by Mary Wine
She looked away and heard him close the distance between them. He reached out and tipped her chin up with two fingers. The connection made her shudder.
“Do nae look away, Jane.” Her name came across his lips like a caress. “Answer me.”
“I don’t understand.” She shifted away from him, feeling his presence so intensely it was impossible to remain close and maintain her wits.
“Ye ken well what is happening,” he corrected her.
“No, I mean to say”—she lifted her gaze to his—“I do not understand why you are sharing my fate. Only my sisters were ever my compatriots against harsh circumstances.”
“Ye do nae mention yer husband.”
She stiffened. “No, I did not.”
Jane turned around, determined to maintain her composure, or at least renew her grip on it before she turned back to face Diocail. She’d laid enough on his shoulders.
But she ended up facing the bed. She stiffened, looking at the place where Henry had taken her as his rights allowed him and then she had woken to him informing her she had a customer to satisfy in exchange for his gaming debts.
“Here now, just a tumble that you will hardly remember come morning…Lord knows I never earned so much coin for so little work as you will on your back…”
Diocail cupped her shoulder and turned her back to face him. “He’s dead.” There was a note in his voice that hinted that he wasn’t sorry either. “And ye bled last week, so his grip on ye is broken. For good.”
Heat teased her cheeks at the mention of her courses. Yet it shouldn’t have surprised her—the man had the keenest senses.
There was a thump on the door before it was pushed open. Muir peeked in, looking at the bed before he spied Diocail and tugged on his cap. The captain stepped to the side, showing that Gillanders’s wife was behind him with her arms piled high.
“The tailor has seen fit to send over his wife’s best dress for the occasion,” Muir declared jovially.
There was a rustle of silk as the woman bustled into the chamber and her daughters followed with hot kettles of steaming water. There was a bump on the stairs and a muffled word of profanity in Gaelic, and then Niven and his comrades were carrying a tub through the door. They had to raise it up and tip it so it fit sideways through the doorway, but they beamed with victory as they succeeded and set it down.
More of Diocail’s men followed with buckets of cold water that they poured into the tub with bright grins. They all reached up and tugged on the corners of their bonnets before they left. Muir was the last one, supervising the work until the last Gordon left.
“The tailor is waiting below to get a look at ye so he can find ye a fine doublet to wear to church,” Muir said to Diocail.
Diocail reached down and plucked the second mug he’d filled off the table and chuffed it. Muir’s lips twitched with amusement even as the captain maintained his respectful expression. Diocail shifted his attention to Jane for a moment. “What is yer name, lass?”
It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say.
“Yer full name, for the contract.”
The loft room was so silent she’d have heard a mouse sighing. All eyes were upon her as she hesitated. Gillanders’s wife looked as though she pitied her, while her daughters blinked in curiosity to see if she would bend and take the man everyone agreed was the best match for her.
But it was the way Diocail, laird of the Gordons, stood and waited for her answer. He didn’t growl or narrow his eyes, but waited.
“Jane Katherine Stanley.”
* * *
Diocail felt something strange.
It was moving through his gut, leaving him, well, he’d say giddy, except that sort of emotion was suited only to young lads such as Bari.
Diocail made it three steps down the stairs before he heard the rise of conversation in the common room.
“She’ll have the kitchen running smoothly inside a month…”
“No more fighting for our fare at supper…”
“Likely knows a thing or two about healing…”
“And the stench in the passageways, she’ll banish that as well…”
His men were desperate. Diocail cursed Colum again for the ruin in which he’d left the Gordons. Muir was in front of him. When they reached the bottom floor of the common room, his captain smiled.
“I should smash yer balls with me knee,” Diocail growled as he passed Muir.
All he gained from the captain was a snort, a very unrepentant sound that left Diocail’s pride smarting while his men turned hopeful looks his way.
Damned bunch of orphans.
And yet they looked to him. It sobered him, tempering his wounded pride, leaving him with the trust they seemed to have in his ability to bring them a better life. For all that his mother had believed he was due the position because of his blood, he had always wanted to be more in life than a birthright.
He wanted to earn his place, not simply take it.
Well, they were waiting for him to take to wife a woman who would serve them as dutifully as they would protect her and her children.
He swept the room and found Gillanders. “Fetch up that load of wine her last husband brought ye.” Diocail tossed some gold onto the tabletop. “We’ll be needing it for the celebration.”
His men cheered, and Lachie smiled as he dipped his quill into his inkwell for Diocail to sign the newly written marriage contract. The sound of the quill scratching against the paper filled the common room, and everyone looked on until it was done.
“I need a bath.”
His men hooted with amusement, the jesting at his expense beginning.
And may God have mercy on them all.
* * *
“How lucky to have just finished yer courses.”
Gillanders’s wife had no reservations against frank speaking. Her youngest daughter blushed, but not the older ones.
“Yer last husband was a poor one to be sure,” she continued. “Better to know for certain ye will nae have the trouble of raising up his child and worrying it will be too much like its sire.”
