The Beauty of the Mist (47 page)

“You’ll miss your wedding if we don’t hurry, m’lady,” the elder woman said breathlessly, her red face proof of the speed exerted in bringing her mistress the news.

“Can it be today?” Jaime tried to contain her excitement. “We’ve only just arrived. How did Malcolm know that we would get here in time? How...”

Caddy waved a hand in agitation to get her young mistress’s attention. “There is no time, m’lady. Lord Malcolm has already gone off to the Priory...Everyone has!”

Jaime felt her stomach jump in excitement as she watched Caddy take charge of the room. The time had come. Malcolm had been true to his promise and was taking her as a wife. She reached down, took the gown into her arms, and whirled excitedly about the room, but then she came to a sudden stop. “How am I to get there? With everyone there...”

“You are the bride. They saw our ship coming,” the older woman scolded as she started ordering the other servants about. “The steward told me the wedding is set for vespers. There will be an escort of Lord Malcolm’s men leaving Dunvegan in a short time, so we must make haste. Their job is to take you to your intended. We must hurry, m’lady.”

“Aye, we must,” Jaime whispered excitedly.

Malcolm MacLeod, the laird of the clan MacLeod and lord of the Isle of Skye and the Hebrides, glanced in the direction of the newly opened door. Stepping away from the group of men gathered in the large hall, he motioned his messenger to approach.

“Her ship has docked, m’lord!” the young man announced.

“Did you meet with Mistress Jaime?” Malcolm asked, impatience evident in his tone. “Did you give her the news?”

The man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Aye, m’lord. I mean, nay, m’lord...not face to face. But I did see your steward, David, speaking with Mistress Jaime’s woman. He was telling her, m’lord...and...and...”

Malcolm's gaze took in the messenger’s embarrassed face and averted eyes. This was too much to put on the young man, he had to admit. He should have gone back himself, but with all that still needed to be resolved here—there just hadn’t been enough time.

“Very well. I’ll see to it...” Malcolm stopped as the MacDonald clan chief’s approach drew his attention back to the matters at hand.

“I am so excited, Caddy,” she said. “I feel giddy.”

“Well, I’m certainly happy to hear that, mistress,” the maid replied tartly. “But if you swoon before we get you into this dress...”

At the sound of someone crying out, they both turned in time to see pearls scattering everywhere on the rush-covered floor. The serving girl was looking on in horror as the white beads bounced and rolled into every shadowy corner and crevice. The young lass’s gaze snapped up to Jaime’s face as she folded to her knees and burst into tears. “I am so sorry, mistress. The string...”

Jaime came to her feet at once and moved across the chamber to the woman sobbing on the floor. “The string was too old, lass. I could have done that myself.”

“But...m’lady...”

“Think no more of it,” Jaime whispered reassuringly. “Let’s gather up these beads together, why don’t we?”

The young servant looked up gratefully with the tears still on her cheeks.

“Then you can help weave these flowers into my hair. I think they will be much more becoming with my dress than those pearls, don’t you?”

From the confines of the small cemetery where Malcolm had only moments ago knelt at his mother’s grave, the warrior chief emerged and faced the joyous tidings of the gathered throng. The sounds of bagpipes filled the air, and the villagers and the gathered clansfolk, dressed in their finest clothes, crowded in the Priory yard.

The young laird looked around proudly at the happiness that surrounded him. This was surely as it was meant to be, he thought, walking toward the chapel.

A hush fell over the crowd, and the pipers ceased their tunes as the bride and the escorting warriors entered the gates of the Priory. Everyone stared approvingly as the young woman was helped from her magnificent bay horse by an armed knight before the steps of the chapel.

Then, as they started for the open doors, she staggered at the top step. The crowd surged around her.

“Mistress, are you well?” the knight asked, concern evident in his voice.

“Aye,” the bride whispered. “It is just the excitement. Take me in.”

Blades of golden light from the small slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense. At the altar of the Priory chapel, in the sight of a congregation filled with islanders and family, the bride and groom exchanged expectant glances, and listened to the ancient priest who stood at the altar with his back to them.

They made a magnificent pair. She, young and beautiful, her pale skin glowing—the light gleaming off the golden threads that were woven with the white flowers into her dark hair. In her hands, gilded branches of rosemary—symbols of love and fidelity—were intertwined with prayer beads, while her white gown shimmered in the golden shafts of light.

And he, too, radiated the magnificence of the moment. A ribbon of gold bound his long brown hair at the nape of his neck, and the ornate broach that designated his position as chief of the powerful MacLeod clan held in place the tartan that crossed the flawless white of his silk shirt. As he turned slightly to look at his bride, the dark plaid of his kilts moved over high, soft boots. Seeing her blush slightly at his glance, Malcolm smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile and turned back to the priest.

Behind them, the gathered throng stirred restlessly in the little chapel, waiting in anticipation for the exchange of vows. The people of Skye were well represented, with members of both MacLeod and MacDonald clans, all decked out in their most colorful finery, constituting most of the assembled crowd. But the Macpherson clan also stood out prominently among the group in the chapel. Alec Macpherson, former laird of these lands, stood beside Malcolm and looked on with a fatherly affection at the young man he and his wife Fiona had raised as their own.

The priest’s voice rose and fell in the measured cadences of the mixed Latin and Gaelic. From behind the grate of iron bands to the right of the altar, the sound of women’s voices—the nuns of the Priory—could be heard responding to the prayers.

The priest raised up his hands in offering, and then turned and preceded his acolytes down from the altar. It was time, and the young laird turned to face his bride. Her black eyes shone with excitement. They were misty, reflecting her joy in their imminent union. Malcolm took her hands in his.

The priest paused for a moment, and the congregation seemed to hold its breath. The chapel’s silence was profound, so silent in fact that Malcolm’s eye was drawn upward at the crackling hiss of a candle on the far wall. The incense curled upward in a lazy spiral, and the young laird’s mind raced at the thought of the step he was taking. An important step, and one he knew was long overdue. Nay, he thought. For every purpose, there is a season. He looked back into the beautiful face of his bride.

The candle on the far wall flickered again, and Malcolm became aware of a sound at the entrance to the chapel. Turning his head, he could see the great oak door had swung partially open, but he could not see who was entering—only that the folk by the door were backing away with looks that changed rapidly from mere surprise to shock.

And then he saw a young woman step uncertainly into the chapel, her wedding gown glittering in the light of the thousand lit candles. Like everyone else, the young laird stood, immobile, stunned by the sight of the beautiful woman whose face now grew bloodless, nearly matching the whiteness of her elegant garment.

She couldn’t stop her body from quaking. Clasping her hands tightly at her waist, Jaime rested her weary frame against the door. Her legs now seemed to function of their own accord, for she couldn’t manage to make them either hold her weight or propel her back out the door. Every eye in the hall had turned, and she felt them burning into her. Painfully, she swallowed her tears, fighting back the anguish that threatened to burst her heart into a million pieces. Once again her eyes followed the open path from where she stood to the altar, where he stood hand in hand with another.

“I hate you, Malcolm MacLeod,” she whispered. “To the day I die, I will.”

Finding her legs at last, Jaime yanked at the door and lurched out of the chapel.