The Spitfire (22 page)

“Aye, she’ll hae ye, lassie,” he said to Lona. “She’s missed ye greatly. I must, however, ask ye a great favor.”

“Anything, my lord!” Lona promised. Arabella was so lucky, she thought. This great lord was even more handsome than Sir Jasper!

“My sister, Ailis, is to be married on the fifth day of this month. If ye tell my wife of her mother’s death, ‘twill throw a pall over the festivities. ‘Tis not as if Arabella could slip quietly away to mourn alone. She is my wife, and I am head of my family. Such news could spoil Ailis’ wedding, and I am most doting of her, for she is my youngest sister.”

“I am willing, my lord, but my lady will pester me to death for news of Greyfaire, and if I avoid the issue, she will begin to wonder what is wrong. I cannot lie to her,” Lona said, distressed.

“Aye, she is as determined as a rat terrier,” the earl said with a chuckle, “but if ye will pretend to be ill, Lona, she will nae question ye until ye are well enough again. Can ye do it?”

“Aye, my lord, but can I fool the others in this house?”

A knock sounded upon the door, and the earl called out his permission to enter. Flora bustled into the room. A grin lit Tavis Stewart’s handsome features. “Flora will help us, lassie!” he said, and then quickly explained the predicament.

When he had finished, Flora nodded. “I’ll take Lona to bid her brother farewell in the kitchens, my lord, and that will gie ye time to find yer lady mother and tell her of our plan. No sooner than the lad is on his way, ye must faint, lass. Can ye do it?”

“Aye,” Lona said calmly. “I can.”

“Good lass,” the earl approved. “Dinna fret about telling yer lady the news of her mother, for I will do that after the wedding.”

In the kitchen Lona bid her brother a fond farewell. The heat of the ovens and the fireplaces had quickly dried his wet clothing. He was well warmed by a hot meal and several mugs of October ale as well. The clansman called Fergus had remained to keep him company, and upon closer inspection Lona decided he was indeed handsome. His hair was poker straight and dark, and his blue eyes twinkled as he easily bantered with the kitchen maids, of whom he was an obvious favorite. Wet and bedraggled, Lona had never before in her life felt so unattractive. For some reason it bothered her, and she turned her irritation on Fergus.

“My brother must be away quickly, you great lout!” she scolded. “Yet here you sit stuffing your face, and encouraging him to do likewise.”

“Give over, Lona,” Rowan replied mildly. “I’ll be soaked to the skin soon enough as it is. Give us a moment more.”

“If Seger catches you gone, it will go the worst for Da and the others,” Lona said, and her voice breaking, tears spilled down her cheeks, to her great mortification.

Fergus leapt up. “Dinna greet, mistress,” he begged her, his handsome face openly distressed. “We’ll go now, and I’ll ride wi’ yer brother to sight of Greyfaire meself. Ye dinna fear for him.”

“God go with you, Rowan,” Lona managed to say, and then she fled the kitchens, Flora hurrying after her.

Arabella was upset to learn of Lona’s illness, but Lady Margery assured her that it wasn’t at all surprising, considering the “poor lass” had ridden across the border in a heavy downpour.

“Why, the child was wearing four petticoats, two of them flannel, and they were wet clear through,” Lady Margery said. “As for her shawl…!”

“When will I be able to see her?” Arabella asked. “I would have the news of Greyfaire, madame.”

“It will be several days before yer poor Lona is up and about, my dear,” Lady Margery replied. “I’m certain she hae nothing of such import to tell ye that it canna keep. She’ll be fine after Ailis’ wedding to Robert Hamilton.”

Arabella had to be satisfied with her mother-in-law’s assessment of the situation, for to have questioned her further would have been extremely rude. In the six months she had lived in Scotland, she had allowed herself to be easily absorbed into this large and loving family. Despite having been raised as an only child in the relative isolation of Greyfaire Keep, Arabella had not found it difficult to become a Stewart. Ailis Fleming’s wedding to the young laird of Culcairn was the first really festive occasion Arabella would be partaking in, and if Lady Margery said that Lona would be all right, then she was content to accept her word in the matter and enjoy the wedding.

December fifth dawned cold and, to everyone’s surprise, fair. December wasn’t a month for sun, as a rule, and everyone considered it an excellent omen for the future happiness of the bride and groom. Ailis Fleming was considered most fair in a gown of white velvet, the bodice of which was rather tight fitting, with a long waist and a low vee neckline exposing her pretty bosom. The bodice of the gown had a wide shawl collar generously trimmed in ermine, as were the tight-fitting sleeves and the hem of the gown, including its long train, lined in gold brocade. She wore no jewelry but her betrothal ring and a jeweled rosary which was attached to a delicate gold chain about her waist. Her hair was loose to signify her purity and maiden state.

