Late Summer
“All may be seated,” the rector said as the bride and groom stood at the altar of the church, eyes only for each other.
Rowan Campbell was sitting in the second pew from the front and was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to reconfigure her dress in such a way that it was no longer sucking the very breath from her lungs. But try as she might, no matter how she wiggled, she couldn’t fix it. If anything, her fidgeting was only making her corset dig even more deeply into her ribs.
How do women wear these, day in and day out? she wondered, wishing she were back in her normal outfit of a wool skirt, shirt, and casaquin. It was perfect for roaming the forest and braes, allowing her to move freely, unlike the constricting bit of frippery she had on now.
“Stop moving,” her best friend, Blair MacManus, whispered to her. “Ye’ll attract attention.”
Rowan looked over and saw that Blair seemed far more comfortable than she in her finery, but then, that was often the case. Blair was the calm to Rowan’s storm and had always been so, ever seen since they first became friends as children. Blair had her mother’s quiet temperament. Mary MacManus was the area’s midwife and healer, and Rowan often thought that her soothing voice alone was palliative enough to help the area’s women through even the most harrowing of births.
Rowan turned back toward the altar and watched as her sister, Kirsty, recited something to her betrothed, Robert MacKenzie. He was laird to a large castle to the far north, and Kirsty would be traveling with him the next day to her new home.
Rowan’s father, Laird Fergus Campbell, had arranged the marriage, but in the time that Laird Robert had been traveling to Castle Morcoille to negotiate the terms of the marriage, Kirsty had fallen in love with him, or so she professed to anyone who would listen. Rowan was not among those people, of course. She had no time for love or marriage or for those who spent their days obsessing over it.
But she does look happy, Rowan reminded herself as her sister’s face erupted into a beatific smile. Laird Robert’s lips began to move, reciting the words that would bind them to each other forever.
“Laird Robert’s brother is quite handsome, is he nae? And I hear he is unmarried,” Blair muttered to Rowan sometime later, when the two were seated at one of the many tables in the castle’s banquet hall, surrounded on all sides by revelers celebrating the union.
Laird Robert’s family, including his brother Stuart, had traveled down with him to attend the wedding.
Rowan looked over to where Stuart MacKenzie was seated at a nearby table, making one of the village girls laugh prettily. His thick brown hair was tossed carelessly over one eye, and his smile was devilishly charming.
“He looks like a scoundrel to me, and besides, even if he were a saint, I would nae have him.”
Blair rolled her eyes. “Och, Rowan, are ye really so set on being alone for the rest of yer life? With no husband or children to take care of?”
“Aye. I’ll have a whole village of people to heal, and I’ll hunt when I can and sell what I catch. Donnae worry about me, Blair. I have a plan.”
“Sounds like a lonely plan to me, lassie,” Blair said, tipping her head in that way Rowan knew meant she was trying to reason with her.
But Rowan was not a woman easily reasoned with, and so she stood up from her seat and walked toward one of the tables laden with food.
The castle kitchens had outdone themselves that night; there were enough roasted pheasants to feed all of Scotland, as well as potatoes in every variation. It was a bowl of potatoes roasted in duck fat that caught Rowan’s eye, and she made her way toward it, stopping a moment on her way to listen as a group of musicians nearby began to tune their instruments, preparing for the ceilidh dancing that would soon occur.
But soon enough, her ravenous stomach pushed her toward the table, where the golden potatoes awaited her. Smiling to herself, for they were one of her favorite foods, she picked up the serving utensil and began to pile her plate high with the delicious morsels.
She was so involved in her task that she did not notice the presence at her side until it, or rather, he spoke.
“Are ye going to leave any roasties for the rest of us, or take them all yerself, lass? It would nae be fair, ye ken, for ye are treated to such delicacies every day of the week, while the rest of us must suffer through gruel.”
Rowan looked up and into the bright green eyes of Lachlan Stewart, a castle guard whose presence never failed to vex her. Lachlan was handsome, aye, but he was also frustrating, taking great pleasure in teasing Rowan at every opportunity. He teased her like a younger sister, yet sometimes, she could swear he looked at her in much the same way that Robert looked at Kirsty.
“I’ll take as many as I like, and ye can stop lying about the food yer served on a daily basis, which ye and I each ken is fit for a man far better than yerself,” Rowan said, punctuating her point with a final spoonful of potatoes, resulting in a tower that wobbled precariously on her plate.
“Aye, ‘tis true, lass, the food here is fine,” Lachlan said with a laugh.
“Donnae call me lass, Lachlan Stewart. ‘Tis the laird’s daughter I am. And prefer to be addressed as such,” Rowan bit back, her fingers tightening around her plate, turning her knuckles white.
“Aye, ye are the laird’s daughter. And yet sometimes,” he said, tapping his chin with a long finger, his eyes crinkled with mischief as he leaned close and whispered, “I would swear ye were closer to an animal than a woman, with the way ye act.”
He punctuated his joke by grabbing the serving spoon out of Rowan’s hand and helping himself to his own small mountain of the roasted, golden brown morsels, his eyes never leaving hers as he did so.
“At least I donnae look like an animal. If ye let that beard grow anymore, the farmers will mistake ye for a highland cow,” Rowan told him, reaching out and pulling on the beard covering his jaw. It was soft to the touch and warm, and Rowan snatched her hand back so suddenly she upset her balance, steadying herself with a hand to the table.
Lachlan squinted, and Rowan could see he was preparing a witty response, but she did not let him utter it. Instead, she walked away, the long skirt of her emerald-green velvet dress trailing behind her.
She exhaled slowly as she sat back down at the table, a small but victorious smile on her lips as she pulled her chair in and picked up a fork.
“What just happened there? Lachlan looks ready to spit fire, and yer wearing a grin like ye’ve stolen the last biscuit from the tin,” Blair said, her eyes darting between Rowan, who was placidly chewing potatoes, and Lachlan, who was now looking at them from his stance by the fireplace, where some of the other guards were jesting with each other as they enjoyed the free-flowing ale.
“Just Lachlan being a bampot. Nothing new,” Rowan said, shoving another large forkful of potatoes in her mouth and chewing. She kept her eyes trained on her plate, but she could feel Lachlan’s eyes still on her, his sharp green gaze tracking her like he was the hunter and she was prey.