How can I feel like this? How can I miss that which I haven’t even left yet? And where is Marcus? He should be here to see me—us—off, surely?
She looked at her hands, in the same way that she had done as a child.
“Why are you sitting like that, darling?” Lady Glimouth asked her.
“What do you mean?” Delilah said.
“You always used to fiddle with your hands like that when you were a little girl. When you were feeling guilty about having done something wrong, as I recall. You haven’t been up to no good, have you?”
“No. I just…”
Do I feel guilty?
She craned her head around in a thoroughly unladylike fashion to look up the road again.
And there, sitting in the road, on the back of a huge black stallion that gleamed like onyx in the morning sun, was Marcus. As the carriage rounded a bend, the handsome Highlander raised his hand in farewell.
A warm jolt of energy spread through Delilah’s breast, flooding all the way to the ends of her fingers and toes. She smiled secretly to herself.
I will see you again soon, she promised silently.
Marcus had found it very odd that after Delilah, her family, and their escort had travelled out of sight, he found himself already composing his first letter to her in his head. He’d turned the black stallion away, intending to take the animal on a run to the stream that he’d taken Delilah to, when he happened to catch the eye of his mother. Griselda had given him one of her long, penetrative looks. A look that he and his father had come to recognize as meaning that the woman knew quite accurately what was playing out in their hearts, almost as if their feelings were written in woad across their foreheads.
Over the following three months, he and Delilah exchanged almost weekly letters. This kept the MacConnair and Glimouth messengers more than a little busy, and it quickly became known to the inhabitants of the lands on either side of the border that there was an understanding of a sort between the two young people.
They had started off reminiscing about Delilah’s visit—she writing how much she had enjoyed it, he telling her all the other places he wished he’d been able to take her. Within weeks, though, the talk in the letters had turned to the expectations and dreams that the two of them had for the future and Marcus found himself committing to paper the hope that his future might include seeing Delilah again.
The surge of joy that he had felt when, after five anxious days, he had received her reply saying that she, too, hoped that they could spend some more time together, had convinced him more than anything that what he felt for her was something that he had never felt for anyone before.
From that point on, the letters had taken on a very romantic turn, and Marcus had burned with impatience for Delilah’s replies.
And so, slowly, a young love blossomed across the border.
Then, in the third month since Delilah and her family had left, Marcus’s father sent for his son on a cold and blustery autumn morning.
On entering the Laird’s study, Marcus found Callum closeted with three of his most trusted military advisors. All four men were grim-faced, stern eyes glinting in the light of the fire burning in the stone hearth.
“Lad,” his father greeted him, clasping him by the shoulders.
“Faither,” Marcus replied, bowing his head respectfully.
“Lord kens, I love ye, lad,” Laird MacConnair said, “and I wish heartily that I needn’t call ye here, but times bein’ as they are, I’ve nae much choice in the matter.”
Marcus said nothing, just stood with a straight back and watched his father with a steady eye. The dour advisors were standing quiet in the corner.
“It’s war, lad,” the Laird said eventually. “As we feared. The skirmishes have escalated. The clans are bein’ gathered to face the English, and the lairds are sendin’ out their representatives to command their warriors.” He gave a deep sigh. “It’s time for ye to stand for the house o’ MacConnair, Marcus. Ye ken my meanin’?”
“Aye, I ken well enough, Faither.”
“Good. I want ye to take that friend o’ yours along with ye. Havin’ Finley watchin’ yer back will bring some measure o’ reassurance to yer mother and I.”
“Very good, Faither. When would ye have me leave?”
“I’m havin’ the fightin’ men gathered from across the land. I want ye to be ready tae ride at the break o’ day.”
Dearest Delilah,
I write tae ye even as I pack my bag and don my great plaid tae walk out the door and face whatever enemy lies in wait for me out there. Tae think that the call tae arms should come so quickly and so decisively is somethin’ that I had not considered, and so I apologize fer me letter bein’ so rushed.
The thought that I will shortly be riskin’ my life to defend my homeland against men that hail from yer side of the border is strange tae me. That the contestation of an invisible line, drawn on a map somewhere, should make men kill each other is a notion that I find very hard tae grasp. It strikes me especially odd when I consider that the person I think most highly of in this world is now, technically, an enemy.
I have tae ride now, but I will write ye as soon as I caen. Only God knows what awaits me, but know this: that yers shall be the first face I see when I rise in the mornin’, and the last I see as I close me eyes at night.
Forever yers,
Marcus
Delilah clutched the letter to her. It had been a year since she had received it. She knew the words by heart, but still she was not tired of looking them over. It was more the fact that the words had been penned by Marcus’s own hand, that the ink she ran her fingertips over had stained his fingers, too.
She had scribbled out a hasty reply to this letter of Marcus’s. Had blotted the expensive paper in her rush to catch the errand rider before he disappeared to wherever it was messengers went when they were not carrying messages. It had been a simple missive, comprised of a mere three words:
I will wait.
