Scottish Brides Page 28

  Silence, while she looked up at him and framed her question.

  “Would you show me Glenlyon?” she finally asked, reaching out to touch his arm with a trembling hand. The request was rash, perhaps, but patience had been burned away by her earlier anger and her present grief. That, and a longing she should not have had, yet could not help but feel. She wanted to see his home, the land he called his. She wanted to see the place she’d dreamed of for two whole nights, and wished for even before that. She wanted, too, with a true feeling of wickedness, for him to kiss her.

  “Show you?”

  He slowly stepped back, dropped his hands. She missed their presence, their warmth, the feeling his touch gave her.

  “The moon is no longer full, but it’s light enough to see, is it not?”

  He nodded.

  “And your horse is strong enough to bear the burden of another rider.”

  He smiled. “As well you know. Do you wish to study the color of the curtains, then?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “Only to see it. Is it far?”

  “An hour, no more, of fast riding.”

  His fingers reached out and touched her face again, brushed back her hair, tucked it behind her ear. It was a gesture of intimacy, one of gentleness. She should have been shocked at it, if not offended. But she turned her head so that her cheek cradled his palm, held herself still in that moment when she heard his indrawn breath.

  “I owe you a bit of excitement, don’t I, lass? For the bore-dom of stealing cows. You want to see my home?”

  She looked up at him, defenseless in that instant of truth. “With all my heart,” she said. For a few hours, to be home in Scotland. To be someone she’d not been for seven years. “If we left when the night was young, could we not return before dawn?”

  “There’s naught to see at night, Ealasaid.”

  “Then you will have to describe the scenery to me,” she said. “Or I can close my eyes and envision it myself.”

  “We could do that now, could we not? If you close your eyes, I’ll tell you about Glenlyon.”

  “Please take me there, Lachlan. You may sling me over your saddle if you wish, and I’ll pretend to be booty from your raids.”

  He tapped his finger on the tip of her nose. “You’d soften a stone with such pleading, lass. I’ve but a warning for you: there’s more hardship than beauty about my land.”

  “I know that well, Lachlan. I need to see it. Will you take me?”

  “Yes, lass, I will. Tomorrow.”

  A feeling he could not identify seemed lodged in his chest. He could not help but grin broadly all the way home. For the first time since he’d known Coinneach MacAuley, he blessed the seer.

  His journey was interspersed by a chuckle from time to time. It was happiness; that’s what it was. He felt as if all the hardships he’d undergone in the past few years were for a reason, the better to understand the fortune of his future.

  She wanted to see his home. She yearned for a sight of Glenlyon. No typical English miss, this. Even her voice was different, acquiring a richness to it. Or maybe that was simply wishful thinking. He felt like a boy again, adrift in memories of the woman he’d left behind him.

  Oh, lass, if you only knew. It’s more than a sight of my home I’ve a longing to give you. He grinned again and leaned into the wind.

  Eight

  Not even Harriet could spoil her mood. Nor could Jeremy, although today he seemed even more attentive than usual. The day also seemed to cooperate, not passing with that aching slowness as it was wont to, but sliding from morning to night with gratifying speed. One thought seemed to accentuate its passage. I am going to Glenlyon. I am going to Glenlyon.

  She sat through their evening meal with patience, her mind not on the lecture being delivered by Harriet nor on the long looks from Jeremy, but on the night ahead. She wished she had something daring to wear, something to echo her heart’s wish. Something red, perhaps, or startling green. Something blue, to match the sky’s tint, or even yellow to act as a harbinger of day. But she’d only her serviceable browns and blacks, and a shawl of ivory that had once been Harriet’s. It would have to be enough for this grand adventure.

  But she could wish, could she not? Or hope that her hair would behave just this once? An impossibility, it seemed, but even that fact could not destroy her happiness.

