He turned to his courtiers. “Tell the servants the banquet feast must be ready for tomorrow. They must hang the greenery and make ready for a joyous wedding this Yuletide season. In this time of giving...” He turned back and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “You are giving the gift of yourself for all of us.”
“Uncle, I...”
“Just think, my dear. By Christmas Day you shall be safe in your new home, accustoming yourself to life as a laird’s lady while the rest of us celebrate our newfound peace and good fortune.”
He strode away before she could make one last plea to escape the wedding. He would go tell her mother and father at once, and they’d be proud and agree that she must do this horrific thing. She could hardly breathe. It seemed as if the water was closing over her head, and there was no way to save herself now.
Her uncle’s courtiers toasted her that evening at dinner, drinking to her health and the giving spirit of the season. Tomorrow, Laird Cochrane and his escort would be in attendance for the evening meal. It would be their wedding banquet—and she would already be wed. To him.
Her traitorous cousins wanted to talk about the nuptials, wanted to guess how the laird would speak, how he would look, if he would be fully savage or slightly civilized, but Holly couldn’t bear to be in their company or listen to their gossip. They might be cousins, but she no longer considered them friends. She couldn’t bear to be fawned over by her parents either, as they’d never spared her much notice before she made this “sacrifice.” She retired early instead, donning a warm flannel nightgown and braiding her unruly hair.
Then she sat on the bench at her window and looked out across the rolling hills and fields, toward the Scottish border to the north. What was the laird doing tonight? Perhaps, if she prayed hard enough, he’d change his mind about taking an English bride. Perhaps, like her faithless Lord Allen, his gaze would be captured by another as he sat in his hall after dinner.
Imagining such a scenario was the only way she could maintain any sense of calm. How else was she to sleep tonight? She curled her feet underneath her and rested her forehead against the cold, frosted glass. This wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. She’d always known she’d have to marry, perhaps even marry someone she didn’t like, but this...
Wedding a Scot was an Englishwoman’s worst nightmare, and with her uncle’s guards outside her door, there was no way to escape.
Malcolm, Laird Cochrane, stared out the tower window toward the south, across the land he’d traverse come morning. One thought rose foremost in his mind: he’d be a married man tomorrow, and his bride would be English.
Damn. Wedding an Englishwoman was a Scot’s worst nightmare.
Even so, it was a necessary political move. It would repair relations with the English after several unauthorized raids by his feckless neighbors, and get him out of the impossible bind he found himself in with his vassals. They all wanted him to marry their sweet and biddable daughters, and any show of favor caused grumbling and anger amongst them.
Oh, there was anger when he’d announced he would marry Lord Mortimer’s daughter, but mostly pity, and a resignation that made all of them band together as they hadn’t before. Having their laird saddled with an English wife...
Well, they understood now the lengths he’d go to in order to secure peace for their families. Such a sacrifice, they’d whispered. He’s his father’s son, a brave and honorable man. Instead of being angry with him for choosing one daughter over another, they’d all offered to accompany him to Mortimer’s castle in solidarity. They’d amassed at the MacDavie keep, since it was nearest the border, and when they arrived at the English stronghold in a group tomorrow, he and his vassals would present a show of strength.
It was a smart bit of statesmanship. As for his bride...one woman was very like another. His English wife might not be sweet and buxom like the Lowland lasses, or courageous and full of spirit, but she’d be able to bear him children, and he’d raise them in the Scottish way, in a time of peaceful prosperity rather than constant battling. He knew nothing about his bride, except that, being English, she’d probably reek of rose-oil perfume, be weak and lackluster, and not a lot of fun.
A sacrifice indeed, but he was the laird, and that honor came with responsibilities. At least he was marrying her during the Yuletide holidays, an auspicious time for new unions. With any luck, the marriage would be bearable.
Tomorrow, he’d travel with his loyal vassals to face his rose-scented fate as a Scotsman must: bravely and without complaint.
