Lydia’s heart was full. Already, the incident with the pedlar seemed a long-distant nightmare. Unlike all of the other occasions when men had tried to kiss her, this time Lydia had not been dismissed. Quite the opposite, for the Laird had planted a facer on her assailant that had completely floored the man. Lydia was fiercely glad he had done so. In a small way, Alasdair had made up for all of the occasions when she had had no protector, no strength but her own wits, and no justice.
She harboured no further doubts about his regard for her and had tonight allowed him to see the love shining in her eyes. The dance with him was dreamlike, as though she were some other person—one who deserved happiness.
No sooner had the music ended than Iain and two other men came to claim him. It was time to accept the sword of Fergus Liath, they said. As he walked with them towards the stage, Lydia saw him stop and say something to Mrs MacLeod, who was still holding Mairead. Crouching down beside his daughter, he spoke to her for a moment and she replied. He kissed the girl’s cheek, then continued on towards the dais.
Hurrying, she made her way towards them. ‘Ah, there you are, Lydia.’ Mrs MacLeod was all smiles. ‘It was good to see you and the Laird dancing together. Now, you need to take Mairead up on to the stage, for she must be present when the sword is accepted.’
Lydia glanced at the stage and frowned. Two chairs were currently being placed at one side. ‘Should I leave her there by herself? Surely I should not be in a position of prominence?’
‘You may get used to it!’ Mrs MacLeod returned cryptically. ‘Yes, you will need to sit with the child.’
‘But—I am just the governess!’
‘Just the governess? Now wheesht, and quit being so foolish, my girl!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The sooner things are straightened out around here, the better. Now go!’
Lydia went. Carrying Mairead, and feeling decidedly nervous at the thought of so many eyes on her, she mounted the three steps at the side of the dais and walked directly to the chairs. After settling Mairead, she took the chair beside her, keeping her eyes downcast. Maybe people would ignore her if she did not look at them.
A cheer went up as Alasdair moved to the centre of the stage. Now Lydia did lift her head, enjoying the sight of her beloved Alasdair in full laird duty. His speech was wonderful, congratulating his Ardmore team mates, commiserating with Angus and their players, and speaking with fondness of Dòmhnall Mòr. He then called upon Angus to return the sword of Fergus Liath, as Ardmore had won the privilege of holding it during the coming year.
Angus mounted the dais, thanked Alasdair for his hospitality and vowed to win the sword back next year. He then unstrapped it from around his waist and handed it to Alasdair. Surprisingly, Lydia noted, it was not some beautiful, jewel-encrusted blade, but a simple unadorned weapon.
Of course it would be.
Another cheer went up as Alasdair held it aloft, then strapped it around his own waist. Iain served them both whisky and they raised their glasses to the crowd, shouting ‘Slàinte mhath!’ in unison.
Lydia, sensing the end of ceremonies, could only be grateful that she would soon return to the anonymity of the assembly below. The Laird, however, had other ideas. Gesturing to the crowd to hush, his expression turned serious. ‘You will all know,’ he said, ‘that our dear Mairead was a sickly child and was left weakened by illness more than two years ago.’ The hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck were standing to attention.
What is this?
He turned to look at his daughter, asking softly, ‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready, Papaidh,’ the child confirmed and Lydia’s heart began pounding. This, then, was what he had spoken to Mairead about on his way to the dais.
Deliberately, he walked to the far side of the stage, then waited. Mairead, seemingly suddenly nervous, glanced at Lydia.
‘You can do it, darling,’ she murmured and Mairead nodded.
Slowly, carefully, the girl stood, to gasps of astonishment from the crowd below. She paused for a moment, seemingly gathering her courage, then stepped out. Falteringly at first, then with increasing confidence, she traversed the entire width of the stage, collapsing into her father’s arms at the far side. By that point wild cheering had broken out and Lydia, looking at the people, saw tear-stained faces incredulous with joy.
‘This miracle,’ Alasdair continued once the noise had died down a little, ‘was wrought through hard work, dedication and secret practice. I am proud of my daughter and immensely grateful to the woman who has brought this about.’ He threw out an arm. ‘Miss Lydia Farnham!’
