Whence Came a Prince (32 page)

Well, then.
She drew closer, hoping he might catch a whiff of the rose water she’d bathed with that morning. “ ’Tis Friday, Jamie, and you know what they say.”

“Friday flit, short time sit.”

Och.
Not at all what she was after. “True, Friday is not a favorable day for moving nor for fishing, but it
is
a canny day for marrying. More people in Scotland wed on Friday than all the rest of the days put together.” No sooner had she spoken than their own wedding days came to mind.
Wednesday. Saturday.
Neither of them considered lucky.

He cocked one eyebrow. “My grandfather Archibald insisted Friday was an ill choice for a wedding because that was the day Eve tempted Adam to eat the forbidden fruit.”

“Jamie! Where in the Buik does it say that happened on a
Friday
?”

“It doesn’t.” Almost a smile. “Though you might check your father’s almanac when we get home.”

They crossed a shallow burn, the valley to the east having given way to a sweep of verdant hills. Though the day was warm, and the sun had brightened since morn, the scent of rain still hung in the moist air. As they climbed along a sparsely wooded stretch, a figure emerged from the trees and started toward them. An older woman dressed in garish, mismatched clothing, carrying a wicker basket in her hands. Familiar, but not welcome.

Lillias Brown.
The wutch of Nethermuir.

Everything inside Rose stopped. Her breath, her heart, even her thoughts. When she jerked to life again—her breath ragged, her heart beating too fast—one thought overshadowed all others.
Flee.

“Don’t slow down,” she pleaded, looking only at Jamie and not at the
wickit
woman drawing closer to the chaise.
Keep away from me. And from my family.
The last words she’d spoken to Lillias on a Sabbath morning in March. Rose had not seen her since that day. She did not want to see her now.

“Whoa, Bess.” Jamie reined in the mare. Lillias had walked into the chaise’s path, giving him no choice.

Rose squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at Lillias. But she could not stop her ears from hearing the witch’s words.

“I see ye, Rose McKie. Hidin’ yer face from yer auld freen.”

“You flatter yourself, woman.” Jamie’s voice was sharper than the dirk in his boot. “My wife is not your friend, nor are you hers.”

Bess shook her mane, as if anxious to move on. “Please, Jamie.” Rose tucked her face behind his shoulder. “Let us away.”

“Sic a fine goun ye’re wearin’.” Lillias stepped closer, her hand on Bess’s jingling harness, preventing their escape. “If a rose from yer sister’s gairden shed blood, ’twould be that verra color.”

Lillias was beside her now. Rose smelled the herbs on her clothes.

Jamie stretched his arm across her like a shield. “No closer, Widow Brown.”

“I see ye ken me name.” Her high-pitched laugh bore no humor. “Did me
cantrips
and herbs
wark
? Did they gie yer bride the waddin
praisent
she wanted?” After a brief pause, Lillias clapped her hands once, making Rose jump. “Och! I see they did.”

“ ’Twas the Almighty who blessed her,” Jamie said firmly. “Not you.”

“Rose McKie is not the only woman ye ken wi’ a
wame
that’s fu’. Isn’t that richt, Mr. McKie?”

He stiffened. “Let go of the harness. Now.”

Rose sensed her stepping away but dared not look to be certain. Whatever was the witch blethering about? Of course there were other expectant mothers in Galloway! Hanging on to Jamie’s arm, Rose felt his muscles tense as he called out to Bess. The chaise was slow starting, for they were on an incline, but soon the wheels were turning round again.

When Rose opened her eyes, they were riding on a high ridge with a splendid view of rolling hills and the village not far below. Her breathing grew more even. “Jamie, I am … so sorry.”

“Dinna fash yerself.” She heard Duncan’s accent and Jamie’s kindness. “You are not to blame for that witch blocking our path.”

“But I am very much to blame for her
crossing
our path.” Rose exhaled, trying to rid herself of the woman’s scent, to forget the sound of her voice, to block out any memory of once visiting her eerie cottage, Nethermuir. The teas, the herbs, the amulets, the spells. What a naive fool she’d been to seek out a witch! “God forgive me the sins of my youth.”

Jamie glanced at her, slowing the chaise as they started downhill
again, bound for the crossroads. “Are you saying you are auld now? My wife, whose seventeenth birthday has yet to dawn?”

