Chapter Twenty
Yet again, Arabella found herself captive in the solar. She sat in silence and gazed through the panes of glass to the training fields outside. Behind her, Mairi, Elena, Maggie and Heartha fretted over the final alterations to her wedding gown. Plucking at a loose thread on her sleeve, she released a trembling breath and swallowed a bout of unease.
On the morrow, she was set to wed the very same man who just slammed his opponent to the ground outside the window. Despite her willingness to marry Calum, her nervousness grew with each passing moment.
“Have you heard a thing we’ve said, Arabella?” Mairi nudged her shoulder and glanced outside the window. “Oh, ’tis no wonder.”
Maggie moved to Arabella’s opposite side and craned her neck to see. “With that view, I doubt I would’ve paid heed either.”
The group of women burst into laughter, and blood rushed to Arabella’s cheeks.
“Come along.” Mairi hauled her from her seat. “One last fitting and your dress is finished.”
Arabella rolled her eyes and allowed Mairi to lead her into the circle of the women. They made short work of the gown she wore, leaving her to stand in her shift. With the final frayed threads of her patience, she lifted her arms in obedience as they tugged the soft material over her head and laced the bindings along her sleeves and back.
’Twas unfair. Surely, Calum had not dealt with the same frustrations with his wedding garb. Honestly, why should her attire matter so much?
Elena stepped back and clapped her hands with glee. “Oh Heartha, ’tis beautiful. You’ve truly outdone yourself.”
Maggie and Mairi circled Arabella, examining the weaver’s work.
“Absolutely stunning,” Mairi said.
“Just lovely.” Maggie flashed Arabella an expectant grin. “Well, what do you think, lass?”
She glanced down at the gown and lifted the embroidered hem, rubbing the thick, emerald linen between her fingers. Bands of rich gold and silver threading ran along the hem and forearms, while soft pink silken sleeves touched the floor at her feet. Flowers, vines, ribbons, and pearls wound around the neck in an intricate display. A light leather belt embroidered in shimmering gold hung weightless at her hips.
In awe, she twisted left then right, struck by the perfect fit and flow of the dress. At once, she regretted her poor behavior since Heartha had toiled hard the past fortnight to create such a striking gown. The woman had truly worked a miracle.
“Oh, Heartha, ’tis lovely. How can I ever thank you?”
The weaver beamed with happiness. “I’m simply pleased you like it, my lady.”
“I love it.” Arabella rushed to the woman and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “Thank you.”
Heartha clucked her tongue and released her. “Careful now. We do not need you full of wrinkles before the wedding.”
Mairi snorted. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of that afterward if Calum has his way.”
Arabella gaped at her friend as warmth spread over her face. The other women laughed as they untied the lacings and tugged the soft fabric over her head. Once dressed in her old gown, she retreated to a bench along the wall and slumped against the cool stone.
“We’ll place this in your chamber, then I’ll see that Florie draws you a bath.” Mairi grinned and helped Heartha carry the wedding gown from the solar.
When Maggie closed the door after the pair and shared a look with Elena, Arabella recognized the warning. Her stomach rolled into a tight ball as the two women seated themselves on either side of her. Saints help her. She knew what was to come, and ’twas not a discussion she wished to have with either woman.
“Now, love…” Maggie lifted her hand and offered a maternal pat. “There are things we must speak of before the wedding. Matters your lady mother would’ve explained if she were here. God rest her soul.”
Arabella cringed and slumped lower on the bench. Her face burned from mortification. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she might somehow block out Maggie’s next words.
“I know Iain tried to keep his and his men’s pursuits out of your reach.” Maggie tapped her knee.
If the woman only knew. Sneaking around Penswyck’s training grounds, she caught an eyeful on many occasions. Many of Iain’s men bore no false modesty. That much was sure. Although, she’d never quite understood what the serving girls mooned over.
Clearing her throat, she choked out, “I’ve seen one before.”
Elena darted her a startled glance. “You have?”
“What? When?” Straightening, Maggie scowled. “Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, if I had to guess.”
Unwilling to admit to wrongdoing, Arabella lowered her head and picked at her fingernail.
“Well then, in that case. You see…a man…” Maggie paused and glanced at Elena for help.
“A man is…different than a woman. He has a…” Elena glanced around the solar, as if searching for the words.
If only the floor would split open and swallow Arabella whole.
Elena opened and shut her mouth twice before she peered around Arabella to Maggie. “You should tell her.”
Maggie reared her head back. “Why not you? He’s your nephew.”
“But she’s your charge.” Elena tossed back, leaning across Arabella’s lap. “And, you’re a married woman.”
