by Jamie Carie
“Father, what’s happened?”
Her father looked over her head at Iain and frowned, but only for a moment, and then rasped out, “You’ve come in time. As you can see…I’m dying. James will have to take back the throne without me.”
How could he think of the deposed king on his deathbed didn’t bear contemplation to her. “Is it an infection?”
Her father cursed and then wheezed, coughing to catch his breath, the rattle in his lungs none too good. “They’ve bled me to death trying to get rid of the bloody infection, but it’s taken over my body. I can feel its grasp tightening. It won’t be long now.”
“Father,” Ruck said brokenly.
Her father’s gaze swung toward her brother and then back to her, ignoring him. He scowled. “Your only hope is a wealthy marriage. After your”—he gasped for breath and then rallied, determination lighting his eyes—“debacle at that blasted ball we had little hope, but I’ve found one man willing to take you.” He paused again for breath. “Lord Richard Malcolm.” His voice was laced with a feverish glee as he said the name.
Juliet’s heart froze. She was unable to speak. Lord Malcolm’s face came into focus behind her closed eyes. A stern, thin face with beady eyes and a long, pointed nose. He was at least sixty and known as a Jacobean zealot and cruel master. His third wife had killed herself after only two years of marriage. Juliet could not believe her father would even consider such a thing. A trembling began at her knees and moved up her body. She started to collapse, but Iain caught her and held her upright by one arm.
“Father, no,” she gasped out, “I could never—”
“You can and you will!” her father shouted, shocking them all. “If you don’t, by Christmas Day, you will all lose everything. Your mother and brother and sister will have nowhere to live. They will be slaves or prisoners in the debtor’s gaol. Juliet, you have no choice. I’ve already promised him. He has already paid the debts!”
Juliet shook her head and backed away. “No, I cannot.”
Her father fell back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. “You have no choice,” he whispered. “Leave me.”
Juliet turned and ran from the room.
Chapter Five
Dinner was a stark event.
Stark decorations in a stark dining room. Stark food upon a stark table. Leaden hearts showing on stark faces. A stark event indeed.
Iain repeated his earlier prayer to keep himself from snatching Juliet up and whisking her home to Scotland. What he would do with her once he got her there he didn’t want to think about. Marry her? Much of him, the man that he was, wanted her as wife, but he could not bring home an English bride. His clan would not tolerate her, and her life would be as stark as this room without their approval. And yet, he thought as he looked over at her ashen face, how could he leave her to this Lord Malcolm? A man he had heard of himself as a monster. He had spent the past hour in the drawing room with Ruck telling him of even more. It was a fate he couldn’t imagine for Juliet, and yet he must not act out of emotion. He had to wait and listen for God’s way of escape. It was a delicate balance that he’d had to practice before, but with a woman involved—this woman—he was finding it harder than anything he had ever done.
“We must thank you again, MacLeon, for seeing our Juliet home to safety. I dreaded sending Ruck with only a servant, but as you can see, we’ve fallen on difficult times and there was no one else,” Juliet’s mother said with a pinched face.
Iain had only seen a handful of servants on the estate and had no reason to doubt her words. “’Twas my pleasure,” he replied in a low voice.
“Shall you return to Scotland directly, then?” She took a tiny bite of her meat and chewed it for a long time. Juliet’s mother, Hermione, had blond hair threaded with gray and a rail-thin body, with an equally thin voice. Juliet’s younger sister, Claire, had the look and mincing actions of her mother, but still the glow of youth, while Juliet had inherited the richer coloring of her father and lush curves. He noted that Juliet ate her meal with the enthusiasm of someone who was active and hearty, though her curvaceous figure was that of a full-grown woman. She was the type who wouldn’t shy away from hard physical labor but could dress up and turn the eyes of any man at a ball or opera, especially once she spoke with that velvety voice of hers. Just the thought of how she had said his name made the blood rush to places unseemly for the dinner table. He forced his thoughts in another direction, answering her mother.
