Two weeks later, Geddes stood helpless as Rosalyn explained where she wanted to be married. “In the garden? You want to have the ceremony in the garden?” Geddes was nearly beside himself. He had run nervous, frustrated fingers through his hair so many times that it stood on end, reminding Rosalyn of the stubs of dried wheat left in the fields.
“What could be more perfect?” Rosalyn let Annie sweep her hair up into a swirl of curls on top of her head. “It’s a beautiful April day, the sun is shining, and my flowers are blooming. And, as the islanders say, He Breeah.”
Geddes was incredulous. “A good day? You think it’s a good day?”
“It’s a splendid day, Geddes.”
“But…but…but…”
Rosalyn gazed at his reflection in the mirror and gave him a gentle smile. “You worry too much. And what’s the harm?”
“It’s just never been done, Rosalyn. I’ve never heard of anyone getting married outside.”
“But it’s my wedding, brother. The chapel is cold and damp. I’d feel like I was being entombed.” And she did, every time she entered the room. It had never felt all that religious to her—religion was outdoors, where God did His handiwork.
Geddes suddenly seemed calm. His features softened and his eyes warmed as he looked at her. “Why had I even thought to argue with you?”
She smiled, keeping her own demons at bay. “I have no idea. You’ve had a lifetime to learn not to.”
He bent and kissed her cheek. “May I say that you look especially beautiful today?”
“You may, dear brother. Now, what time is Vicar Fleming to arrive?”
“In exactly two hours.”
Rosalyn’s stomach suddenly filled with dandelion fluff. “Then be gone so Annie can make me acceptable for my new husband.”
Geddes kissed her again and then left the room.
Rosalyn expelled a long, quiet sigh and sagged against the back of the chair. It had been an act for his benefit, this attempt at courage and nonchalance.
Annie fussed with her hair. “Ye look beautiful, mistress. Your gown is fit for a queen.”
Aye, Rosalyn thought, although it wasn’t a gown. It was a long skirt with a train, all of which was heavy, hand-loomed, ivory cotton. The blouse was an off-the-shoulder ivory silk with handmade lace and brown silk ribbon running through it. Some might whisper that she should be in white, as that was the preferred color for brides ever since Queen Victoria married Prince Albert, but Rosalyn didn’t care. She had worn white at her first wedding; perhaps another color would bring her better luck the second time around.
On the surface, she appeared to be a willing bride. Underneath, she was still reluctant. And who could blame her? Even though the duke had sworn on the Bible that all he had told her was true, she kept wondering if there were other surprises waiting for her once they were wed.
“There.” Annie stepped back, pleased with herself. Suddenly, she gasped.
Rosalyn’s stomach dropped. “What? What is it, Annie?”
Annie grinned at her in the mirror, picked something off her dress, and showed it to her.
“A spider? You found a spider on my dress and you’re grinning at me?”
“Aye. ’Tis for luck. Me auntie were a maid for a London lady, and she told me it’s good luck for a bride to find a spider on her wedding dress.”
Well, thought Rosalyn, who knew? At least it was a good omen.
She studied her hair, noting the sprig of white heather that Annie had fastened to the top of her web of curls. “Isn’t the heather supposed to be in my bouquet?”
“Yes, mistress; I’ve made certain there is one there, too.”
“You want to double my good luck, is that it?”
Annie’s eyes misted over. “You’ve been the finest of ladies to both me and me sis, ma’am. We want all of your troubles to be little ones.”
Rosalyn’s attitude toward the gossipy Annie had softened over the past few weeks. The girl had become her shadow. “Is everything ready for the reception?”
“Aye, Marvella and Ellie have been cooking and baking without a break. Ellie didn’t come to bed until nigh onto three this morning, and I’m not sure Marvella came to bed at all.”
“They must be exhausted.” Rosalyn felt a deep twinge of guilt for being the cause of so much ado, but it was useless to argue. She had noticed that the kitchen was abuzz all day; some village wives, those who were noted for their excellent culinary skills, were still stirring up aromatic wonders.
“We are your servants, mistress, and we are so happy you’re marrying the duke.” She was quiet a moment and then said, “Last eve I saw him outside roughhousing with one of the dogs. Every so often he stopped and glanced up at your window.”
Rosalyn’s heart took a leap into her throat. “He was looking up here?”
“Aye, ’twas as if he wanted a glimpse of you, like he was anxious for the morn so he could wed you.”