“I will be ancient come Lammas Sunday,” she assured him, feeling her spirits begin to lighten.

“Rose …” Jamie glanced her way for a moment, then faced the road again. “You ken that your father has asked me to ride Walloch home.”

She’d forgotten and did not care to be reminded. “I’ll miss your company in the chaise.”

“With Neda and Duncan sharing this seat, you’ll not lack for companionship.” His gaze scanned the distant horizon. “After our meal, I will leave for home … early. Ahead of the others.”

“Is there some pressing matter at Auchengray that bids you home?” A fleeting thought of Leana crossed her mind, then was gone.

“Nae, lass. I cannot say more until I have the evidence I need.”

Evidence?
She did not like the sound of that. “You will tell me later, then?”

“Later,” was all he said. The rest of her questions, it seemed, would have to wait.

Haifa mile past Hardgate they came upon Haugh of Urr, a village settled along the banks of the Urr, midway between Dumfries and Kirkcudbright. Bess turned left at Jamie’s command and headed straight for the kirk. Whether Bess spied Walloch tied to the hitching post or envisioned cool water and fresh oats waiting for her, the mare was on a full trot when they reached the grassy glebe. The Douglas carriage with its two horses waited near the kirk door along with several other fine mounts. Had the family already assembled?

Duncan was apparently watching for them and came bounding out the kirk door. “
Whaur
ye been, lad? ’Tis half past the hour, and Mistress Douglas is—”

“Aye, aye.” Jamie brought the chaise to an abrupt stop, jumped down, then came round to lift Rose to the ground. “Tend to Bess, will you, Duncan? I’ll see Rose in.”

She shook out her skirts, then turned in a circle. “Is my gown badly wrinkled?”

“You look fine, lass. Come.” He sounded irritated, so she did not
ask him if her bow was crushed or her hair still in place. She wasn’t the bride, after all.

As Jamie escorted her to the door, Rose eyed the nearby kirkyard and was relieved to find no open graves among the headstones. Very unlucky for a wedding, that. The stone kirk, twice as long as it was wide, was noticeably cooler inside, if a bit dank. The pulpit stood halfway down the long south wall, a small loft for the heritors perched across from it. Like the Newabbey kirk, this house of worship was somber and unadorned, with clear glass panes in the long windows. The enclosed wooden pews were painted a dull green, and as usual, there were never enough candles.

A knot of people stood before the pulpit, most of whom Rose knew. Morna Douglas wore a simple blue gown, appropriate for a widow about to remarry, with a matching hat that made her look taller. Her sons were dressed in the same English broadcloth they’d worn when they visited Auchengray several weeks ago, a bit worse for wear. When Duncan joined Neda, they stood apart from the others, aware of their station, yet by far the most amiable souls in the assembly.

It was Lachlan McBride, however, who demanded Rose’s attention, motioning her forward. The scowl on his face did not bode well. “At last my family has arrived.”

Brief courtesies were offered in hushed tones, in deference to their surroundings. Morna smiled a little, though it seemed an effort. She
did
compliment Rose’s gown, but Gavin’s frank appraisal was less welcome. Rose clasped her hands round Jamie’s arm, hoping the gesture might cool the young man’s gaze. Morna’s other sons were surly, even rude. Clearly Malcolm and Jamie had no use for each other. They only lacked pistols to be engaged in a duel, so murderous were the looks they exchanged.

“And this is Reverend James Muirhead,” Morna said in a
timorsome
voice, her hands fluttering round her face. “Our fine minister.”

A robust man of fifty-odd years stepped forward, his commanding physique better suited to the army than the pulpit. The man’s round face was framed by a silvery white periwig, which starkly contrasted with his black brows. Though he appeared as dour as any minister in Scotland, his high brow and luminous eyes hinted at a keen intelligence.

Reverend Muirhead tipped his head toward her father. “Shall we go over the particulars of the ceremony once more, or—”

“Nae,” Lachlan said bluntly. “Our guests will arrive momentarily. Morna and I have both spoken vows before. This wedding will nae doubt unfold like all the others you have performed these twenty years in Urr.”

“Perhaps.” The minister’s gaze traveled from Jamie to Malcolm. “Though one can ne’er be certain what will happen at a wedding.”

