by Aubrey Wynne
“No, nothing like that. I was bored and saw an advertisement in the Herald,” she began. “Sit down, Papa. It’s a long story.”
“Sounds ominous.” He settled next to her with a scowl, leaning back with his arms crossed. “From your expression, I don’t think I will enjoy this story very much.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t show us in the best light.” Her toe traced the pattern of the rug, wishing she could hide beneath the plush wool as tears pricked her eyes. “I’ve made a bumble-bath of things.”
“It can’t be so terrible.” Sir Horace patted her hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing we cannot set to rights. Tell me what’s happened, and we’ll discuss it with calm logic. Tears only puff up the eyes and never solve a dilemma.”
Fenella looked into his kind eyes and sucked in a deep breath. His sympathy would be her undoing. “It all began with the Glasgow Herald and an advertisement for an accountant.”
An hour later, her father paced the library. His heels made a soft rhythmic thunk as he stormed back and forth across the carpet. “I understand not wanting to tell him about your family right away. But when you realized you were falling in love with the man…” He stopped and glared at her. “What did you promise me before you left?”
“That I would never misrepresent myself again.” Fenella closed her eyes, embarrassment staining her cheeks. At least he was angry. She could withstand that easier than disappointment. “I didn’t mean to. It was just so hard to find the right time. Then Ian died, and I realized Lachlan thought you were dead.”
Sir Horace looked at the ceiling. “God, give me patience for the women in my life.”
“It doesn’t matter now, Papa. He hates me and says my name will never cross his lips again.”
“I can’t say that I blame him, but I think hate may be a strong word.”
“You didn’t see him. He hates me.”
Her father gave a mirthless laugh. “I know from experience that hate and love are very strong emotions that often walk hand in hand. You must care for someone to have such strong emotions.”
“Mother would never accept him, even if he were a descendent of Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
“Especially if he were a descendant of Charlie,” said her grandmother from the doorway. “I see ye finally told Horace.”
Her father bent in acknowledgment of his mother-in-law and went to the sideboard. “I’m in desperate need of a drink. Aileen?” He held up a crystal decanter of brandy.
“I’ll take a wee nip.” She settled into a forest green brocade chair and smoothed her silk skirt. “Has she told you everything?”
“I certainly hope so.” He handed the older woman a glass. “If there’s more, I may put her over my knee and give her a sound beating.”
“Fenella, tell me what ye love about him.” Her grandmother fiddled with the locket that hung at her throat. “Besides the fact he’s a virile, handsome mon.”
“Why?” An unexpected demand.
“Surely ye’ve thought about it.”
Sir Horace looked up, interest gleaming in his eyes.
“Well, he’s loyal, the type of man who people depend on, and a man of his word.” Fenella chewed her bottom lip. “He cares about his clan, and the mill workers are more than just a profit to him.”
“What else?”
“His sense of humor, how he makes me laugh. His temper that flares and then dies in a moment. The way his blue eyes turn dark when he watches me or… he’s patient when he teaches me something new.”
Her grandmother smiled and nodded.
“He is gentle and appreciates my intelligence.” Her throat worked as she tried to swallow. “From the first, Lachlan made me feel beautiful and cherished and safe… just like my father.”
“So, his love is worth fighting for?”
Fenella nodded, blinking back the hot tears.
Aileen addressed Sir Horace. “What are the chances of my dear Agnes coming around?”
“On her own? Slim odds, I’m afraid,” he said.
“You’ll have to be stern with her and stand firm. She’ll be madder than a barefoot mon in a thistle patch, but it’s time she remembered where she came from.” Aileen took a sip of the brandy and wrinkled her nose. “Did ye no’ stock any good scotch for yer favorite mother-in-law?”
He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I did. Let me exchange that for you.”
Aileen stood and poured her brandy into Horace’s glass and handed her empty one to him. “Thank ye, dear.”
“Excuse me, but both of you are talking as if I’m not even here,” Fenella huffed. “This is my problem, in case you’ve both forgotten.”
“And how have ye faired on yer own so far?” asked her grandmother.