“I’ve business in Edinburgh to attend to, and then home.”
“Juliet tells me your home is in the highlands? Is it a remote area?”
“Aye, and the most beautiful place in the world. I’ve inherited Eilean Donan, a castle built on an island on Loch Duich. It lies where three lochs come together with mountains to the east and north.”
“Aren’t there Jacobean sympathizers in the highlands?” Hermione asked, ignoring his poetic description.
“Aye. There are those, ma’am.”
“You are not among them?” Her thin brows rose halfway upon her forehead.
“I’ve a mind more to improving my land and the plight of my people.”
“But surely you have a side. Are you Catholic?”
“I prefer the title of Christian.” He was about to turn the topic of conversation to something less volatile when the housekeeper burst into the room. Tears streamed down her wrinkled face.
“He’s gone, milady. Lord Lindsay is dead.”
Rain fell in sheets along with a gusting wind as Juliet, Iain, her family and some servants and villagers stood around the grave where her father was being laid to rest. The clergyman read from the Psalms, but Juliet took little comfort in the words. All she could think of were two words.
Christmas Day.
She had to find a way to save their home and pay back Lord Malcolm, whom she had learned had indeed paid off her father’s astounding debts in exchange for her hand in marriage. What was she to do? It was just shy of two months away.
Her mother’s words from earlier that morning haunted her. Juliet closed her eyes and saw her mother’s angry face. Harsh and furious…crying and railing against her.
“If only you’d done what I told you. You’ve ruined everything.”
Her mother’s long, thin hair covered, for a moment, her bent head, and then she raked it back with a wrinkled hand, lifted her head and stared at Juliet with such hated that it had robbed her of all her breath. She took a step backward, not wanting to be in her mother’s bedchamber, with those thick damask bed-hangings around a bed and heavy curtains blocking any light.
What had she done? Had one kiss with a handsome stranger really ruined her? It seemed unfair and impossible, but of that everyone, her mother first and foremost, seemed convinced.
Ruined.
No one would want her now. That was what they all said. Was it true?
Now, she stood at her father’s gravesite and thought of Iain’s prayer. She repeated it as best as she could remember. If God would help her, perform some miracle and save her from this horrible fate, she would never doubt His love for her again. But it seemed impossible.
As she lifted her head she heard the sounds of horses’ hooves, and turned. Two men in long black capes were trotting toward them, rain dripping from their wide-brimmed hats. Juliet squinted, her heart dropping to her stomach as their faces came into focus. Lord Malcolm. She turned quickly away, back toward her father’s grave. How could he have done this to her? Her parents were the most selfish, unloving… Her body trembled with fear and dread and anger.
“Hush, lass,” Iain’s voice sounded deep beside her ear. “I willnae let them take you.” He moved closer, put her hand on his arm and placed his large, warm hand over hers, the rain soaking their sleeves.
She looked up into Iain’s intense blue eyes. Would he not? What could he really do to protect her? She was legally bound. But hope still sprang in her chest. Perhaps she could run away, go back to Uncle Clyde and Aunt Becca’s an
d quietly live in Scotland. Even as she thought it, her gaze swung to Ruck and Claire and her mother. They would be kicked out into the streets, possibly into debtor’s prison. She couldn’t let that happen, no matter that there was little love lost between her mother and her. Claire was only fourteen and Ruck just on the cusp of being a man. She couldn’t let them suffer for what their father had done. But she could not marry Lord Malcolm either. It was unthinkable.
She felt and heard, more than saw, Lord Malcolm and the man with him dismount and walk over to her mother. The clergyman had finished his prayer and all eyes watched as Lord Malcolm’s thin frame swept into a bow toward her mother, murmuring his apologies in a high, overly cultured voice that made Juliet’s skin crawl. He turned next toward Juliet and swept toward her like the grim reaper, his black cape gusting with the wind.
