Chapter Four
Annie prayed she revealed none of the doubts that wracked her as she stood before the altar with Tam Sutherland, waiting for Father Alban to read the marriage service. All this day, through the endless morning and interminable afternoon, she’d focused on her intentions and kept control of her emotions, never allowing her composure to crack.
She could not allow herself to break now. If she did, she believed her bridegroom would bolt like one of the wild creatures she so often strove to assist, back home.
He had the same look in his eyes as they stood before the priest, with the two reluctant witnesses standing by.
Jockie muttered and gibbered to himself. Mrs. Davies—Father Alban’s housekeeper—had made no secret of what she thought from the outset.
“Scandalous, this, Father!” she complained as soon as she came in. “I should refuse to be part of it. There is the bridegroom looking no better than a tinker in his filthy rags. And the bride!” She lowered her voice but not by much. “A witch. I am that surprised the roof does no’ fall in on us. And,” she added, as if it finished the matter, “no banns!”
Annie shot a startled look at Tam Sutherland when Mrs. Davies uttered that word—witch. She’d hoped to break the truth to him more gently. Yet he merely stood with a stunned look on his face, like a man who’d been stuck over the head with a rock. Had he even heard?
Now she strove to master her tripping heartbeat, which stirred the green fabric of her dress. She supposed she should at least listen to what the priest said as he began reading the service, though the actual rite meant little to her. It was not as if they stood handfasted and declared their union.
His mangled hand, stiff as a claw, all the fingers grown crooked. How would it feel to stand handfasted with such a man?
Halfway through the reading, two of the candles on the altar abruptly flickered out. Mrs. Davies caught her breath. A third candle gutted with a gout of smoke. Father Alban faltered in his recitation and looked at the offending taper nervously.
“I told you,” Mrs. Davies breathed, her voice spectral in the gathering gloom.
But one candle yet burned; Annie noted it was the one standing farthest east—a significant sign to one such as she.
“Best hurry,” she whispered to the priest.
He nodded. The end of the marriage service came with a rush; he reached out and joined Annie’s hands with Tam Sutherland’s, which made Annie start. Could this union hold any real meaning?
The priest wrapped his cloth around their hands and spoke the final words. Annie found herself clutching Sutherland’s ruined fingers after all, cold as the air around them.
Father Alban gave a restrained smile. “The groom may kiss the bride if he does so wish.”
Sutherland hesitated, his eyes asking Annie a question. Because Mrs. Davies stared and because she wanted all this done proper, Annie lifted her face to him.
He leaned in, and his lips found hers, warm and questing. The kiss should have been chaste, a mere mark of the occasion. Instead his mouth lingered on hers, the only heat in the chilly room.
Annie drew away, and he released her hands.
With a huff of disgust, Mrs. Davies stomped from the room. The final candle kept burning, leaping wildly in the draft Mrs. Davies left behind. By its light, Annie gazed into her new husband’s eyes.
Her husband.
Oh, what had she done?
The only thing she could to protect herself. She acted at the spur of pure necessity. Did she not?
“There now,” Father Alban said. “Come with me to sign the book. Jockie,” he added, “go you to the kitchen, and Mrs. Davies will give you something to eat.”
Jockie shuffled off. Annie followed Father Alban out the side door to his study, all too aware that her husband followed.
Her husband.
With a flash of warmth she relived the sensation of his lips on hers. If she felt any attraction for this man—any at all—she had better put it away from her. For this was not intended to be that kind of marriage.
A single lamp burned in the priest’s study. By its light he drew forward a large book and opened it to the proper page.
“First,” he said and picked up a salver which he extended to Annie.
Bribery—a requirement of this world that proved just what a sham her marriage was. But, Annie reminded herself, it would bring her safety.
She looked down at her hands, each of which bore two rings, all of which had once been her mother’s. She had nothing else with which to pay for dispensation.
