My wife’s giant brother did not particularly care for me, but he did seem to appreciate a good whisky. Black had gone quiet over a glass of the old malt I pulled out in honour of my father’s restoration to life—even if technically Dundonnel and everything in the cellars belonged to my parents. (May they live forever and ever, amen.) Practically speaking, my father had no wish to usurp my clan position—he was to be the marquess, and I the laird.
Black’s fingers drummed against the table before he spoke. “I have been interested for some years in sourcing a good scotch for export. Might I ask where you had this?”
“It’s ours. We distilled it.”
Satisfaction flashed in his eyes—their colour the only discernible feature he shared with my decidedly not-giant wife. “I see.” The fingers resumed their drumming, but faster. “Is it for sale?”
“Oh, aye. Difficult to price it high enough to make a profit, what with the cost of getting it down the mountains. We end up keeping the best quality for ourselves.”
“I see,” my brother-in-law said, gaze distant. “And if I wished to buy a quantity…”
“We might be moved to sell it to ye.”
I was puzzled at his hedging until my father laughed and explained, “He is unsure how to ask if your operation is legal.”
“Truly, sir?” I expostulated, the picture of wounded dignity.
My brother-in-law’s red face was answer enough, and amused me to no end. The giant thought me a peat-reeker! As if we could not afford the ten pound fee to legitimise.
“What reason have ye to insult my honour in such a way?”
“As if you do not know,” he returned.
Ah, the gloves were off. Black had it wrong, however, in his estimation of my dastardly treatment of his sister. He should have been less concerned with whether or not I had truly married her—for I had—and more with the way I had dragooned her into it.
I had regrets over my methods, but if there was one thing ye could say about concussed Duncan—he did not dally.
My father chuckled and stood. To Black, he said, “You may come to find that there is honour among these Highland rogues. They have strong—if unusual—principles.”
He left the room on these words, and Black cleared his throat and apologised to me for any unintended insult.
“Oh, unintended, was it?” I asked.
He laughed, but only after a struggle with his willpower. Another trait he shared with his sister? “Good men,” he said, “can be tempted to dishonesty just as well as bad ones.”
Of course, even I knew he was not talking about taxes and whisky. “I do no’ suppose ye will take my word for it, but yer sister is safe with me.”
It was very odd to have those grey-blue eyes squinting at me from the wrong face, but eventually he said, “Perhaps I am inclined to believe you. Well, send for your excise man, then. I would see what you have available.”
The marriage solemnisation he was so insistent upon was but a few hours away, and I both wished for it to be here and then over, while also resenting the implications it raised. Certainly I understood my brother-in-law’s disappointment in the way everything had turned out. He had arrived too late to be needed, and that had to chafe. After the initial shock had worn off, I was as polite as I could be about the situation.
Did I enjoy slinking back to my rooms every morning like an erring knave? No, I did not. But tonight, my wife would be back where she belonged—in my bed. Or perhaps we would sneak away to the cottage for a few days, for if there was one thing I dearly wished for, it was to have her to myself. And did not a bridegroom deserve to be selfish?
I had no patience for visiting the whisky storeroom, or a prolonged discussion about it, but Black seemed disposed to haggle. I rushed him through the negotiations until, after giving me concessions I had not asked for, he single-handedly landed on terms which pleased him. He would buy every cask but two, which we would hold back for our own use, and in the next year, we would double our production, and the year after, triple it. We left a shaken bond man down in the vault, facing the immense task of assessing it all for taxation.
“Ye seem certain ye will be able to sell it,” I observed to Black, on the way back to the keep.
His answer was confident. “Wealthy Americans will pay a premium for quality glenlivet.”
While I suspected silver dollars danced in his head, I saw a different vision of the future—if he was right about the success of the venture. The scores of people we could employ! This could transform the clan finances, and all before having to touch my wife’s fortune, though she very sweetly wanted to pave the keep with gold.
We dodged a pair of men who carried a barrel down to the site of the bridal feast. The clan, and especially my mother, were being overly busy on the subject of the kirk wedding. The laird did not marry every day!