  Time ticked by on slow, ponderous feet as she waited for the household to quiet. She stood at her door, her hand pressed against the wood of it, heard the ringing of Mrs. Hanson’s bell as she summoned her maidservant to her. Harriet’s voice came in response to some remark from Jeremy; a murmur from a servant answered someone’s question. Then the night seemed to enfold them, pressing down to silence the entire world.

  Everything but the beat of her heart.

  She waited an hour more, then sped from the house, her leather slippers flying across the night-shaded grass. She did not realize she had passed him until Lachlan’s hand reached out and caught her arm, propelling her into his embrace so forcefully that they both landed hard against the trunk of a tree.

  “It’s eager you are, lass?”

  His chuckle warmed her heart, banished any errant thought cautioning her that such actions were improvident and risky. Instead, she looked up at his shadowed face, felt for the edge of his smile with her fingers, and knew herself to be more welcomed here than in any place she’d been these last seven years.

  “Aye, Lachlan,” she teased. “I am.”

  “Then the night awaits, my border lass.” He pulled her to where he’d tied his horse and helped her mount behind him.

  Glenlyon Castle was a mammoth black shadow that guarded a series of valleys and a small loch. A torch here and there marked its boundaries, seemed to accentuate its size. Lachlan called out a greeting, and they rode through a narrow gate and into the courtyard. The sounds of fiddles and flutes colored the air, as did the laughter of those gathered there.

  He reached up his hands to help Janet dismount. A faint smile played on her lips; her eyes held questions as she looked about her. The courtyard was crowded with people, and the rich smiles of his clan masked the poverty of his home. There were few things of beauty left at Glenlyon, but there was the castle itself, an old, imposing fortress that loomed gray on the horizon.

  “They’ve been told you were coming,” he explained. “And they play for your arrival.”

  Her face seemed to bloom at the idea of that. Her smile became one of true happiness; her cheeks turned pink. She was such a surprise, his Ealasaid. One moment daring, the next almost shy.

  He bent his elbow, placed her hand on the bend of his arm, and escorted her into the Great Hall. While it was true that the castle had seen better days, there was none to say a Sinclair could not make a party when the occasion warranted it. At their entrance, the fiddles came to a stop, and a signal to the flute player called forth a trilling note that faded into the distance.

  He turned to her, his words silenced by the sight of her. One candle had not done her justice. There was true red in her hair, and her eyes were the blue of Scotland’s skies. Her skin was pale but enlivened by the blush that seemed to grow as he watched. She was not a tiny woman; her chin would rest upon his shoulder. Her lips were full and seemed to beckon a kiss. Would he shock or please his clan if he bestowed one upon them here and now?

  Before he could question the propriety of doing so, he bent his head and kissed her. He heard the collective mutterings of his clan, the sound of approval, a masculine laugh—then nothing more as he seemed to spiral down into the kiss. He had wished for a taste of her and instead had become enchanted.

  He pulled away, wondering if the ceiling tilted or if it was only him. Nor did Ealasaid seem immune to the power of that kiss. Her fingers pressed against her lips; her eyes were wide, but not shocked. Wondering, perhaps, but not horrified. He smiled, thinking that they were a pair, indeed. One of them too knowing, yet feeling acutely naïve at this moment. The other, truly innoce
nt, but with the aplomb of a born enchantress. Hardly fair, but decidedly interesting.

  Instead of introducing her, which would have caused no end of interruptions that he did not want to tolerate at this moment, he walked with her to the middle of the room, then signaled to the fiddlers to begin a reel.

  She shook her head vigorously and would not take his hand.

  “What is it, Ealasaid?”

  “It’s been forever since I danced, Lachlan, and in truth, I’ve no skill at it.” Her voice was a husky whisper that seemed tied to his loins somehow. Had she always sounded so alluring, or had her effect upon him tripled with their kiss? If that were the case, he doubted the ride back to her home would be as uneventful as the journey here. He would have to stop at least three or four times to kiss her again.

  “I doubt that, lass. You seem light on your feet. Shall we not try it?”