Chapter 2
A Satisfactory Wife
Holly woke the next morning to the sound of horses and commotion in the courtyard. Could the laird already be here? She pulled her night clothes about her and crossed to the window, scratching away a thin layer of frost to peer down into the courtyard, but it wasn’t Laird Cochrane, just a hunting party of her uncle’s courtiers arriving with boar and deer for her wedding feast.
She stepped back from the window and took a deep breath. The maid had already been in to stoke the fire and Holly had somehow slept through it, exhausted from fretting and fuming the night before. You must be brave, she chided herself. You must set your heart to the things you cannot change.
Still, some small, stubborn part of her prayed for change. Laird Cochrane might decide to marry someone else once he arrived and got a look at her. He might see Lady Tessa or Lady Emma and decide he would prefer one of them. He might withdraw the marital agreement altogether since she was Mortimer’s niece rather than his daughter. He might fall off his stallion on the way here and snap his neck...
But that was too evil, to hope for the man’s death. As for Tessa and Emma, they were bright enough to stay well away from the Great Hall when she and the laird were introduced. June, too, would hide her conniving, spiteful face. The three of them would watch from some hidden bolt hole, one of the many they’d discovered over the years while trying to eavesdrop on Lord Mortimer’s business. Why, they’d been eavesdropping when Lorna had been told she’d be marrying Laird Cochrane.
Curse them for false friends.
Holly returned to the window and blew against the glass, watching jagged frost thaw to damp rivulets. It had been a cold, wet, blustery week. Down in the courtyard, the servants were hanging festive swags of mistletoe and ivy in some attempt to drive the bleakness away. The Great Hall, too, would be swathed in ivy and evergreen, as well as holly, her namesake, not only for the wedding celebration, but to brighten the large room until Christmas Day arrived.
Not that she would be there to celebrate with her family this year. She’d be in Scotland, at the mercy of a savage stranger. She wondered what Laird Cochrane’s Great Hall would look like, or if he’d even have one, considering the Lowlanders’ mean way of life. She knew she ought to make the most of her final hours here, but she couldn’t bear to set foot outside her safe, familiar bedroom until her mother and Mortimer’s servants forced her to prepare for the laird’s arrival.
Within the hour, servants showed up with baskets and trunks, her mother leading them with a great smile on her face. She sang sweet, romantic tunes as they bathed and dressed Holly in an elegant gown and tunic of gold and hunter green. Once she was adorned in her bridal finery, they wove strands of ivy into her hair for fidelity and dabbed her wrists with Oil of Roses for sweetness and good health.
Just as they were finishing these busy ministrations, one of Lord Mortimer’s squires arrived in high color, to tell her Laird Cochrane and his escort had been spotted by the lookout and were approaching the keep.
It seemed too soon for all of it to be happening.
“My dear Holly,” said her mother, taking her hand in a steadying grip. “I must speak with you about what to expect once you are married. There’s been so little time, but you ought to know.”
“What to expect?” Holly picked peevishly at a stray thread on her tunic. “Has anyone of your acquaintance ever married a Scotsman before? How are we to know what to expect?”
“Don’t be cross. I would have planned better if I’d known you were to wed so quickly. There are things you must know about...” Her voice trailed off as her color deepened. “About the time after the wedding, when you and the laird are alone together later tonight. He’ll expect you to attend him.”
“I’ll have to sleep in his quarters?”
Her mother cleared her throat. “Indeed, my dear. In fact, you’ll have to sleep in his bed. You’re his bride.”
Holly knew, of course, that brides and grooms slept together, but she and Laird Cochrane would barely know one another. Surely that custom wouldn’t apply.
“What if I don’t like him?” she asked as panic fluttered in her chest. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s coarse and cruel and smelly?” Her eyes widened. “What if he’s angry about Lorna and takes his temper out on me?”
Her mother placed a finger over her lips to silence her fretting. “We haven’t time to worry about what-ifs. I need to tell you what is likely to occur.” She emphasized the last three words with a note of dread in her tone, and stared at Holly as if to communicate without words.