Nor could he. In my mind, and according to the laws of Scotland, there were certain states one could not inhabit by halves. One was either dead or alive. One was either married or not.
My companion’s head jerked up suddenly, and I followed his gaze to an upper window, but saw nothing aside from a fluttering curtain.
“Pray excuse me,” he muttered. “My wife…” And then, with a surprising amount of speed for someone of his size, he vanished.
All very well for him, I thought, annoyed. I stepped into the keep and made for the upper floor myself. Where was my wife?
I was so enraptured with the scheme of spiriting her away to the cottage that I had to sternly hold myself in check, for a sudden idea crept into my brain, and it was a most attractive one. What if I absconded with the bride before this superfluous ceremony?
The new leaf I had turned over begged me to discover my wife’s wishes on the subject before making any plans, for I had learned our ambitions were not always like. This same new leaf had prompted the compromise we had recently reached: that I would limit passionate kisses to rooms with doors that latched, for yesterday we had been interrupted by my mother in the portrait gallery, and Catherine had been red for an hour afterwards. It had apparently taken us some time to notice that we were not alone.
I was eager to find and ascertain my wife’s opinion, and lo and behold, coppery hair came suddenly around the corner, gleaming in the sunshine that poured into the high, narrow windows. She was resplendent in another of my mother’s gowns, the pale blue silk she had worn on that day when I could no longer resist taking her in my arms and kissing her. Truly, my restraint was heroic.
I caught her hands and smiled at her. She looked somewhat alarmed, and I could not help laughing. “What is it, lass?”
“You said you would not kiss me in the halls.”
“I am afraid I did say that.” My despondent sigh seemed to reassure her.
“I beg your pardon for doubting you. You had a very, ah—focussed look in your eye.”
“If ye will look so pretty, I am afraid that canno’ be helped.”
She blushed and dodged the compliment. “Your mother was looking for you.”
“I am certain she can wait,” I said. “Come with me.”
I led her to the cabinet room, and once the door closed behind us, she looked at me in such a way that I had to verbally assure her that I was still not going to kiss her.
She smiled. “No?”
“Well,” I said, nonplussed. I was certainly willing to negotiate. My heart panged in my chest as her glorious smile washed over me. I reminded myself, “I was needing to speak with ye.”
“This sounds serious.” She sat down and folded her hands primly in her lap—and she knew how propriety tormented me, for I had told her so several times! “The cabinet room. No kissing. What is it, my laird?”
“What did ye…?” I asked weakly. My heart thumped faster. Her laird? Och, yes. I knelt at her feet and snatched up her hands, kissing them as softly as I was able. Truly, I felt more inclined to nibble.
She laughed down at me, and with one hand that I reluctantly relinquished, slid her fingers through the hair at my temple. I sighed and immediately dropped my forehead onto her knee.
“You should be resting, you know,” she admonished. “Does it hurt?”
My head? “Only a bit.”
Her other hand slipped from my grasp and joined the first. I shuddered as little claws scraped across my scalp in a manner both soothing and… not.
“Cat-fiadhaich,” I muttered. “Ye slay me, lass.
“My poor little idiot,” she lovingly murmured.
“Little?” I asked pettishly, turning my head so she could reach the other side.
“Excuse me,” she amended. “My great, big idiot.”
That was much better. I looked up. “Do ye really wish to go through with this false kirk wedding? Does it no’ lend the appearance of impropriety? A hastily patched up affair?”
She peered into my eyes, a slight wrinkle between her brows. “Do you mind so much?”
“Ye do wish it,” I realised guiltily. ‘Twas a good thing I had asked instead of carrying her off beforehand.
“Well, the first one—I did not even—I think it would help me to feel truly married if we were to exchange vows again,” she admitted sheepishly.
“Lass, I would have been heartily glad to help ye feel married, any time these past weeks.”
I watched her lips purse and then quiver, but she only shook her head at me in disappointment. I was a beast for saying such a thing, especially when she had so kindly forgiven me for the trick I had served her. I treasured her laugh so much that I often forgot more gentlemanly considerations.