She turned and clapped her hands. Her daughters seemed to be used to such commands. They surrounded Jane, plucking laces from where they were tucked and popping open the knots while she twisted and tried to evade them.
And where will you go? Back to the gallows?
The feeling of the noose was once again as strong as if it were still resting against her collarbone.
So close…
She truly had come as close as one might to being hung, and she had survived. The faces of those jeering at her were burned into her memory, and it nauseated her to think that those same villagers were all looking forward to watching her wedding.
It made no sense…
Her clothing fell away, puddling at her feet as Gillanders’s wife supervised with her hands on her ample hips. She snapped her fingers, and two of the girls lifted the kettles to add the hot water to the tub.
“In with ye now,” she decreed. “Wedding the laird, ye’re fortunate indeed. Make sure ye thank God in yer prayers for the parents who saw ye educated in the running of a house.”
There was a splash and then another as the girls began to wash her. Jane shied away from their hands, but they had her surrounded, so she gave up and let them bathe her. The soap was sweetly scented with lavender, and they scrubbed her from head to toe, rinsing out her hair twice before there was a double clap from their mother and she was allowed to rise.
Her skin stung, but in a pleasant way because she knew she was clean. Bathing was an indulgence for which she admitted to having a fondness. Let the church preach that it was a vanity; she honestly couldn’t see how having feet that stank brought her closer to Christ.
So she’d washed her toes every night in the privacy of her room and taken t
urns watching at the mill door while her sisters had snuck down to bathe with the aid of the waterwheel that also drove the grinding stone.
“The dress is made of silk.” Gillanders’s wife was petting it lovingly. “Ye will look like an angel with the candlelight on it.”
An angel. Better than being one in reality.
That thought kept her still as they dressed her in a robe so her hair might be brushed out and dried in front of the fire. One of them produced the chest from the wagon she and Henry had traveled in that contained her hairpins and other personal items.
They braided and rolled her hair, weaving ribbons into it. After that came a delicate chemise that was nearly transparent and floated down to cover her skin like a sprinkling of flower petals.
“Lace stockings…” There was another sigh. “I hear the English queen wears naught else.”
The stockings were threaded onto her legs carefully and secured with more ribbons. A pair of red heeled shoes was next, just a trifle too small for her feet.
“Ye’ll no’ be in them long enough to care.”
They pulled her to her feet and laced a corset into place before they tied a hip bolster around her hips, and then a farthingale was lifted high over her head so that she had to raise her arms before it was lowered. It was a slip with stiff hoops sewn into it to keep the skirts out wide.
The underskirt had a front panel decorated with thin strips of velvet. Jane couldn’t resist petting one.
“Aye, it’s no’ often any of us has any reason for such finery.” Gillanders’s wife herself was bringing the overskirt, with more of the same velvet. “The tailor, he goes down to the lowlands every now and again, to the court, to keep his skills sharp on what is in fashion. This dress was for his daughter when he took her the last time. Showed her off, he did. Maybe by next year, she’ll have herself a grand match.”
The girls made little sounds of envy as the skirt was secured and the farthingale held it out. The bodice was cut low, showing off the plump swells of Jane’s breasts. The girls eased the sleeves up her arms and used ribbons to secure them in place.
When it was all done, Jane didn’t have the heart to do anything but smile. They all appeared to be enjoying the moment in that way women found pleasure in helping one another. She wasn’t English in their eyes; she was a bride, and they were part of the celebration.
Life had too many harsh moments to squander the happy ones. Except that marriage had only been another bitter disappointment. She held that knowledge close to her heart, hiding it with a soft smile she had learned to maintain even when she had misgivings.
You will not be weak…
But it did appear she would be Diocail Gordon’s wife. God help her.
* * *
“Get in there!”
The door to the loft room was kicked in, and right after it hit the wall, Diocail stumbled across the threshold, Muir and Kory grinning at Jane before they yanked the door shut.
“I’ve a bloody good memory, ye pair of swine!” Diocail growled at the door.
“As do I.” She hadn’t meant to agree with him, but Diocail turned to look at her and slowly grinned.
“Good, because they are doing this to keep ye, and I’ll warn ye now, lass, it will not be a simple thing to take the house in hand.” He growled in a very menacing way before he shrugged and righted his doublet. The garment was half down his arms, trapping them against his body. It too was made of fine velvet and really too small for Diocail’s shoulders because the men in the village didn’t practice sword fighting as much as he did. It stuck, earning a snort from him as he struggled.
“Here now,” she said, moving toward him. “You don’t want to tear it. I imagine the tailor will charge you more than it’s worth because you will have no honorable recourse but to pay if it is damaged.”
“Waste of coin,” he groused as he flicked open the tiny buttons that ran down the front of it. He shrugged, and she caught the garment as it slid down his arms. “I’ve never worn something so frivolous in me life.”
Jane set the doublet on a chair and sat down to tug at one of the shoes. “I know exactly how you feel.”