In a matching cape trimmed in fur about her shoulders, she was escorted from Cheviot Court to the church by her father, the wedding party, her family, and the assembled guests followed. Once inside the stone church, Arabella looked about her and found the entire scene one of rather barbaric splendor: Clansmen in red, green, and blue plaid of the Murray clan to which the Fleming family belonged, the red and blue tartan of the Hamilton family with its narrow white stripe, and the green, black, dark blue, and red plaid of the Stewarts of Dunmor, crowded the church along with the more colorful and intricate garb of the ladies.

Everyone was curious to see Tavis Stewart’s bride, who, if the rumors were true, had yet to grace either his bed or his castle, though frankly, many of the ladies could not understand why. The Earl of Dunmor had the Stewart charm, as many of the women present would attest. And there was that delicious story that she was English, and he had stolen her out of the church on her wedding day to another man. Knowing that the earl and his wife would certainly be at the wedding of Ailis Fleming to Robert Hamilton, few of their friends, relations, and neighbors had turned down the invitation to come to the event.

Arabella did not disappoint them. Her gown was of pale blue velvet and cloth of silver, trimmed in snowy ermine, and she had bound up her beautiful hair in a gold and pearl crespinette. About her neck, extending in fact from one shoulder to the other, the countess wore a wide, flat necklace of pearls and aquamarines set in a filigree of red Irish gold. Upon each of her fingers was a jeweled ring. Her handsome husband in his kilts was most attentive, which but added to the intrigue.

When the religious ceremony was over and the guests had all trooped back to Cheviot Court for the banquet, neither the Earl’s nor his Countess’s behavior gave anyone a clue as to their relationship. They were every bit the happily married couple. Indeed, when separated occasionally during the hours of the festivities, Tavis Stewart was seen to seek out his wife’s location and stare longingly at her. It was most confusing.

“Ye are wed wi’ her, aren’t ye?” demanded his half sister, Princess Mary, who was wed to her second husband, Lord James Hamilton, a distant cousin of the bridegroom’s. “Truly wed?”

Tavis Stewart laughed and kissed his attractive sibling’s cheek. “Colin wed us in June, even as he wed Ailis and Rob today.”

“That tells me nothing,” his elder sister replied dryly. “They say she has yet to live at Dunmor. Is it true?”

“Aye,” he told her honestly.

“Ah-hah!” she pounced. “Then ‘tis true!”

“What ‘tis true, Mary?”

“Yer wife is still a maid!” the princess said in whispered tones.

“God’s foot, Mary! What has that to do wi’ ye?” the earl demanded irritably. “Our life is nae for public tittle-tattle.”

She laughed knowingly. “Why, Tavis,” she almost purred with satisfaction, “yer in love, aren’t ye? And may the blessed Mother help ye, ye dinna know what to do about it. Ye’ve spent so much time in service to our brother, the king, that despite yer handsome face and twenty-eight years, ye dinna know how to act wi’ a wife. The little lass has ye all flummoxed, and I find it most amusing!” She laughed again, and the sound had a decidedly wicked tone to it.

He flushed uncomfortably, and his sister suddenly felt sorry for him.

“Hae ye made any progress wi’ her, Tavis?”

“Aye, and perhaps tonight she will come home wi’ me to Dunmor. We made a bargain several months back, and I dinna think she will renege on it.”

“What does she want of ye?” Mary Stewart Hamilton said matter-of-factly.

He grimaced. “She wants her home back, Mary. She wants Greyfaire Keep back in her hands, though she understands she canna live there herself, as she is my wife. She wants it for our eldest daughter, whom she is willing to allow the English king to betroth to someone of his own choosing, but she’ll nae be happy until Sir Jasper Keane is sent packing and Greyfaire is back in her hands again.”

The princess considered a moment, and then she said, “Well, ‘tis the lass’s dowry, Tavis. I can understand her position. Ye’ll simply have to get it back for her, and considering all ye’ve done for Jemmie over the years, he should help ye. When are ye going to court?”

“After Twelfth Night,” he told her.

“Speak to Margaret first,” his sister counseled. “She’ll help ye. Remember the fuss over her dowry?”

