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?”
