by Amanda Scott
She sighed. “My mother somehow got it into her head that your father and mine arranged the whole thing, but they didn’t!”
“If you do not want it, you need only say so.”
“Mercy, sir, do you want it?”
“Mistress, you must know that you put me in a most awkward position by asking such a question.”
“No, I don’t. You cannot want to marry me!”
“Even if that were true I could hardly say so without offering you the most egregious insult.”
“I promise not to take offense. Just tell them you won’t do it.”
“My father would flay me alive if I said any such thing. Surely you can see that you must be the one to tell them you have no wish to marry me.”
“But I cannot. My mother has scarcely spoken a sensible word to anyone since my father’s death, but at the mere thought of planning my wedding, she began to emerge from her private world to inhabit the common one with the rest of us. I dare not oppose her lest she fall back into that half-world of hers again.”
“Nevertheless, you need only refuse,” he said. “I’ll not force you into a marriage you do not want. I am well aware that you do not like me.”
Annoyed though she was, Bab was nonetheless disconcerted by this blunt statement. She said hastily, “That is not true! I feel a great deal of… of—”
When she could not find the word she sought, he said, “Just so. You feel a great deal of loathing for me.”
“Truly, sir, I do not,” she said, looking away and idly fingering one of the mugs on the table. “I have long felt affection for you and for your family.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye,” she said, adding with a direct look and a touch more spirit, “so if it has seemed to you of late that I dislike you, mayhap you should look to your own behavior for the reason.”
“My behavior?” He withdrew a lace-edged handkerchief from his sleeve, shook it lightly, and dabbed his lips with it.
Shaking her head at this affectation, she said, “I have scarcely recognized you since your return from the Continent, but my affection for you has not diminished. You have always been kind to me, sir, in your fashion.”
“Successful marriages have been built on weaker foundations.”
“The fact is that I have decided never to marry,” Bab said. “Pray inform your parents and my mother that there is to be no wedding.”
Alex dabbed the handkerchief to his nose and then to his lips again before saying apologetically, “Desolated as I am to have to disappoint you again, mistress, I repeat, I cannot do that.”
The smoldering coals of her anger ignited instantly. “Why not?”
“Even if I could reconcile such a refusal with my notions of gentlemanly conduct, if you will recall, I did not arrange this marriage. I cannot call it off.”
“Well, it certainly was not I who arranged it!”
“I did not say it was,” he said calmly. “Nevertheless, your lady mother clearly believes that your father and mine made a contract between them, and that notion, having taken strong hold of her mind, has made her happier and more animated than anyone has seen her since Sir Gilchrist’s death. I’d have to be a brute to pour disappointment on her at such a time. You will have to tell her yourself.”
Since she had the same compunctions as he did, and since her guilt and frustration made her too angry to think about what she was saying, she said, “Ask your father to tell her. He must know he never made any arrangement with mine.”
“But I believe they did discuss some possibilities before your father’s death,” he said. “Before I left to attend Jamie’s proxy wedding, my father mentioned that they had discussed a union between our families, but I thought your father had suggested the union for one of my brothers and that my father had other plans. When he wrote nothing more to suggest they had spoken further about it—”
“How could he send you letters, as far away as you were?”
He chuckled, making her want to throttle him. “Surely,” he drawled, “you do not think him incapable of getting messages to me. He did so easily last year, after all, when he commanded my return after Rob and Michael were killed.”
She would not let him make her feel guilty about stirring that memory, not now. “Then if there had been an arrangement,” she persisted, “his lordship would have sent word to you. Is that what you believe?”
“I do,” he said. “Certainly he would have if I was a party to it.”
“Then there was no agreement.”
“But if your mother believes there was—”
“There still would be no contract, and your father could tell her so.”
“He’d have to be a stronger man than he is at present to persuade her of that, as deeply as she feels about it. Moreover, she would think me a regular cheat.”
“But you are no such thing!”
“I would look like one.”
She stamped her foot. “I don’t care what you look like! I won’t marry you!”
“Have you even asked my father if such a discussion ever took place?”
The question brought her up short. She had not asked Chisholm anything, nor did she want to bring him into it lest he declare it a good match and suggest it to Patrick, thus taking the matter out of her hands. Thinking quickly, she said, “My mother has spoken of little else since the moment of our arrival at Dundreggan, sir, and your father has been present on more than one such occasion. Moreover, your mother knows the truth. Surely, had he wanted no part in it, he would have said so.”
“Possibly he feels the same reluctance to destroy your mother’s happiness that I feel.”
“Or perhaps he believes he would do well to ally himself with my family now that Patrick and Kintail have become closer to the King!”
“Patrick has also managed to annoy Cardinal Beaton, I believe,” Sir Alex pointed out calmly. “In these parts, thanks to the Dalcrosses, the cardinal’s influence appears to be even greater than Jamie’s.”
Frustrated, she said, “I don’t care about influence. I do not want to marry!”
“Then you need only tell your mother so and persuade her to believe it, or declare yourself unwilling when the priest arrives. That will end it, sure enough.”
