Chapter Six
“Finally you have come to your senses,” Grange pronounced with a satisfied smile. “Mr. MacKinnon is certainly not the suitor His Grace would have chosen for you, but a match between you will keep the Smithfield name from being besmirched.”
Romayne sighed as she wandered about the small room they had been given on the upper floor. Running her fingers along the windowsill, she said, “Grandfather considered Bradley a fortune hunter. Will he offer James a warmer welcome?”
“He will be your husband.”
She wished she could see things in such clear shades of black and white, but she knew Grandfather would not. The duke had been determined to make her a “proper” match. Marrying James, when her grandfather would see him only as a Scot with no standing, would enrage him.
“Is it true?” Ellen burst into the room, saving Romayne from having to remind Grange of how much Grandfather hated having his opinions contested. “Are you marrying Jamie?”
“He asked me this morning.” She tried to put some enthusiasm in her voice. After all, James’s plans to catch the traitor needed her wholehearted support if they were to have a chance for success.
“And you said yes?”
“Yes.”
Ellen spun about the room, her braids under her mobcap slapping the back of her bodice of undyed linen. Her dark brown skirt belled around her. “Oh, Romayne, this is wondrous!” She dropped onto the bed and was swallowed in the thick featherbed. Pushing down the coverlet, she grinned. “Mama has been eager to see Jamie take a walk to the altar, but not a lass in Struthcoille ever caught his eye. Now I understand why he waited. I think you two will be perfect together.”
Romayne forced a smile. Had James considered how he chanced hurting his family with this tale? She almost laughed at the thought. James thought of nothing but capturing his man before the traitor could deliver the damaging information to the French.
“I am not so sure if perfect is the correct word,” she hedged.
“Nonsense!” Ellen refused to let her spirits be down-pinned. “When do you plan to marry up?”
“In a few days.”
“In a few days?” Her smile dropped into disappointment. “But, Romayne, that will allow no time to prepare for the wedding feast and to invite the neighbors and—”
Romayne went back to the window, wishing she could flee into the hills ringing the village. Then maybe she could put this nightmare behind her. “James and I thought it would be best, under the circumstances, that the ceremony be done quickly and quietly.”
“Are you took with child? Mr. Montcrief’s child? Is that why you came to be married so quickly?”
Grange gasped. “Lady Romayne would not have anticipated her vows!”
Ellen hurried to apologize. As soon as Romayne had assured her no insult was taken, the girl began to prattle again about the wedding feast she wanted her cousin to have. Romayne said nothing to halt her, but Grange interrupted to urge Romayne to rest.
Fatigue pulled at Romayne on every step, but she was tempted to refuse. When she saw the anticipation on Ellen’s face, though, she acquiesced to her abigail’s suggestion. She did not want to be caught up in an endless conversation about the wedding that James’s cousin was more excited about than either the bride or the groom.
Sleep was impossible for Romayne. When she heard Grange’s soft snores from the other side of the bed, she pulled on her shoes and slipped her arms into her torn pelisse. She needed to escape from the cloying closeness of the cottage. Glancing down at her thin slippers, she wished for her high-lows, for the boots, which laced higher than her ankles, would have protected her from the snow drifts. She had to be grateful that Grange had lent her a pair of thick stockings.
Sneaking quietly down the stairs and out the main door, she saw no one in the yard or the road beyond it. Snow sputtered from the gray sky, trying to regain the strength it had had. Frigid air tried to strip her breath from her as it inched along her pelisse, finding every rip. The wind swirled around her ankles and tugged at the hem of her skirt.
Romayne whirled at the sound of iron horseshoes on stone. She saw Thatcher by what must have been the stable. The cockeyed building leaned toward the hills and was in dire need of a coat of whitewash.
The groom had dispensed with his livery and wore a heavy coat over his unbleached breeches. Boots rose to his knees, and were covered with bits of hay and mud. That he had been tending to the horses while the rest of them recovered from the harrowing journey did not surprise her. Unless he was accompanying her on a ride, Thatcher seldom left his beloved stables at Westhampton Hall. She started toward him but stopped when she heard him shout to someone in the barn.
“That’s right, Mr. MacKinnon. I shall take the horses next door to—” He halted as he looked toward Romayne. Smiling, he called, “Were you looking for me, Lady Romayne?”
She wished she had hurried away before he had noticed her. That would have let her avoid speaking to James. As she walked through the clinging snow to where Thatcher was holding a horse by the halter, James emerged from the blackness beyond the stable door. He started to pull the door closed, but the glint of light off polished wood caught her eye.
“That’s Bradley’s carriage!” she gasped.
James shut the door and stood in front of it. “You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll catch your death of cold in that thin coat.”
“That’s Bradley’s carriage in there, isn’t it?” she asked, refusing to be distracted by his concern, which she suspected was feigned.
“Cameron brought it back from where it had been abandoned.”
“I would like to see it.”
He shook his head. “There is nothing you wish to see.”
Cold spiraled through her, and gooseflesh climbed her arms. “Bradley?” she whispered.
Again he shook his head.
