging on me door wi’ a cannonball if he ever figures out how t’ mount cannon on his galleys.”
“We must all be grateful that he has none yet.”
“Aye, well, but wi’ Donald, one can always expect the worst. At all events, Sir Patrick arrived in the midst of our conversation, and at first, I were glad o’ the interruption and invited him t’ take a flagon of brogac with us, believing he knew Donald. He didna, though, and explained his mission t’ me straightaway.”
Ruefully, Patrick said, “I’d never seen Sleat before. I thought he must be a friend of yours, sir.”
“Whilst I,” Mackinnon said, “believed ye must ken him all too well.”
“Neither of us was present when he organized the attack against my father’s party,” Fin explained. “We were rousing nearby villagers, so they could prepare to take in survivors of the supposed shipwreck.”
“Aye, well, when Donald heard about your wedding, he invited himself t’ join us,” Mackinnon explained. “He had only the small tail of men wi’ him—doubtless t’ lend an appearance o’ peaceful intent—and Sir Patrick had the wit t’ say we should depart at once.”
“Is this possibly some sort of ruse on Sleat’s part?” Fin asked. “Might his army even now be approaching, hoping to catch us all in one place?”
“Sir Patrick thought o’ that, as well,” Mackinnon said. “I took Donald at his word—foolishly, ye’ll say—but Patrick didna do any such thing.”
“I gave orders for our people to keep watch over the Kyle and to send word to us here at so much as a hint of anything unusual,” Patrick said.
“Good,” Fin said, adding to Mackinnon, “You will be wanting to refresh yourself before we sup, sir. One of my lads will show you to your chamber.” When the older man had departed, he said to Patrick, “What think you of this? Sleat must have something in mind other than merely attending my wedding.”
Patrick shrugged, but Fin detected a gleam of humor in his eyes as he said, “I hardly think he will mount an attack whilst he rests within our walls himself. Even so, I’ve arranged for enough of our men to sleep here tonight to keep his lads out of mischief, and I’ve sent word to those ashore to keep watch there. I told our lot to toss Sleat and his men in the dungeon if anyone reports an unusual number of boats entering the loch, or any other such devilry.”
“Good man,” Fin said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Patrick grinned. “They came in Mackinnon’s boats, don’t forget. They should return the same way, but we’ll keep a sharp eye out after the wedding.”
Deciding that things were well in hand and that Eilean Donan and her people would be safer with Sleat under their eye than elsewhere, making mischief, Fin relaxed, saying lightly, “I’ll leave that duty to you, old friend, at least until my wedding night is over.”
Patrick laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “If I am any judge of such matters, and I am, you will need to keep your wits about you if you are not to lose your manhood before you’ve made good use of it. However, you may see to your bride in relative peace, because I’ll keep all safe elsewhere.”
Fin nodded, smiling as erotic images of the wedding night that lay ahead of him flooded his imagination. It was just as well that he could trust Patrick, for once he was in bed with Molly, he doubted that there would be room in his mind for thoughts of anything, or anyone, else.
Chapter 14
With rare exceptions, thoughts of the wedding night that lay ahead of her had plagued Molly and teased her from the moment she had agreed to marry Kintail, and they did so right up to the morning of her wedding. When she tried to imagine what would happen, she remembered his kisses and caresses, even thoughts of which stirred the fiery feelings they had stirred at the time, but beyond that, her imagination failed her. On Skye, she had heard newly wedded young women giggling to their friends and being teased by them, but she could recall nothing specific that anyone had said in her presence to describe what actually happened.
From the time she awakened to Doreen’s rap on the morning of the wedding, tense anticipation filled her mind. Since she had come to terms with what she was doing and why she was doing it, she wondered why she seemed unable to attend efficiently to the simple routines of dressing and breaking her fast. She dropped things and seemed unable to speak the sensible sentences that formed in her brain. Instead words got mixed or the sense turned to nonsense when thoughts of Kintail pushed in to distract her. She would have liked to confide her confusion to Doreen, but she doubted that the maidservant, being still unwed herself, would understand her feelings any more than she did.
Mauri entered while Doreen was brushing Molly’s hair after her bath. As she went to the wardrobe to take out the dress they had selected, she said without preamble, “Molly, d’ye ken aught o’ the bedding ceremony?”
Flushing deeply, and feeling as if her thoughts had been invaded, Molly shook her head. “I know that married people frequently share a bed, that they kiss and … and so forth, but no one ever told me that any ceremony is involved.”