“Mother,” she wailed. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
Her mama pulled her to the side, away from the craning necks of the servants, and lowered her voice.
“It’s quite simple, daughter, but also rather...complicated. Tonight, once you’re wed, you must expect that your husband will place his...” She gestured vaguely to the area near her pelvis, tracing a pointed shape. “He’ll place his male part in your female area down here.” She pointed fleetingly to the front of Holly’s dress. “Between your legs, dear. I know, it’s crass and awful, but it is how children are made, so it will be your duty to bear it without complaint, as all women must.”
Holly could make no sense of her mother’s flustered words, but at the same time, didn’t wish to ask for clarification. “I don’t understand how that’s possible,” she said.
“Don’t worry, he’ll do everything that must be done. You need only go along with it as an obedient wife must. But I don’t wish you to be shocked.”
“Shocked? Will it be shocking?”
“I don’t know, my love. I hope not. With luck, he’ll go about the business as the Lord intended, face to face, and not as the animals mate.” Her mother bit her lip when Holly’s mouth fell open. “Don’t worry about it now. Dearest, don’t worry, please. Let us pray he is civil even though he’s a Scot.”
“Madam, the laird comes.” One of her mother’s attendants beckoned from the window. “The traveling party is entering the courtyard now.”
Holly didn’t want to look, but as her mother drew her along, curiosity overtook her, so she reached the window first. There were fifty Scotsmen in the courtyard at least. Their great horses tossed their heads against the strengthening rain as Lord Mortimer’s servants hurried to help the arriving guests. In minutes, the skies would open up in another winter storm.
“I’ve never seen such a group,” her mother whispered. Some of the men were young, some older, but all were dressed in rugged, plaid kilts and matching woolen cloaks. No matter their age, they possessed a proud manner, holding their heads high against the worsening weather.
“Look at their hair,” one of the maids marveled from a nearby window. “They grow theirs nearly as long as mine.”
“Look at the different colored plaids,” another said. “They are not all Cochranes.”
It was hard not to look at the plaids, as each man wore one thrown over his chest—in some cases, his bare chest, despite the winter’s cold.
“Which is the Cochrane plaid?” Holly asked. She sounded breathless. She felt breathless, like all the air had left her body. She searched the men’s faces, unable to make out their features through the thick glass. The company held their massive stallions with easy authority even though the majority rode without tack or saddle. They seemed otherworldly. Wild.
“I expect the plaid you see the most is the Cochrane plaid. There, that must be the laird.”
Her mother pointed to one of the men at the front, the man Lord Mortimer approached in greeting. He was a hulking, towering beast, even more muscular than the others. He had long, wild hair and a great hawkish nose that gave him an air of menace. Holly swallowed, emotion choking her throat.
“Surely not,” she said, although there was no reason to doubt it. She couldn’t bear to believe it was him, because he was too large, too foreign, too frightening. Of course the brutish Lowlanders would select the strongest, most monstrous of their group as their leader.
Unlike many of the others, Laird Cochrane wore a linen shirt beneath his plaid, but it only served to make him look bigger. The hand that reached down to shake Mortimer’s—why, it appeared twice his host’s size. When the man dismounted from his horse, he bested Mortimer’s height by a foot or more, and Lord Mortimer was known as a man of ample stature.
“My goodness,” her mother murmured.
She said nothing else, and all Holly’s words had fled for good. The laird was auburn haired, not dark as she’d imagined, and his long, thick hair was plaited like the Vikings of old. So much for civilization. He moved with daunting energy, towering over the men who flanked him. Why, a man like that could snap her in half if she displeased him.
Her uncle must realize this marriage was impossible, that it must not proceed in any quarter. Neither Cochrane nor his kinsmen possessed the civilized demeanor of good English men. There wasn’t one Scot in the entire group who looked suitable to marry...or sleep next to. Heat rushed to Holly’s face. She felt faint.
