The Lady And The Laird - The Lady and the Laird Part 16
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The Lady and the Laird Part 16

LUCY WAS DREAMING. She was running down dark corridors with no ending and no way out, desperately seeking something she could not find, her heart racing, dread snapping at her heels like a hunting dog.

She woke panting and drenched in sweat, tears wet on her cheeks. The blood was pounding in her ears, the bedclothes tangled about her limbs like shackles. Gradually the terrified flutter of her heart steadied and she started to breathe more easily, but the rags of the nightmare clung to her senses.

Alice.

She was swamped by an enormous sense of loss and grief. She felt sick and frightened.

Blinking, she could see the gray light of morning edging its way around the bed curtains. The shreds of the nightmare faded. It was her wedding day. Immediately the nausea and fear swamped her again. It was her wedding day and all she could think was that she felt terrified: terrified that Robert would not keep his word and that he would insist on consummating the marriage and that she would suffer, as Alice had, and lose her life and fail her child.

Her heart was starting to pound again. She could feel the familiar panic welling in her chest, threatening to smother her. She lay still and breathed deeply. She tried to tell herself that she trusted Robert and that he was a good man, but the words of reassurance were like a bat squeak in the dark compared to her fear. She felt trapped and panicked. She had to find a way out.

And then she remembered Mairi's words: "There are ways to be safe...."

She stilled, thinking. Isobel McLain had said that there was a wise woman in the village, out on the Thurso Road, a woman who treated the ills of the townspeople with tinctures and medications. Perhaps that same woman also brewed medicines that were sovereign against pregnancy. Perhaps that was the way to ensure that she would be safe.

She slid from the bed, shivering in the cold morning air. The servant had not yet been in to light the fire, and the room felt chilled. Her bare feet winced at the cold of the floor.

She pulled on her clothes haphazardly, opened the door of her chamber and trod quietly down the stair. The inn was awakening slowly. There were clatters and crashes from the kitchen and the sound of voices. She knew she would have to be quick.

She let herself out of the main door, giving silent thanks for the fact that the hinges were well oiled and the door did not creak. The morning air was fresh and cold. A sea mist had blown in and it clung around the houses like a shroud, muffling all sound. Damp tendrils of mist soon soaked Lucy's pelisse. The light was strange, pale gray and eerie. No birds sang in the silence. It felt extraordinarily lonely.

Before long the press of houses and shops thinned out and the road snaked away into the mist toward Thurso. There were only a couple of crofts here, still and quiet. A few lights glowed behind the shutters, but they were all barred against the weather. Lucy trudged up the track toward the last cottage. A chicken was scratching in the pen. The ducks ran quacking ahead of her, the noise suddenly loud in the silence.

She knocked at the wooden door and waited. There was no answer. Nervousness rose in her and she was about to turn and run when the door swung open. A woman stood there, younger than Lucy had imagined, her face serene, her smile warm. She showed absolutely no surprise to be disturbed so early on such an inclement day. She did not curtsy but she inclined her head.

"My lady."

She knows who I am.... That alone was almost enough to make Lucy turn and run, but the woman had drawn back and Lucy found herself stepping over the threshold after her.

Inside, the croft was warm and dark, lit by a peat fire smoldering in the grate and with one lamp burning on the dresser. There were leaves drying in baskets before the fire. The woman gestured her toward one of the high-backed chairs made from woven rushes. They were filled with brightly colored cushions. The whole croft was neat and cosy and such a contrast to the cold misery that filled Lucy that it felt quite incongruous.

She did not want to sit. She felt too on edge. She pressed her gloved hands together.

"Some tea, my lady?" The woman nodded toward the kettle that was humming softly on the hob.

"Oh," Lucy said, "no, thank you. I-" The words stuck in her throat. Now that the moment had come she had absolutely no idea how to ask for what she needed.

"There'll be something you're wanting," the woman said. She had her head on one side like a curious bird. Her eyes were suddenly very bright. "How can I help you?"

Lucy met her gaze and had the disturbing feeling she already knew exactly what she wanted.

"I am a little anxious for my health," she said rapidly. "I understand that there are medications that you make..."

The woman nodded slowly, the secretive look still in her eyes.

"I have been a little fragile these last few months," Lucy continued, "and my doctor warned me-" She swallowed hard, the lie so difficult to force out.

