None of the traditions for luck were kept, save for the one. Ian’s mother insisted Sìleas wear a new gown, though Sìleas didn’t see how a bit more bad luck on top of what she already had could make a difference. Regardless, Ian’s mother wouldn’t hear of her wearing the filthy gown she had arrived in. Unfortunately, the only new gown to be had upon an hour’s notice was one Ian’s mother had made for herself.
Sìleas rushed through her bath, barely washing, so she would be out and dressed before Ian’s mother returned to help her. Quickly, she dabbed at the long gashes across her back so she would leave no telltale blood on the borrowed gown.
When she slipped the gown over her head, it floated about her like a sack. She looked down at where the bodice sagged, exaggerating her lack. If that were not bad enough, she wanted to weep at the color. Such a violent shade of red would look lovely on Ian’s dark-haired mother, but it made Sìleas’s hair look orange and her skin blotchy.
When Ian’s mother burst in the room, her startled expression before she smoothed it confirmed Sìleas’s worst fears.
“ ’Tis a shame we can’t alter it,” his mother said, clucking her tongue. “But ye know that brings a bride bad luck.”
Sìleas was sure the gown’s color canceled out any good luck its unaltered state was likely to bring her. A bride was supposed to wear blue.
Then came the worst part of all. As she descended the stairs, with his mother’s hand at her back pushing her forward, she heard Ian shouting at his father. His words were the last blow that nearly felled her.
Have ye taken a good look at her, da? I tell ye, I will not have her. I’ll no say my vows.
But with his father, his chieftain, and a dozen armed clansman surrounding him, Ian did say them.
Sìleas blinked when Gòrdan stepped in front of her and took hold of her shoulders, bringing her sharply back to the present.
“Don’t try to kiss me again,” she said, turning her head. “Ye know it’s not right.”
“What I know is that ye deserve a husband who will love and honor ye,” Gòrdan said. “I want to be that man.”
“You’re a good man, and I like ye.” Gòrdan was fine looking as well, with rich brown hair and warm hazel eyes. “But I keep thinking that once Ian returns, he’ll…”
He’ll what? Fall on his knees and beg my forgiveness? Tell me he regretted every single day he was away?
Truth be told, she wasn’t ready to be married when they wed. She had needed another year or two before becoming a true wife. But five years! Each day Ian didn’t return deepened the wound. By now, she should have a babe in her arms and another grabbing at their skirts, like most women her age. She wanted children. And a husband.
Sìleas drew in a deep breath of the sharp, salty air. It was one humiliation after another. Ian could pretend they were not wed, because he was living among a thousand French folk who did not know it. But she lived with his family on this island in the midst of their clan.
Where every last person knows Ian has left me here waiting.
“If you cannot ask for an annulment…” Gòrdan let the question hang unfinished.
Though she could ask for an annulment, she could not tell even Gòrdan that—at least, not yet. She had been lectured on that point quite severely by both Ian’s father and the chieftain. If her MacKinnon relatives heard that her marriage was never consummated, they would attempt to steal her away, declare the marriage invalid, and force her to wed one of their own.
Yet her marriage to Ian was not a trial marriage, as most were. Through some miracle, the chieftain had found a priest. The chieftain had wanted them bound—and her castle firmly in the hands of the MacDonalds of Sleat.
For the same reason, it would have been useless to ask her chieftain to support a petition to annul her marriage. A bishop wouldn’t send a petition to Rome on her request alone. Consequently, she had written a letter to King James seeking his help. For six months, the letter lay hidden away in her chest, awaiting her decision to send it.
But now, both King James and her chieftain were dead.
“If you can’t ask for an annulment,” Gòrdan said, “then simply divorce Ian and marry me.”
“Your mother would no be pleased with that,” she said with a dry laugh. “I don’t know if she would faint dead away or take a dirk to ye.”
Although it was common in the Highlands to wed and divorce without the church’s blessing, Gòrdan’s mother had notions about the sort of woman her precious only son should wed. A “used” woman was unlikely to satisfy her.
“ ’Tis no my mother’s decision,” Gòrdan said. “I love ye, Sìleas, and I’m set on having ye for my wife.”
Sìleas sighed. It was a precious gift to have a good man tell her he loved her, even if he was the wrong man. “Ye know I can’t think of leaving Ian’s family now.”
“Then promise ye will give me an answer as soon as ye are able,” Gòrdan said. “There are many men who would want ye, but I’ll be good to ye. I’m a steadfast man. I’d never leave ye as Ian did.”
Though he meant to reassure her, his words pierced her heart.
“ ’Tis time we returned to the house.” She turned and started toward the path. “I’ve been gone too long.”