“I’ll stay quiet,” conceded Fenella. “It’s a moot point, though, when the man no longer loves me.”
“Oh, he wants to,” said her grandmother as she accepted the scotch. “He just needs to be reminded.”
“His pride is hurt. A man draws a line when it comes to his dignity.” Her father studied Aileen. “What do you suggest I do with Agnes to bring her around?”
“Cut her off. No more funds and let her creditors know.”
Fenella gasped. “That’s horrible. She’ll be livid.”
“Of course she will,” agreed her grandmother. “Do you want her at your wedding or not?”
“You’re both forgetting I’m not betrothed.”
“Ye will be,” Aileen said with a grin. “But ye’ll have to swallow yer own pride. What I have in mind willna be easy.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Betrothal and Betrayal
End of September 1819
Glasgow
Lachlan read the letter again with a scowl. His mother requested his return to the Highlands. His aunt and English cousin had finally arrived to offer condolences. Gideon had never been to MacNaughton Castle, and his aunt had not been home in years. There would be a ceilidh in honor of the long-awaited guests. An opportune time to speak with his grandfather about staying at the mill. With the support of his cousin and aunt, he and Brodie might be able to persuade the stubborn old man without creating a break within the clan. Calum would be in a braw mood with both his daughters home and such a festive atmosphere.
“Dinna tell me ye’re leaving again.” Colin entered the library and stared down at him.
Lachlan tapped the paper against his knee and nodded. “I’m afraid so.” He handed Colin the letter and waited for him to finish reading it.
“Ye’ll miss Fenella’s return.”
“Dinna say her name in my presence,” he warned and then shrugged. “Doesna matter to me when or if she returns.”
“Ye canna avoid her forever. She works for us.” Colin planted himself, wagging his finger as he matched Lachlan’s glare. “And ye canna fire her.”
“I can and I may,” Lachlan yelled up at his cousin. “I’ll pull rank, ye hackit behemoth.”
“Then I’ll quit.”
“Ye canna tell me what I can—” He stood up, fists clenched. Lachlan had been looking for a fight since Fenella’s admission. “Ye’d quit over a woman?”
“I’d quit over a stubborn mon licking his wounds.”
“She lied to me.”
“She omitted the truth, aye,” Colin nodded. “But she didna lie exactly.”
“How can ye justify her dead father?” Lachlan stuck his chin out. “How do ye forget something like that?”
“I was there.” Colin turned and poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to Lachlan. “I’d forgotten about it myself. It was one sentence of an hour we spent together that first meeting.”
He took the offered glass and sat back down, his ire dimming. “It doesna change the fact her mother despises Scots.”
“I agree with ye there. But that’s no’ Fenella’s fault.” Colin tossed back his drink. “She should have told ye, though. But what’s done is done.”
“How can she say she loves me when she doesna trus
t me with the truth?” He’d said it. The core of the problem, what bothered him the most.
“She’s willing to turn her back on her family for ye. I’d call that love.”
Lachlan opened his mouth to argue but refused to give Colin the satisfaction. Of course, he was willing to do the same. Or had been willing to do the same. He shook his head. “I’ll no’ take the responsibility for this. She’s at fault here, the complicit party.”
“It’s no’ always about who is to blame.” Colin let out a loud sigh and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Please, Lord, send me patience, then strike this mon with a lightning bolt of sense.”
“It wouldna help.”
“Answer me this, then. Do ye miss her?”
Lachlan turned away from his cousin. Like the scent of spring during a fierce winter.
“That’s what I thought.” Colin’s tone softened. “I’ve learned over the years that a mon needs affection as much as a woman needs to be cherished. Dinna choose pride over love. It willna warm yer bed in the years to come.”
*
Mid-October 1819
MacNaughton Castle
“Ye seem a bit sullen, Lachlan.” Calum crossed his arms over his broad chest, his bushy black brows furrowed. The men were in the sitting room, a place where family members had gathered each night for generations. Black Angus and Brownie lay before their masters on a thick wool rug. “We’re planning a grand ceilidh for yer aunt’s homecoming and added a wedding, yet my grandson looks as if he’s lost his best hound.”
