by Amanda Scott
Just thinking about stopping the wedding had become extraordinarily difficult, as if something were interfering with her ability to think. Whenever she tried to turn her thoughts to a way out of it, they shifted to the noble sacrifice she would be making for her mother. Nonetheless, clinging to the notion that Alex was her only hope at this point, she exerted herself to go in search of him. She was sitting with the ladies after supper, as usual, but although she had only to go from her ladyship’s bower back into the hall, each step felt as if she were in the sort of dream where her feet felt too heavy to drag around with her.
Alex had lingered at the high table with Eric Mackintosh and several other men who had come with their families to spend the night at Dundreggan. When she entered, Alex raised his goblet to her but remained seated until she walked up to the table. Then, with a rueful smile he got to his feet, his movements awkward enough to make her wonder if he had already had too much to drink.
“I would speak privately with you, sir,” she said.
“Mistress, I am naturally at your service,” he said amiably, “but perhaps you do not realize that you are interrupting the bridegroom’s ritual foot-washing.”
Since their postprandial lassitude was unlike the always-boisterous foot-washings she had heard of, Bab looked pointedly at his feet, still elegantly shod.
He grinned. “We’ll get to the washing eventually, but first we’ve a bit more claret to drink and a few more stories to tell.”
“Then the others won’t mind if I take you away for a few minutes.”
“Nay, mistress, we’ll no mind a bit,” Eric Mackintosh said cheerfully. “We’ll just raise a few more cups to the man whilst he’s away. Where’s the jug, Alex?”
“In your hand,” he replied with a chuckle.
“Aye, then, so it is. Bless my soul!”
“Come, lass,” Alex said. “You should not linger in such sad company as this. These lads will be ape-drunk all too soon.”
He put a hand gently to the small of her back, guiding her to the stairway and on up to the gallery end where they had talked before.
“What would you discuss with me?” he asked then.
“You must know, sir.”
“I have already said that I will not call it off for you, mistress.”
“But I cannot do it,” she protested. “So many have come, and everything has happened so fast and has built up to such a pitch that if I were to speak—”
“Bab, I know you are no coward. If you cannot bring yourself to declare an end to this wedding in the proper manner, you must not really want to stop it.”
She opened her mouth and then shut it again, trying to think logically but finding it impossible. Could he be right? Her head ached with the effort to think.
Alex reached gently to cup her chin in one warm hand and tilted her face up. “Do you truly think it will be so dreadful?” he asked, looking directly into her eyes.
His lips were only inches from hers, and his touch stirred those increasingly familiar feelings in her body. For a moment, she felt dizzy and unable to reply.
His hand shifted, and his warm fingertips gently stroked her throat. “It won’t be bad at all,” he murmured softly. “We’ll make a fine pair, I think.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he moved his hand away from her throat, but she could still feel heat where his fingers had touched her.
“Look here, lass,” he said in a tone firmer than that she was used to hearing from him, one that indicated he had made a decision. “I’ll make you a new promise. If you still feel this strongly in the morning, you need only tell me, and even if Parson Fraser is halfway through the service, I’ll find a way to stop the wedding.”
“But why wait?”
“Because I must,” he said. “Only consider the position you would put me in. If you do not make the declaration yourself that you want no part in this wedding, it will look as if I am the one who has cried off, which would make me a scoundrel. Some would think my father had forced me into it and I’d decided to defy him. Even if most folks accept that I’m speaking for you, some would think I’d somehow intimidated you into refusing but could not make you say the words yourself.”
Feeling asleep on her feet and able only to grasp the one straw he had offered her, she said, “You will speak tomorrow, though. I need only tell you then that I am still of the same mind.”
“Aye,” he said. “You may depend upon me for that much, I swear. But you will still have to say the words aloud. I will not try to read your mind. Now, I warrant your lady mother expects you to rejoin her, so you had better go to her.”
Bab nodded and left him. Returning to Lady Chisholm’s bower, she found a cheerful group awaiting her. It was not exactly a bride party, for there were few her own age and no one to laugh with or play tricks on her, but her mother’s delight in the forthcoming nuptials was evident, and she felt another stab of guilt. It was easier to move and to think now, but since her thoughts wanted to dwell solely on what an unnatural daughter she was that she could consider defying her mother even now, she excused herself as soon as she decently could and went to bed.
After Giorsal had said goodnight to her and shut the door, Bab got up again and found the silver coin the Fox had given her at Gorthleck House. Taking it back to bed with her, she lay awake, rubbing it gently between her fingers and thumb as if it were a wish token, hoping yet again that he would come to her during the night.
She savored the image for a few minutes until it occurred to her to wonder what on earth she would do if he did.
Fiddles fiddled, pipes skirled merrily, and the tempo of the music seemed fast even for one who enthusiastically danced the galliard whenever the opportunity presented itself. She was standing at the edge of the grassy ring, watching the dancers by the silvery light of a huge, round moon, and then, when she thought of the Fox again, he was standing beside her, the heat from his body stirring her blood and setting her senses atingle.