"I need to wait a little before I have children," she said, the words coming in a sudden rush now. "Wait and build up my strength. So I am anxious to avoid...That is, I should try not to conceive..."

The woman nodded again. "You and the laird will be finding another way around the inheritance, then."

"That's right," Lucy said, smothered in guilt. "We have already discussed it. The courts will rule in Lord Methven's favor-" The lies dried up in her throat, but the woman was already nodding again, turning away toward a little wooden cabinet on the wall as though the workings of the king's courts were of absolutely no interest to her.

"There is a tincture of herbs that might help you," she said. "Rue and pennyroyal."

Lucy's relief was so great that she felt her knees weaken. She grabbed the back of the chair for support. "It works?" she whispered.

"It works well." The woman smiled. "There is more than one woman in the town can attest to that." She opened the cupboard with one of the little keys that hung on the chain at her waist. "I'll get you a jar."

Lucy put several sovereigns down on the table. She saw the woman's gaze rest on them; then she scooped them up and they disappeared into the deep pocket of her gown. She placed the jar softly on the table. "Take it every day," she said. "That way you will be safe."

Lucy's hand was shaking as she grabbed the pot and shoved it into the pocket of her cloak.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was shaking too. The wisewoman nodded one final time, the same incurious blank gaze back in her eyes now, and then Lucy was out of the cottage, gulping in the cold air and stumbling down the path.

Outside, the fog was as dense as before. It seemed to wrap Lucy about with sorrow as she hurried up the road, past the kirk where she was to be married that afternoon, back toward the inn. The hard shape of the jar bumped against her leg as she walked, reminding her at each step of her betrayal. Instead of relief now, she felt guilt and unhappiness and shame at what she had done.

"To keep you safe..." Mairi's words echoed in her head and she told herself that the tincture was no more than a safeguard and a way of protecting herself if Robert did not keep his word.

Nevertheless she felt miserable. Robert had been honest about his need for an heir and had told her that with time and trust he believed she would feel safe enough to consummate the marriage. Lucy hoped so too; she desperately wanted it to be true and she was desperately afraid that it would not be, that the damage the past had done could never be undone.

She had not expected to feel so unhappy to be deceiving Robert. He was too good a man to blame her for her failure to conceive. He would go to the courts and argue his case, and with luck and a good lawyer he would win and keep his northern estates. And he would never know that she had deceived him.

Lucy was shivering as she lifted the latch and hurried back into the warmth of the Methven Arms. She met Isobel coming down the corridor toward her. The landlady's anxious expression dissolved into relief when she saw her.

"Thank goodness!" she said. "We thought you had run off!"

Lucy's teeth were chattering with cold and reaction. "I needed some fresh air," she said.

Isobel's eyebrows shot up. "You are soaked and chilled to the bone! Come inside and get warm. It's almost time to start getting ready."

While the landlady hurried away to commandeer hot water and hot food, Lucy went upstairs. There was a fire burning in her chamber now and the room felt warm and cheerful. She spread her cloak over the back of a chair and heard the pot in the pocket bump against the wooden frame. Quickly she grabbed it and pushed it to the bottom of the Armada chest.

She could hear Isobel's step on the stair and Bessie's excited voice. It was time to dress for her wedding.

THE FOG HAD lifted by the time that Lucy was ready to go to the church and a pale sun was peeking through the clouds. Iain McLain was taking the role of her father and giving the bride away and he, Bessie and Isobel walked beside Lucy through the town to the kirk. It was very quiet. There were no crowds lining the streets or people hanging from windows to see her pass. The silence was so deep it almost felt funereal. Lucy felt her spirits sink still further at the silence.

"Oh dear," she said. "I knew no one would want to celebrate the marriage of the laird to a relative of Wilfred Cardross, and who can blame them?"

Robert was waiting for her at the door of the kirk, as was traditional. He looked shockingly handsome, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. When he saw her his expression relaxed almost as though he had truly been afraid that she had run out on him. Lucy remembered Dulcibella leaving him standing at the altar and felt a sudden and fierce pride that she would be the one standing beside him today. Her feelings shook her. They were so unexpected when she had been prey to such nightmares and dark fears. But Robert was here now and he looked so strong and so steady and protective that Lucy's world steadied too.

As she walked up the path toward him, there was the clatter of hooves on the road behind and she swung around to see two riders galloping toward them, cloaks flying. One of them Lucy recognized as Robert's handsome cousin and groomsman from the ill-fated marriage to Dulcibella. The other...