  “Must we?” She looked around at the crowd eagerly watching the two of them, then sent a helpless look in his direction.

  “I’m afraid we must,” he said.

  Five minutes later, he wanted to laugh but refrained from doing so in case it hurt her feelings. Ealasaid had not lied, nor had she exaggerated in order to solicit a compliment. He held her hand and showed her where to turn, the reel being danced in a lively fashion with no regard to steps. But even so, she stepped on his feet twice and stumbled upon her own on one occasion at least. With each aching moment, her flush seemed to accentuate, and her discomfort become even more unbearable.

  Finally, the dance was over. He pulled her into his arms and without regard to those who crowded around them, kissed her again. It was neither to make her feel better or to take her mind from the disaster of her dancing. It was that he could not bear another few moments to pass without tasting her again. Strange, how the thought of a month had seemed too quick, and now seemed eons away.

  “You cannot sing, either, can you, Ealasaid?” he asked with a smile. The words of the prophecy came back to him. She’ll be claw-footed and have a voice like a banshee, but she’ll save the clan Sinclair.

  She shook her head.

  He leaned his forehead against hers and smiled. “Still and all, there are other things to wish for in a woman.”

  Her face bloomed with color again, a fact that made his smile grow larger. It was a strange thing, but he felt like laughing at this moment, or holding her in the air and twirling with her.

  He nodded to Coinneach MacAuley, who looked pleased with himself. As well he might, Lachlan thought. So far, every one of his prophecies had come true. But there were things Coinneach had never mentioned. He had never said, for example, that the Glenlyon Bride would be a lovely woman with a laugh that made Lachlan smile, that she would have a voice that was as soft as raindrops, and that her form and her walk would give him dreams.

  He twirled her into another reel, uncaring that his feet were at her mercy or that she cringed each time she took a wrong step. Some things were important. Others were not.

  He could always teach Ealasaid to dance, but no one could incite a woman to be charming or to lure him to her through miles of darkness. He estimated that he’d had less than three hours of sleep in each of the past few nights, yet he felt more enlivened than at any other time in his life. Why was that? The very same reason the ceiling tilted, he suspected.

  Nine

  Lachlan whirled her in such a tight circle that the room spun, but she didn’t care. Even if she had been standing still, the world would be rocking. Her heart was beating almost too loud to hear her thoughts; her stomach rolled in glorious wonder.

  He had kissed her, and that alone was shocking enough. But to do so in full view of the clan was a momentous thing. At least, she thought it was. There were so many rituals and customs of her country that she’d never learned; the last seven years felt as if they had been stolen from her. But discounting the significance of it, the kiss had been momentous enough. Her first, and with such a man as Lachlan Sinclair. But then, to say such a thing to her. Was she awake? Or was this just one of her Dover’s Powder dreams? Please don’t let it be a dream. Please.

  The dance was finally and blessedly ended. Lachlan led her to the corner, deliberately faced away from the center of the room—a repudiation or a warning to others to keep clear. It seemed a strange thing to do, until he slowly walked her back against the wall, grinning at her the whole time. He might not wish to indulge in thievery, but in all other ways he was a rogue. She knew it by the sparkle in his brown eyes, by the way his lips turned up at the corner. The last thought she had for several moments was that he should not look so self-assured.

  When he raised his head, she sighed, and kept her eyes closed. Surely something so wickedly fine should be outlawed. Lachlan kissed very well. Even in her innocence, she could recognize talent. A kiss from Lachlan Sinclair was almost as strong as the spirits her father had made in Tarlogie.

  The man who stepped between them smelled of peat smoke. His hair was long and white, and he carried a staff nearly the equal of his height, gripped in one hand. A long cloak covered his trousers and frayed shirt, and his boots were no more than flapping pieces of leather, laced together.

  His bright blue eyes stared at her; his mouth quirked beneath his beard. Janet had the oddest feeling that he was laughing at some hidden jest that had her at its center. She frowned in response, which seemed to only amuse him further.