“I wasna expecting Ross Craigg’s daughter to be part of the celebration. I’d rather spit in the mon’s eye than congratulate him.” He glowered at the miniature portraits framed in silver or delicately carved wood lining the mantel.
“Ah, then ye’ve no’ heard the entire story yet.” The MacNaughton settled into the overstuffed leather chair and picked up his pipe from the table beside him. A large, worn Bible took up most of the surface. Peigi often read from it in the evenings at her husband’s request.
The peat fire in the hearth popped and glowed as the men sipped their aged scotch.
“We’d gone into Dunderave with Maeve and Gideon.” Calum chuckled. “The reverend invited Gideon and me to his cottage for a wee swallow and to settle a dispute.”
Lachlan snorted. The MacNaughton was well known for his wee swallows.
“Ross Craigg was up to his usual trickery, accusing MacDunn of stealing his sheep.” Calum paused and lit a tinder, then put it to his pipe, soft puffy circles emitting the sweet scent of tobacco. “The reverend had the sheep at his house until I could settle the quarrel. It was obvious the lug mark had been tampered with to look like MacDunn’s. Gideon asked the reverend if the two families had any recent confrontations.”
Lachlan let out a bark of a laughter that caused Brownie to raise her head. He scratched her floppy ears absently as his grandfather continued the story.
“I remember MacDunn’s son had been sweet on Craigg’s daughter in the spring. But when Ross found out the two in the wood last Beltane, he forbade them to see each other.” Another puff of the pipe, and Calum leaned back against the worn leather, his silver and black hair gleaming in the fire’s glow.
“I didna ken they tried to run away later in May. MacDunn caught them and sent the girl back.”
“Ye’d think Craigg would have been grateful,” grumbled Lachlan.
Calum shook his head. “He might have been, until the girl’s belly began to swell.”
Lachlan swore under his breath. “So, this was about revenge?”
“The lecher wanted MacDunn hung for the crime.” Calum chewed on the hard wood of his pipe.
“Then he would have beat the girl until she lost the bairn.” Lachlan had no doubt.
“Ye’re probably right.” His grandfather grinned. “Instead, I arranged a wedding in our chapel, preceding the ceilidh. If the lass arrives with even a scratch, I promised to flog him with the entire village as witness.”
“So, Gideon shares an enemy with us? The lecher better watch his tongue with three grandsons in attendance.”
“Craigg has refused to come for the wedding. Says the girl is dead to him. Lissie’s parents will stand up for her.”
Lachlan relaxed into the chair and stretched his long legs toward the fire. “I do believe I’m once again looking forward to the day.”
*
The day of the ceilidh shone bright. Hamish MacDunn, the groom, had arrived early to ask Lachlan to stand with him. Lachlan suspected it had to do with Calum’s role in the betrothal, but he was happy to take part.
Trestle tables were set up with benches for eating and visiting, white linen spread across the wooden boards with candles, and crystal water bowls for washing. More trestles lined one wall with small pies, breads, and fruit compotes. Entwined circles of marzipan were scattered across the tables, the sugary creations leaving a glitter of crumbs along the length of the linen. Silver plates and goblets had been set on the dais for the guests of honor.
Lachlan’s stomach growled as he inhaled the tantalizing aromas of roasted pig and venison. A whistle sounded and someone yelled, “The bride is here.” Everyone moved to the courtyard. He noticed Lissie take Gideon’s arm, a look passing between them. A light he hadn’t seen in Lissie before shown in her tawny eyes, the kind of brightness even Ian had not put there.
Nessie Craigg, the young dark-haired bride, stood on a wagon. A woman called out, “Right foot forward for good luck!”
Lachlan moved next to his mother. “Where are Brodie and Brigid?”
Glynnis chuckled. “We have a cow with a fall birthing. She went into labor last night, but no calf yet. Brigid insists the heifer will need help, so Brodie stayed back with her. They should be here in time for the evening festivities.”