“It be just as I thought
, then,” Mauri said, gesturing for her to stand so she could slip the gold-embroidered, pale blue skirt over her head. “ ’Tis only the first night, and maidens dinna take part, so I thought ye might no ha’ heard of it,” she went on as she dealt with the lacing. “I’d heard naught o’ such, myself, afore I wed, so it came as a shock to me to learn that the men who attended my wedding would undress me for my wedding night.”
Molly stared as that same shock swept over her. “The men!”
“Aye,” Mauri said, nodding to Doreen to hand her the matching embroidered bodice. “Everyone accompanies the wedding couple to their bedchamber, and wi’ much merriment the men undress the bride and the women undress the groom, and then they deposit them naked on the marriage bed.”
“Everyone?”
“Aye. They… they dinna depart, neither, till they be satisfied that the marriage ha’ been consummated in good order.”
“That sounds horrid,” Molly exclaimed, albeit with only a vague notion of what Mauri meant by the last. “I… I won’t do it!”
“Ye’ll ha’ no choice,” Mauri said, pulling the bodice laces tight. “Everyone does it, although most brides dinna like it. I canna speak for the grooms. Malcolm said he wished it needna be, but he seemed to enjoy it all the same.” She sighed, adding, “I should tell ye, too, that Malcolm and Ian Dubh ha’ returned. They’d ha’ been gey disappointed to miss your wedding. But come now, it be almost time!”
Molly nodded, but as she let Mauri twitch the skirt and long, full-bottomed sleeves into place, she was not thinking about Malcolm or Ian Dubh. She had to speak to Kintail, for surely he could stop the dreadful bedding ceremony if he chose. Had he not proclaimed himself lord of all? She understood that she had a duty—or would have a duty as his wife—to share his bed if he demanded it, but this was different. She had to be certain that he understood she wanted no part of it.
“I found these pretty blue and silver ribbons to weave round your kirtle and into your garland,” Mauri said. “They look new. Ye must never ha’ worn them.”
They did look new, but Molly had never seen them before, so either Lady Mackinnon had slipped them in among the things she had brought to Eilean Donan, or they were a gift from Maggie Malloch. Since she did not recall seeing them when she and Doreen unpacked, she decided they had come from Maggie, but she did not dwell on the thought. She was still trying to think how she might speak to Kintail.
“There,” Mauri said when she had finished arranging the ribbons. “Now, turn about and let us ha’ a look at ye.”
Molly obeyed, realizing that she had no time now to seek out Kintail. The wedding was to take place in but a few minutes, at noon, a time chosen so that all who expected to attend would have time to get there. Perhaps, though, she mused, some delay might result from the fact that everyone had to be ferried to Eilean Donan from the mainland if from nothing else.
However, when she suggested as much while Mauri adjusted the bridal garland on her head, Mauri assured her that Patrick, Malcolm, and Ian Dubh had everything in hand. And if the crowd that awaited her entrance in the great hall minutes later was anything to go by, their arrangements had gone all too smoothly.
When Fin saw Molly step into the doorway, his breath caught in his throat. He had always thought her beautiful, but now, at this moment, her beauty was almost ethereal. Her magnificent red-gold curls fell in a cloud to her hips, and the simple, well-fitting, sky-blue and gold gown looked like something an angel might wear. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Her hands were clasped at her waist over her silver-gilt kirtle, from which dangled a silver mirror and her pomander.
Mackinnon moved to stand beside her, ready to escort her to the dais where Fin, Patrick, and Dougal Maclennan stood beside the makeshift altar. Sleat stood nearby, for even as forceful as he was, he had not had the temerity to suggest that he, and not her foster father, should stand up with her.
Mauri preceded them as Molly’s sole attendant, and the scent of rosemary wafted through the air. Not only had village women strewn the herb among the rushes on the floor but they had provided each person with sprigs of it—dried, since the season was yet too early for fresh rosemary. Even the men wore bits of the herb tucked into their shirtfronts or caps, or elsewhere on their persons.
As Mackinnon led Molly forward, her skirt clung to her softly rounded hips and swirled around her dainty feet. Fin could not take his eyes off her, and when she looked at him and smiled shyly, he felt as if his body would betray his lust for her right there in front of everyone.