  He turned to Lachlan. “So, lad, you’ve softened, then.”

  It was a question that demanded an honest answer.

  “Aye,” Lachlan said, smiling.

  “You’ll promise, then?”

  Lachlan studied the old man in the silence. The room seemed to have stilled, as if waiting for something. He knew only too well what the clan anticipated: his acceptance of a marriage, but not just an English union. That would take place in its time. They wanted to see a Scots wedding, one here and now, amidst the music and the laughter.

  He looked down at Ealasaid. There were many sacrifices he’d make for his clan, but he was truly blessed in the knowledge that this was not one of them. She was his own true love.

  He smiled broadly. “You’re a schemer, old man, but I’ll concede to you this victory.”

  “It is not mine, lad,” Coinneach said. “It’s ordained by Fate.”

  Lachlan stepped aside, reached for Janet’s hand and held it solemnly between the two of his. He smiled down into her eyes. “I’ll be yours, lass, if you’ll have me. This I promise.”

  Janet stared up at him, bemused, then over at the old man who seemed as happy as a proud father at this occasion. She nodded, and the room erupted in cheering and laughter.

  One moment, she was approaching there holding Lachlan’s hand; the next, she was being pushed from person to person, her cheeks being kissed heartily. Once she was pinched; another time, enfolded in the arms of an old woman who was nearly toothless. She was like a leaf in a stream, incapable of doing more than being carried along. Words that she caught only pieces of seemed to float above her. A bheil thu toilichte—something about happiness. Mi sgith. Tired? It had been years since she’d spoken Gaelic. She was rusty with it, remembering only a few phrases, but she thought she could understand that much.

  As quickly as they had entered the hall, they were out of it again. Instead of mounting Lachlan’s tired horse, they slipped into the courtyard and down a path, barely illuminated by the torch mounted on the wall above them.

  “Lachlan?” She stopped in the middle of the path and waited until he turned. “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace where we can be alone, lass.”

  “You’re going to kiss me again, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I’ve thought of it. Have you any objections?”

  She turned away, frowned down into the darkness.

  “What is it, lass?” He returned to her. His finger traced a path from shoulder to bared elbow. She pulled her shawl down to cover her skin. He was so close that she could feel him breathe, his dark shi
rt moving against her back, his breath warm upon her neck. “I can’t think when you kiss me, you know,” she said softly, the words a confession. One that pleased him, if his soft chuckle was any indication.

  “It would be a pity if you could. It would mean I wasn’t doing it right.”

  “I think you do it very well indeed, Lachlan.” Her voice sounded cross.

  His laughter should not have been so charming. He turned her in his arms.

  She stared up into his face, darkened by shadows, lit by the faint sliver of moon. “Did you ask me to marry you, Lachlan?”

  “Not exactly, lass.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed. Are you?” He bent down and kissed the spot in front of her ear. It made her skin shiver. She leaned into him.

  “I’ve only known you for ten hours, Lachlan,” she mumbled.

  “You’ve counted it, have you?”

  She nodded.

  “Too soon for declarations and kisses, is that it, Eala said?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Have you always been so proper, lass? So English?” The question preceded another kiss. This one was even more potent than the ones they’d shared in the Great Hall. The top of her head felt as if it was lifting. She could almost see steam behind her eyelids. It drifted up toward the stars, taking all her bones with it. She blinked, slumped against Lachlan, and blinked again.

  The oddest sound penetrated the cloud that enveloped her. Plaintive and stirring, it seemed as if the earth itself had been given voice. She tilted her head and listened. It was a rough growl of unearthly beauty, raw and oddly sweet.

  “ ’Tis the pipes, Ealasaid.”

  She’d never heard the sound of bagpipes—they had been outlawed since before she was born—but sometimes she thought she might be able to imagine them, so pure and so true that the ache of them could be felt to her bones.