Feeling trapped again and infuriated by his typically languid attitude toward so vital a subject, Bab’s fingers curled into claws, but she did not realize that they had curled around the pewter mug until she had flung it at him.
Alex caught it. His eyes flashed dangerously as he stepped toward her.
Feeling a surging sense of triumph, she said, “So you do still have a temper! I thought you had left it in France, sir.”
Even as she said the words, she saw that he looked mildly puzzled, the anger having vanished as if it had never been. Wondering if she could possibly have imagined the fire she had seen in his eyes, she continued to stare into his face.
He stepped nearer yet.
Too near.
She swallowed, feeling weakness in her knees that she could not remember feeling since her father’s death, the same weakness, she was sure, that she had felt on those rare occasions when Sir Gilchrist had been displeased enough with her behavior to punish her. Gathering courage, she forced herself not to blink but to continue gazing steadily at him.
He was only Alex, after all.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’m not angry, lass.”
“You were.”
His lips twitched as if he would smile, but he did not. He said, “ ’Twas only that I did not think my head or the mug would be improved by denting.”
Disturbed and not a little confused, Bab said brusquely, “I should not have thrown it. Pray excuse me now, sir.” And, turning on her heel, she fled.
Alex watched her go, letting the smile emerge that he had been fighting to suppress ever since he had realized he could not hide it behind a handkerchief. Still holding the mug, he hefted it, measuring its solid weight and knowing that had it made contact wi
th his skull, it would likely have laid him out flat.
“Little termagant,” he muttered. “She would probably dance a galliard round my corpse.”
He had wanted to shake her, but he had not dared lay a finger on her for fear that in doing so he would reveal his increasing desire for her. He wondered if she had had any notion of how much he had wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, how much he had begun to want the marriage she was so firmly set against.
“If ye want a thing, ye must fight for it.”
This time the voice in his head was so loud that he wondered for a moment if some unknown entity had taken over his private thoughts.
“Are ye willing tae fight? Ye said when ye want a thing ye must fight, and that ye’d do what ye must. D’ye no want this?”
It occurred to him that unlike the usual case with his private thoughts, the nagging voice sounded different from his.
Although he had carried on conversations with himself in his mind for years, the accent and vocabulary of the other party in those conversations had always been the same as his own because, naturally, the thoughts were his thoughts and thus the voice his voice. He daydreamed about possibilities or thought through alternatives before making decisions just as everyone did.
The argument in his head now was different, because neither the voice nor the accent was his. He had heard the accent before though, from Scottish Borderers at court. Was his imagination playing tricks on him?
“Ye’d like tae think that, I’ll wager, but ye’d do better tae think sensibly. If ye’re tae gain your heart’s desire, ye must leave this decision tae the lass.”
It had to be his imagination. Since any other solution would require belief in things that educated men did not believe in, he dismissed the intriguing possibilities that streamed through his mind and focused on Barbara MacRae. Would she dare to confront his father and demand direct answers to her questions? His increasing knowledge of her courage led him to believe she would. Despite Chisholm’s present lack of interest in most things, he was unlikely to tolerate defiance from any young woman living under his roof. The two would make formidable adversaries.
“Aye,” said the voice in his head, “but the outcome o’ such a battle will depend on how much yon lass wants what she asks for, dinna ye think?”
Agreeing completely but not certain that even Bab had the courage to stand against his father for long, Alex bit his tongue to keep from replying aloud and went to find his manservant.
Maggie Malloch watched Alex hurry away, wondering how much she ought to exert herself to make him heed her. He had a strong mind, to be sure, and he was the sort of educated gentleman who most strongly resisted any belief in members of the Secret Clan, but her powers were strong enough to overcome that resistance. At present, those powers told her that her son was about to join her.
“What be ye about, Mam?” Claud asked. “Ye shouldna be here.”
“Pish tush,” she said. “I ha’ every right tae be here, because that lazy vixen Catriona ha’ disappeared.”
“Aye, sure, she has, for I canna find her either,” he admitted.
She peered narrowly at him, but it was clear that he spoke the truth. Then, as that thought crossed her mind, she realized that he was keeping something from her.
“It isna like ye, Claud, tae be larking about without a woman, but mayhap the lack will help ye concentrate better on your duties.”
As she had expected, he could not meet her stern gaze.
Her temper stirred. “Ye’re in lust again, ye daftie. Who is it, and dinna lie tae me unless ye want a dose o’ what your lies can bring ye.”
He shuddered, as well he might, she thought.
“Who be the lass this time?” she repeated gently.
“It be Lucy Fittletrot again, Mam, but I didna ask for her help. She came tae me! She says she wants tae make up for landing me in trouble afore.”
“Aye, sure she does. What did she do tae that Catriona?”
He started to shrug, but when she glared, he said hastily, “She said she put a wee spell on her, just tae make her think she’ll get goat’s feet like a Glaistig if she goes near tae Dundreggan, that’s all.”
“I see,” Maggie said, her mind working swiftly to sift the ramifications of this news. “Mayhap it’ll do that lass good tae learn that others can manipulate her.”
“But what o’ her Chisholms, Mam?”
