Chapter 23
It wasn’t long after Lachlan had left her with a passionate kiss so intense Rosalyn was almost willing to reconsider her protected virginity, when one of the king’s maids came into the chamber with a short curtsy, then stripped the bed of its sheets and promptly marched out.
At first Rosalyn thought her new husband’s story was designed to coerce her into consummating the marriage, but the actions of the king’s maid proved he’d been truthful all along. About everything. Even though she’d almost changed her mind that morning, expecting the king and the bishop to understand her reasoning. Yet, something in Rosalyn’s heart kept telling her this was right.
After another parade of maids had come and gone with mathematic precision, Rosalyn proceeded to the great hall with one of the Garter knights. He was a giant in size and stature, as well as quiet and stoic when they walked down the corridor. Her curiosity couldn’t be contained so she started a conversation.
“My name is Rosalyn. What do they call you, great knight?”
The imposing figure next to her coughed. “Well, my lady, I can assure you my fellow champions do not call me great knight. You may call me Red.”
“Pardon my direct nature, but I’m curious if you have any word on the missing Golden Rose.”
“My lady, you needn’t trouble yourself with the logistics of our search. ‘Tis your wedding day. I know firsthand the kitchen has been hard at work fixing pheasant, mutton stew, swan, and more, for I was shooed out near moments before I came to your door.”
It was Rosalyn’s turn to laugh. “But of course, you may find it odd, but I have a vested interest in its prompt return. You see my new husband is suspected of having a hand in its disappearance, and you can understand my reasons for wanting his name to be cleared.”
They had reached the great hall entrance and the knight stopped and turned, gesturing she take his arm for escort. As she did, he bowed.
“My lady, if I may let you in on a confidence, it is not your husband, but his brother that is more the suspect. That is all I can share for now,” he confided. Then as if a sorcerer cast a spell, Red transformed into a ridged, fierce protector when he guided her to the dais. Once at the head table, he helped to her settle properly onto the ornate chair between her husband and the king.
The lord of Scotland shot her the smallest sideways grin then stood with his chalice high in the air.
Rosalyn’s attention shifted to take in the massive gathering room filled with knights, lords, ladies, royal servants, and entertainers. She drew in a full breath as if to fill her lungs with courage. She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. It was beyond her imagination to even consider one, if not all, of the goings on today as improbable: being married in a royal abbey, given away by the King of Scots, in a ceremony led by an Italian bishop. And the most outrageous part, to an Englishman.
But the spirit of her da had given his approval and because he’d been a favored landholder and loyal to King James, she’d had been treated like royalty herself.
“A toast,” the king commanded, and all those seated at the dais and those about the great hall rose. He turned to Rosalyn and Lachlan, seated on his right.
“To Rosalyn, who will be like a daughter to me.” He tipped his chalice. “And to Lachlan, her newly betrothed. Although English at birth, he has taken his wife’s surname. And news has reached him today that his father is dead, clearing the way for him to embrace his new family and clan.”
The room burst into cheers of huzzah. Rosalyn immediately sought her husband’s gaze for confirmation. It had been no secret that he’d hated his father. But now that the family patriarch was gone, did he really need to be married to her? Without his father’s greed and hunger for her land and her castle, would he forgo the quest and leave her? If she’d asked herself those questions a week ago, she would have prayed for a resounding yes. Now, she was not so sure.
Lachlan’s reassuring gaze and smile fed an already-complex connection. One she had trouble sorting out, but she could easily tell that the news had pleased him. But what of his brother? She furrowed her brow, knowing Ethan was as much a thorn in her husband’s side as his father.
Rosalyn scanned the high table and did not find him there. She searched the rest of the royal throng, but still could not spot a face like her husband’s while the bishop proceeded with a formal toast.
“May there always be work to do. And your purse to hold many coins for you. May the sun always shine on your window pane. May a rainbow be certain to follow the rain. May the hand of a friend always be near. And may God’s love and grace always be there.”
The king raised his wine to toast Rosalyn. Then his chalice clinked with hers, followed by Lachlan’s.
More loud cheers of huzzah followed as she turned to toast her husband, but instead of joining cups, his lips toasted hers in a ravenous show of affection.
Before Rosalyn could gently break Lachlan’s hold, the king’s snorting rung in her ears and rowdy guests began to cheer them on with encouragement.
Finally, Rosalyn pushed him away and took in a deep breath, her cheeks burning with heat and embarrassment. She’d talk to her husband later about his affectionate advances.
After that kiss and a few more stolen ones, she was soon giddy from mead and music. And as the evening progressed, her new husband became more and more enchanting. He treated her like a queen, his charm melting her heart.