“Who is Brodie in love with now? I canna believe the eejit let Kirstine go.”
“It’s the other way around and his own fault. He doesna want to wed, and she’s tired of waiting for him.” His mother gave him an elbow. “Now he’s soothing his wounded pride with Mairi again.”
Lachlan ran a hand over his face. “She’s got a pretty face but as much gumption as a wee butterfly. He’ll be bored in a fortnight.”
“Aye, but he’ll have to discover it on his own. He’s a blunderhead that way.”
The piper began, and the crowd followed him toward the church, sprinkling flower petals behind them. Clansmen were in their best kilts and dress sporrans, dirks glinting in the afternoon sun, hair clean and shining, beards trimmed or faces shaved. The women wore their best satin or silk dresses or traditional earasaids, plaids over their shoulders or across their chest, depending on their station.
The reverend welcomed the couple at the ancient kirk door. Hamish handed Nessie a sheaf of wheat, and she offered him a piece of woven cloth, as their promise to one another to provide for their home. Then they exchanged a Bible and a dagger to represent his physical, and her spiritual, pledges to defend their home.
The guests moved inside the old church. Lachlan approached the altar with the couple. He unsheathed his sword and drew a circle around the couple as they said their vows.
Then the reverend presented the couple to the crowd, saying, “You may kiss the bride.”
Lachlan smiled as he watched, swallowing the emotion in his throat. Hamish bent and brushed his wife’s lips and leaned his forehead against hers. The love between them shone brighter than the sunshine dappling through the trees. He looked up and saw Lissie, tears in her eyes as she stared at them. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for her, realizing she and Ian had never experienced such intense, sweet passion. The rush of frenzied rapture he shared with Fenella. His smile faded. He had shared with her.
The ceilidh improved his mood. The castle was filled with friendly faces, and Lachlan soon had a pleasant glow from good scotch and pleasant company. He leaned against a tapestry covering the ancient stone wall and watched Brigid dance a reel, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed
to match her hair. Brodie was in a corner, Mairi whispering in his ear, her hand on his arm in a familiar gesture. Hmmph. Who was he to criticize Brodie? His judgment had been no better with Fenella.
The music ended. He saw Gideon and Lissie leave the hall and walk toward the garden. His grandfather ambled toward him.
“Are ye enjoying the festivities?” asked Calum. “I’ve no’ seen ye dance yet.”
“The night is young,” he said.
“I dinna want bad feelings between us.”
“Grandda, I love ye. But this isna a good time to talk of my future unless ye’ve changed yer mind.” Lachlan pushed away from the wall. “I need to relieve myself.”
Outside, he sucked in the chilly night air. His temper was easily stoked these days, and he had no desire to argue with his grandfather tonight. They would all gather tomorrow for a family discussion.
He wandered around the perimeter of the garden, avoiding the direction his cousin and sister-in-law had taken. Someone yelled.
Lachlan stopped, his hand resting on the sword he’d worn for the ceremony. “Lissie!”
Running toward the voice, he saw the shadowed figure of his cousin and called out. “Gideon!”
His cousin darted into a copse of woods, still yelling for Lissie. Lachlan picked up his speed and ran after Gideon. Entering the dark woods, he stopped and listened. Mumbles and curses floated on the breeze, and he moved quietly toward the disturbance, staying hidden in the shadows.
A man Lachlan didn’t recognize held Lissie from behind. Gideon stood before the pair, hands out, talking to the man. To the side, another shadow hovered. His familiar snarl sent the hair bristling on the back of Lachlan’s neck. Ross Craigg!
Lachlan moved quietly, trying to position himself behind Craigg as his cousin advanced on the scoundrel. Gideon’s fist connected with the Craigg’s nose, sending him to the ground. Lachlan’s jaw clenched in satisfaction but stayed hidden in the shadows.
“I’m not paying ye to keep my company. If he knocks me down again, slice the lass’s throat,” Craigg said to the ruffian holding Lissie. He got to his feet and pulled a pistol from his belt, pointing it at Gideon.