Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) (2 page)

Jane nodded, unconvinced. “I shall certainly try, my Ruth—for your sake, at least.” Then, turning back to the carriage window, she was momentarily distracted by an odd site in the distance.

“What is that?” she wondered, leaning beyond the frame of the window.

Ruth slid across the bench on her side of the carriage to peer out beside her. There, distorted by the shifting mist, was a lone English soldier. The man, armed with a claymore and dressed in the familiar orange tunic and chainmail, stood vigilant in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. It was as if he was standing guard—but what was he guarding? All that Jane could see behind him was a number of crows and buzzards flocking about and shrieking wildly.

“What on earth could he be doing?” she mused. Leaning out farther so that her head rounded the corner of the carriage box, she called to the driver. “Sir, might you stop the coach that we may see what is yonder?”

“My Lady,” protested Ruth, “you’ve no idea what’s out there. It is not safe!”

The driver, a man who had been specially hired to make the entirety of the journey with the bride-to-be, spoke without turning. “I’m to take you direct to the baron, my Lady. No unplanned stops.”

“Brute,” Jane muttered, drawing herself back into the carriage and slumping against the seat.

“My Lady, your curiosity will get the better of you one of these days, you mark my words.”

Jane shrugged, ignoring Ruth’s admonishment. “Father has ordered no stopping because he thinks I shall run away,” she said instead. “I suppose that is why he has paid handsomely for my safe delivery.”

“I think not,” countered Ruth. “Your father has raised you to obey, and knows full well you would not dare defy him. I believe it was the baron who arranged and paid for your travel; it was he that thought you might run. I cannot blame him for thinking it—a man as aged as he taking a wife of eighteen years ...” Realizing the callousness of her words, her brown eyes widened. “I’m sorry, my Lady. That was thoughtless of me.”

Jane chuckled without humour. “Think nothing of it. It’s not anything I don’t already know.”

She returned to staring helplessly out the coach window, but her eyes shed no more tears. Her mind was instead riveted on the sight she had just witnessed. There was something about it that she found very unsettling; very haunting.

And very intriguing.

A wedding took place at Dunloch castle that afternoon. Legions of nobles and wealthy landowners had flocked from far and wide to attend the ceremony. To Lord Reginald’s satisfaction, the blushing bride had been delivered—intact and without a struggle. And but for her hysterical sobbing through the entire service, it might even have been a beautiful wedding.

Chapter 2

“My Lady, may I present Laird Brian MacGregor, chief of Clan Gregor,” announced Tearlach, Dunloch’s steward, as he approached the dais. The elderly man gestured with a sweep of his arm, introducing yet another Scottish noble.

Jane, seated at the head table beside her new husband, turned her eyes from the magnificent tapestries displayed in the great hall which she’d been examining intently—not because she was particularly fascinated by tapestries, but rather to distract herself from the mire of her thoughts. Upon beholding the menacing looking MacGregor chief, however, her eyes widened and she reined in her natural inclination to recoil in terror.

The MacGregor chief, like all the Scots to whom she had been introduced thus far, was as large and fearsome as had been suggested by the ladies in Sussex. The man’s pale legs, bristling with copper coloured hair beneath his kilt of red and black, looked as though they had been chiselled from granite; thick bands of muscle wrapped the bones of his shins and protruded boldly above his knees as if they were sacks of grain anchored there. His shoulders were as broad as a bull’s and his neck was of similar thickness. The carnage this man could wreak on a battlefield ... she fought back a visible shudder at the thought.

“Baroness, the Highlands welcome ye,” the clan Gregor chief declared warmly.

He stepped forwards and held out his immense hand for her to take. Timidly, Jane reached her own hand across her untouched platter of food and laid it atop his. Alarm flitted through her as the slightest pressure of his fingers caused his ropes of forearm muscles to flex powerfully. Nevertheless, she held her expression of polite interest—a skill borne of her rigorous upbringing.

“Thank you sir,” she returned, her countenance demure. “I am sure I shall be very happy here.”

The MacGregor chief nodded. Then, turning to her husband, he said, “My Lord, have ye had any ken of MacGillivray?”

“I have not. And I must say, I am rather vexed at the fact,” Lord Reginald answered.

“No pulp of a corpse turn up then? Well, we’re keeping a lookout for the lad to be sure.”

“Pray that you do. I’ll not have him escape justice.”

The MagGregor chief, noticing Jane’s inquisitive expression at their exchange, took it upon himself to explain. “Yer lord husband has just snuffed out a wee uprising, didna ye ken, yer Ladyship?”

“An uprising?” she exclaimed, tensing in her seat.

“Oh, aye. The MacGillivrays. Tried to take the castle by force. Be no’ afraid, though, lass. His Lordship gave them a right walloping.”

“Oh dear,” she answered. “Let up hope it serves as a lesson to them that they shall think twice before acting so foolishly again. I do hope there were not too many killed.”

The MacGregor chief raised his eyebrows, struck by the girl’s naivety. “Aye, well, his Lordship’s side fared the better. No’ too many casualties.”

“Now, now, Brian. My bride need not be regaled with such gruesome tales,” Lord Reginald interrupted with a good-natured wink. “Far too burdensome for the female sensibility, is that not right my dear?”

Jane swallowed the insult and nodded complacently. “Indeed, my Lord.”

Though the conversation ended there, the MacGregor chief’s words piqued her interest. When the man moved away from the dais, she risked her husband’s displeasure and inquired further.

“My Lord—forgive me, but might I ask a further question on the subject? For if I am to be the mistress of this castle and of these lands I confess I would like to know as much as I can about its people—and also its enemies.”

Much to her relief, her persistence did not seem to anger her husband. Lord Reginald considered for a brief moment, shrugging finally.