Spinning away, she covered her face with her hands. She sobbed as she had not since the night she had huddled in the byre with James. Although she had known how futile her hopes were, the agony of having them demolished seared her.
She was turned against a thick, wool coat. She clung to James as she had in the byre. As he had that night, he let her grieve without speaking. Gently he stroked her back until her tears were gone.
“Let me take you inside, dearie,” he murmured.
She nodded, afraid to speak and release a new explosion of sobs. With his arm around her shoulders, she allowed him to guide her through the narrow door and into the parlor. He took her coat as she walked to the settee and folded her stiff body to sit. Staring at the flames on the hearth, she tried not to think, not to feel.
A mug appeared in front of her face, and she raised her eyes to see the sorrow in James’s eyes. She took the mug in both hands because she did not trust her quaking fingers. Taking a cautious sip of the whiskey, she let its swift fire flow through her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Tell me everything.”
He sat next to her. “There is little to tell. We rode out there and found signs of bodies having been dragged away. There are two fresh graves in the churchyard in the next village.” He kneaded his forehead. “I’m sorry, Romayne.”
“I am, too.”
At a curse, she turned to James. He was readjusting his right elbow on the arm of the settee. “I know ’tis no more than a bad sprain,” he said, “but I tire of being forced to sit idly while my prey continues his work.”
“What of the highwaymen? Was there any sign of them?”
His green gaze glided along her. She drew back, afraid to be caught anew by the enthralling caress. “Nothing, although I saw enough of them that night to know they were Duffie’s lads. The carriage was stripped of anything of value. If I had not chanced along when I did, I surmise you would have been dead by this time, too, or wished you were.”
“What a horrible thing to say!”
“Aye, but ’tis the truth. Duffie could not afford to have the authorities after him on the Scott
ish side of the Tweed. He has too many anxious to catch him on the English side.” As Romayne lifted her mug to her lips, he mused, “What I do not understand is why he did not shoot you when he murdered your betrothed.”
She choked on the whiskey. Holding her hand to her mouth, she fought to keep from dissolving into weak tears yet again. “How can you say such things when—?” She could not continue.
“The truth cannot be ignored,” he said in the same terse tone. “Duffie acted queerly, and it behooves us to understand why.”
“James, you said other attempts to halt the high pads have been useless.”
When he took her left hand in his, she raised her eyes slowly to meet his hooded ones. She sensed his compelling emotions through his gentle touch. That strength swept aside the barrier of numbness she had created as protection from memories that taunted her. Biting her lip to keep its quiver from drawing forth more tears, she yearned for his arm around her again. He was the most exasperating man she had ever met—even more infuriating than Grandfather—but he could be as kind as the first breath of spring.
“Tomorrow would probably be best for our wedding,” he said softly.
“You were able to get the license we need?”
“I have it.” He surged to his feet. “Everything is ready if you are.”
“If you wish to marry me tomorrow, I shall not protest.”
“Just like that? No other questions?”
“Will discussing why you want to hurry the wedding change anything?”
“I thought you might wonder why I am making such a request.”
She stood and kept her back to him. “I have no interest in your mind’s workings. This bargain we have made is a business one, and we would be prudent to recall that.”
“I think only to protect you.” His voice, so close to her, startled her, for she had not heard him near. He whispered against her ear, “Soon, if it is not already, the tale of how you arrived in my life will be buzzed about the village. If we present a wedding feast to divert their attention, mayhap the gossip will be muted.”
“Nothing halts those who long to chatter.” She almost smiled as she thought of Philomena Boumphrey, who lived next door to her grandfather’s house in London. Philomena adored poker-talk.
Closing her eyes, she sighed. It was possible that she never would share another afternoon with Philomena. Slowly she was beginning to realize how much she had lost along with Bradley. Yet what she feared most of all was that she would lose Romayne Smithfield when she became Mrs. James MacKinnon on the morrow.
“It is only for a short time,” he said as if he could sense her thoughts. “A few weeks.”
“I know.” But such a short time seemed an eternity.
Romayne needed little time to get ready for her wedding. The dress that she had worn to come north would be her wedding gown … as she had planned. As she adjusted the muslin sleeves so that the hasty stitches to repair the rips along the seams would be invisible, she struggled with the tears that filled her eyes again and again in endless waves of sorrow.
She had planned to become Bradley’s wife in this gown. It was the greatest hypocrisy she could imagine that she would marry James while wearing it.
“Bradley,” she whispered, “forgive me.”
“What did you say, my lady?” called Grange from where she was trying to brush mud stains from Romayne’s slippers.
“Nothing—nothing important.” That was the truth. Although Grange would not speak badly of Bradley now that he was dead, she sensed her abigail was relieved Bradley was gone.
After Grange left to supervise the arrangements in the parlor, Ellen bounced in along with a black spotted mongrel pup she called Nokkums. She shooed the dog out with a laugh. Yet even the young woman’s excitement could not brighten Romayne’s spirits. Names of the expected guests meant little to Romayne when she recognized none of them. Ellen’s recitation of the food which would be served added to the discomfort squeezing Romayne’s center.