“You’re too romantic by half, Annie. You know as well as I do that this marriage is no love match.”
Annie straightened Rosalyn’s bedchamber, fluffing pillows and dusting tables with the corner of her apron. “It don’t matter, mistress. When he sees ye all dressed up fine he’ll fall in love with ye.”
Rosalyn shook her head at Annie’s foolishness, but once again, in her secret heart of hearts, she longed for a marriage that would give her what she’d never had before.
• • •
Vicar Fleming, a young widower who was valiantly trying to raise lively and rambunctious twin daughters, stood on the narrow cobbled path that wended its way through the garden, and smiled, inhaling deeply as he did so.
“This is the day the Lord has made, and He could not have made a finer one.”
Rosalyn stood beside the duke, hoping the swift beating of her heart didn’t attract his attention. She had taken Geddes’s arm as she descended the steps, trying not to grip it too tightly as she pressed it to her side. The first person she saw was the duke, and from that moment on, she had seen no one else. They could have been alone or they could have been on a crowded Edinburgh street; she saw only him.
He wore a kilt of the MacNeil plaid, the overlapping flap held in place with a shiny gold brooch. She had come to admire his physique, believing that no man had ever looked as grand in a kilt as he did. He had cut his hair, although it still hung to his shoulders, and when the sun gleamed off it, there were hints of burgundy fire. He looked as if he’d just stepped from a painting, one that encompassed the Scots savage past and the beautiful pageantry of the present.
Vicar Fleming’s voice broke into her reverie. Vows were spoken. A rather platonic kiss followed. She was once again a wife.
When the duke strode toward the celebration site, Rosalyn ducked into the castle to grab a few quiet moments before the festivities started. Fen met her in the foyer.
“You look absolutely radiant.”
Rosalyn attempted a smile. “I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin.”
“I saw that he kissed you.”
A rather unfeminine snort escaped. “It wasn’t a kiss. It was a friendly peck on the mouth.”
“Were you expecting him to bend you over his arm and really plant one on you?”
Rosalyn shivered at the thought. “I don’t know what I expected. He continues to catch me off guard, slowly becoming someone I could actually care for.”
Fen took Rosalyn’s hands between her own and squeezed them. “Then don’t fight it, my friend, don’t fight that feeling.”
Geddes rushed into the foyer, stopping when he saw the women. “Rosalyn, you should be outside, sitting next to the duke, welcoming the guests.” He tossed Fen an accusatory glance.
“She’s a lovely bride, don’t you think, Geddes?”
He didn’t take his eyes off Fen. “I imagine when you got married, you wore your trousers.”
Fen’s gaze narrowed. “No, I did not. There was a war on, and I barely had time to comb my hair, but I did wear my nurse’s uniform, which, unfortunately, was spattered with someone else’s blood.”
Color crept up Geddes’s neck into his cheeks. “Please, Rosalyn, the duke is waiting.”
After he left, Rosalyn turned to Fen, her expression sad. “You two fight like enemies.”
“Nay,” Fen answered. “We’re just adversaries. I don’t think it’s because we can’t stand each other. I rather enjoy sparring with him, if you want the truth.”
A spark of hope in a day filled with worry.
• • •
As neighbors toasted the newlyweds, Fletcher had heard more Lang may your lum reeks than any other toast. He learned that it meant “May there always be a fire in your fireplace.”
As quaint as that sounded, he suspected that after numerous draughts of ale and whisky, many of the men gave the toast a double meaning, for they all laughed and nudged one another.
He and Rosalyn stayed at the celebration until all who came could wish them well. An hour before the sun disappeared behind the gauzy sea haze, Rosalyn met his gaze, quickly looked away, then announced that she was going to retire.
Now, Fletcher stood near the stable and smoked a cigar, watching the villagers celebrate. All afternoon there had been dancing: four reels, Mairi’s Wedding, and various jigs. It was evident that a wedding was just an excuse for the people to make merry, but then, in that respect they weren’t any different from Texans. Even old Barnaby had performed, doing an agile jig that Fletcher would not have thought possible, considering the decrepit nature of the old valet.
Ah, but he was avoiding the real issue of why he was standing outside, rather than hustling his new bride to their bridal chamber. He had no idea how to proceed.
And wasn’t that comical? Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, who had seduced saloon girls and trollops, housewives and maidens, didn’t know how to approach the only woman who now mattered. His wife.