“I was thinking of abducting ye,” I confessed, “carrying ye off to my lair. Or are ye wishful of avoiding the cottage? Unpleasant memories?”
Her eyes lit up. “No,” she said softly. “I would like that very much.”
Reluctantly, I stood, and helped her to her feet. “Then it is settled, and I must make arrangements. Be ready to go, the very moment we are… solemnised, mind.”
Now she gaped at me. “But, Duncan! Your mother has gone to so much trouble over the wedding breakfast. And I know Anne and Juno are looking forward to dancing with you.”
“Och,” I mumbled. We did not call them wedding breakfasts in Scotland, but her meaning was perfectly clear. “So be it, then. But be ready to sneak away from the feasting, lass.”
She nodded. And tilted her lips up to me. I knew I ought to reward such wifely behaviour, but I did not feel capable of giving her a quick peck. I clamped my hand over her mouth and leaned forward.
“The next time I kiss these lips, they will have admitted before God and the world that they are married to me—that ye are mine, body and soul.”
Grey-blue eyes squinted back at me, half-provoked, half-amused, and not for the first time in my life, I wondered why I ever opened my mouth. Why did I always promise not to kiss her?
Her soft lips moved against my palm, and I removed my hand before I could get bitten.
“As you wish,” my wife said, mild as you please, and as if she had never contemplated biting someone in her life.
“Until later, then, madam.” I bowed and opened the door for her so I could run away, but a small hand on my lapel rooted me to the floor before I could make an escape.
“Stay, you have a…”
She stepped very close to me, smelling of heather and rose water and Catherine. My heart galloped in my chest as she lifted up on her toes and turned my jaw in her hands.
“Och,” she murmured teasingly, and her breath tickled my chin. Her lashes were down and she was thoroughly absorbed in what appeared to be my mouth.
“Lass,” I warned.
She brushed at the skin on the corner of my lips, leaning even closer. “How strange. Never mind. I thought I saw something.”
I groaned as she spun away, laughing.
“Witch,” I growled at her retreating back.
“Duncan!” my mother’s voice suddenly scolded.
There she stood, with her hands on her hips. I sighed, savouring the renewed, witchy laughter which still tinkled down the hall. My mother’s fussing, I ignored. “Ye really ought to stop sneak—never ye mind. I heard ye wanted to speak with me.”
“And I suppose you were coming straight to find me.” Her retort was acerbic, to an uncharacteristic degree, and I took the poor woman into my arms.
“No,” I confessed. “For my mother has lost her wits, and I am avoiding her as best I can.” She glared back at me, not amused, so I added, “Has my father mentioned that ye look mighty bonnie this morning?”
She turned faintly pink. “Wheesht, lad. I need you to see to the minister. He—”
“Aye. I will. ’Tis almost as if no one has ever got married afore, woman. Peace.”
She broke away and set her arms on her hips. “Ungrateful wretch. Since you are so at leisure, you may task a maid with keeping an eye on that Miss Rosings. She is a sly piece.”
My eyebrows flew up at this, for my mother tended to like bold women. “What has she done?”
“Oh, nothing,” she muttered. “Only, she has clearly thrown her handkerchief to the MacNab, and I would not put anything past her in achieving her ends.”
I shrugged. A determined wife might influence my old friend in a way that I had never managed. More than once over the years, we had exchanged words over his handling of his clan.
My mother deflated. “I would wish to see Lachlann settled, Duncan.”
“He can hardly go courting on two broken legs, but we will find him someone soon,” I promised. “Go have a glass of wine, Mother. I believe my father is in the library.”
She hastened away, and I wondered how I might ever grow used to saying such a thing—my father! In the library. How precious such innocuous words could become, when you thought you could never say them again. Then, too, I felt singularly blessed to have a wife whom I loved with the same fierce affection I had observed in my parents’ marriage.
As a lad I had likely taken such a thing for granted. Even my crusty old granddad had admitted to falling in love with his wife at a glance—in his impetuous youth. I had to learn for myself that the course of true love was not always so smooth, and was now determined that mo bhean should have no reason to repine.
