Chapter 8
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly—too quickly—for Fiona. She saw to her usual duties, and since she rarely conversed with others while doing so, she had hoped she would be able to think. However, she soon realized that she was thinking only of being married to Àdham, not of whether she wanted to be or not.
His image filled her mind, pushing out more emotional thoughts, because, although he attracted her and spoke like a gentleman, his shaggy beard and too-long, unruly hair still made him look like a barbarian. That image strongly reinforced her belief that he would live more like a barbarian than any gentleman—or lady—should.
Life in the Highlands would surely bear no resemblance to life with the royal court. Nor, she suspected, would it be as comfortable as life at Ormiston Mains. Or at any of the other great houses she knew in the Borders.
Memory of her earlier talk with Malvina intruded then. She could easily imagine Malvina surrounded by luxury, enjoying a wealthy husband and all the trappings of a life of ease. But Malvina was marrying Hamish Geddes, who was nearly as dull a man as her handsomer cousin, whose name Fiona had forgotten.
Sir Àdham would never be dull. Nor, despite his frequently unkempt appearance, did he fit her earlier image of a true barbarian. He had also proven that he would protect her from any danger or rougher men they might meet.
She could not imagine dull Hamish lifting a finger to protect Malvina. He would doubtless hire bodyguards to do so; but Malvina had always shown interest in handsomer men, which could lead to danger of another sort.
Fiona realized that she did not know if Sir Àdham was what she or others would call handsome, because she had seen only part of his face. He was powerful looking and a warrior. She had always felt safe when she was with him, and he had intrigued her and piqued her curiosity from the first night of their acquaintance.
She had only to see him coming toward her to feel warm inside. So, perhaps she did not care as much about his appearance as she had thought. Still . . .
With suppertime approaching and no decision presenting itself, she went to her chamber and dismissed Leah, saying she would wear what she had on. In truth, Fiona wanted time to calm herself before seeing Àdham. Minutes later, though, with no more ceremony than a light rap-rap, the door opened and a cloud of ambergris wafted in, announcing her visitor as clearly as any royal steward might.
Fiona was making her curtsy when Lady Sutherland swept in and shut the door behind her. “Arise, me dearling,” she murmured. “I would speak wi’ ye.”
Obeying, Fiona eyed her ladyship warily. “Is aught amiss, madam?”
“I ken fine that ye’ve only just come up, because I asked Malvina tae tell me when ye did,” her ladyship said. “Sithee, her grace sent me tae see . . . That is . . .” She grimaced. “Ay-de-mi, I’m making hard work o’ this. So I’ll speak plainly. She heard that ye’d likely received an offer tae wed and would ken if it please ye or no.”
Despite Fiona’s own concerns, her sense of humor stirred. She knew that the walls and halls of every royal residence had ears, so rumors spread swiftly. Lady Sutherland might have relayed the news to Joanna herself, if the King had not. But he might well have discussed his wishes with her earlier.
“I have received no offer yet, my lady,” Fiona said. “But my lord father did tell me to expect one.”
“Then it will likely come after supper,” Lady Sutherland said, nodding. “That dress becomes ye well, but ye must tidy your hair. Where is your Leah?”
“I . . . I wanted to think,” Fiona said.
“So ye told Leah ye’d look after yourself, aye?” When Fiona nodded, Lady Sutherland added, “Did Ormiston tell ye tae expect the offer this evening?”
Suppressing a sigh, Fiona said, “He will arrange for me to walk with Sir Àdham in the Gilten Herbar after supper.”
“Good, then,” Lady Sutherland said, clapping her hands. “Guide him toward the far end, dearling, and I shall see that nae one disturbs ye. Ye needna come doonstairs for supper, either. Ye willna want tae be wonderin’ who may ha’ ken o’ this, so I’ll have your Leah bring ye up a tray. But now, let us see what we can do wi’ your hair. Ye should wear it in a net, I think. Nae need for a formal caul tae stroll amidst the monks’ flowerbeds.”
Feeling as she suspected anyone might feel who was approaching a possibly grim fate, Fiona submitted herself to Lady Sutherland’s capable skills.