“I suppose if you are going to be travelling to the village and interacting with its people, you might be better off to know whom you can trust and whom you cannot,” he reasoned. “The MacGillivrays lost their hold of these lands because they refused to swear their loyalty to King Edward. Since Dunloch and its people require rule, the king awarded them to me. These people need a fair and steady lord to guide them in the king’s name, you must understand, not a pack of slovenly, warring savages.”

Jane, who knew very little about politics, accepted the baron’s logic. “Well then, if they would not swear loyalty and then attacked the castle, I suppose you acted as you needed to in order to protect what is now rightfully yours.”

“That I did, my dear,” he agreed. “But be you warned—many MacGillivrays still live in the village and even in the castle itself, as do a great many more who were once loyal to the clan. They have been allowed to remain as they have pledged their allegiance to England and to the Crown, but there is no telling whether they harbour secret animosity or design, so do be careful.”

“Are there MacGillivrays here now?” she asked, her blood chilling at the possibility.

“Indeed there are,” he confirmed. “Most of the servants—with the exception of the kitchen staff, for I’d rather not suffer a death by poisoning if I can help it. And Tearlach over there—he was the MacGillivray steward before he became a turncoat to his clan and swore loyalty to England. I’ve got my eye on him—I do not trust that man. But he is good with the books, turns me a handsome profit, and so I retain him.”

Lord Reginald’s attention was diverted then by a guest who wished to speak with him. Jane was glad of the interruption, and used it to study the man who had once been a fearsome MacGillivray clansman.

Though fearsome was definitely not the appropriate word to apply to this particular Scot—or at least not anymore. It was clear that he had once been a man of great strength, and though he held the position of steward, she thought he must once have been a warrior as well. But the years had taken their toll on him—his face was terribly weathered, and his hands gnarled and arthritic. He walked with a bit of a limp as well, though not enough of one to hinder his movements.

There was something else that had taken its toll on the man, though, something which Jane was unable to identify. She could detect no visible hunch, yet the man walked with a stooped gait as if there was a great weight pressing down upon his shoulders. And his face, though very kind in appearance, looked disappointed somehow.

Or perhaps ... sad.

She was frightened by the burly specimens of virile Scottish men present in the great hall that evening. This one, however, for reasons unknown to her, stirred within her a small pang of sympathy.

As the night wore on the merriment grew significantly uninhibited—as did the accompanying drinking. By the time the festivities came to a close, far beyond the midnight hour, more than a few guests in the great hall were clearly in their cups.

For Jane, though, the end of the celebration arrived much too soon. She was not ready for the duty which lay ahead of her this night. She knew that what happened between a man and a woman behind closed doors was supposed to be highly pleasurable. Amelia told her so, and Jane believed her for Amelia had experienced it more times—and with more men—than any of the unmarried girls she’d known in Sussex.

With the hour drawing ever nearer to that when she would be expected to couple for the first time in her life, she could not imagine such an act being at all pleasurable with a man as old as Lord Reginald. But as much as she would have wished it, the moment could not be delayed forever. At her husband’s bidding she was shown to her quarters by one of the female servants where she was washed, undressed, and prepared for her deflowering by a tearful Ruth.

“Now you be a good girl,” she said when she was finished brushing out Jane’s long, russet hair at the ornately carved vanity. “Lie still, and try not to cry. If his Lordship has not had too much to drink, I imagine it will be over fairly quickly.”

“Why would it
not
be over quickly if he
has
had too much to drink?” Jane asked, her voice unsteady.

“The drink, you see, it tends to ...
interfere
with the men folk’s ability to—well, never you mind that,” she broke off in haste when Jane paled. “It will be fine.”

With a warm kiss on her forehead, Ruth left the room. Jane watched through the glass in the mirror as her beloved maid shut the door behind her, leaving her entirely alone in a bedchamber that did not at all feel like it was hers.

She gazed at her reflection. Her tears had long ago run dry, but her eyes were still visibly red and swollen. A sense of numbness had overtaken her, reflecting itself in her face. Her usually alabaster skin looked waxy, and her blue eyes—which normally sparkled with vivacity and were generally considered the only redeeming feature of her otherwise plain appearance—were dull, lack-lustre.

In fact, with her sallow face illuminated as it was by the flicker of her lantern, she thought she might well be mistaken for a corpse. There was no help for it, though. And even if there was, she was not entirely sure she would bother. She had not an ounce of desire to render herself more attractive for Lord Reginald.

Resigned, she stood from the dressing table and crossed the room to the bed. Drawing her shift up to her knees so she could climb the high frame, she crawled into the middle of the straw mattress and pulled the many covers up to pool loosely around her waist. She then drew her knees to her chin, wrapping her arms tightly around them as if they were a barrier—a barrier through which no man could cross to violate her.

In the hallway beyond her closed chamber door, heavy footsteps resounded on the stone floor. Shortly after, a second pair of footsteps joined them.

“Night then, Reg,” she heard a gruff voice call in a northern English accent. “We’ll be off in the morning. Enjoy your bride. She’s a bonnie one, isn’t she?”

“I suppose so,” Lord Reginald’s voice responded. “Though her sister is by far the prettier of the pair. I daresay next to
that
lass, the girl is rather unappealing.”

“Why did you not negotiate for the sister’s hand then?” inquired his companion.

Lord Reginald snorted. “Not a chance. That one’s been plucked and plucked again. Besides, I’ve no time for a beautiful and silly wife. I require a serious and dutiful girl I can shape and mould as I see fit. Between the two sisters their looks were the only differing factor—the dowry was equally as large, and a marriage to either one brought the same familial alliance.”

“Oh, I think she’s pretty enough,” responded the unidentified voice. “She’s a fine figure, to be sure. And let us be honest, Reg, that’s all that truly matters when you’re between her legs, is it not?”