She held it up, showing off the two-inch heel with a narrow foundation that had kept her teetering throughout their wedding. The leather was worked in a lace pattern that must have taken days of labor to create. “Good for nothing except standing about and being admired. One little sneeze would have sent me stumbling.”
Diocail took the shoe from her and contemplated it. When he looked back, she was pulling the other one off her foot with a sigh.
“Well, that is a relief.”
She looked up at him as she rubbed her ankle.
“I thought ye were wobbling about near to fainting.”
She sent him a narrow-eyed look. “I have a stiffer backbone than that.”
He rolled his arms, and she heard his back pop. “It served a purpose though.” He jerked his head toward the door. “The villagers are quite convinced that ye fled me.”
Jane decided to hold her tongue and rubbed her other foot. They were left in an uneasy silence, while she was far too conscious of the reason they had been sent abovestairs.
To consummate the union, of course.
Below them, music was being played as wine flowed. Laughter came in bursts as people started dancing. None of them would leave until they knew the vows were sealed.
God help her, she simply didn’t think she could lie in the same bed with Diocail as she had with Henry. And yet it was his right.
“Ye truly care naught for such things?”
Lost in her own thoughts, she was startled by his question and had to look at him for a long moment before she realized he was still holding the shoe.
“Not one bit.” She pointed at his boots. “I’d rather have footwear like yours that keeps my toes from turning numb.”
His lips twitched. “Well, ye’ll no’ have any trouble getting a pair on Gordon land. No’ if ye truly have the education yer skill with the needle hints at.”
With the velvet doublet discarded, he was wearing only his shirt and kilt. The moment was far more intimate than she was accustomed to seeing him. The reason they were both there was suddenly foremost in her thoughts, bringing heat to her cheeks.
He noticed her color, his gaze going to the stain spreading across her face. There was a glitter of victory in his eyes that struck her as very personal.
“In fact,” he muttered as he came closer, reaching out to stroke one side of her face. “I might just have more than a few things ye will find to yer liking in me home, Jane.”
There was a promise in his tone, and it sent a shiver down her spine that curled her toes. She was warm, overly so, and envious of his lack of attire. The dress felt too constricting as he drew his fingertips along her cheeks, stunning her with how much she enjoyed his touch.
There was a thump on the door before it was pushed in. Gillanders’s wife and daughters were already moving into the room before they realized Diocail was there. They froze and lowered themselves.
“Yer pardon, Laird,” Gillanders’s wife hurried forward. “I did nae think ye’d be up so soon. We’ll have her out of that dress and inspected in just a wee bit. Best ye go below.”
Several older women were making their way into the room, clearly there to witness her health and lack of witch marks. It might be distasteful, but the idea of being accused of being the devil’s harlot was far more so. The feeling of that noose was too fresh in her mind; she would not even consider refusing.
Diocail didn’t want to move. She watched his eyes narrow with frustration and felt a prickle of it herself for being parted from him.
But the women were not going to give way. They gently slipped between him and her, pushing him back with their numbers until she heard him grunt and watched him turn toward the door.
Whatever the odd sensations had been, they dissipated as the women began to strip her and inspect her body. She recalled the cold detachment needed to stand still through the process very well from her first wedding.
* * *
“There ye are.” Muir reached out and grabbed Diocail by the shoulder. “I’ve someone for ye to meet.”
A mug was offered up by Lachie as the secretary shooed the other men away from a table in the far corner of the common room. The woman sitting at the table was pretty; as Diocail took a second look, he realized she was wearing face paint. A distinct scent of rose water clung to her, and she noticed him taking a second look, leaning slightly forward so he could catch a glimpse down her bodice.
He stiffened, frowning when he realized he was backing away. He’d never been a man to squander an opportunity to enjoy a fair lass when she was in the mood to offer him a look. Tonight, though, her loose moral standards didn’t interest him the least bit.
Muir slapped him on the shoulder, pushing him close to the woman. “Here now, Janet here is just the sort of…ah…”
“Woman,” Lachie supplied with a slight squeak in his tone.
Muir nodded. “Woman to help ye make certain yer new wife is…well…content.”
“I would suggest satisfied,” Janet purred as she swept a fan in front of her face in a lazy motion to make sure they all smelled how sweet she was. There was a little curve to her lips that suggested she was very conscious of her effect on the opposite sex.
“Ye brought her.” Diocail glared at Muir. “A woman of…” He ended up making a gesture toward her while he struggled to find a word that wasn’t offensive.
“Experience and knowledge.” Janet spoke the pair of words with a touch of heat that wasn’t lost on any of them.
“Aye,” Muir crowed with victory. “Maybe the castle is rough, but ye can make sure the lass finds yer bed very nice to be in.”
“Precisely,” Lachie added as he flattened his hands on the table. “Janet knows what a woman desires and is bold enough to tell ye.”
Janet’s eyes slanted in a purely sensual way. Her experience and ease with the topic were plain, and it pissed him the hell off because Jane didn’t belong in a conversation of that sort.