Having learned that Sir Ivor approved of the union as strongly as Malcolm did and was certain that Fin would, too, Àdham went back to Ormiston House.
Although he had diplomatically told Ormiston that he’d be pleased if Lady Fiona agreed to marry him, he realized that not wanting her to reject him was hardly the same thing as being pleased. Just thinking about her sent his imagination down pleasurable pathways, though, and stirred responses in him that had surprised him.
He had felt protective of her from the start, in the same way he felt toward the female members of his foster family. She amused him in similar ways, too. But she also challenged him at times and made him see things in different ways.
She was beautiful, charming, and easy to like. On the other hand, she was too fond of having her own way and prone to ignoring the wishes, even commands, of those in authority over her. Surely, even in the Lowlands, where men curled hair that God had made straight and wore absurd clothing, wives obeyed their husbands.
So she would have to change some of her ways. But she must know that life in the Highlands would be different from the life she had hitherto enjoyed.
Admitted to the house by Ormiston’s steward, Àdham went straight to the room at the rear of the hall. There, after describing Sir Ivor’s reaction for his host, he added, “Ivor did say that he wants to talk with you himself, sir.”
“About the settlements, aye,” Ormiston said amiably. “Fiona has agreed to talk with you, so you should know that her tocher includes a small estate of mine on the river Teviot north of Ormiston Mains. I have settled gelt on her, too, heritable to her daughters.”
Àdham nodded. “I have land in Strathnairn, which currently lacks a home. So, we’d live with my uncle at Finlagh in the north-central Highlands for a time, but I do expect to acquire more land with my sword in battle, or otherwise.”
Over supper, they discussed other matters, including how Àdham’s party might travel to the Highlands, until Ormiston said, “We must not keep Fiona waiting any longer.”
Accordingly, they returned to the monastery, and when Brother Porter admitted them, Ormiston explained briefly why they had come.
The porter nodded. “I’ll just show the pair o’ ye into the parlor, m’lord. Then I’ll hie a maidservant upstairs tae tell her ladyship ye be here.”
“I have agreed to let them walk alone in the Gilten Herbar,” Ormiston said.
“As ye wish, m’lord. I will do all I may to provide privacy for them. The brothers do also walk there of an evening. Her grace and her ladies do, too. But,” he added with a smile, “I expect everyone will ken their need and leave them be.”
The notion that “everyone” knew why he was there annoyed Àdham, but he reminded himself that he had made his decision and must see it through.
Ormiston was silent after Brother Porter left the room, and both men remained standing. Although Àdham welcomed the silence, he was listening for Fiona’s footsteps. Despite his sharp ears, though, the click of the latch was the only warning he had before the door opened and she stepped into the doorway.
She wore a gray, fur-lined mantle over a light-green kirtle with buttoned sleeves extending to her knuckles. Its neckline plunged to reveal the soft swell of her breasts, and a dark green belt embroidered with pink, yellow, and blue flowers nipped it in below her bosom. Dark netting loosely confined her hair. Her mantle hood covered the back half of her head, framing her lovely face with soft gray folds that enhanced the otherwise pale bluish gray of her irises.
When her gaze met his, she gave him a long, appraising look. Then she turned to her father. “You said that Sir Àdham and I might walk alone, aye?”
“I did, and you will. I lingered only so that Brother Porter could see that I do approve. He sent someone, too, to ensure that you will have some privacy.”
“I want to ask you something privately before you leave,” she said.
“Then we will excuse Sir Àdham for a short while and talk here.”
“I’ll wait with Brother Porter in the entryway,” Àdham said.
She stood aside, and as he passed her, her light floral perfume wafted gently to him. Her skin looked pale and smooth, especially what he could see of her breasts, outlined as their plump, bare upper parts were in the silken vee.
His body stirred eagerly, and he increased his pace, slowing only after he had shut the door behind him and heard its latch click into place.
“What is it, lass?” Ormiston asked when the door had shut behind Àdham.
“I do not want a husband whose face I have not seen, sir,” Fiona said bluntly. “I suggested as tactfully as possible that Àdham . . . that is, Sir Àdham . . . would be wise to adopt at least some of the town fashions. But as you have seen . . .”