In the hour before our sham wedding, I blithely prepared for our trip, and ruminated on my first glimpse of the woman who had so thoroughly stolen my heart. Her interview for the governess position had come at the end of a disappointing week: the bill I had been supporting was laid to rest, defeated; the girls had caught a cold, and Mrs. Bradley had been forced to dismiss a dishonest footman.
My London housekeeper and I had an excellent rapport, perhaps because of the lack of a Lady Thistledown. I dined at home as often as I could, in order to be with my daughters, and the majority of women I met were the wives of my political constituents. I was glad to avoid the society of eligible ladies; I could not stomach the thought of inviting a stranger into my very convoluted life.
But my daughters needed a governess, and Mrs. Bradley and I had devised a plan: my housekeeper would not mention or introduce me during the interview, so that I could remain in the background and form a truer impression of the lady’s nature. The last thing I wished to do was engage a woman who would be obsequious with a marquess, but dismissive of servants—or children.
When Miss Edwards walked into my book room with the housekeeper, I think I lost my mind. Immediately I was grateful for the chance to observe the serene Englishwoman instead of having to speak to her—how she managed to make mousy hair and a dark, worn gown so appealing was a mystery I could not begin to fathom. Just once, grey-blue eyes flicked curiously in my direction, and what do ye suppose I did? Smile? Nod? No. I had actually gasped for breath, as if pierced by an arrow, and looked away.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears and obscured any chance of hearing their conversation, but when I got a hold of myself enough to eavesdrop properly, Miss Edwards proved as well-spoken and educated as her references promised. Thus relieved of its one care, my mind immediately wandered to the question of how to dress the young lady in a manner more befitting her sweet looks. Yellow silk, maybe, or pale blue, to match her eyes.
Both of the ladies in the room would have been horrified at the turn of my thoughts. I may have pictured Miss Edwards almost exactly as she had looked in that field at the cottage, with her hair hanging around her, and a crown of flowers on her head. That she would appear thus at our own wedding—in Scotland—even I did not have the effrontery to imagine.
As soon as the neat little Miss Edwards left Thistledown House, Mrs. Bradley and I admitted that we liked her (but on my side, not quite how much). I casually proposed the amendment of the proffered salary to include a stipend for clothing. My housekeeper took it in good part, though the first number I mentioned had been met with scandalised laughter.
“Being a bachelor, m’lord, you could not know what it would cost to furnish a respectable governess’s wardrobe. You may leave that to me.”
On the contrary, I knew, perhaps better than most, the cost of women’s clothing, for I was in the habit of ordering and sending gowns regularly to my mother. But I had not considered the differences in their stations, and meekly accepted Mrs. Bradley’s suggestion. Then I had the dubious pleasure of seeing Miss Edwards arrive again—to stay—in much finer things. It appeased my sense of justice some, seeing the lovely, soft-spoken lady so gowned, but generally speaking, it had been foolish, for it was impossible to forget that she was clothed in things which I had paid for, and it increased the sympathy I imagined between us.
It had been amusing to learn later that Catrìona had not thought much of me at all. In fact, she thought I had been offended by what must have been her best gown; that I was so nice I did not want it in the vicinity of my children. This was false, of course, and she lightened their spirits immediately—even my grave Annie’s, who had been afraid of being sent away to school.
I soon found myself springing out of bed in the mornings. How might Miss Edwards look that day, as she sipped the one cup of coffee she allowed herself? Would she be pleased with the breakfast Mrs. Bradley had ordered? She was quite thin, though she looked improved after only a few weeks of good food.
Piece by piece, I fell more and more in love with her from afar, adding the sweetest, lightest chain to the pile of things I dragged around—my London life. But even in my self-imposed cage of duty and misery, I would never have importuned a woman who was my dependent. It took a brain injury to make me forget my honour. I rather suspected that I traded it blissfully for ignorance.
I snorted as I stashed our supplies in the stables for our quick escape later, and by then it was time to prepare for the prayer service. I quickly changed into my best duds and made my way towards the drawing room. The atmosphere in the keep was hushed and quiet for once, and a strange sense of sobriety stole over my shoulders.
