Chapter Four
Frowning as she did so, Meg helped Islaen into bed. “T'will be the last night for that nightshift, lass."
Islaen looked at her attire, a sleeveless linen shift that only reached to mid-thigh. “I ken ye are right. ‘Tis no lady's wear."
"Aye. I have a few lovely ones sewn for ye. Now ye get your rest, for ‘tis a wondrous busy day for ye on the morrow."
Reminding her of that was not the way to insure that she would get any sleep, Islaen thought, as Meg left. Ever fair, Islaen then admitted that she did not really need Meg's reminders, for there was little else upon her mind. On the morrow she would marry Iain MacLagan and she was afraid, although not of marriage and all it entailed. She was afraid she would fail him and herself.
Now and again he had slipped in his aloof pose but it always returned, sometimes stronger than before. She feared the pose would become the man, that she would never reach the person he tried so hard to hide from everyone. That failure would leave her wed to a distant stranger who held prisoner the man she wanted.
Then too there was her secret. There would be no hiding it in the intimacy of marriage. Several times she had gotten up the courage to speak to him only to lose it when she looked upon his face. For a while she had thought it best to leave it as a surprise but now she doubted the wisdom of that. Not only was it unfair to Iain but she would not be able to bear his disgust when he found out. It would wound her sorely to have him turn from her on their wedding night, the very night he should be making her his.
Coming to a decision, she rose and searched out her houppelande. It was best to undeceive him now, before they had exchanged any vows. Somehow the wedding could be stopped if it was necessary. Even as she made a final check upon the fit of her houppelande she hoped Iain would, at the worst, insist that the candle stay snuffed for it might not feel as bad as it looked. Telling herself that exposure now was the only way, the only fair thing to do, she slipped into the hall and set out for Iain's chambers.
Though late at night, the way was not clear. Islaen was amazed at the number of people wandering about. It did not take many guesses to know that liaisons were plentiful. The fact that none of those about wished to be seen either made Islaen's way easier. Her first and only difficulty came when she was but two doors away from her goal. A woman she knew was wed met a man who was equally tied causing her to press herself into a shadowed niche from where, to her increasing discomfort, she could both see and hear the couple's rendezvous, a meeting that proved beds were not necessary.
When she finally reached Iain's door, she paused with her hand raised to knock. It might be the right thing to do but it was far from easy. No one liked to expose a fault or shame. Nevertheless, Iain had a right to know about her shames and faults before he was irrevocably tied to them, she told herself firmly. Her resolve strengthened, she rapped upon his door sure that her heart could be heard all along the hallway.
Iain lay sprawled upon his bed. He was trying very hard to get drunk, blind drunk, but was failing miserably. He was certainly not sober, but he had failed to achieve the soddened oblivion he was seeking. Very colorfully he cursed Fate which seemed against him at every turn. He did feel that depriving him of the ability to get stinking drunk was an exceedingly cruel trick. It was also a sad waste of some fine wine.
Admitting that it solved nothing to get drunk, Iain took another long pull of wine. Nothing had gone his way of late. He had felt like a good sulk, a thorough wallow in self-pity. However, even that was not working out.
The king had thwarted his plan to wed Islaen away from the court, so that he could avoid the consummation. The maids in the castle would quickly report the lack of virgin's blood. Since he could not explain that in any satisfactory way, Iain knew he would have to truly bed the girl. Even if he was very careful, there was ever the chance she could conceive, especially coming from as prolific a clan as she did.
Briefly, he wondered if that made a difference. He had been deluged with tales of her tiny mother and seen seven of the healthy brood of sons the woman had produced. Just possibly Islaen could do the same.
He then shook his head. It was something he could not chance. He freely admitted to cowardice. No matter what her heritage he could not gamble with another woman's life.
He groaned and poured another tankard of wine. As clearly as if it was occurring before him, Iain could see Islaen writhing upon her childbed, her screams filling the halls for long hellish hours until he feared to go mad from it. When it was over there would be nothing but a blood-soaked bed, a gruesome bier for her and their child. He could see Islaen and Catalina blended into one woman, the small lovely face still etched with agony, the pale lifeless body surrounded with blood and the bairn still wet from the womb, blue from the lack of air that killed him and the cord that had kept life going now wrapped around the tiny neck to end it.
Catalina had been right to curse him as she lay wracked with pain. He should never had bedded her, wife or not. She had not enjoyed the act at all, blessing the pregnancy that killed her in the end, for it had allowed her to ban him from her bed. Her shrill agonized voice still haunted his dreams, rightly blaming him for her cruel and far too early death. She had been but twenty, much too young to seek a cold grave or be pushed into one as he had pushed her. Islaen was but nineteen he recalled and felt like weeping.
"Oh God,” he moaned softly, “have mercy upon me. Make the lass barren. God, dinnae put me through it all again. I cannae bear it."
A soft knock broke into his morbid thoughts. When he flung open the door his first thought was to slam it shut again. Realizing that Islaen was no vision of a mind drunker than he had thought, he yanked her into the room, made a hasty check of the hallway to assure himself of the absence of people, and then slammed the door.
He then cursed the lust that tightened his drink-weakened body. Despite appearances to the contrary, he felt sure she had not come to his room for a tryst. If nothing else, she looked too solemn, even a little frightened.
Islaen looked at his dark scowling face and nearly winced. It was going to be hard enough without him being furious before she even started. Although it was an effort, she refrained from looking around his chambers to see if his anger stemmed from her interrupting a last bachelor frolic. It would not surprise her, despite the rumours of his monkish lifestyle, for he did not want the marriage, but was simply obeying his king.
Another cause of her embarrassment was his attire, or rather its absence. He wore only his hose. The lack of covering on his torso made her very aware of how broad of shoulder and muscular he was. A modest pelt of dark hair covered his chest, tapering to a thin line that dissected his taut stomach to disappear into his snug hose. She had seen many a man partly clothed, even naked, for it was unavoidable living with so many brothers, but she had never felt so warm before. Neither had she suffered such an urge to touch a man's chest. She forced her gaze upwards to his face.
Iain was just drunk enough not to care about his lack of attire before his young bride. “Be ye mad, lass? Why are ye here?"
"I had to talk with ye,” she replied, following him as he strode to the table by his bed to retrieve his drink.
Sitting down on the bed he took a long drink before looking at her. “Could it not have waited until the morrow? What if ye had been seen?"
"I wasnae and what folk I saw about wouldnae have wanted me to see them. What I have to tell ye couldnae wait any longer."
He reacted to that statement with increased alertness. Perhaps the girl meant to tell him she had a lover, was carrying some man's seed. Even as he decided that was impossible he realized that the thought did not cheer him despite the fact that the king would not make him wed her under such circumstances. Shaking his head over his own vagaries, he waited for her to speak.
"There is something ye maun be told ere we wed. Weel, shown actually. I am not as I seem, Sir MacLagan."
"Deformed?” he thought and could not believe it. “I can hardly reject ye for some mark or scar, child,” he said dryly and touched his cheek.
"'Tis nay a mark or a scar, sir.” She began to shed her houppelande. “I cannae deceive ye any longer. ‘Tis unfair and dishonest to do so."