As she had walked toward him on Geddes’s arm earlier in the day, her hair wreathed in heather and her gown shimmering around her, he had felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful; that was almost a given. He had found her comely from the beginning. It was the look in her eyes that had hit him like a blow.
• • •
Rosalyn stepped to the window and drew back the curtain just enough so she could watch her new husband. He appeared as uncertain about this entire escapade as she was, smoking and pacing.
Angry with her musings, she swung away from the window and crossed to her dressing table. The fact that she was now a titled woman should have given her some pleasure. It did not. As far as she was concerned, the title meant as little as the marriage that had granted it to her.
She glanced at her reflection, eyeing her own figure in her nightgown with the tucks that extended down the front and the back and the handmade eyelet lace she had stitched on the cuffs and placket. It was her finest nightgown, and it was soft and comfortable, but at this moment it could just as well have been a hair shirt, for her discomfort went that deep.
The lord savage stood just inside her door, tall, dark, and dangerous. He crossed his arms over his wide chest and leaned casually against the doorjamb, studying her.
“I didn’t hear you knock.” She touched her lace collar and discovered the pulse at her throat pounding. She felt alive, raw, aching with a new wonderment.
“That’s because I didn’t.” He stepped into the room and closed the door.
Before he got too close, she said, “We will not share bedrooms.”
He crossed the room, stopping just behind her. “We won’t?”
She tried to laugh. “Of course not. It isn’t as though this were a real marriage.”
“The ceremony was real enough.”
She caught his gaze, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable and nervous. “You know what I mean.”
He chuckled, the sound like silk on her bare skin. “Oh, I know what you mean. But if we are to produce the required heir, Rosalyn, we must spend at least a minimal amount of time alone together.”
She straightened and picked up her brush, gripping it tightly as she ran it through her hair. “Perhaps I’m already pregnant.”
He took the brush from her and continued the task, sending frissons of shock through her. “Maybe you are, but if you aren’t, your return to celibacy will only drag this marriage out.”
“My return to celibacy? What about you? Do you intend to bed every available wench on the island if I don’t submit?”
One corner of his mouth turned upward. “Would you care if I did?”
She crossed her arms and stared at him in the mirror. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she wouldn’t care one whit, until she saw the look on his face. For the moment, his roguish air was gone. His cavalier attitude didn’t exist.
She considered carefully how to respond. “Whether this marriage is an emotional fraud or not, it is still a marriage. It binds us together for a specific purpose. If it were not for that purpose, we wouldn’t be in this room, talking about it. But it’s still a marriage, and yes, I would care if you went out and satisfied yourself with every trollop on the island.”
“Because of how it would make you look?”
She glanced away, her discomfort palpable. “In part, I suppose.”
He ran a finger along her cheek. For some odd reason, her nipples pebbled.
“For what other reason, Rosalyn?”
“Because it is still a marriage.”
“Does this have anything to do with your first foray into wedded bliss?” he asked.
She turned on him swiftly. “It has nothing to do with Leod, if that’s what you mean.”
His gaze narrowed. “Was Leod not a faithful husband?”
She laughed in spite of herself. “I cannot and will not begin to tell you what Leod was or was not, Your Grace. To speak of him at all will only make this day worse. Suffice it to say that whatever this marriage becomes, it will undoubtedly surpass my first one in every conceivable way, and I won’t necessarily even have to like you very much to achieve that.”
He pulled her up from the dressing table and drew her close to him. “Then we had better set down some rules, wife, if this marriage is to achieve its one main goal.”
Her fingers fluttered nervously over the neck of her nightgown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he began, “I will want access to your body at all times.”
“You what?” Her eyes grew big and her heart drummed erratically. He spoke so casually one would have thought he was speaking about accessing the pantry or the root cellar.
“I’m sure you’ll agree, Rosalyn, that the quicker you become pregnant, the sooner we can stop dancing around one another so cautiously.”
She stood in the circle of his arms, fighting the urge to lean into him, fighting the need to feel satisfied once again. “Surely you don’t mean that whenever you want me, I must submit, no matter the time of day.”
“That’s exactly what I mean, Rosalyn.”
Frantically, she said, “I must have one day. I must have one day to call my own. A day that you cannot touch me, a day that will be mine to do what I wish without wondering when you’ll stalk me.”
He tipped her chin up so she was gazing into his dark eyes. She saw humor there, a hint of merriment, and it annoyed her.
“Considering what we’ve had together, I would think you’d be more receptive.”