Molly looked straight at Kintail as she approached the dais and its makeshift altar, thinking that he looked particularly splendid for the occasion. He wore a gold-and-green-embroidered black velvet doublet over a kilted basc made from the black and green tartan favored in the area, and black trunk hose. His sleeves were puffed and slashed with dark green satin, his square-toed black shoes embroidered with matching green silk. The sword at his side and the two eagle feathers gracing his flat black velvet cap reminded everyone of his power and rank.
Molly moved to stand beside him, and Mackinnon stepped back. As always, she was struck by her instant reaction to Kintail’s nearness. Vitality radiated from him, making her feel certain that she would recognize his presence though he approached her through the blackest of nights without making a sound. Nonetheless, when he took her hand in his, she started and looked up at him. His eyes were twinkling, and his expression warmed her. It was as if everyone else in the hall faded away, leaving them so completely alone that she might have spoken to him then about her worries, had the priest not spoken first and broken the spell.
Much of the ceremony was in Latin, but for certain key portions, Dougal Maclennan spoke the Gaelic. As Molly repeated the words he commanded her to speak, and heard Kintail speak his bits, it seemed to her that her share included a great number of awkward promises to obey and submit, including one to be always meek and obedient in bed and at board. Was that the sort of marriage it would be, one of convenience for him and total submission for her?
Kintail’s share certainly contained no such words. He promised only to take her as his wedded wife, for fair and foul, rich and poor, in sickness and health, until death parted them, and that only “if the holy Kirk so ordains.”
The twinkle in his eyes remained throughout, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Slipping an intricately engraved gold ring on her finger, he announced that now, with the ring, he was wedded to her. Then he promised to worship her with his body and to honor her with his worldly chattel, but although he sounded perfectly sincere and even touched her arm in an intimate, reassuring way, she heard naught of obedience, submission, or even ordinary consideration for her wishes.
It occurred to her that God did not have a wife, so what could he possibly know of women’s wishes or needs? Startled by the sacrilegious thought, she shot a wary glance at the priest.
He had lapsed into Latin again, however, and was paying her no heed. Slight warm pressure on the hand Kintail held drew her gaze to him.
He was smiling again, but the smile was different and the gleam in his eyes as they looked into hers sent warmth flooding through her—and something else, too, nerves stirring again in those places she had never expected to feel such things.
Moments later, the priest presented them to the assembly as man and wife, and a great cheering broke out, only to be drowned out by the triumphant skirling of pipes from the back of the hall.
Gillies and maidservants hastened to turn the altar back into the laird’s high table, after which the bride and groom, their primary guests, and upper members of the household took places there. Servants bore in platters and baskets of food, and the bridal supper began with a toast from Constable Ian Dubh to the couple. One from Kintail to the company followed, and many more followed thereafter.
Merriment and feasting continued through the afternoon, while the bride and groom sat chatting with Mackinnon, his lady, Patrick and his kinsmen,
and—because of his rank— Donald the Grim. All the while, a steady stream of well-wishers approached to welcome the bride and congratulate their laird.
Molly was so occupied with friends and guests that not until Kintail took her hand and stood up did thought of the bedding ceremony flash into her mind again.
She realized then that she had not yet spoken privately with him, and thus had not revealed her strong aversion to the horrid ceremony. Now, looking at him, her nerves suddenly reeling, she could think of no proper way to express her feelings. His friends and tenants surrounded them, and Mackinnon stood within earshot. So did Donald the Grim, looking exactly as one might expect.
Kintail made a slight gesture toward Sir Patrick, and that gentleman jumped onto a bench and raised both hands, shouting for quiet.
When the general uproar faded to a rumble, he said, “The laird bids you all stay and make merry as long as you like. There is plenty still to eat and to drink, and we will have dancing, as well, since no reformers were invited here today.”
Hearty laughter greeted this sally, but one wag bellowed, “We still ha’ the bedding to see to, laird!”
Kintail waved in the direction of the bellow, and Molly slipped behind him, grateful for once that he was so large. No one would see her blushes or, for that matter, detect her rising fear.
Kintail said in an even voice but one that carried easily, “I will bed my own bride, lads. Tradition is all very well, but you are here at my invitation, and anyone who seeks to create a nuisance on my wedding night will quickly learn that he should not take my hospitality—or my amiable nature— for granted.”
Sir Patrick gestured to someone at the rear of the hall, and when a lone piper began to play a reel, Kintail grabbed Molly’s arm and urged her through the doorway to the spiral stairs.
“Make haste, lass,” he said. “Patrick can hold them for a few moments, but most of them are already ape-drunk, and if you give them encouragement by so much as flashing an ankle, they’ll be upon us.”