And so she must choose among them even though each held deep significance. A small diamond in a heavy, gold setting; no, she could not part with that. An equally modest ruby, also on her right hand. On her left, a sapphire—the color of the sea, and a square-cut emerald, the color of the earth.
Ah well—she supposed marriage might be considered an earthly matter. Not allowing herself to hesitate, she drew the emerald ring from her finger and dropped it on the salver.
Father Alban withdrew the tray the way an adder might its tongue; a piece of her heart, nay her soul, gone.
In a modest tone Father Alban said, “I will make sure it reaches the bishop.”
Tam Sutherland began to speak; Annie shot him a look, and he narrowed his eyes but fell silent.
“I also think,” Father Alban went on, “you should stay here the night. It is late to be starting out on a journey. Plus you want this to seem as ordinary as possible. Jockie can sleep by the kitchen fire if he likes; I will ask Mrs. Davies to open one of the guest rooms for you.”
One of the guest rooms? Aye, well, a newly wedded couple could scarcely ask to sleep apart.
“Fine, that,” Annie said, again striving to conceal the turmoil inside. “But Jockie will probably be happier sleeping near Old Rake.”
“Sign the book, and we shall sort it all.” Father Alban directed a look at Sutherland. “Can you write your name?”
Sutherland, now ramrod stiff at Annie’s side, grimaced and shook his head. “No’ with this hand.”
Father Alban clicked his tongue. “I should have thought. Can you make your mark using the other hand?”
“Aye.”
“Good enough, then.”
Annie signed the book and passed the stylus to Sutherland, their fingers tangling as she did. Suddenly her knees threatened to fail her once more. She edged to a chair and sat down.
Sutherland’s mark made, Father Alban took back the book and eyed Annie’s new husband up and down.
“A bath is in order, I think, though Mrs. Davies will have my hide for putting her to so much work this late in the day. And shall I see if I can find some clean clothing?”
Sutherland looked down at himself and flushed a ruddy hue beneath his scruffy beard. Annie experienced an all-too-familiar rush of compassion—something she had not expected to feel in this situation.
His natural dignity, that which she had noticed at the outset and which shone from him despite his obviously wretched circumstances, overmastered his embarrassment. “I would appreciate that, Father.”
“And then,” said Annie, following the trail of her compassion, “perhaps if the payment I ha’ made allows for it, Father, a small supper?”
Father Alban nodded. “Let me speak to Mrs. Davies.”
He hurried off, leaving Annie and Sutherland standing alone in the soft light of the lamp.
“I am sorry,” she said then. “I should ha’ thought at once how hungry you must be.”
He turned those fine, clear eyes on her and shrugged. Aye, and she had seen that look before, in the eyes of creatures that had been hard used over a long span of time. They shouldered the want the way they might a load. This man, so she could see, had shouldered much.
When he did not speak, she told him, “I hope you do no’ mind staying here the night.”
“No doubt wise.” She liked his voice, soft and almost musical. “How far off did you say your farm lies?”
“About five
miles due east.” She reached up and took off her hat, feeling as if she removed armor. She had girded herself well for this day’s work but could ease now, surely.
His gaze, resting on her hair, quickened, and she wondered what he thought of his bargain.
To distract herself from that question, she went on talking. “The place once belonged to my uncle, and my grandfather before him. My mother and I lived with my uncle many years after my father died. There is a good, sturdy house, and the land produced well when my uncle was alive, even though he was more scholar than farmer. Since his death…well, two women alone, we struggled to keep up.”
He eyed her again, gaze lingering on the remaining rings on her fingers. “And does your laird tolerate the land failing to produce?”
Annie smiled wryly. “My uncle and the laird were good friends. It has bought us leniency up till now. But the laird no longer lives on the land, and his factor—a man called Randleigh—is harsh.”