Every eye turned to her and she paused, blushing, in the act of drying her eyes. She sat, feeling dreadfully uncomfortable, yet at the same time wonderfully pleased, as the Ardmore people and visitors both hailed her. Pressing both hands to her cheeks, her throat closed with emotion, she met the Laird’s eye. He was, naturally, grinning delightedly. Mairead, suddenly overcome, was hiding her face in his side.
He was not yet done. Hushing the crowd once again, he quietly bade Mairead sit on the floor, then walked back to the centre of the stage. Strangely, he then turned his side to the crowd, facing Lydia instead. The look in his eyes took her breath away. In it she saw love and passion, and—was that determination?
‘Lydia.’ His voice was lower than it had been when he was addressing the people directly, yet firm enough that they would still hear him. A hush came over the crowd. Indeed, it seemed to Lydia as though the entire world held its breath. ‘When first you arrived at Ardmore, I could see that you are a beautiful woman.’ He gestured. ‘Indeed, we all could. But as the time went on and our friendship deepened, I saw your beautiful heart and your beautiful soul. You have become one of us and have worked hard to earn that acceptance, for we are a proud people, wary of strangers, yet ready to welcome new friends.’
Every word dropped into Lydia’s mind as though she were being showered in diamonds, in flowers, in sunshine. Never had she felt anything like this.
‘Mairead adores you,’ he continued and her gaze flickered to the child, who was smiling happily. ‘You are a mother to her in all but name.’
Someone in the crowd had had enough. ‘Enough with the pretty speeches, Alasdair. Ask the woman to marry you, for God’s sake!’ This earned a ripple of kindly laughter, as well as some commands to wheesht from the women.
Alasdair did not even acknowledge the interruption. ‘All of these are good reasons to ask you this question, but my true reason is much more simple.’ He took a breath. ‘I love you, Lydia. Will you be my wife?’
A roar went up from the men. Clearly they all assumed she would accept. Ignoring them—in fact, doing her best to ignore their extremely large audience—Lydia stood and walked towards him, aware that she was trembling. ‘You are drunk,’ she declared in English. This was not a moment to risk misunderstandings based on her current grasp of Gaelic. She had to be sure of his reasoning.
He grinned. ‘I really amn’t,’ he replied, also in English. ‘I promise you.’
She took another step towards him. ‘Then you are simply grateful that Mairead is well again.’
‘That is true—I am profoundly grateful. But it is not why I want you for my wife.’
‘Why then?’ Old doubts assailed her, for she did not dare hope. There were many pretty maidens in the assembly below. ‘Why me?’
His eyes stayed on hers. ‘There is only you, Lydia. I have not felt this way for any woman. Ever.’
Her eyes widened, then she swallowed, knowing she had only one more concern to voice. ‘But I am not from here.’
He smiled. ‘You are now. Only say yes and you will never have to leave.’
She paused, a million thoughts crashing around her mind. Bidding them all to silence, she allowed her heart to speak. ‘Yes. Yes, Alasdair, I shall marry you.’
With a bound he had reached her and his arms were around her, and his lips were on hers. Dimly, she heard the cheering and shouting from the crowd.
By mutual agreement, the kiss was brief. ‘We shall continue this later,’ he vowed and the heat in his expression made her heart pound with desire. ‘Lydia, mo ghaol.’
My love! She translated it instantly in her head, and could not prevent a happy smile from breaking through. ‘I love you, Alasdair.’
The next few weeks were the happiest of Lydia’s life. The banns were read, Eilidh worked on the wedding gown, and all the preparations began for the Laird’s wedding. Lydia gradually became accustomed to the congratulations and the heartfelt joy that the Ardmore people expressed. Not one made her feel less worthy because she had been a governess, or because she was Sassenach. In truth, they never had. Mrs MacLeod had already begun instructing her in the duties and responsibilities she would take on as Lady of Ardmore and had assured Lydia not to be nervous, because she would be always there to assist her and keep her right.