Ellen spun away from the window. “Here comes Reverend Kerr!” Laughing, she added, “You shall be my own dear cousin as soon as he shakes the snow from his mournful sporran.”
“Sporran?”
She giggled. “The sealskin purse he wears at his side. ’Tis an old Scottish custom.”
“Oh.” She could think of nothing else to say, then tried to smile, but failed.
“You look so nervous,” Ellen said with another giggle. “As quickly as you and Jamie have fallen in love, I cannot doubt that you are eager to have the wedding. Not that I should be surprised. When Jamie wants something, he gets it, no matter how difficult it is. Mama tells me he was like that as a boy, but I was so young when he left that I have no memory of him until he returned to Struthcoille.”
Softly Romayne asked, “Mow long has he been back?”
“Not long. Maybe a month or two.” She shuddered as she sat on the bed. “Oh, Romayne, I am so glad he has decided to marry you. That means everything will be all right now.”
“Why?”
“You must sense the truth. Jamie doesn’t belong in a small village like this. He has been about England, doing his work.”
The brush froze as Romayne stared at her reflection in the glass. Her face had no more color than her gown. Did Ellen know the truth? She must find out. “What work does he do?”
She shrugged. “He says little of it. I believe he was considering joining the army.”
“Joining the army?” The urge to laugh mocked her.
“I told him it was a cockle-brained idea. Why would he want to join up now when he could be sent to fight across the Channel?”
“What did he do before he left for England?” Any tidbit of information Ellen could offer might give her some insight into the man who would be her husband in a few more minutes.
Again she shrugged, setting her braids skipping on her shoulders.
A knock halted Romayne’s next question. Seeing the smile on Grange’s face, she nodded. The moment had come, and she felt nothing. No grief, no apprehension, no confusion. Nothing. She wondered if she had died alongside Bradley and this was her own private hell that she must suffer for all eternity.
Pushing her thoughts aside, Romayne descended the stairs with Ellen and Grange in tow. She heard the hum of whispers from the guests, but ignored them. When she looked into the parlor, she saw the furniture had been pushed back to the walls. In the center, James stood beside Reverend Kerr. A pang lurched through her as she realized they were going to be swearing a false vow before the parson.
Dressed in the simple clothes he always wore, James held out his hand to her but did not smile as she placed her trembling fingers on his cool palm. She wondered if he had deemed this day so unimportant that he did not need to wear his best or if he was trying to make her feel better for appearing at their wedding in tatters.
“How do you do?” he asked in a whisper.
“I wish this was over.”
“As I do.”
“All over!”
“As I do,” he repeated grimly.
Bringing her to face the dour minister in his unrelieved black, James said nothing more. She was not sure what she would have had him say.
It was over before Romayne had a chance to think. As she heard Aunt Dora calling for a toast to the newlyweds, she looked down to discover someone had pressed a goblet into her left hand. The glitter of the simple gold band on her fourth finger was a mockery. She wondered where James had obtained a wedding ring on such short notice.
James tapped his glass against hers. “To our married life.”
“May it bring you all you wish and swiftly,” she returned without a hint of a smile.
“So subtle, Romayne? And here I was thinking that you should be grateful that you would not die like Jenkin’s hen.” He chuckled when she frowned at him. “Unmarried. Too bad you shall not be here long enough to learn a bit of our ways before we return to England.”
“When are we returning?”
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br /> “Later,” he said.
“I thought we were leaving tomorrow. Isn’t that the reason why we hurried this wedding?”
“Later.” Glancing at the guests who had turned their attention to the food on the sideboard, he added, “This is neither the time nor place for such a discussion.”
“James—”
“Be silent.” He refused to allow her to escape the steady regard of his cool eyes. “You need not look at me with that shattered expression. What do you expect? A profession of undying love now that we are wed?”
“No!” she spat. “Nor do I want one. What I did expect, however, was that you might set aside your beastly manners for a single hour, so that I might gain a modicum of pleasure from this horrible day.”
He smiled, but the icy fury remained in his eyes. “My dear wife, I am not one of your London dandies who will charm you with insincere court-promises.”
“I cannot imagine you charming anyone.”
Romayne walked away without looking back. She did not care a brass button if James took insult. In fact, she hoped he would.
Grange stepped out of the crowd to hug Romayne. “To see you settled, Lady Romayne, shall make His Grace happy.”
“And you?”
“A young woman needs a husband to take care of her.” Drawing Romayne to a corner, she lowered her voice. “You must realize that things change for you from this point forward. The restrictions that you suffered will vanish now that you are a married woman. I have no doubts but that you shall find love.”
“With James?”
The old woman wrinkled her pug nose. “That Scotsman? Unlikely! There will be others.”
“Are you suggesting that I find love with another man while I am married?” Her words rose to a startled squeak.
“You do not love him. He shows little interest in you, although I find him quite the odd cove in that regard.”
“You need not ridicule James!” When she saw amazement on her abigail’s face, she tried to conceal her shock at her defense of a man she had berated moments before. “Grange, no matter what you may hear, and I believe you shall hear many things in the months to come, I can assure you that I intend to be faithful to the vows I hold in my heart.”
The Smithfield Bargain Page 8