“Stella, of course, my dear sister. All the men speak of her. I heard Shamus and Robb discussing her the other day.Ravishingwas the word they used, if I remember correctly.” Christie rambled happily; I could see her vivacious manner was even more piqued this evening by anticipation of the party. “Especially compared to her more comely sisters, I’m sorry to say it. Even if they are voluptuous, which the men react to, of course. Come, Roses. Put this on. You’ll outshine every other lass at the gathering.”
“Take everything off,” instructed Ailie. “You can’t wear a shift under this one. It would ruin the line.”
I froze.
She’ll be beaten, flayed, burned at the stake! Keep this hidden!
“Come on, Roses,” coaxed Ailie gently. “You don’t need to be so shy with us.”
I did as she instructed, glad my hair was down and that I faced them. I could only hope that my secret would not be revealed. And on some grasping level, I almost wanted them to discover it. I wanted them to forgive me for this very darkest of my imperfections, as they had forgiven me for all the others.
They gathered around me.
And so it was, before Ailie was able to slip the dress over my head and with Christie smoothing my hair to the side in an affectionate, curious gesture, that my secret was revealed.
Christie went still.
My fear poured into the empty moment of silence, enveloping me.
“What’s this, Roses?” Christie asked, in mild shock. “You’ve an inked tattoo.”
“Aye,” I whispered, moving away, my heart racing.
I waited for her reaction as I stood before them, naked and shamed.
Ailie approached me and walked around me to take a look for herself, curious. I thought to run away, to hide. But I was sotiredof hiding. Instead I allowed her to move my hair to the side and examine it for herself. Christie joined her.
“’Tis an unusual design,” Ailie commented, and her voice—to my intense relief—sounded neither repulsed nor frightened. “What does it mean, Roses?”
My voice was barely audible. “I don’t know. It was already inked to me when I was found as a child.”
“Your parents never researched its meaning?” asked Christie.
The sisters continued to study the mark, outlining it and examining its lines.
I had never thought that there might be someone to consult on such matters. “I— Nay. How would one go about doing that?” I had no access to information of that kind. Laird Ogilvie would certainly be the last person I would have thought to consult on that—or any other—matter.
Could it be possible that the old woman had been wrong about the tattoo’s meaning? I had, in fact, neverfeltlike a witch. The young, fair-haired woman from my dream-memory certainly didn’tlooklike a witch. But then, who was I to know what witches even looked like?
“There are books on the subject,” Christie said.
“I was once told—” I began quietly, dreading the sound of the word I was about to admit.
But Christie was halfway through a thought anddetermined to finish it. “I’ve seen Knox reading one, just lately.”
Ailie continued before I could force out the dreadful revelation. “All the lairds, I believe, like to be informed about the ritualistic tattoos, the clan tattoos, those of clandestine movements and alliances, royalty ink designs, religious marks and so on.”
“Aye,” Christie agreed. “There are prisoners’ marks, too. And marks for military valor.”
I took a deep breath to steady myself. “I’m quite certain I wasn’t inked for military valor,” I said.
“Does Wilkie know of it?” asked Christie. Then, smiling but with eyes cast down, she said, “Of course he does—”
“Nay,” I said. “He doesn’t.”
Both sisters contemplated me, and I couldn’t guess at their thoughts.
“I’m afraid,” I said, my voice sounding shaky and hesitant, “I don’t know what it means.” And I could admit: “And I’m frightened by what itcouldmean. I’ve purposely hid it from him. I thought...that it might be the mark of...something sinister, something Wilkie would be horrified by. I was afraid Wilkie would no longer want me.” I was ashamed to feel tears stinging my eyes.
