The Marquess's Scottish Bride
Page 37
“A kissing dance!” Kendra said, breathlessly making her way to a chair. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“There’s much kissing at Scottish weddings.” Cait winked at Cameron, still hovering close by Clarice. “A kiss can be claimed at the beginning and end of each and every dance. Now, get up, all you lazybones. We’ll have a strathspey next, and a hornpipe after that.”
The piper played those and more, and some English tunes as well, and if the familiar notes sounded a bit odd wafting from the pipes, nobody cared. It was past midnight before Cait let the poor musician go and the wedding party began stumbling off to bed with a lot of final kisses and good nights.
While Ford went off to fetch a footman to see Clarice and Mary home, Cameron kissed Cait on the cheek. “Lang may yer lum reek—an’ may he huv the coal tae fill it.”
Jason’s brow creased. “What is that, Gaelic?”
“Nay.” Cait laughed. “We don’t know the Gaelic. After all this time with me, you still cannot understand plain English when you hear it, aye?” She smiled. “He was wishing we live long and well.”
“I thank you, then. I think.” Jason clapped Cameron on the shoulder. “And I wish you a good night.”
“He wants me to leave you,” Cam said to Cait.
“Aye, and I second the request.” Minutes earlier she’d felt exhausted, but her body suddenly came awake at the thought of the night ahead. “I’d thank you to escort our guests to the door and then take to your bed.”
“Good night to you, then, sweet cousin.” A little drunkenly, she thought, her cousin lifted wee Mary from the chair where she was sleeping and beckoned Clarice to follow him from the chamber.
As she turned to Jason, Cait’s heart began to thump. Locking his gaze on hers in a way that set the pit of her stomach to fluttering, he waited until Cam’s footsteps had faded, then grabbed her hand and pulled her running up the staircase.
When he stopped before his bedchamber door, she wound her arms around his neck and went up on her toes to press her mouth to his. “You must carry me over the threshold,” she whispered against his lips. “It’s bad luck if I trip.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to start with bad luck.” Her eyes slid closed as he kissed her. His lips still sealed to hers, he caught her up, opened the door, and stepped inside. When her feet hit the plush carpet she reluctantly opened her eyes, then blinked.
And blinked again.
The chamber was lit by candles, seemingly hundreds of them. They marched across the dressing table and along the windowsill, their flames reflecting off the beveled diamond panes. They graced the bedside tables and the massive headboard beneath the cobalt blue canopy. They sat on stands, on the floor, atop the tall, carved clothes press. But the brightest concentration flanked both ends of a wee table with a chair on either side…and their backgammon board in the center.
He swept the hair off the back of her neck and planted his lips there, warm and tender. “You’ve pulled even,” he murmured, sending vibrations through her skin, “but not for long. I intend to win this eve.”
“You want to play backgammon?” With a gasp of disbelief, she turned to him. “On our wedding night?”
“Um-hmm.” He nodded solemnly. “I remembered this morning that when I bought the set, we agreed to come up with something to wager. Then we never did. So I’ve settled on a forfeit.”
Warily she backed up, not certain she liked the look in his eyes. “And what might that be?”
His smile made her skin tingle. “Our clothing.”
“What?” She took another step back and sat on the bed.
“Our clothing.” Coming close, he took her by the shoulders and raised her to stand. “Whoever loses will have to remove an item of clothing. Until we are both…how do you put it?” His sugary sweet smile made her breath catch. “In the scud?”
Was this how a wedding night was supposed to go? “Why not just undress ourselves in the normal way?” She kissed him on the chin, which was as high as she could reach without his cooperation. “We’ll play backgammon tomorrow. I promise.”
“Hmm…” He cooperated, bestowing her lips with a kiss that was intimate, but short and unsatisfying. “I think not.”
“But I’ve got the stomacher and the gown, a chemise and stockings and garters.” As well as she could in such close quarters, she eyed his velvet-clad form. “And you’re wearing that much or more. This could take all night!”
“Mmm.” Nodding thoughtfully, he leaned in again and kissed each of her eyelids, then drifted toward her mouth. He nipped her lower lip.
Caithren’s eyes popped open in surprise.
He was grinning and backing toward the table and chairs. “I intend it to take all night.”
When she tried to pull him back toward the bed, he only chuckled. She couldn’t budge him an inch. “This isn’t fair.”
“You think not?” He stepped back, seeming to consider it. “Very well, then, I’ll give you an advantage.”
She frowned as he stripped off his surcoat and dropped it to the floor. When Mam had explained what happened in the marriage bed, she’d surely never mentioned anything like this. It made Cait edgy. She’d thought she knew what to expect, but now she felt uncertain of how to behave.
“You’re terribly untidy,” she scolded, chiefly to give herself something to say.
“But I have you now.” He shrugged, working on the knot in his cravat. “And you always pick up after me.”