Seeing her father’s lips tighten, she wondered if her comments had irked him. But then she noted the twinkle in his eyes. “I wonder,” he said gently, “if you will be as willing to change your ways to accommodate his people’s notions of fashion as you desire him to change his to suit yours.”
“Surely, Highland ladies do not wear only their shifts and a long length of woolen cloth wrapped round them,” she said with a sense of shock.
“In troth, lassie, I have met few Highlanders of either sex, so I have no ken of what Highland women wear. However, I do know that Sir Àdham’s war leader, Sir Ivor Mackintosh, married Lady Marsaili Drummond-Cargill, niece to his grace’s late mother, Queen Annabella Drummond. They dwell at Rothiemurchus not far from where you will be. Lady Marsaili is visiting kinsmen a few miles from here and means to ride back with you. Sir Àdham told me that you and your party will bide overnight at Rothiemurchus.”
“Faith, sir, I never gave a thought to traveling!” Fiona exclaimed. “I am certain that Leah will not want to live in the Highlands.”
Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, he said, “We’ll sort all that out after you and Àdham decide whether you can both agree to this marriage. But I’ll speak to him about his beard and hair if you cannot be certain of doing so without flying out at him if he refuses. As to Leah, I agree that she is unlikely to welcome such a move. But Lady Marsaili will have servants traveling with her. She may help you find a new maidservant, or Àdham’s foster mother will.”
“He mentioned his foster mother to me the night we met,” Fiona said. “But I know naught of his family or where we will live.”
“Then you must ask him whilst you walk,” Ormiston said. “This decision is yours to make, dearling, but I do hope you will base it on what you already know and like about this young man and not on your uncertainty of the unknown.”
To inform him that her uncertainties had only increased would avail her little, so Fiona decided just to inform Àdham that she could not marry him. Feeling oddly uneasy about that decision, she nevertheless agreed with Ormiston to talk with Lady Marsaili, too, and he escorted her to the door.
When Ormiston opened the parlor door, he stayed only long enough to say, “I’ll want to know what the pair of you decide, Àdham. I will be at the house.”
“I’ll stop in on my way back to the alehouse,” Àdham promised.
When Ormiston had gone, Àdham and Fiona followed the porter to a narrow door in the north wall of the main house, which opened into the Herbar.
Pausing there, Brother Porter said, “You may return by this same route, Sir Àdham. That way, you may escort her ladyship to the foot of her stairway.”
He shut the door then, leaving them alone on the graveled path.
“Am I to know what you discussed with your father, or do you mean to keep that to yourself?” Àdham asked as they walked toward the first of the many arbors. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot accompanied them.
Feeling heat well into her cheeks, and aware that the remaining daylight would let him see her blushes as easily as she felt them, she said, “If you must know, I told him I cannot marry a man whose face I have never seen.”
Looking up then, she saw a muscle twitch near his mouth. But whether it was a near smile or irritation, she could not tell.
He said, “I’ll shave if it means that much to you. In troth, I rarely do so, because a beard helps keep me warm whilst I’m traveling or sleeping outside. Also, having so rarely wielded a razor, I lack deftness with one, and my squire shares that lack. So, I’d liefer let a barber trim my beard. Would that be enough to please you?”
Surprised that he would submit so easily, she nearly said yes before she remembered his hair. “If you would also have that barber trim your hair, so that it is tidier and more pleasing to the eye. That would satisfy me.”
He was silent, making her wonder if she had asked too much. If she had, she decided, so be it. Her right to refuse him remained as an option.
Àdham, watching her, saw her rounded chin come up and could almost hear her thoughts. She meant to have her way, and some demon within him urged him to deny it to her. But, in truth, he admired her willingness to speak her mind to him.
Most Highland women he knew did speak their minds, and he had often wished he had authority enough over one or another of them to command silence. Often, since childhood, he had promised himself that when he married, his wife would obey him without question or debate. That thought, now, made him smile.