Sutherland’s face contorted; for an instant murderous rage looked at Annie from his eyes. She felt a qualm, yet the anger departed as swiftly as it came. “A common story these days in the Highlands.” The mild comment defied what lingered in his voice—hatred sharp as a blade.
She said gently, “Unfortunately that is true.”
“And your mother, she is no’ still wi’ you?”
Now Annie’s face contorted. “She died just over a year ago, in the winter. Took a chill, and I could no’ save her.” Not all her efforts or her prayers to the powers of fire, water, earth or sky had served to keep the spirit she most needed in the world with her.
“I am that sorry,” Sutherland said softly. “’Tis a particular torment, watching someone we love die.”
He sounded like a man who knew. Annie looked at him curiously, but before she could ask, Mrs. Davies came bustling in.
“Well, come along with you then. Making all this work for a body at the end of the day.” She glared at Annie. “Mistress MacCallum, I ha’ given you the room at the top of the stairs.”
“Mistress Sutherland now,” Annie corrected, and her new husband started.
Mrs. Davies snorted. “Either way, your supper awaits you in the kitchen, and you will get no better this night.”
Annie did not doubt it.
Chapter Five
Tam cursed softly as the razor, scraping across his whiskers, took off another flap of skin. Of all the things he regretted not being able to do with his maimed hand, shaving ranked high.
He should just let the scruffy beard stay, he thought, peering into the wavy mirror with which he’d been provided. Yet the housekeeper, Mrs. Davies, had complained so vociferously and eyed him so disdainfully, as if he truly were the tinker to which she likened him, he wanted to make a good job of it. When she gave him the razor with a pointed look, he took up the challenge.
At least he felt clean—truly clean—for the first time he could rightly remember. Jockie had helped haul all the water and stood by now, waiting to empty the copper tub. At first Tam had been disconcerted by his presence but decided he had bigger problems than wondering about the odd servant.
Such as a wife.
He frowned at himself, and the razor slipped again. Over the last months he’d learned to do many things with his left hand, but fine tasks still defeated him.
A garbled jumble of words came from the door where Jockie hovered. The lad came forward at a sidle and held out his hand.
“Eh?” Tam returned.
Jockie shook his fingers at Tam impatiently. Surely he did not expect Tam to surrender the razor to him, allow this fellow to wield it so near Tam’s throat?
When he did not hand over the implement, Jockie made a series of gestures to his own face, miming shaving. Then he pointed to Tam’s maimed hand and shook his head.
Tam hesitated. “Nay,” he decided then, “I think I will struggle on mysel’. But thank you kindly for the offer.”
Not until Jockie returned to the door did Tam realize that beneath his wild mop of nearly white-blond hair, Jockie’s own face looked perfectly shaved.
****
And so it seemed they were meant to share a room this night. Tam, standing in the hallway at the top of the stairs where he’d been directed, hesitated before the closed door.
He had stalled as long as he could, helped Jockie empty the tub, fussed with the clean clothing he’d been given out of items no doubt collected for the poor.
Aye, well, he reminded himself, I am the poor now.
At last Mrs. Davies had ordered him up the stairs, saying, “I canno’ go to my bed until you get to yorn.”
And now what? Did one knock at the door of one’s own chamber? Perhaps so, in these circumstances. He rapped, feeling foolish.
“Come away in.”
The room, small and barren, contained only a bed and a chest pushed against one wall. Tam barely noticed, all his attention snared by the woman who stood at the center of the chamber.
She had shed the green cloak—it hung from a hook on the wall—and loosed her hair, which flowed down her back in a tumble of warm brown waves. Half turned away from him, she looked over her shoulder when he entered, and her eyes went wide with surprise.
Aye, and he had forgot his own transformation; he must look a different man. He felt it with food in his belly and clean clothes on his back.
His ma would be scandalized at how low he’d sunk—but he could not, dared not think of her.
“Master Sutherland.”
Carefully he closed the door behind him. “You had better call me ‘Tam,’ had you not? Since we are…”
“Wed.” The word gusted from her. “’Twill take some getting used to, that.”