“That’s a reprehensible attitude, Jase. I shall have to reform you.” She bent to pick up the coat and laid it neatly over the back of a chair. He was taking off his clothes—it looked like she had won—yet his demeanor wasn’t one of defeat. It was all so very confusing.
When her fingers moved to the tabs on her stomacher, he shook his head and reached out to still them. Flashing a roguish grin, he handed her the cravat, then silently unlaced his shirt and stripped it off over his head.
“There.” The grin widened more. “Surely now you can win. Unless…” He raised a brow. “Unless you find yourself distracted again by my bare chest.”
The lacy cravat dangled from her fingers, forgotten. Against that very distracting bare chest, her amulet nestled, winking in the candlelight. She swallowed hard, her hands suddenly itching to touch him. Her exasperating Englishman.
He pressed her into a chair and handed her the shirt, still warm from his body and smelling like Jason. Her nose full of his spicy scent, she remembered that even at first, when she’d thought him intolerable, he’d always made her feel safe.
He sat himself in the other chair, and her gaze slid over his dimpled chin, his wide mouth, his chiseled features. And when she arrived at his beautiful green eyes and saw the depths of love within them, all her misgivings fled, dispelled by a wave of wholehearted affection and unshakable trust in this man, her husband.
Her husband.
There was no doubt he’d keep surprising her, she mused while slowly wadding the shirt and cravat in her lap. In fact, he might be just the fellow to keep her on her toes for the next few decades or so.
“How very untidy,” he chided, scooting his chair closer to hers. Their knees touched under the table, and he held one of her hands.
And he tossed the dice.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
Dear Reader,
I always like to see the places I'm writing about, and I had great fun researching this story and visiting all the inns that lined the Great North Road—formerly the Roman road called Ermine Street—back in the 1660s. Which ones mentioned in the story are real? All of them! If an inn was mentioned by name, you can assume it was a real place that Jason and Cait could have stopped at during their travels. But a few of them have fascinating histories and deserve more than a mere mention.
In Newark, the Saracen's Head inn dated back to 1341 and was indeed run by the Twentyman family from 1590 until 1720. As told by my fictitious Mrs. Twentyman in the story, their name really was originally Lydell and changed when one of them pole-axed twenty men. And the true tale of the little drummer boy saving Newark from capture is still told today. A frequent visitor, Sir Walter Scott mentioned the inn in his novels and his diary, calling the landlord "a man of the most gentlemanly manners." The Saracen's Head finally closed in 1956, and the building is now used as a bank, but a "Saracen's Head" bust on the facade attests to its previous use.
As for the tunnels under Newark's marketplace, the one supposedly haunted by the ghost of a monk does not actually lead from the Saracen, but rather from the 16th century Queen's Head inn. There are no recent sightings of this ghost, but the last landlord did complain of strange noises coming from the cellar and a door that seemed to open itself in the middle of the night. Employees claim that bottles have been moved and hesitate to go into the cellar on their own. And one customer swears he saw someone "not of this world" standing on the stairs. Although the distinctive round Queen's Head sign still swings beneath the eaves of the building, it is currently operated as part of the chain of Hobgoblin pubs. A nice place to stop for lunch and—who knows?—maybe a bit of a scare!
Although it was just The Angel during the 17th century, Grantham's oldest inn is now called The Angel and Royal. The grounds originally belonged to the Knights Templar, and from 1212 until the dissolution of their order in 1312, it was a hostelry for royal travelers, merchants, and pilgrims. King John and his train of courtiers held court at The Angel in 1213, Richard III signed the death warrant of the Duke of Buckingham there in 1483, and the inn enjoyed a royal visit from Charles I in 1633. In 1866, Edward VII paid a visit to The Angel, and it was then that it became known as The Angel and Royal. One of the inn's most-told stories is that in 1707, the landlord Michael Solomon died and left a legacy of forty shillings a year to pay for a sermon to be preached against the evils of drunkenness every Michaelmas Day. To this day, the annual payment is made and the sermon preached. This handsome and historic inn is still a popular place to eat and stay.
The Bell Inn in Stilton dates back to 1500, and the current building from 1642, the year in which the Civil War began. There is still a Roman well in the courtyard, topped by a charming thatched roof. Alas, the inn's black cat was invented, but inspired by one who roamed the grounds during my visit. One popular 18th century tale has infamous highwayman Dick Turpin hiding at the Bell for nine weeks while hunted by the law. Supposedly, when surprised by a raid, he threw open the window and jumped onto Black Bess to gallop up the Great North Road. But the Bell Inn is most famous for Stilton Cheese and the man who popularized it, Cooper Thornhill, the inn's landlord during the 1700s. The cheese was first made by Thornhill's sister-in-law, a housekeeper in Leicestershire. Mites and all, he served it at the Bell and named it after the village. Soon the cheese's fame began to spread, and by the time Daniel Defoe wrote his Tour Through The Whole Island of Great Britain (1724-27), he could say he "passed through Stilton, a town famous for cheese." In the 1980s, the inn was restored using the original plans. Today it is a charming place to stay or take a meal while absorbing some of its history, and a frequent host to politicians, actors, and pop groups.