“What are you thinking?” she demanded. “Does it amuse you that I’d liefer have a husband I can see than one as shaggy as an unkempt hedgehog?”
“Aye, perhaps,” he said with a chuckle. “But, in troth, I was thinking that I’ve long been mistaken in the sort of wife I thought I’d prefer.”
“By my faith, sir—”
“Nae, do not bristle at me now, lass. I’ll trim and tidy myself all you want, so tell me what else puzzles or concerns you. You must have questions.”
She was looking at the path ahead, and when his gaze followed hers, he watched in fascination as the breeze and the angle of the setting sun conspired to make the gilding on the arbor frames dance and sparkle.
The two of them passed into the shadows of the next arbor before Fiona said, “I do have questions, sir. So many that I know not where to begin.”
“What comes into your head if I ask which one is most important to you?”
“Why, a score of questions about you, of course. I want to know all about your family, how old you are, and how you came to be knighted.”
“I turn four-and-twenty in November,” he said. “And the King knighted me.”
“Then you are three years younger than Davy,” she said. “So, tell me why his grace knighted you.”
“I won my spurs in battle,” Àdham said. “I doubt that you want to hear the details any more than I want to relate them to you.”
“You killed people then.”
“’Tis the nature of battle that warriors kill other warriors or the others kill them. I’d wager that Sir David won his spurs in much the same way.”
“In part, but also because of his many victories in the lists,” she said. “He told me that his knighthood was as much a matter of luck and pleasing the right people as aught else. But, prithee, tell me about your family now.”
“My sire is a Cameron chieftain who supported James at the Battle of Lochaber. When my mam died whilst I was still small, my da sent me to my uncle, whom men call Fin of the Battles. I fostered with him and his wife, the lady Catriona Mackintosh. I have lived at Castle Finlagh ever since then, so I have pledged my fealty to Clan Chattan.”
“You mentioned your foster mother the night we met but not that your father is a Cameron and she a Mackintosh,” she said. “’Tis a gey good thing that you were born after the Great Clan Battle of Perth and were not a Cameron knight then. Even I know that that battle was meant to end the long feud between those two powerful clans and that the Camerons lost. The two seem peaceful now, but were such a thing to happen again . . .”
“I have sworn to support the Mackintosh and his grace,” he said firmly when she paused. “I will do so forever, despite what the Camerons may ask of me.”
She nodded thoughtfully and then said quietly, “My mother died when I was seven. If my father had sent me away then . . .” She shuddered.
“It was hard, aye,” he admitted. “Have you any more concerns about me, lass? Any that might make you refuse to participate in a wedding?”
“I have heard that many Highlanders plot against the King,” she said. “Might any of your people do so . . . Camerons or Mackintoshes?”
“Nae, lass,” he assured her. But as the words left his tongue, it occurred to him that the Camerons of Lochiel might well involve themselves in such a plot.
“What?” she demanded. “You look as if you would say more about that.”
It was not the first time she had seemed to know his thoughts; however, in fairness, he had several times felt as if he could hear hers. Moreover, he knew she had the right to hear the truth from him.
“Well?” she said.
Smiling ruefully, he said, “I just remembered that one of my Cameron kinsmen is not as fond of Jamie as he might be.”
“Just one?”
“Aye, but he has many followers. I am loyal to James, though.”
When she still hesitated, slightly frowning, he had that sense again of being able to understand her thoughts. Gently, he said, “What is it, my lady? Do you dislike me so much that you mean to refuse?”
Without looking at him, she said, “I did think I might . . . Refuse you, that is.”
Stunned by her words and his own immediate, overwhelming desire to reject them outright, he realized that he had wanted her to want him. If she did not . . .
She stopped walking then and looked up at him. Being more than a head shorter, she had to tilt her lovely face up to do so. With a wry smile, she said, “How can I refuse what you have not yet offered, sir? Are you offering for me?”
Relief surged through him. He wanted to kiss her.
Realizing that it still might be his only chance to do so, he caught hold of her chin, put a hand to the back of her head, and gently kissed her soft, rosy lips.
Her beautiful eyes widened, but she made no objection, so he did it again.