The messenger had been surprised to be accosted by the young lady of the estate in the courtyard, breathless and holding her reply in her hands. He had slipped the letter into his leather satchel and taken to the road, assuring her that he would wait only to eat and get himself a fresh horse from the stables.
And a year had trickled past with all the speed of spilled treacle. A year in which Delilah made the final transition from her waning childhood into life as a young noblewoman. Not once, through those long twelve months, did she wake without the worry of what might, at that very moment, be happening to Marcus.
Despite the fact that the Earl of Glimouth’s sizeable estate lay on the very border of northwestern England, no sign of any warlike activity was seen in the area. The Earl mustered some men as part of his obligation to the Crown, of course, and sent away caravans of supplies when called upon by His Majesty to do so, but there was no fighting along that particular stretch of land.
She sent three other letters over the next two years, despite the fact that she had nowhere to address them but to the MacConnair clan’s castle, and despite the fact that she received not a single answer. Gradually, Delilah’s heart began to come to terms with the fact that Marcus might not have survived his part in the war.
One afternoon, she was sitting in one of the rose gardens, attempting to read a book of poetry that her father had sent away to York for, when her mother hurried up to her.
“Is everything all right, Mother?” she asked, setting the little book aside.
“Yes, yes, my dear,” Lady Glimouth said. “Quite all right, thank you.”
Delilah loved her mother, had always loved her, but, as she had flowered into the young woman she had now become, she realized that her mother was a woman of very reserved emotions. Many a time Delilah had been on the cusp of confiding her love for Marcus to her, but always she had resisted at the last. She knew that her mother would not understand, would not approve in the slightest.
“I came to find you, Delilah,
to tell you that your father has, only a moment ago, received word that the war between the English and the Scots is over!”
Delilah’s mouth fell open.
“I know!” Lady Glimouth said, her eyes shining with excitement. “You realize what this means, of course?”
Delilah knew what it meant to her, but was unsure as to whether it would mean the same to her mother.
“It means that the roads will be safe to travel once more,” her mother said. She sat herself down on the stone bench next to her daughter and stroked Delilah’s long, golden hair. “Just think, we’ll be able to go to York—down to London—without having to worry about vile Scottish brigands waylaying the carriage.” She sighed with happiness.
“Yes,” Delilah managed to say. “Yes. That’s—that is excellent news. Mother, would you please excuse me?”
Lady Glimouth blinked. “Of course, darling. Are you sure that everything is all right?”
“Yes,” Delilah said. Her mind was whirling, trying to figure out what this meant with regards to her finding out what had happened to Marcus. “Yes. I just—I need to write a letter.”
Delilah composed a letter that evening and sent it away with a messenger at first light. She waited on tenterhooks for almost a whole week, but received no reply.
“Please, God,” she muttered, striding back and forth in the courtyard one evening when an errand rider had failed to show yet again. “Please, don’t let anything have happened to him.”
With increasing desperation and lack of care as to the propriety of her behavior, she sent three more letters away in the six weeks after peace had been declared.
Finally, just when she was considering asking her father to be allowed to take the carriage and journey to the MacConnair clan’s castle so that she could have her mind put at ease, one way or another, a messenger dressed in the kilt and bonnet of the Highlands arrived at the estate, bearing a letter for the Earl.
Delilah could not understand why the letter would be addressed to her father. Yes, he had seemed out of sorts during the three years in which the war had been waged between the two countries, and he’d missed being able to return to see his old friend, the Laird, but surely that letter had been meant for her?
Unless… Unless that letter is from Marcus asking my father for… My goodness, could that be it? Could he be asking my father for my hand?
Just the idea that her father might be mulling over, at that very moment, whether or not he would allow his only daughter to marry the son of his Scottish neighbor, sent shivers running down her spine.
But then the excitement faded. Her wild imagination was reined in by the cold hand of reality.
What if it’s from Laird MacConnair telling my father that he has lost his son in the fighting? What if it’s an invitation to Marcus’s funeral? Many men die in war. The good fall just as easily as the evil.
“My lady?”
Delilah was jerked from her reverie by the voice of a footman.
“Yes?”
“His lordship has requested your company down by the pond, my lady.”
“Now?”
“Yes, my lady. As soon as you are able.”
“Thank you.”
Delilah found her father down at the ornamental pond, tossing crumbs from the heel of a loaf to the ducks that called the mere their home. He did not look steeped in gloom, as one would expect a man who’d just received bitter news. On the contrary, he seemed in fine spirits. What was more, he was not alone. Delilah’s mother stood next to him, her hair tied up under a fetching blue gable hood.
“You wanted to see me, Father?” Delilah said as she approached.
The Earl turned, smiling. “That’s right, my dear. Your mother and I have just received a rather marvelous letter from my friend Callum Malloch. You remember him, don’t you? He is the laird of—”
“Yes,” Delilah blurted out, unintentionally cutting her father off. “Yes, I remember him. I remember his lovely home.”
Lady Glimouth raised her eyebrows as if she would scold her daughter, but her father got there before her.
“Excellent, I’m glad you remember. Well, he has sent me a letter concerning his son, Marcus.”