Caithren's home was inspired by the real Leslie Castle in Scotland. Sadly, the charming little castle is no longer open to the public, but I was fortunate to stay there when it was still being run as a luxurious B&B. Set at the west end of the Bennachie Range, thirty miles from Aberdeen, Leslie was the original seat of Clan Leslie. The current castle, a turreted 17th century baronial house, is the third fortified building on the site since 1070. By the time of my story, the property had fallen out of Clan Leslie hands…but, fanciful as I am, I like to imagine that perhaps a minor Leslie family such as Cait's might have lived there. In 1979, the decaying roofless ruin was acquired by a member of the Leslie family and restored to its former fairy-tale beauty.
I hope you enjoyed The Marquess’s Scottish Bride! Do you suppose Cait was right when she thought a romance might be brewing between her cousin, Cameron, and little Mary's mother, Clarice? To find out, read our next book, The Laird’s Fairytale Bride. Please read on for an excerpt as well as more bonus material!
Always,
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LAUREN & DEVON’S NEXT BOOK IS…
The Laird’s Fairytale Bride
The Chase Brides
Book Three
Young widow Clarice Bradford is perfectly content. She has a pretty one-room cottage and a lovely little daughter, and the last thing she’s looking for is another husband. Until one fairytale evening when she’s invited to a wedding at a castle…
Sir Cameron Leslie is used to getting what he wants—and the moment he lays eyes on Clarice, what he wants is to bring her home with him to Scotland. But beneath her shy exterior is a fiercely independent woman, and the closer Cameron gets, the farther she retreats. Can he persuade her to give love another chance before it’s too late?
Read an excerpt…
Village of Cainewood, England
September 1667
THEY’D SENT A carriage to take her to the castle.
In all her twenty-three years, Clarice Bradford had never ridden in a carriage. Gingerly she climbed inside and perched on the leather seat, settling the pink skirts of her Sunday gown.
Dressed in blue to match her eyes, Clarice’s five-year-old daughter bounced up and down on the seat opposite. “I’ve been in this carriage, Mama. When Lord Cainewood brought me to live with you.”
In her short life, Mary had been orphaned by the plague and then abandoned during the Great Fire of London. But in the year since Lord Cainewood brought Mary to her doorstep, Clarice had come to love the girl like her own.
“I remember you climbing out of this carriage. That’s one day I’m unlikely to ever forget.” Clarice reached across and tweaked her daughter on the chin. “It’s a fine carriage, isn’t it?”
Mary shrugged, her blond ringlets bouncing on her shoulders in the same rhythm as the vehicle. “I would rather ride a horse.”
“That wouldn’t be a very elegant way to arrive at a nobleman’s wedding.”
A sigh wafted from Mary’s rosy lips. “I s’pose not.” She nibbled on a fingernail until Clarice pulled her hand from her mouth. “Who is Lord Cainewood marrying?”
“I haven’t met her, poppet, but if she’s marrying Lord Cainewood, she must be a grand lady. I’ve heard she’s from Scotland.”
“Scotland. Is that very far away?”
“Far enough.” Clarice leaned across the cabin and took Mary’s hands in hers. “Can you believe we’re going to a wedding at the castle?”
Though Mary smiled, it was clear she wasn’t overly impressed. “I lived at the castle before.” Last year, after Lord Cainewood’s brother had swept her from the fire and brought her to Cainewood. “For a whole month.”
“Well, I’ve only been in the great hall for Christmas dinner once a year,” Clarice said. “I’ve never seen any of the other rooms.”
“I’ll show you around,” her daughter proclaimed, displaying nary a hint of the awe that made Clarice’s heart beat a rapid tattoo.
The castle was grandly ancient; the very thought of entering the family’s private living space was both daunting and exciting. And the carriage was clattering over the drawbridge already.
Shadows sheathed the carriage’s windows as they passed beneath the barbican. Then it was bright again, and Clarice Bradford found herself inside the crenelated walls of Cainewood Castle.
The carriage door was flung open, and Mary ran down the steps into the enormous grassy quadrangle. “Who are you?” Clarice heard her ask. “And who is this?”
“You must be Miss Mary,” came a lilting voice. Clarice alighted from the carriage to see a young man crouched by her daughter, an infant in his arms. “And this is baby Jewel. Lord Cainewood is an uncle now, aye?”
“Lord Cainewood plays games with me sometimes. The babe is lucky to have him for an uncle.” Four stories of stately living quarters looming behind her, Mary ran a small finger down the child’s tiny nose. “But Jewel is an odd name. ‘Specially for a boy.”
“Ah, but Jewel is a lass.” A grin appeared on the stranger’s face, lopsided and indulgent. “Though she has little hair on her head yet, she’s a girl.”
“Oh. Will she have more hair soon?”
“Aye. A bonnie lass she’ll be. Just like you.”