He nodded.
“And, Tam, have you regrets over what you ha’ undertaken this day?”
He ran his gaze over her slowly, from the top of her glossy head to the front of her green dress, which trembled visibly with her heartbeat, and on down over her long legs outlined in the green fabric. He must have regrets, aye, but looking at her he forgot them.
His wife. He experienced a sharp surge of emotion. What if they had truly been destined for the same bed?
Because she eyed him so closely, he shook his head and raised his good hand to his chin. “I attempted to shave. Likely no’ a wise decision.”
She smiled faintly, an acknowledgement of his wry words. “You look…fine. Well.” Tearing her gaze from him she glanced around the room. “This is a mite awkward, is it no’? To be truthful, I did not expect Father Alban to offer us lodging.”
“I will sleep on the floor.” He spoke it as an absolute, and she did not quarrel.
“Very well so, but you will have some of these blankets. ’Tis no’ warm in here.”
True; the room felt almost as cold as the kirk.
“Good thing,” she emphasized, “we sleep in our clothing.”
“Aye. You might also wish to wear your cloak. ’Tis a fine piece, that.” He nodded at it where it hung.
She smiled again. “It belonged to my mother.” She hesitated as if she would say more, but turned to the bed, where she gathered up blankets and a pillow.
He wanted to tell her how lovely she was, how bonny her hair, and that he’d never seen a woman to match her anywhere in the world. But they were not words a man gave to a woman he scarcely knew, wife or not.
She handed him the armful of blankets. “I hope you will be warm enough.”
“I ha’ slept in worse places.”
Her gaze met his. “As you said, there is a story in it. You will have to tell me sometime.”
He nodded again and looked about for a place to spread his bedding in the small chamber. At last he made a nest between the bed and the wall, far nearer than he liked to the place she would lie.
“Tell me when I may blow out the candle,” she bade.
“You may.”
“Good night.”
The room went dark, and Tam heard the ropes on the bed creak as she climbed in
from the other side. Settling his weary bones, he tried to get comfortable. His hand always began aching at night for some reason and disturbed his sleep.
This night, though, it might well be his thoughts that kept him awake. He lay in the dark, eyes wide, and wondered why she trusted him here with her. Did she not fear he might rise up in the night to rob her, take the rest of those rings from her narrow fingers, and flee? He might do that and easily. He might also force himself on her there in the bed with none to say him nay, and him her husband. He would not, but she could not know that.
How dared she trust him?
Ah, and had he forgotten she was a madwoman?
He turned on his side, seeking comfort, and heard her move also. What had he done, tying himself to her even if only in name? Well, but since that awful night back home, his life had not counted for much.
Like as well throw in his lot with a madwoman as anyone else. And she did not seem harsh or cruel, which counted for much, as his ma used to say.
He shut his mind to that—pushed the memories from him once again—closed his eyes, and prayed for sleep.
Chapter Six
“We are nearly there.” Annie glanced once more at the man beside her. She wondered, not for the first time, what he would think when he laid eyes on her home.
He’d spoken little during their journey, which, prey to her thoughts, she found overlong. Old Rake never moved quickly—the ancient horse tended to find his own pace. They might almost have been able to walk faster, yet the three of them rode, Tam and she together on the bench and Jockie behind.
Surprisingly, when they set out, Tam asked Annie for the reins. He managed them competently with his left hand; the right he kept tucked inside the front of his jacket as from the eyes of the world, though it may have only been an effort to avoid the cold. The day proved sharp, though the snow had flown and they traveled beneath a windswept blue sky.
“There, now—this is the track.”
To be sure, the old horse knew the way and veered right of his own accord. The narrow lane always made Annie think of a tunnel, even when the enclosing trees showed very little green. She felt the magic of the place begin to nibble at her, along with love for those she’d left there.
The Hiring Fair Page 3