Juliet instinctively tightened her grip on Iain’s arm and stepped closer to his side. Lord Malcolm’s face tightened into a deep scowl. He stood eye to eye with Iain for a long moment and then bowed toward Juliet.
“Milady, my sincere condolences on the death of your father. You must be devastated.”
“Yes, my lord, for many reasons.”
His scowl deepened and his eyes shot venom. “Won’t you introduce your…friend?”
“This is the MacLeon of the Clan MacLeon of Eilean Donan. He was kind enough to escort my brother and me home.”
The two men stared again at each other. “Kindness is a valued virtue in our friends, is it not? Though I doubt that particular notion guided him. Loyalty, though…” he wheezed with a cough. “I insist on it from my friends, and most particularly from my wife.” His beady gaze swung back to Iain. “Kindly take your hands off my betrothed.”
Juliet’s mother rushed to intervene. “My lord, let us all get out of this rain and attend to the dinner we have planned.” She took hold of Lord Malcolm’s arm, which he promptly jerked out of her hand, an action she ignored, and then she waved them all toward the manor house.
Juliet kept a tight grip on Iain’s arm as they made their way toward the front entrance. Lord Malcolm may as well know that he would not be getting any loyalty out of her.
After they had all dried off the best they could, they regrouped in the drawing room near the two fireplaces, trying to warm themselves and dry out while the meal was getting some last touches. Juliet sipped from the cup of warm mulled wine and turned the dampest section in the back of her skirts toward the fire. Iain had left her side to join the men on the other side of the room, whispering, “Fear not,” and giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.
“I’ll not have you ruining this union, Juliet,” her mother hissed at her as soon as Iain left.
“I won’t marry him.”
“You must. Do you have any idea what will happen to all of us if you refuse? It’s your own fault Lord Malcolm was the only one to offer for you…after that ravishment in the garden.”
“A kiss is hardly—”
“Don’t think to tell me about society’s rules, young lady. You could have had any number of wealthy men but you had to destroy any chance—” She looked ready to burst into tears and then rallied. “Do you think I like this? Do you think I’m so heartless? He’s a stingy miser and cruel. He wasn’t my first choice for a son-in-law, I can tell you, but you’ve made all our beds and now we have to lie in them.”
How could her mother say such things? Juliet felt tears prick her eyes and forced them back. It had only been a small kiss. She hadn’t really even enjoyed it, had just let the curiosity of the moment carry her away. What had she done? Maybe that was why Iain, even though there was an obvious attraction between them, hadn’t mentioned a union between the two of them. That and the fact that she was English. They were doomed from the start.
Her gaze wandered over to where he stood, the tallest man in the room, with longish, dark blond hair tied back in a queue, and proudly wearing his red tartan kilt. She’d never known a man in a kilt could be so attractive, but he was—particularly in comparison to the men standing in their drawing room. He nigh took her breath away.
Comparing that glorious vision with the dark, thin Lord Malcolm made her stomach roll in revulsion. Dear God, I cannot marry that man! Help me, please!
Their housekeeper came in and announced dinner was to be served. The men would usually pick a female to escort into the dining room by offering her his arm. Juliet panicked when she saw both Iain and Lord Malcolm coming toward her. Her brother went by and she leapt at the chance to avoid further conflict by grasping his arm. “Escort me in, Ruck.”
Ruck noted the scowl on Lord Malcolm’s face and grinned. “My pleasure, sis.” He whisked her out of the room as if her skirts were on fire. “You can’t marry him, you know.”
“I know!” she whisper-hissed. “But what am I to do?”
“I should marry an heiress, and then you wouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself.”
“You are too young, and besides, it would take time to arrange such a match—time we do not have.”
“I heard of man who kidnapped himself an heiress. He and his friends smuggled her out of her bed, took her off to Gretna Green and married her before her parents knew she had even left the house. Perhaps I can find a young lady thirsting for such an adventure.” His grin widened at the thought.