Delilah’s heart seemed to contract inside her chest.
“He lives, then?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even.
“Indeed, yes.”
It was all Delilah could do not to raise her hands to the heavens and cry out in delight.
“That is gratifying to hear,” she said. “He was nothing but a gentleman to me when we visited.”
“Yes, yes,” her father said, “a fine young chap, I do not doubt. As I was saying, it is of him that the letter is concerned.”
The Earl of Glimouth beamed at his daughter and waved the letter in front of her.
“The three of us have been invited to visit the MacConnair’s castle.”
Delilah’s breath caught.
To discuss… what?
“To celebrate the betrothal of Marcus and a fine and upstanding young woman from one of the neighboring clans!”
The world seemed to flicker and dim around Delilah. The birdsong faded from the air, the splashing of the hungry ducks dying away to be replaced by a dull buzzing. The color seemed to leech out of her surroundings.
“Delilah? Delilah?” her mother said, recalling her from whatever hellish place she had just visited.
“Sorry, what was that, Mother?” she said through lips gone suddenly numb.
“I said, isn’t it wonderful that love should blossom out of the ashes of war? Won’t it be nice to celebrate the joining of two hearts when so much has been torn apart these past three years?”
Delilah felt winded, felt as if she had just been clubbed over the head.
She forced a smile that must’ve been more like a grimace, onto her face.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “how perfectly splendid.”
“Are you all right, dear?” her mother asked her. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“Yes—I’m fine… Just—I think I’ll go for a lie down, if that’s all right with you?”
“Of course, darling. You go and rest, and have a think about what color gown you’ll want to have made for Marcus’s wedding! You have until the spring to think up the perfect outfit.”
Delilah walked away, heading blindly towards the manor. Wading through a cruel, gray world devoid now of any color or joy.
Chapter 4
The shocking double blow of finding out that Marcus was alive, but was promised to be wed to another woman, had a profound effect on Delilah. She woke listless the next morning, went without eating all day, and barely stirred from her chambers.
After two days of increasingly apathetic behavior, the Earl of Glimouth came to visit his daughter. She looked pale and drawn to his eye, her usually lustrous blonde hair hanging limp about her pinched face.
“My dear, you’re ill,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Delilah gave him a wan smile. “Not ill exactly,” she said, “but certainly I don’t feel myself.”
Lord Glimouth nodded. He sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed and regarded the young woman where she sat in the window seat, looking out at the rain-swept gardens.
“Is there anything at all that you wish to tell me, Delilah?” he asked.
Delilah looked up and saw that he was watching her with an intense shrewdness.
“Like I said, Father, just feeling slightly out of sorts.”
“Hm. Ever since I shared the news of the upcoming joining of the MacConnair boy and his betrothed, it seems that you have been shut away up here.” Lord Glimouth’s gaze was one of piercing concern. “Are you sure that there’s nothing you wish to talk to me about, daughter?”
The words crowded at the back of Delilah’s lips. At that moment, she almost confessed everything to her father. She knew, though, that he’d be unable to keep the fact that Delilah was in love with Marcus a secret from his wife, and Delilah knew that her mother would be
far from impressed with her daughter admitting she was enamored of a Scotsman. No matter who he might be.
“No, Father. There’s nothing to tell,” she said.
The Earl pursed his lips, but he was a clever enough man to know when pushing would do more harm than good.
“I’ve made arrangements for you to go down to stay with my sister in Gloucestershire,” he said.
It was a mark of how low Delilah’s spirits had sunk that she voiced no objection to this. She enjoyed her aunt’s company, but she did not like having plans made for her, even if they were plans that she might appreciate having been made for her.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that might be nice.”
“I feel that a winter spent in a more temperate clime might do you some good. Get away from the harsh wind that blasts down off the fells. Enjoy your aunt’s frosty gardens. Read. Wrap up and take her hounds for walks. Ride.”
The Earl gave her another one of his genuinely warm smiles. He got up, walked over and stroked his daughter’s hair. Delilah closed her eyes at the familiar and comforting touch.
“Remember, my dearest,” he said, “to face the thing that scares us—to be afraid of something, anything, and walk out to meet it anyway—that is the purest form of courage.”
He left her then, closing the door softly behind himself, to sit and think and look out over the dismal gardens, as autumn grasped the world tighter in its fist.
Delilah spent the best part of seven months in the heart of green Gloucestershire countryside at her father’s sister’s residence. She spent much of her time brooding at first, walking without direction around the grounds with her aunt’s three spaniels at her heels. After a while, though, her usual strong spirit returned.
I am young. I am young and clever and bold, and if Marcus Malloch is too much of a dolt to see it, then perhaps I have been spared in some way.
So vehement was she in repeating this daily mantra, her heart began to believe it.
So, after six months, after autumn had blown itself into a crisp, and frigid winter had relinquished its icy hold on England and allowed spring to show its face, Delilah felt more than ready to return to her mother and father’s house.
Captured by his Highland Kiss Page 3