Alasdair and Lydia, now betrothed, were given more privacy and time alone together and they made the most of it. Lydia now truly understood how much he loved her and that, strangely, he felt just as lucky to have found her as she had with him. They came preciously close to anticipating their wedding vows on more than one occasion, but agreed together they would prefer to wait until their wedding night which, after all, was fast approaching. To ease his frustration, Alasdair made sure he kept himself busy with other projects. There were some days when he was gone for a long time and Lydia barely saw him. On those days, as well as being with Mairead, she would often take some quiet time for herself, to sit in her chamber or to walk on the moors and wonder at how perfect her life now was.
Finally, the day arrived. On a golden sunny morning in August, the Much Honoured Alexander MacDonald, Laird of Ardmore, known as Alasdair, married Miss Lydia Farnham. The bride wore a silk and lace gown fashioned by her personal maid, Eilidh, and the groom wore his ceremonial Highland dress, the sword of Fergus Liath slung by his side. The Laird’s daughter, Mairead, walked all the way from the back of the church to the front, attending the bride, and afterwards she danced for the first time in the Great Hall at Ardmore Castle.
At a certain stage in the proceedings, the bride and groom slipped away. Alasdair bade Lydia don her stout new boots and a cloak, and asked her to walk with him outside the courtyard. She did so happily and slipped her hand into his as they passed through the castle gates. They talked as they walked, stopping to kiss occasionally, and reviewed their perfect wedding day. How well it had all gone! How happy Mairead had seemed! How genuine the good wishes of the community—including the Laird’s cousins, Angus and Eilidh Ruadh. Alasdair had teased Angus about the fact that he was now twice married, while Angus himself, who was of a similar age, was yet to take a bride. Angus, grimacing ruefully, had promised to give the matter his attention.
Lydia had smiled along with this, feeling secure in Alasdair’s love for her. He had been honest with her about his first marriage and she had felt pity for both his younger self and for Hester, who had made each other so unhappy.
After a time it dawned on her that they were still walking and Alasdair seemed to have no intention of returning to the castle. Thoughts of her wedding night uppermost in her mind, she tentatively enquired as to their destination.
‘Wait and see,’ was all he would say, distracting her with yet another heady kiss.
To their left, the sun was setting, sending gold and pink and purple tones rippling through the heavens. Spectacular sunsets were not uncommon in the Hebrides, yet Lydia could not help but feel that this one belonged only to them. Above, the sky was paling, the pale blue of day giving way to dubh-ghorm—the black-blue coolness of night. Ahead of them—
‘It is the sheiling!’ she exclaimed, working it out in an instant. ‘Are we to sleep on the settle again tonight?’
His grin was answer enough, and by the time Venus the Evening Star had appeared in the western sky, they had reached the sheiling. ‘Give me a moment,’ he murmured, dropping her hand and striding ahead to the door. She waited, a minute later seeing the glow of candlelight through the tiny windows and hearing the crackle of twigs catching alight in the fireplace. He returned, and wordlessly held the door open for her. She stepped inside—into a wonderland.
The sheiling had been transformed. It was spotlessly clean for a start, the glow of candlelight revealing freshly whitewashed walls and a neatly finished roof. The space was dominated by a large bed dressed with crisp sheets, plump pillows, and warm blankets. The glow of firelight and candlelight also revealed a tiny table and two stools in the other corner, the table set with supper—including a flagon of whisky and two beautiful crystal glasses. There was even a small mirror on the shelf and her very own hairbrush beside it. Alasdair had thought of everything.
‘Oh!’ Finding words inadequate, Lydia simply turned to Alasdair and embraced him. ‘I love you,’ she murmured against his lips.
‘My love!’ he replied, then again in Gaelic, ‘Mo ghaol! Lady of Ardmore, lady of my heart.’
And as the kiss deepened, Lydia knew that she was finally home.
Look out for the next book in Catherine Tinley’s Lairds of the Isles miniseries
coming soon!
And while you’re waiting for the next book why not check out her other miniseries
The Ladies of Ledbury House?
The Earl’s Runaway Governess
Rags-to-Riches Wife
Captivating the Cynical Earl
‘A Midnight Mistletoe Kiss’ (in Christmas Cinderellas)