“Ruck, don’t be ridiculous. I doubt the young lady’s father would be in the mood to pay off our debts to Lord Malcolm under such conditions.”
He shrugged, pulling back a chair for her toward the head of the table by her mother. “Suppose not. Wait.” He nodded toward Iain. “The MacLeon is mad for you. Why not we kidnap him? We could do it tonight, whilst he sleeps.”
“Have you lost your head?” Juliet gasped with a half-laugh despite the dire circumstances. The thought that they could make Iain do anything he didn’t want to do was just too…unimaginable.
“Thank about it, sis. We could slip a little of that laudanum that mother uses into his after-dinner drink. I’ll coax him off to bed early, you stay and entertain old Malcolm to throw him off, and then we’ll load him into the carriage once everyone is asleep. We could make Gretna Green in about three hours if we push. He’ll be waking up right in time to say the vows and—”
“And why do you suppose he would say vows? If he wanted me as his bride he would have asked.”
“Nay, he’s over the moon for you, anyone can see that. He just needs a little nudge to get beyond the idea of an English wife. Why, if he was forced then his clan couldn’t be too mad at ’im, could they?”
A little nudge. Did she want a husband that had to be threatened or tricked or even nudged into marrying her? And the clan might forgive him, but they would never forgive her if they learned of such scheming to have their chieftain. It was ludicrous to even think such thoughts.
“Ruck, sit down. Whatever are you up to, whispering to your sister like that?” Their mother’s gaze shot scorn at the two of them, making Juliet’s face heat with embarrassment. Ruck slipped into his chair down at the other end of the table, but not before winking at her before he turned his attention elsewhere.
Juliet looked down at the plate of food in front of her and covered her mouth with one hand. She closed her eyes, her breath heavy in her chest, the bright conversation all around her loud and intrusive. She longed for the quiet of her bedchamber, the stone floor hard and sharp against her knees. She pictured herself kneeling in prayer.
God? Could it be? Could this strange and desperate idea be the answer? It couldn’t, and yet…show me the way.
Chapter Six
Iain nodded at Ruck and took another drink from the tankard that Ruck kept insisting was the best ale in Northumberland. Was the lad trying to get him too deep into his cups to leave on the morrow? He’d told him that he had to leave for Edinburgh—business with the sheep he had, but that he would come back and see to his sister, and…well, he shook his head as if to clear it. He’d promised to come back is all, he hadn’t said what he would do when h
e got back to Eden Place because he wasn’t exactly sure what he could do.
He shook his head again and closed his eyes. They wanted to close and not open again…and his speech…he could feel it. He was slipping into the deep Scottish brogue of the highlands that few but his fellow Gaelics could understand. He was just so bone weary…God help him.
He rubbed his hand across his face and felt the prickle of two days’ worth of beard. He needed a good shave and a warmed towel on his face, that was what he needed. And a nice, soft bed…
“MacLeon, did you hear me?”
Iain swung toward the voice. It sounded close and yet echoed as if down in a deep gorge. The room began to sway. Good God in heaven, he prayed, what have I drunk to feel so? He was exhausted to the point of wanting to fall on the floor in a full snore. He waved at the voice, not caring if it was Malcolm, and then looked for Ruck. Where was that young pup? He’d show him his bed or see the blunt side of his—
Ruck appeared at his side. “Come, MacLeon. I’ve something important to show you.”
Iain sincerely hoped it was a thick feather pillow.
They made their way up the winding stone stairs to the third floor, where the bedchambers lay against each side of a long and narrow hall. Ruck guided him with rough nudges in the right direction, opened a door and pushed him inside.
The lad needn’t be so pushy. The glowing light of the moon came in from tall windows and lit the room. A large, four-poster bed beckoned like a long-lost lover.
“Sleep.” He felt the word thick from his lips. “Just some—”
“Yes.” Ruck’s voice was like a mother’s gentle nudging. “You just need some sleep.” Just like his mother used to say when he was sick with the fever.