“We’ve had nothing together.”
“Was it so terrible, Rosalyn? Was it so unpleasant?”
“It was an accident. But for the circumstances, it would never have happened.”
“But it did happen, Rosalyn.”
His fingers grazed her cheek, the gentleness throwing her off balance. “I still need a day to myself.”
“I can live with that. What day do you wish to escape me?”
She swallowed; she couldn’t deal with this today. “Sunday. Every Sunday you will not touch me from midnight to midnight.”
“Today is Sunday,” he reminded her.
She gave him a triumphant smile. “I know.”
He smiled too, but she wasn’t certain she liked the dare behind it. “Then I’ll leave you, ma’am. Good night.”
After he’d gone, she couldn’t explain the feeling that came over her. She should have been happy to have outsmarted him. But had she? In truth, her free day was almost over. She could expect him to return at the stroke of midnight, and she wasn’t ready. Or was she? By the holy, she was becoming a mess of nerves, and this folly of a marriage had just begun.
• • •
She didn’t sleep; she kept waiting for his footsteps. Once the clock had struck midnight, she had been certain he would barge in on her and expect her to submit to him. When he didn’t, the reasons why kept her from falling asleep.
She had even gotten up, lit a candle, gone into the hallway, and crept toward his room. She had stood outside his door briefly, but of course it was not like the first time, when he’d cried out and she had gone in all innocence because she’d thought he was in pain.
In the end, she had returned to her room, blown out the candle, and crawled back into bed, wide awake, nervous as a caged wild bird, anxious for morning.
Now, in the gray light of dawn, she struggled from her bed, stiff, sleepy, and irritable. In truth, she had expected him to come. She had waited for him. She would have submitted. She might even have enjoyed it.
Who was she kidding? She had wanted him to come. She had lain there, imagining the moment, wondering how she would respond when she saw him standing beside the bed. Dampness had gathered between her legs as she had envisioned him there, warm and naked. She had remembered his manhood well. Thick and strong, hot and hard, and she had impaled herself on it, feeling it press so deep inside her she had thought she might faint from the pleasure of it.
But to admit she wanted him was to submit, and that was very, very hard for her to do.
She had wondered if he would be a gentle lover. She thought he could be, but she also felt he could be rough and demanding. And what were they, anyway? Who set the standards for how people should act in the bedroom? Some pious, self-proclaimed virginal queen?
Although Rosalyn’s marriage to Leod had deteriorated into something dreadful before she had known what he was, she had been an enthusiastic partner.
Perhaps she would be again. Perhaps. In fact, in a way, her new husband’s savage past excited her in some insane, exasperating fashion.
She had been ready to shed her nightgown, if he had wished it. She had been waiting to touch his warm, brown skin, feel the scars, the bumps and indentations she had seen on him that first morning when he had arrived.
Perhaps she was not happy in her celibacy, but she had been content. At least until it was shattered by that one moment when she could stay celibate no longer.
And now, although she would admit it to no one, especially her husband, she wanted him. Her needs and desires had been awakened, and like a wakening beast, they were hungry to be fed.
But to admit this would be like opening herself to pain and heartache. She had done that once; she didn’t intend to do it again.
• • •
Fletcher had slept, eventually. He had gone downstairs to retrieve another bottle of whisky to replace the one he had drunk the week before, and as he came up the stairs he saw the flickering of a candle slanting shadows against the walls of the long hallway.
The indistinct silhouette of his wife appeared not far from the door to her bedroom. He took a few steps back to stay out of her sight.
She had stopped near his door, paused, and then turned and hurried back to her room, a wraith in her pristine white gown with her wheaten hair flowing down her back.
Even now, in the dim morning light, it made him smile. He had ignored her intentionally. He knew she expected him to return after midnight and claim his rights as her husband. He wanted her, yes, but he wanted her eager and willing, not reticent and unwilling. Her venture to his bedroom door was encouraging, but he didn’t think she was ready. Yet.
There were other thoughts on his mind as well. He loved riding and he had enjoyed getting familiar with the castle and the village. Although he’d been on Hedabarr only a short time, he already knew most of it well. He wasn’t one who could sit idly by and do nothing; he had worked for a living from the time he was a boy of ten. He was bored.
He desperately needed a project, something to throw himself into. Something besides the seduction of his reluctant bride, although that certainly could become a full-time and very pleasurable endeavor.
But he needed something else, something to make him feel useful. This life of ease wore thin.