“I cannot,” she said, leaning on her mother. “They’re not like us. They’re so strange. Lord Mortimer will not make me carry this through, will he?”
Her mother appeared as troubled as Holly felt, although she tried to hide her unease. “Don’t worry. They’ll behave with respect in Lord Mortimer’s house. Indeed, the laird will treat you well, for he wouldn’t dare otherwise. This is to be an alliance of friendship. What would Laird Cochrane gain by mistreating you?”
What if he doesn’t care, Holly thought. He has braids in his hair like a wild man. His countrymen are shirtless—and gruesomely muscled—in the bitter cold of December.
As the women watched from above, Mortimer and Laird Cochrane bowed their heads together in conversation, aided by what appeared to be an interpreter.
“Does he not speak English?” Holly asked, her dread rising even higher.
“Shh.” Her mother craned her ear toward the window, not that they could hear anything but the occasional stamp of hooves from the restless horses. It wasn’t necessary to hear. The subject of their conversation was obvious: before Mortimer even invited him inside, he was telling him about Lorna. Please storm away in fury, she thought. Start a war. Strike down Mortimer. Anything to avert my fate.
Instead, the laird conferenced with some of his men, then slowly nodded his head. There was no way to make out his expression at this distance, no way to see if he was upset about the news, or surprised, or disinterested, but he appeared to accept the change in the alliance. He would wed the niece instead of the daughter. Damnable Lorna.
“See, he is being reasonable,” her mother murmured. “That is something.” She turned from the window with a sigh, not quite meeting her daughter’s gaze. Instead she stroked Holly’s hair and the silky lace of her veil. “How beautiful you look. Your father—and your uncle—will be so proud. What a marvelous thing you’re doing for all of us.”
Marvelous? Not for Holly. There was nothing to do but go downstairs and present herself to her uncle—and the laird.
Malcolm hadn’t thought much about his actual wedding to the Englishwoman, about what it might feel like to look into a stranger’s eyes before the Lord’s altar and pledge his troth, loyalty, and fidelity. He certainly hadn’t expected that Englishwoman’s eyes to repeatedly fill with tears as a wild Northumberland storm beat upon the chapel’s roof.
At least his bride h
ad pretty eyes, deep English blue, much softer than his stormy gray gaze. Perhaps he frightened her. The whole court seemed afraid, as if he and his men might turn on them at any moment, having used this marriage as a ploy to gain access to an English keep.
It made for a very tense wedding. Why, they’d led the trembling lass into the Great Hall to meet him in the manner of a prisoner. She’d been flanked on all sides by her parents and Mortimer’s attendants as if she might flee, just like his host’s reckless daughter, the disgraced Lorna.
His new bride was slight and short, and blonde as a dandelion in her ornately embroidered gown and tunic. Her hair streamed over her shoulders in the Scots way, full and natural, although it was covered by a maidenly veil.
She’d serve well enough as his bride, since Mortimer’s daughter wasn’t available. In some way he was glad the other had run away. He had no use for the type of woman who’d shirk her duties and disrespect her father to such a degree.
Och, lassie, what are you like? he’d wondered as he gazed upon his future wife for the first time. They’d been introduced by Mortimer’s interpreter, a succinct formality before they proceeded to the chapel. Lady Holly, like the prickly evergreen bush. She’d barely met his eyes.
Well, she must grow accustomed to him, and he to her. If she thought him too bold and foreign, and his gaze too intent, there was nothing to be done but to resign herself to it. He was the Laird Cochrane, after all, and his men looked to him for strength.
As they stood before the cleric, exchanging vows in English and Gaelic, the lady held herself very still, but he could see her occasional shudders. He admired her for trying to hide them, and for holding back the flow of her tears. She lifted her gaze occasionally to his hair, which he’d trimmed and braided just for this occasion, and she also stared at the front of his plaid, neatly pleated over his heart, spanning his chest. He’d brought some plaids for her in his trunk, which had already been deposited in the tower room where he’d bed the lass tonight.
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