"Mairi!" Lucy's voice wobbled as her sister flung herself from the saddle and ran toward her, grabbing Lucy into the tightest hug.

"Tell me we're not too late for the wedding," Mairi said. "We've ridden all day and all night."

For a moment Lucy could not speak, she was so overcome with emotion. "Don't cry," Mairi said, seeing her brimming eyes. "It is not a good look for a bride."

"They're happy tears," Lucy said. She rubbed her palms against her wet cheeks.

"I couldn't resist standing as your groomsman a second time," Lucy heard Jack Rutherford saying as he clapped Robert on the back.

"I'm not sure I should allow it," Robert said. "The first time was a disaster." But he was grinning as he shook Jack's hand.

"It depends on how you look at it," Jack said, bowing to Lucy and giving her a wicked smile. "Lady Lucy, your servant. I'd say Rob had a lucky escape last time around if it means he can marry you. Thank you for your sacrifice in taking him on."

"Well, at least he did not have to marry me," Mairi said.

"That would have been a sacrifice too far," Jack said with feeling, and they glared at each other through a very taut silence.

"Tell me," Lucy said quickly, looking from her sister's flushed, angry face to Jack's tight one, "how you got here in time. Lord Methven only proposed to me last night."

"Robert always was confident," Jack said. "He sent word from Durness four days ago."

"And Jack always was tactless," Robert said, into the heavy silence. "I took nothing for granted."

"Arrogant," Lucy heard Mairi murmur, "just like his cousin."

It was turning into the most awkward wedding day on record and they had not even reached the altar yet. Once again Lucy threw herself into the breach.

"Well," she said, "we must not keep the minister waiting." She grabbed Mairi's hands, drawing her along the path toward the door. "You may be my matron of honor. Bessie is my bridesmaid."

"I'm scarcely dressed for it," Mairi said, looking down at the splashes of mud on her hem, "but I would be delighted." She smiled at Bessie, who dimpled and dropped a curtsy.

"...a complete nightmare," Lucy heard Jack say in a stage whisper to Robert as they made their way in at the door. "Almost strangled her several times on the journey. I hope for your sake that the sister is different. I had a letter from Forres, by the way, sent by special envoy. The duke sends his best wishes to you both and thanks for the brandy."

"Brandy?" Lucy said, turning.

Robert smiled at her. "It is an old island tradition when asking for the hand in marriage of a man's daughter. You present him with a bottle of your best brandy."

"Bribe him more like," Mairi said tartly, "to overlook the scandal."

"Don't mind me," Lucy said.

"Sorry." Two bright spots of color still burned in Mairi's cheeks as her gaze rested on Jack. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I didn't mean to imply anything."

"Well," Lucy said, "I am a scandalous bride, no question. I should be grateful to Lord Methven for rescuing my reputation after the tarnish applied to it by cousin Wilfred."

"Lord Methven is lucky to be getting you," Mairi said, glaring at Robert as though he had committed some heinous crime. "You are doing him a favor. As for his questionable relatives-" She looked down her nose at Jack, who grinned back at her, unabashed. "One must hope you are not obliged to spend too much time in their company."

"Perhaps we should have asked both of you to leave your weapons at the door," Robert said, looking from Mairi to Jack and back again. He drew Lucy's hand through his arm. "Are you ready, my love?"

My love...

There was a lump in Lucy's throat. She most certainly was not that, but the words were a sweet gloss over a marriage that was born of necessity. She nodded, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow and drawing closer to his side.

Together they stepped into the cool shadowed interior of the kirk.

Lucy stopped dead. The church was packed, every pew taken with the people from the town dressed in their Sunday best, carrying flowers, smiling.

Her breath caught in her throat. "This is for you," she whispered to Robert.

"And for you," he said, and Lucy felt the tears prick the back of her eyes again.

The service seemed very short. Isobel and Iain McLain were witnesses. Jack and Mairi studiously ignored each other throughout. Lucy remembered little of what was said, though she remembered making her vows and Robert making his, his voice strong and steady, his hand holding hers.

Afterward it seemed that the entire town escorted them back to the inn, the children running along beside them throwing flowers beneath their feet, the pipes playing, the crowds cheering, the streets alive and loud. Robert's people were in the mood to make merry. They had brought food to celebrate at the wedding feast, chicken, eggs, potatoes, cheeses and delicious bannocks with rich butter. Lucy and Robert were escorted to the high table. The press of guests was so great that the two of them were squashed together on the long settle. Lucy could feel the hard length of Robert's thigh pressed against hers; oddly it seemed impossible to ignore it. She took a gulp of wine to steady herself and felt instead the heat bloom in her cheeks.