When the minstrel’s final ballad ended, Rosalyn rose to her feet, teetering on her toes, woozy from the wine and the hour. Luckily, her husband scooped her in his arms before she lost her balance and the remaining guests cheered as if he’d won a contest.
She couldn’t help but finally allow Lachlan his displays of affection. His charm seemed to always to win her over, even when her anger toward him sparked a flame.
The laughter and stomping of feet and cheers faded while Lachlan carried her toward the marriage chamber they’d shared earlier that afternoon.
Flames flashed bright on the walls of the corridor from the sconces lighting the way. Most of the castle dwellers were either still imbibing in the great hall or to bed. Now she was eager to talk to her husband, free from the king and his guests.
“Husband, are we to share a chamber tonight?” Rosalyn asked with some trepidation, unsure whether or not he’d have the courtesy to let her have the room to herself. There had been no time before their betrothal to discuss were he would sleep tonight, or even what the next day held.
If there’d had been a normal courtship, even an arranged marriage for the advancement of heritage, Rosalyn would have shared her hopes and dreams, her inner self. Now, she wasn’t sure what a future with Lachlan would hold, and she wanted some control.
“Would you have me sleep with the king’s farm animals?” Lachlan responded, chuckling. “Have I made such an ass of myself? Is that where I belong?”
Despite her tense demeanor, Lachlan’s self-deprecating humor cut through her defenses and made her laugh, too.
“No, husband, ‘tis, well, you see—”
“I have promised to protect you and I cannot think of a better place for me to do that than at your side, even when you sleep.” He slowed to glance down at her with that look that always made her melt.
When she gave him a shy grin in return, he groaned. “Wife, do not look at me like that until I have you in my bed again,” he confessed, his head jerking up to watch where he was going.
As he strode quickly down the long corridor, Lachlan’s face drifted in and out of shadows, the flickering flame highlighting his handsome face, and Rosalyn began to relax. Although she’d been uneasy about this union from the start, Lachlan’s concern for her seemed genuine. Even if his loins guided him.
This time when they reached the chamber door, he was more civil about opening it. He stood sideways and with a slight stoop, he reached the lever and opened the door with ease. In a few quick strides, he was at the bed’s edge, laying her on the soft coverlet, a warm glow in his eyes and a face full of chagrin.
“Wife, do not move from that spot,” Lachlan instructed in a tone that was neither intimidating nor demanding. When he gazed down at her from the bedside, Lachlan appeared less beast and more beau. “A feather is a necessity for our next exploration. I will return shortly and trust you will not need to steal my dagger again.”
A flash of his charming smile assured her that there was nothing to fear as she watched his muscular arse walk out the chamber door.
Rosalyn sighed and her gaze drifted to the ceiling. She stared at the painted cherubs above her.
Odd. Rosalyn did not recall noticing them earlier in the day, but she’d been either starting at Lachlan, or pinching her eyes shut. And as much as she enjoyed gazing at the playful, pudgy purveyors of love, she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing.
The wedding day had brought a mixture of emotions. Like an experimental potion full of reliable ingredients, calculated risk-taking, and ancient wisdom, the outcome of its power remained uncertain. Only time would tell if their marital remedy would produce the results they both sought.
Lachlan’s father was dead. Lachlan had shown no remorse. There was no love for his brother. Perhaps that was why his taking the Macpherson name was a good idea after all.
How surprised her mother and sister would be, she imagined, when she returned to Aberdeen with a new husband to reclaim Fyvie.
Noises from merry courtesans outside her door were loud enough to bring Rosalyn’s thoughts back to the present, making her wonder what was keeping her husband. A man who wanted to bed his new wife should have returned by now.
A feather? Wasn’t that what Lachlan had said he was going to bring back? She was so ticklish, something she’d hoped to hide from him. If not, he would get the best of her. Perhaps she’d be the one doing the tickling. She could only hope. No, she’d insist.
But as much as she wanted to admit she was less terrified than before about being alone with Lachlan, she wasn’t sure she wanted a feather in the bed, no matter who did the tickling.
Perhaps a sleeping herb could deter him. A drowsy wife would not make for much sport. And she was in luck, for she had such a potion at hand.
After rolling over to the edge of the bed, Rosalyn rummaged around in her travel satchel until she found the miniature vial and popped the top off. A few sips, would do the trick she thought.
After downing the sweet concoction and returning the potion, she closed her eyes and took in a few deep breaths. It wouldn’t take long. Just as her lids were feeling heavy, the chamber door opened and shut.
“Why you are still dressed atop the bed?” the muffled voice asked.
But before she could answer, she was flipped on her stomach, arms pinned to her side, and her skirts yanked over her head.
When a hand reached between her thighs, Rosalyn became wide-awake.