Fiona’s senses reeled. What had she done, and when had an impulse ever felt so right? The disappointment she had seen in his sharply indrawn breath, opened mouth, and briefly shut eyes when she had admitted thinking of refusing him had struck her hard. So, too, had the fact that they shared a similar, grievous childhood loss. Together, those factors had expelled any lingering thought of refusal.
Such were her thoughts with that first gentle kiss. In truth, despite her body’s reaction to it, it resembled kisses she had oft received from kinsmen and her father’s close friends. The second one, though, was naught of the sort.
There was no betrothal yet! Sakes, he had not even offered for her, so he had no more right to kiss her than Caithness or the loutish fop in the purple-and-blue hose had. But he was still kissing her. And the sensations he stirred were not remotely like any she’d experienced when other men had kissed her. Moreover, she was wantonly enjoying every tingle and thrill that he stirred within her, pressing her body closer to his and moving her lips against his. Her heart pounded so hard that she could almost hear it.
His beard troubled her not a whit. In truth, it felt velvety where it touched her face, and she wanted to stroke it. But, like a dafty, she stood as she was, silent and compliant when she ought to be demanding fiercely that he release her.
Her breasts tingled and felt as if they were swelling. Other feelings, ones she had never felt before, deep within her, made her forget all of her reservations.
He drew her nearer, stroking a hand down her back to her waist, pressing her closer against him and kissing her much more thoroughly.
Her lips moved urgently now, feeling his and tasting him. But when he tried to press his tongue between them, she pulled back. “What are you doing?”
Still holding her, he looked into her eyes, his own eyes twinkling.
“I am taking delightful liberties,” he said with a grin. “You would entice a man made of stone, my lady. In troth, I have wanted to do that from almost the first moment I saw you. But you have not answered my question.”
“Nor you mine,” she retorted. “You cannot expect me to answer yours if you are not offering for me.”
“I think that your lord father explained how matters stand,” he said. “So, aye, I am offering for you. Do you still have concerns enough to make you refuse?”
“You know that I do have that right.”
“I do, but the better I come to know you, the more I hope you will not.”
“And not merely because his grace and my father want you to marry me?”
“Primarily his grace,” Àdham said unexpectedly. “But others besides your father agree that ours would be a desirable union. I’m certain now that I agree.”
“I do not even speak your language.”
“Neither did I learn to speak yours until I went to live with my uncle, who insisted that I speak only Scots with him. If I could learn Scots, you can learn the Gaelic. So, now, lass, do you think you can stomach me as your husband?”
She hesitated, wondering how she had ever imagined she could refuse him. Still, there was one lingering, vital question. “Do Highlanders beat their wives?”
He seemed taken aback by her question. “Do men of Lothian beat theirs?”
Grimacing, she said, “I expect that many do if their wives displease them enough. However, it is not a common thing at home for any man to hit a woman.”
“That is true in the Highlands, too. Clachans and clans alike take umbrage if a man strikes his wife or children without good cause.”
“What is a clachan?”
“A village,” he said. “But answer me, lass. If you mean to say nae, say it.”
“I will say aye, sir, although I fear that I may regret it.”
Grinning, he said, “Doubtless, we both will have some regrets. We do seem able to talk to each other without speaking in riddles or thinking things we do not say aloud. So, when one of us irks the other, mayhap we’ll be able see it through.”
She smiled, feeling warm all over. “I like you, Sir Àdham MacFinlagh.”
“’Tis a good start,” he said. “You fascinate me, lass.”
Her breath caught in her throat then and it seemed long before she breathed normally again. No one had ever said such a thing to her before.
She was staring at him, her mouth partway open, as if, Àdham thought, he had surprised her with his honesty. He put a hand on her shoulder, urging her on, and they walked past fragrant herb gardens and flowers to a hedged, grassy area with a long net strung across its center.
“What is that place yonder?” he asked.
“’Tis called a tennis court,” she said. “Men wear gloves and hit a ball over that net. My father and other men play the game with James.”
The Herbar provided wonderful privacy, and Àdham was grateful for it. He had spared no thought for a possible audience before kissing her.
