“Oh. This is a very serious quandary, then.”
“Indeed, it is. These brave women did everything they could to make the men understand, even provided their families with knowledge of the healing arts. But the men remained unsatisfied, covetous of the freedom the women possessed and jealous of their joy. On the night of the next full moon, what would later be established as Summer’s End, the tribe of men attacked the women while they slept. They bound their hands and dragged them to the mighty River Rune.”
Seth had stopped walking and turned to face her, completely enveloped in her story.
“Each woman was given a choice. Choose one of the men as husband or be thrown into the rushing river and drown.”
“Dear Lord,” he said.
“Yes,” she acknowledged his horror with a slow nod. “There were twenty-six women in total. Eight chose to live, taking the men of their choice as husbands. The remaining women died that night.”
His gaze drifted in the direction of the river—northeast of where they stood. “Murderers. Barbarians. What happened to these evil men?”
“They are the forefathers of Belware.”
“This is mere legend.”
“No,” she said. “One need only search the kirk records. Like so many other places in Scotland, our history has been painstakingly recorded. Including your bloodline, my lord.”
“You have researched my bloodline?”
“Yes.”
“Who…”
“I have traced your family to one of the women belonging to the original eight—Hemsla Dalgaard.”
Seth rubbed his stubbled chin with consternation, his eyes stormy. “This is a blight on my family name.”
“No,” she said, taking his hand. “We all share the same history. That is why we must honor our traditions in Belware—to remember these brave women with dignity and deep respect.”
Chapter Four
The thrill ofseeing his betrothed in the flesh for the first time kept Seth’s heart discomfited as he rode his highly favored mare, shipped with him from America, to the village. Their meeting had filled him with many emotions, some conflicting, for he had never known his family’s deeper history. His parents had failed to tell him of the cold-blooded murders of those innocent women. Why Rosalind had informed him of such details, he did not know—perhaps she simply enjoyed researching genealogy.
Or maybe she had needed to confirm his pedigree before they spoke their vows this very evening before God and their witnesses. Either way, it left him with many questions. Ones he would have to put off until after their wedding.
The pleasant, white-washed structure with four dormer windows and potted flowers decorating the façade was the only tavern in the village. The couple who owned and operated it had been kind to him upon his arrival in Scotland, giving him the best suite of rooms and use of the private sitting room for as long as he needed, while he made preparations for his long-term living situation.
He dismounted and offered the reins to the stable lad that rushed from behind the tavern to greet him. “Treat her with great care,” he said, flipping a silver coin in the air, which the boy eagerly caught.
“She’s a real beauty, sir.”
He nodded, knowing the mare was the finest piece of horseflesh he had ever ridden.
Seth turned about, gazing up and down the main road, watching as unassuming villagers went about their late afternoon business. He could see across the street and down the way just a bit, where a group of men were busy constructing what could only be a pyre for the bonfire that would happen later tonight in the kirkyard. It seemed a rather pagan tradition to occur on hallowed ground. But then, nothing about this village was normal, really.
The working people walked about with the same amount of pride and entitlement as the gentry, and the women were rather well-educated compared to females in other country settings, and unusually independent. His Rosie had proven herself just that earlier—the bold move to meet him privately and without a chaperone!
Not that he didn’t appreciate such things; he did, but it would take much getting used to.
Before he could gather his next thoughts, the double doors at the front of the tavern slammed open, and his barrister, the earl, and a half-dozen men came out to welcome him to the celebration.
“My lord,” Mr. McClain said with unusual enthusiasm. “We have been waiting for you.”
“Indeed,” the Earl of Westley agreed gruffly, taking a deep drink from the crystal glass in his hand.
Why was the earl drinking ale from a crystal vessel? Seth almost laughed aloud at such absurdity, but held it in. The man already mistrusted and disliked him for however many reasons. Of course, Seth could not blame him, for who would want to let such a delightful woman as Lady Rosalind go, even if she was his niece? Seth imagined his bride managed the earl’s estate flawlessly, her intelligence and beauty brightening his life every day. As she would Seth’s very soon…