L
achlan held out his hand, confident Morna would fill it. In a matter of minutes, he would be the wealthiest bonnet laird in Newabbey, if not the ten parishes. Rich with land, rich with flocks, rich with sons. Aye, and rich with silver, locked away where thieves could not break through nor steal. A grand way to celebrate his sixtieth year.

Morna pulled off her lace gloves, then slipped her hand in his. For such a hot day, her touch was like ice. Would she be cold in other respects, this nervous bride of his? Not that it mattered. Young men married for lust; his intentions were of a higher nature.

“We are gathered here on this most solemn occasion to join Lachlan McBride of Auchengray and Morna Douglas of Edingham in holy matrimony.” Reverend Muirhead’s voice carried through the kirk, though it only needed to reach the first few pews. Not many neighbors bothered to attend a wedding where the bridal dinner was limited to family members. Lachlan, however, refused to feed the parish simply to draw a crowd.

When the minister lifted his hand, he was greeted with the rustling of skirts and scraping of heels. “All stand for a reading from the Book of Common Order.”

The words of John Knox rang through the stony sanctuary. Lachlan was too busy reviewing a detailed list in his mind to pay much attention to the fiery reformer’s rhetoric. The Douglas carriage—about to become the McBride carriage—was cleaned and polished and waiting at the door. Driver and footman were seated in the back of the kirk, prepared to depart for Dumfriesshire immediately after the meal. Morna’s bridal week in Moffat included lodging at the Black Bull Hotel, fine meals with many courses, and frequent visits to the Moffat
Well—an extravagance that would not be repeated in their lifetime. But, of course, Morna could not know that. Nor did he plan to mention it.

The minister closed the Book of Common Order and fixed his gaze on the couple. “Is there any impediment to this marriage? Any reason why the two of you should not be joined together as husband and wife?”

“Nae reason whatsoever,” Lachlan said, his conscience clear.

“None, sir,” Morna chirped. Since he could not alter the irritating pitch of her voice, he would have to insist on silence at table or risk losing his appetite altogether.

Reverend Muirhead moved to the side and posed the same question to the mostly empty pews. “Is there any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony? If so, please present your evidence.”

Lachlan could not resist peering over his shoulder. Heads were bent together, and he detected whispering, but none present lifted a hand to declare the marriage invalid. His nephew was the only one who looked as though he’d thought of something.

“If there are no objections, we will proceed.” The minister nodded at Lachlan as he turned forward once more. “Mr. McBride, the ring, if you please.”

Morna had insisted on a very slender silver band, confessing she was ashamed of her short, plump hands. Too narrow for the jeweler to engrave, almost too thin to handle without dropping it, Lachlan offered her the ring from his palm. She slipped it on her finger, just to the knuckle, then he held it in place. Her hands were frozen now and trembling, his own warm and steady.

Reverend Muirhead made short work of the vows, then went on at length, quoting various passages by memory, adding lines from Psalms and snippets of Scottish poetry by Ramsay and Thomson. The man was educated, that was certain. He was also long winded. At last the minister brought his discourse to a close, and Lachlan pushed the ring firmly in place.
Done.
All that once belonged to the Douglases now belonged to him.

While the parishioners collected their walking sticks and gloves, Morna squeezed Lachlan’s hand, her
eyes
bright with tears. He briefly squeezed back, then turned away. “Come, Wife. Our dinner awaits.”

The minister led the wedding party through the kirk and out of doors into the bright sunlight of midday. Lachlan conducted the final bit of business—silvering the man’s hand—before the reverend dutifully kissed the bride, his last official act.

Morna turned, face uplifted, prepared to receive her first kiss from her bridegroom. Lachlan obliged her, though her lips were dry and uninviting. A smattering of polite applause followed, provided by acquaintances of Morna’s who’d known her late husband. If they disapproved of her choice, their faces did not show it. Nor did it matter. Morna would be living in Newabbey parish by Lammas.

Lachlan patted her hand solicitously. “As the Scots of auld say, ‘Fortune gains the bride.’ ”

Jamie’s gaze was even. “Instead, you have gained the bride’s fortune.”

“Nephew—”

“Look!” Rose yanked on her husband’s arm, pulling him forward. “Mistress Muirhead is waving at us from the manse door. It appears your bridal dinner is ready, Father.”