I found my family already assembled, and waiting for me. I had no words, for all the way across the room, my three little women stood, beaming. My beautiful wife had an arm around each of my daughters, and a look of such pretty anticipation on her face that I am afraid I lost my composure. I generally tried not to think of it, but how close run a thing this all was!
“Och, Duncan,” my mother warbled, and attempted to wipe my face with a handkerchief as I pushed through the gathered throng.
My father embraced me as I passed him, and Lachlann clapped my arm. Even Callum gave me a sympathetic pat. I had not realised he was out of bed. Various well-wishers did their best to prevent me from reaching my destination, but I powered through them as quickly as I could.
My wife smiled at me with tears in her own eyes as I hugged and kissed my little Juno and gangly Annie. They were happy, and I sighed to see how much they loved their new muime. My giant brother-in-law had stepped forward to take his sister’s arm so that he could pass her to me, in front of the minister—an English tradition. I would always remember the startled look on his face as he realised I was blubbering.
My Catherine’s beautiful smile was somewhat blurry. But her little laugh caught in her throat. She knew just as well as I that if my father’s reappearance during Ewan’s coup had been just a few minutes later… dear God!
We had, of course, discussed these events, and more than once. She had seen it all—lived it all—the fear, the dread of knowing what would happen to all of us, while I had been lying in a useless heap at her feet. Her attempt to defend me with her own life was a gesture of loyalty and love so appalling that it brought the sweat to my brow whenever I recalled it. But had I not known she was capable of such a thing? Was it not her goodness that had caused me to rely on her so?
That was the trouble with marrying your Tánaiste. Men with lesser wives could never understand the mingled pride and terror that such a woman could inspire. But she was alive. Sound in mind and body and soul. And so was I. More or less. She gripped my arm tight as the minister spoke.
Dr. MacLean was a genial fellow, an old friend of my father’s, and grateful for his lot in life as the shepherd of Dundonnel’s flock. He was perfectly willing to pretend that this wedding was in any way legal, and he gave us the whole performance. Soon we were exchanging vows, and my lovely wife, gazing up at me with the most earnest, pure eyes I had ever seen, promised to take me as her husband before God and the congregation of my clan.
Bless Black and his ridiculous insistence on this farce of a wedding! My heart thundered in my chest as the ceremony drew to a close, and when Dr. MacLean prayed for our souls, I prayed that no one was stupid enough to attempt to claim my bride’s first kiss.
She was clearly startled after the Psalm was sung, when I grabbed her by the arms. “Duncan, not—!”
But it was too late. My lips were on hers before I even registered her words, and by the time I would have pulled back, she was kissing me just as fervently. Once the cheers and jeering of our wedding party filtered back into our consciousness, she blushed and pulled back, laughing. I tightened my hands on her arms.
“I apologise, lass. The bridal kiss. ’Tis a tradition I do no’ suppose the English have adopted?”
She patted my cheek indulgently, and then the men did pass her around. My poor little Sasunnach received more busses in one day than she had likely considered possible. I waited on tenterhooks to rescue her, but she did not seem to mind the exuberant well-wishers. We made our way outside, and feasted and danced and kissed some more, until it was time to steal away. The sky was silvery blue when the bagpipes serenaded us, fading as we left the party and its noise.
Neither of us spoke as we rode back to the cottage—the place where everything had changed. Robert was a trooper, and did not object to my taking my bride up before me, even as the little mare followed docile behind. It was not entirely comfortable to ride in such a way, but I did not wish to relinquish her, and judging by the way she held tightly to me, she did not mind.
I became aware of her humming as we passed through the shade of a glen, and when I recognised the tune—one of the slower songs they’d played at the feast—I sang along.
“When o’er the hill the eastern star
tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
and owsen frae the furrowed field,
return sae drooping weary, O.
Down by the burn, where scented birks
wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
my ain kind dearie, O.”
O’ course I had to kiss her after that. Somehow or other, we did not make good time, but I had never been so happy to dawdle on the road in my life, and neither of us complained about the hour when we finally tumbled into bed.
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