“I’ll keep me eye on ’em,” Maggie said. “I must treat both sides equally though, for it looks as if the Merry Folks and the Helping Hands will make peace, but only an both sides succeed. I dinna want tae help yon Catriona, but I must if Lucy Fittletrot ha’ interfered wi’ her. We dinna ken who be pulling Lucy’s strings though, so I’ll be watching the pair o’ ye, Claud, though ye needna tell her so.”
He nodded obediently, but just in case, Maggie flicked a finger. It would be just as well if he couldn’t tell Lucy that his mother was keeping an eye on her.
Not wanting to spend a moment longer thinking about her impulsive reaction to Sir Alex’s teasing, or whatever it was that had stirred her to throw the pewter mug at him, Bab went in search of Lady MacRae, determined now, whatever the consequence, to persuade her that there could be no wedding.
She found her mother in the tiny parlor that adjoined her ladyship’s bedchamber, conversing animatedly with Ada MacReedy and Giorsal.
As Bab entered, Lady MacRae broke off what she was saying to exclaim, “Ada and Giorsal assure me that they can make up a new gown for you in a trice, because we have agreed that the fabric you purchased for me in Stirling, which I thought too bright a pink for me, will suit your coloring admirably. Fortunately, I brought ells of fabrics with me, though, so you may choose whatever you like.”
“I shall not require a new gown, madam,” Bab said gently, ignoring Giorsal’s frown of disapproval.
“But of course you will,” Lady MacRae said. “A bride must have a new gown for her wedding. What can you be thinking?”
“Please, madam, I—”
“If you do not like anything I’ve brought, I expect his lordship will be kind enough to arrange for us to visit shops in Inverness, but I cannot believe the quality of fabric there will be as nice as that lovely French silk from Stirling. Moreover, pink was your father’s favorite color for you. As to fastenings, we must put our heads together with Nora, to be sure, but someone will think of something.”
For a flashing moment, Bab almost yearned for a return to the days when Lady MacRae had seemed oblivious to the world around her. Horrified to think that such a thought could even formulate in her mind, she knelt swiftly beside her mother’s chair and said gently, “I pray thee, madam, do not make so many plans for me. I am not worthy of such industry.”
Patting her arm and smiling lovingly at her, her mother said, “My dear one, this wedding was one of your father’s last wishes, and he would not want his beloved daughter to be a shabby bride. You will do him great honor.”
A lump rose to Bab’s throat and tears to her eyes.
Giorsal said firmly, “Mistress Bab, let me show ye the pink silk her ladyship thinks would suit ye. Ye’ll likewise want to see the other drawings her ladyship ha’ made today, showing how ye’ll look from different angles.”
Glancing at her, Bab felt a new burst of shame. Sir Alex was right. How could she even consider dousing the fires of energy and purpose that had so long lay dormant within the woman she loved most in the world? Was marrying him so great a sacrifice? Surely, a truly loving daughter would make any sacrifice to ensure her mother’s happiness and mental well being.
“I am so pleased that you approve of the simplicity of this gown,” Lady MacRae said, turning the new drawings toward Bab. “You have such a curvaceous figure, my love, that it would be a shame to hide it beneath too many ruffles or too wide a farthingale. The sleeker look is more elegant, don’t you agree?”
“Until you showed me that first sketch, I’d forgotten how well you draw, madam,” Bab said, g
iving her a hug. “These are wonderful, too,” she added when she had looked at the others. “Any lass would be pleased to resemble these pictures on her wedding day, but—”
“You must see how well that pink silk will suit the gown, Mistress Bab,” Giorsal interjected swiftly.
“Giorsal, you must not interrupt Mistress Bab when she is speaking,” Lady MacRae said with a frown. “Pray, continue, dearling.”
“I… I was just going to suggest that…” She glanced again at Giorsal, who had pressed her lips together but whose eyes spoke volumes. “… that we should show these other drawings to Lady Chisholm,” she went on desperately. “She will perhaps have some suggestions to make. Her… her woman might have some—” She broke off, knowing that with every muttered word she sounded more as if she approved of the wedding, although she certainly had not yet come to that.
“You make an excellent suggestion,” Lady MacRae said. “Let us go and seek her ladyship now. There are many other things to discuss as well, you know.”
Terrified that a group appearance in Lady Chisholm’s bower would only reinforce the idea that Lady MacRae’s wedding plans were rapidly becoming reality in all their minds, Bab said, “Pray, madam, will you not allow me to speak privately with her ladyship first? This has all come upon me so suddenly that I scarcely know whether I am on my head or on my heels.”
Lady MacRae smiled. “It would not do, I expect, for us all to descend upon her now. Before you came in, Ada was doing her best to persuade me to rest a bit before supper, and I know she is right. I have not yet regained my strength, and I do not wish to be ill on your wedding day. Do you go and discover from her ladyship if it will be convenient for us to discuss these matters after supper.”
Relieved, Bab kissed her cheek and took her leave, but despite her haste, she did not miss the look Giorsal shot her. Interpreting it easily, she knew she would hear things about her character that she would not like if she upset Lady MacRae. She would not like herself much either, come to that. Still, they were planning her life. She had every right to explore any alternative she might have.