Beyond the ring and the dancers, the feasting had begun. Tables shaped like mushrooms stood laden with food and drink, and those who were not dancing helped themselves as they watched the dancers or chatted with one another. Here and there, tiny creatures riding ragwort stems, twigs, or bundles of grass swooped amongst the guests, while children darted about, trying to capture swan maidens by catching hold of their feathers.
Abruptly, the music stopped.
“It is time,” he said, his voice low but carrying easily to her ears, its sensuous timbre playing soft chords within her body and upon her soul.
She nodded and smiled, resting her hand on the arm he extended to her. Only then did she note that he was dressed all in white for the wedding. Glancing up at him, she saw that his mask was white like his clothing and covered only the upper half of his face. She could see his firm chin and his mouth, and when he smiled back at her, she saw strong, even, white teeth and longed for him to kiss her.
As if he had heard her thoughts, he said with amusement, “Soon, lass, soon.” Then, gazing at her with a critical eye, he said, “I like that dress.”
She had not thought about her dress, only about him, but now she looked down at herself and saw to her surprise that the dress clung enticingly to her form. It was not pink as she remembered but as silvery and glittering as the moonlight.
No one else spoke to her, but somehow she knew that the procession to the High Glen was about to begin. Feasting and dancing would continue there, and soon she would be his. Her heart was full, her body alive and aching for his. She looked up at him with a smile and saw the same hunger for her in his eyes.
The procession was solemn and slow of pace, but at last they entered the High Glen and the guests gathered around them, eager for the ceremony to begin.
The chief, a tall man, reed thin and white-bearded, his eyes gleaming like live coals, spread his arms wide, inviting the attention of everyone there to himself and to them. He wore a long white robe and a peaked hat, and his white shoes
and the hat bore multicolored tassels on their points. His voice sounded like a low rumble of thunder as he murmured, “Will the pair o’ ye wed then?”
“Aye, we will,” the Fox said soberly.
“And ye, lass? Will ye ha’ this man?”
“Aye,” Bab said without hesitation, “I will.”
“Then it be done, and ye be wed. May the love ye hold in your hearts for each other now be wi’ ye both for all time tae come.”
As the Fox bent to kiss her, Bab saw that his eyes looked strangely pink as if they reflected the pink fabric of her gown. But then they turned pale blue, and remembering that her dress was silver, she looked down to be sure that it had remained so, and it had. Then she looked into his eyes again to see if they were still blue, and they were, but now they had turned a deeper, cerulean blue. His hand cupped her chin, holding it still, and his lips met hers, hot and demanding.
All thought of anything but his touch and his kisses vanished.
The music began again, wilder than ever, and she was dimly aware of the dancers all around them, spinning and leaping in time to it, but soon a heavy mist closed in until she was alone with him, wrapped in the music and her own heated passion for him.
His hands moved eagerly over her body, curious hands, and she felt naked beneath his fingers. The two of them seemed to be floating, both naked now, able to move together as and where they would. He kissed her lips and cheeks, and then his lips moved to the hollow of her throat and down to the one between her breasts.
His right hand slid to the curve of her hip, then to the left cheek of her bottom, pulling her closer as his lips opened around the tip of her right breast and his tongue laved its nipple, sending new, wondrous sensations through her body.
As she arched her back, gasping, and used one hand to pull him closer yet, reaching with the other to slip the mask from his face, a hoarse, elderly voice from the mist said solemnly, “Ye may place the ring on her finger now, sir.”
She held tight to the edge of the mask and tried to push it up, but he kissed her again, murmuring softly against her lips, “I do have a ring for you, my love.”
“Do you?” She could scarcely hear the sound of her own voice.
“Aye, sure, lass. Look here.”
Reluctantly, she turned her head and saw that he held out a gold band with three beautiful rubies sparkling on it, guarded by two small diamonds.
“But I want to see your face.”
“You must trust me a little longer, sweetheart,” he said. “Just give me your hand now as I bid you.”
Without another word, she held out her hand, and he clasped it warmly in his left one as he slipped the ring on her finger with his right. The gold felt cool at first, but he kissed her again, and the heat in her body soon warmed it.
“Ah, lassie, you are so beautiful. I want to kiss every inch of your body.”
“And so you may, and whenever you wish,” she said, “but first, I want to see your face.” And with that, she reached again for the mask and snatched it off.
The mist thickened as she did, and as it swirled around and between them, making the world all dark and eerie, the Fox disappeared and the music stopped.
For a moment, Bab felt bereft, as if she still floated alone in an alien nether world, and then the world righted itself. Darkness changed to light, and she realized that she was kneeling before the altar in Dundreggan’s chapel, facing an elderly man in priestly vestments, whom she had never seen before, as he held a cup of wine to her lips.
Heat flashed in her cheeks as she remembered believing that she was naked only moments before.
“Drink this in remembrance of me,” the stranger murmured, tilting the cup.
As she raised her hand to touch the cup and perforce to drink, she felt comforted to see the ruby ring on her finger.