"That's better," Mairi said approvingly. She was seated a little way down the table next to Jack Rutherford, whom she was ignoring with great deliberation. "You looked as pale as a corpse before."

It was hardly a felicitous description for a bride, Lucy thought, but it was fairly accurate. Despite the mildness of the day and the huge open fire that blazed in the grate, her hands were frozen and she felt cold and scared. She looked at him. Robert. Her husband. Her mind simply could not accept the fact. Too much had happened, too fast, for her to be able to understand it. The change between her life a mere week before and her life now was huge, a chasm she did not know how to bridge.

Robert was talking to Iain McLain, and as she watched he emptied his tankard of ale and one of the potboys ran to refill it. Sensing her gaze, Robert turned to smile at her and leaned closer so that his words were for her alone.

"You've nothing to fear," he said softly, and Lucy blushed that he had read her doubts of him in her eyes. He touched her cheek briefly, a comforting gesture, before pulling her plate toward her. There was roast chicken and it smelled delicious, but when she had tried a mouthful it had tasted like ashes. "Eat," he said. "It tastes good and you have barely touched it."

She tried. It still stuck in her throat, but another glass of wine helped. Gradually she could feel her tense muscles unlocking. She started to relax. She drank more wine, nibbled on the food and chatted to Mairi and to Isobel. The tables were pushed back and the fiddlers struck up, first a slow, evocative piece that sounded almost like a lament and then suddenly shifting into a dance that was fast and furious, with whoops and wild shouts of glee. The hall came alive with whirling figures. Lucy joined Robert in a country dance. She was spun down the line from hand to hand until, panting and flushed, her hair tumbling about her face, she came back to the start and into Robert's arms again. He kissed her there and then in front of everyone, and the crowd roared its approval. The music shifted into a dance called the Bride's Reel and Lucy danced until she was breathless.

A few dances later the door of the hall burst open and the guizers came in, outlandish figures in straw suits, pointed hats and masks that hid their faces. Immediately the guests burst into rowdy applause and the music spun louder and wilder.

"I do hope that isn't cousin Wilfred lurking under one of those fetching straw bales," Lucy murmured.

One of the guizers was bowing to her, holding out a hand for her to join him in the dance. Everyone laughed and applauded when she got up to join him. She had no idea of the steps, but by now it scarcely seemed to matter. Seven of the Findon men performed a sword dance and then Lucy danced with Robert again and then with Jack and soon she was spinning through an endless succession of dances as the pipes and the fiddles beat out the rhythm and her head rang with music and laughter.

Then, suddenly, the door crashed open. A man stood there, travel-stained in the torchlight, his face set in lines of great weariness. He staggered into the room.

"My lord!"

The fiddle music faded and spluttered to a halt. The chatter and laughter died. Someone pushed the newcomer down onto the settle and he sank down gratefully. Another man pressed a tankard into his hand and he drank it down in one gulp. Lucy could feel a strange atmosphere in the room now, watchful and tense. Conversation bubbled softly like a kettle coming to the boil. Everyone was waiting.

"My lord." The man wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I am Stuart McCall. I come from Golden Isle."

Lucy felt Robert stiffen beside her and she glanced sharply at him. He was very still now, his eyes cold, unsmiling. She could feel the emotion in him, dark and turbulent. There was anger there and something else, something that felt like pain. She looked at his tight, set face and it was like looking at a stranger. She did not understand, but she felt the Robert Methven she had thought she was starting to know slip away.

"You have come to wish me joy on my wedding, I hope," Robert said. He drained his tankard. Lucy saw his throat move as he swallowed; saw the deliberate way he placed the empty glass on the table and raised his eyes to meet those of the newcomer. It was intimidating, but the man did not flinch.

"Aye, my lord," McCall said. "And to ask for your help."

There was something terrifying in Robert's stillness. "My help?" he said softly.

"Aye, my lord," McCall said again. "The people of Golden Isle are starving, my lord, and no laird has taken the trouble to visit us for ten years, since-"

Robert's palm slapped down on the table, making Lucy jump. "You have a factor to take care of your needs," he said, his voice hard and angry.