“You’ve a grown son!” Maggie argued. “You know the workings of the marriage bed as well as I do, if the smug look Hammish wears is any judge.”
Elena gasped in outrage.
Arabella glanced heavenward in exasperation. Saints, this discussion treaded into dangerous territory. Before the women came to blows, she pushed the pair away from her, jumped to her feet, and spun to face them.
“Thank you both for the insight,” she rushed out.
The two simply blinked at her.
“I’m sure I understand well enough.” Arabella stifled a false yawn. “With the excitement of the wedding and all, I’m feeling rather weary. I think I’ll have that bath Mairi arranged and a bit of rest before the evening meal.”
“Oh.” Maggie frowned.
Arabella bolted across the chamber for the door.
“But, do you not wish to know of a man’s rod?” the older woman called after her.
Internally screaming, Arabella slammed the door loud enough the wood rattled on its hinges and froze at the sight of a grinning Sean and Gavin standing guard outside the solar.
*
Aaron MacRae paced the herb garden for the hundredth time, searching for a sign of weakness in the surrounding stone wall, anything he might use as an escape route. Uneasy, he scrubbed a hand over his face and kicked a plant at his feet. Christ, how had he gotten into this mess? Every instinct in his body screamed at him to abandon this cursed quest, but Longford held him by the stones.
Curse the English cur for sending him on a fool’s errand—a dead fool’s errand at that. For only a dead man would walk into MacGregor’s home and think to steal the man’s bride from under his nose. But without the woman, his brother was as sure as dead.
Aaron glanced down and instantly regretted his actions. He bent forward and grasped the broken branches of rosemary, crushing the sprigs in his hand. The clean, fresh aroma rushed up his nose, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the calming scent—a feeling he’d known little of in his life.
Was it any wonder why with his father? The man had been a sickness to the MacRaes—drinking away what little coin they earned, severing any ties with allies, sinking an already impoverished people deeper into poverty. An absence of strong leadership, weapons and, at times, food left their clan defenseless—too weak to withstand attack. Longford was proof of that.
Naught more than cobwebs lined their coffers, leaving Aaron and his brother, Connor, a legacy of barren land, crumbling stone, and a broken clan. Nay, he found no kindness in his heart to mourn his father’s death. His brother, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. He would do what he must in order to keep Connor alive.
Releasing a resolved sigh, he tossed the broken sprigs away and turned to resume his search of the wall. Unfortunately, he failed to note someone else had entered the garden and collided with a soft, female form.
He reacted quickly, wrapping an arm around her curved waist to catch the woman before she hit the ground. Her faint gasp warmed his cheek. When her startled, light blue gaze met his, he swallowed the sharp rebuke on the tip of his tongue. For an instant, he forgot his purpose altogether as he searched her sparkling eyes. The hue reminded him of the churning waves below the cliffs of his home.
“You may release me, sir.”
Rather reluctantly, Aaron righted the shapely female to her feet and released his hold. A brilliant smile formed on her plump lips, framed by a comely pair of dimples. Hair as deep and shining as a raven’s wing swept over her shoulders and tumbled down her back. What he would not give to sink his fingers in the soft mass. Saints, she was stunning.
’Twas then he noticed her mouth moved.
“…watched my step, but I had not imagined any of the guests to seek out a bit of solitude in my garden.”
Mentally shaking himself, he forced himself to focus on her words.
“Forgive me, my lady. You have my sincerest apologies for intruding.” He flourished his arm and executed a bow.
Christ, he should leave. Just turn and run as fast as he could, far away from her, but his blasted feet would not obey the command.
Smiling, she held up one dainty hand. “No need. ’Tis I who ran into you. You’re not intruding in the least, my lord.”
Her catching smile roused one from him. “As you’ve guessed, I’m here for the wedding banquet.” He dipped his head. “Aaron MacRae at your service, my lady.”
The beauty extended her hand, a bold gesture for a lady.
“Pleased to meet you, Aaron. I’m Mairi Macgregor.”
He accepted her hand and silently cursed at the same time. Of course, she was a MacGregor. Fate would not have it any other way.
“A close relation to the grinning bridegroom?” he ventured. For some misguided reason, he had to know for sure.
Mairi tossed her head back and laughed. “He is rather pleased with himself of late. And aye, close enough. I’m his sister.” She tilted her head, spearing him with her brilliant, forthright gaze. “Will I see you at the evening meal?”
Say nay. By the Saints, say nay. Remember your purpose. “Aye, my lady.”
She beamed a smile as bright as the sun. “I shall save you a seat at the high table, my lord.”
Saints, he was doomed.