At last, he said, “I wish we could stay here until the moon comes up.”
“Aye, but it will soon be dark; and as it is, even Brother Porter may decide we have tarried too long and come to prod us along,” she said. “Father must be impatient, too, to hear what we have decided. In any event, we’ll have plenty of time to become better acquainted before the wedding.”
He stopped then and turned her to face him. “My people are already talking of going home.”
“But you arrived only a sennight ago!”
“Aye, but I was the last to arrive because of other duties I had. The others have been here for a fortnight, and what remains of the Parliament apparently has more to do with the King’s Council than with the Highlands.”
“I don’t even have a maidservant to go with me,” she said. “Mine will not want to travel so far from home. Father said that a lady will travel with you, but—”
“Lady Marsaili, our war leader’s wife,” he interjected. “I think you will like her. But will you not trust me to keep you safe and see to your needs?”
She gazed at him for a long moment and then seemed to relax. “I am sure you will try, sir. Doubtless you think me a feardie, but I’m not. I will own, though, that my first reaction to all of this about marriage and leaving here was pure panic.”
“I would think less of your intelligence had it not been,” he said softly. “I think you are gey brave in your willingness to go through with this with me. So, I will make you a promise. If you find that you cannot tolerate the Highlands—”
“Prithee, say no more,” she said. “I will marry you without such a condition if you promise not to set me aside if I displease you. Men do set wives aside in the Lowlands if they think they have cause, even banish them from the clan to starve.”
Smiling, he said, “Surely not noble wives. But I do promise that willingly, Fiona, and I keep my word. I’m beginning to think we’ll deal well together.”
“I hope so. Nevertheless, sir, we must go in now.”
She seemed thoughtful again. But she was clearly more at ease with him, so he escorted her back to the residence. After wending their way to Brother Porter, Àdham saw her to the stairway leading to the royal chambers.
He waited then only to see her skirts vanish around the next landing before letting Brother Porter show him out. Then, he strode briskly to Ormiston House, where he found his lordship in his rear chamber but not alone.
His grace, the King, sat comfortably across the table from him with a pewter goblet of what looked like Ormiston’s excellent claret in hand. “I trust that all went well, lad,” he said, raising his goblet.
“As well as one might expect, sir.” Looking from the King to his lordship and back, he added, “Lady Fiona did think we’d have time before wedding to know each other better. I warned her that my people may be nearly ready to go home.”
“Aye, good, because the Mackintosh and his clansmen mean to leave Wednesday morning,” James said lightly. “Likely, ye’ll go with them.”
“I did expect to return when they do, but—”
“Excellent,” James said. “Then, unless someone strongly objects, we’ll arrange for ye to be wedded and bedded on Tuesday. Ormiston will so inform Fiona.”
Having just taken a sip of his wine, Àdham nearly choked on it. He loathed having his future so abruptly decided for him. But, with effort, he held his tongue, for he believed in avoiding futile conflict with those in authority over him.
If the King of Scots did not count as such, no one did.
James set down his goblet. “I must go now, but my lass will be gey pleased when I tell her about this.”
When he’d gone, Ormiston said, “You were wise to accept his decision that you wed on Tuesday, lad. But I could see that you had qualms about marrying so soon.”
“None for myself,” Àdham replied. “I was thinking, though, that her ladyship may feel rushed, even forced, into this marriage.”
“I’d not blame you if you felt that way, too,” Ormiston said. “But you have not answered my question. Do you feel as if we’ve forced you into this marriage?”
“By my troth, sir, the lady Fiona will suit me fine,” Àdham said frankly. “But if she feels forced, the outset of our marriage may be unnecessarily thorny.”
Ormiston grinned. “No matter how well-suited you are, lad, you will fall out. But you will find that Fiona does not quarrel. She goes silent and often fails to speak her mind when she should, because she fears upsetting others. You should know, too, that while she may forgive you, she never forgets a serious wrong.”
“Neither do I,” Àdham said evenly. “So, I will understand that trait in her.”
“Will you?” Ormiston said, his eyes twinkling. “I do look forward to visiting the pair of you as soon as possible and meeting the rest of your family.”