“Jemmie was wise to accept the Shetlands and the Orkneys in lieu of King Christian’s gold. The gold would hae been long gone, but those islands will remain forever a part of Scotland,” the earl noted.

“Aye,” his sister told him, “land is better, and understanding that, surely ye understand Arabella’s point wi’ regard to Greyfaire.”

“I ne’er said I dinna understand it, Mary, but I dinna know if I can regain Greyfaire. I will try, and I know that Jemmie will help me, but this whole matter rests upon the whim of an English king. I canna predict what he will do.”

“Surely yer wife understands that,” Princess Mary said.

“Arabella understands only what pleases her, Mary. She’s a fierce spitfire, my wee wife.”

“I nae thought I’d see the day when Tavis Stewart would dance a jig to a little English pipe,” his sister said, and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, she moved away to join her husband.

Why was it, the earl considered, that all women had the sting of the bee in their power? He could actually feel the smart of irritation his sister’s words had caused him, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint the pain. Then he felt a gentle touch upon his arm, and looking down, saw his wife.

“You look like a thundercloud, my lord,” she said.

“My sister Mary can be waspish,” he said.

“Your mother introduced us earlier, and I found the princess to be most charming,” Arabella said sweetly. “Perhaps she but told you something you did not wish to hear.” She took his hand. “Come, my lord, it is time to put the bride and groom to bed.”

“Yer the only bride I wish to put to bed, madame,” he said low.

“My lord!”
She blushed furiously.

“Ye promised, lass. Ye said ye would come home wi’ me to Dunmor after Rob and Ailis were wed.” His dark eyes held her prisoner, and Arabella, half frightened, turned away as if she would flee him. His hands fell upon her shoulders and he drew her back against him, his lips brushing softly against her hair. “Lassie, I want ye,” he crooned.

“What of love?” she whispered. Her heart was hammering and she was finding it difficult to breathe.

“Damn, lass, can ye nae see that I’ve fallen in love wi’ ye? I spend more time here than I do at Dunmor just to be wi’ ye. There are those who would laugh themselves to tears to see Tavis Stewart, the Earl of Dunmor, holding embroidery threads between his two hands that his wife might wind them. Only a man in love is that foolish.”

She laughed softly. “You have been most patient about my threads, my lord.”

“I hae been most patient about everything, lassie,” he answered her, his words heavy with meaning.

“I am afraid,” she said quietly.

“Aye, most maidens are,” he acknowledged.

“Your mother told Ailis there is pain,” Arabella said.

“The first time, when the maidenhead is pierced,” he agreed, “but yer a brave lass, I know, and ye can swallow yer fear.” His hands slipped down to encircle her waist, and his lips pressed soft kisses along the side of her face. One hand moved up to cup her right breast.

“My lord!” she gasped softly. “The others will see!”

His fingers gently crushed her breast a moment, and he murmured softly in her ear, “What matter, lass? They will simply say that the Earl of Dunmor is mad wi’ love for his beautiful little wife.”

For a brief moment Arabella closed her eyes and allowed the delicious sensations her husband’s proximity was giving her to engulf her entire being. “I do not know if I love you,” she finally managed to say, her lips and her brain somehow coordinating the words together.

“Do ye hate me, then?”

“Nay!”

“Dislike me?”

“Nay.”

“Do ye like me at all?”

“Oh, aye my lord, I do!”

“Can we nae build on that, lassie? Come home wi’ me to Dunmor this night, and we will begin,” he entreated her.

He must love her, she decided. He did not have to beg her to accompany him to Dunmor. He was her husband. Her lord. She was his to do with as it pleased him, and yet he had courted her these past months with charm and sweetness. He could force her, and yet she did not think he would. To deny him his husbandly rights any longer would not be fair, and such childishness on her part could turn his thoughtfulness to enmity. “I will come home with you, my lord,” she said softly, “but first we must put the bride and groom to bed. Come now, for we have kept the others waiting long enough.” She turned about, gently removing his hands from her person, and taking one of those hands in hers, she led him back to the others. “I must help Ailis,” she said, and he nodded.

A toast was called for, and while the gentlemen were engaged in drinking it, the bride and the other ladies made good their prearranged escape from the hall, laughing and running up the staircase of the house to a bedchamber that had been prepared for the bridal couple’s wedding night. After a few days’ sojourn with his in-laws, the laird of Culcairn would take his bride home to his newly rebuilt house, and on Christmas Eve Day his sister Meg would marry Gavin Fleming from that house.