Then the man set down the cup, spread his arms wide, and said gravely, “Ye may rise and face your guests now, if ye will.” As she obeyed, still dazed, he added in more stentorian tones, “May God bless ye both and grant ye many children. My friends, I ha’ the honor to present to ye, Sir Alexander Chisholm and his lady wife!”
Lucy clapped her hands in delight. “Ye’ve done it, Claud!”
He shook his head, bewildered. “I did nowt,” he said. “She just never said another word against the wedding. ’Twere as if a spell came over her at first light this morning and stayed upon her until yon priest pronounced them married.”
“ ’Twas your ain spell, ye noddy. She be your lass.”
“Aye, but ye ken fine that it canna be my spell, Lucy, for we none o’ us ha’ power inside a kirk. Had she been under any spell o’ mine afore, stepping in tae the chapel would ha’ ended it.”
“Oh, aye,” Lucy said, looking startled. “I forgot about that.”
Bab had turned with a start at the priest’s announcement and was still staring wide-eyed at Alex. His doublet and hose were not white but his usual, favorite shade of blue, and he looked as he always did. But although she felt dizzy with shock at learning that she had somehow married him instead of the Fox, the feeling quickly dissipated, leaving in its wake a strong but strangely mixed sense of safety, contentment, and the sensuous, lingering memory of the Fox’s kisses and caresses.
“Are we really married?” she whispered. Her tongue felt woolly and swollen, as if it were not sure that it should obey her will and speak her words.
He smiled at her as they turned toward the wedding guests. “Aye, lass,” he murmured, “and I hope you will be happy as Lady Alex, for that is what everyone will call you now. I don’t mind telling you, it was a profound relief to see you walking up the aisle, smiling so radiantly. I knew then that everything was all right. Until I saw you, though, I was afraid you might have taken fright and run away.”
“I… I didn’t.” It was still hard to think. Surely, she had been smiling at the Fox, not at Alex, although she could hardly tell him that. What was the matter with her? How could she have married him without knowing she was doing so, and why was it that every thought and every word she spoke required such effort?
“I think they are waiting for us to lead the way upstairs,” he said, cupping a hand to her elbow. “Don’t forget to hold your skirt, lass. There are two steps here.”
He was talking as if she were a child, but in truth, she had not noticed the steps. Silently, she caught up her skirt but then paused, staring at its pink fabric.
“What is it, Bab?”
“Nothing.” She looked at his eyes, wondering if they might have changed color too, but as usual, they matched the deep, cerulean blue of his doublet. He released her elbow then and offered his arm.
She had no memory of having risen that morning and dressed, or of having walked downstairs or down the aisle of the elegant little chapel. And the ceremony there certainly had not been the ceremony she had dreamed. In her dream, she was on a greensward. There had been no rich, polished wood pilasters or wainscoting, no intricately carved rood screen, and no altar with its gold chalice and elegantly appointed tabernacle. Neither had Chisholm’s banners flanked the altarpiece. Moreover, Chisholm’s plump, elderly priest bore no resemblance to the tall, bearded wizard in the white robe who had so swiftly performed her dream wedding.
She wanted to pinch herself to see if she was awake, but with her skirt in one hand and the other clutching Alex’s arm, and with a fascinated audience watching every move she made, she could not do it. She did feel the soft texture of his velvet sleeve, though. Did one feel texture in dreams? She could not recall at first, but then she recalled feeling naked, and heat surged into her cheeks.
Surely, though, she must still be dreaming, because if she weren’t, she would react more strenuously to such a grand betrayal. For was that not what it was? Had her own mind not tricked her into believing that she was elsewhere, marrying someone else? And what had she been thinking, anyway, to marry the Fox so willingly without knowing his true identity. It occurred to her then that she might be suffering from
the same odd malady as Lady MacRae. That thought did nothing to comfort her but, oddly, neither did it distress her. She seemed to have no feelings left. As that notion entered her mind, however, she realized her error.
The velvet of Alex’s sleeve was soft indeed, and as she looked up at him, the sensations that his touch had stirred in her before returned stronger than ever, sending jolts of fire through her. She had married him. He was her husband and he could now do as he pleased with her. Although she had no memory of the priest’s words to them, she had heard the marriage ceremony before, and she knew that she must have promised him obedience and submission. Before the night was done, he would know her physically and she would know him. That idea should have been frightening. Instead, it excited her curiosity and played tantalizingly on her nerves.
He placed his free hand atop hers where it rested on his forearm and gave hers a reassuring squeeze. Neither of them wore gloves, she realized, so they must have taken them off at some unremembered point, and his hand felt warm against hers. Meeting his gaze again, she smiled, and the intensity of his expression startled her, sending more of those beguiling sensations through her body.
As they neared the door leading to the service area and main stairway, she saw her beaming mother flanked by various other MacRaes of Kintail and Ardintoul. Bab smiled, and a feeling of peaceful warmth flowed through her as she did. Lady MacRae looked as healthy and happy as she had ever seen her.
Upstairs, the great hall was bright with spring flowers, musicians played from the gallery, and the long trestle tables groaned with huge platters of food. Tempting odors of roasted beef and lamb wafted toward them, and Bab realized that she was hungry.