Page 29 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

“I’m nae as indifferent as I’d like tae be tae her.” Alistair tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “She doesnae want tae be married, and I hoped she’d hate me enough tae make this easy – just a marriage o’ necessity fer the both o’ us – but I fear ‘tis nae so simple.”

“It wouldnae be. But then, I kent that much the moment I saw the lass wearin’ the ring ye kept in remembrance o’ Constance.”

Alistair winced at the reminder. Giving Niamh the ring he’d once gifted his first betrothed had been a spur of the moment decision, and he still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. However, he wasn’t going to take it back.

Ewan finished his own drink, then clapped Alistair on the shoulder. “Ye’ll find yer way forward, Alistair. Ye’ve always been able tae dae so afore.”

“Mayhap. I’m nae so sure. If I were a proper laird, I’d have dealt with Fergus MacTavish already, and I wouldnae be marrying a lass simply tae get enough gold tae feed me kinfolk through the winter.”

“Dinnae think that way. Nay man can dae everything, and I’d swear Fergus MacTavish has a devil guiding his hand.” Ewan scowled. “Or he’s been favored by the Unseelie Court, though I’d swear he’s fae himself if I hadnae seen him wield steel.”

“I’ve had the same thought.” Alistair sighed. “Daesnae solve the problem o’ ending the threat he poses, however.”

“Well, ye can think on it taemorrow. Taeday is yer wedding day, and ‘tis past time ye were getting ready. Yer bride deserves a groom who doesnae look like an unwashed barbarian who stuck his fingers in an inkpot.”

It was only then that Alistair realized his fingers were stained black with ink blotches. It was a normal occurrence, but Ewan was right. It wouldn’t do to appear at his own wedding with ink on his fingers and staining his clothing.

Alistair finished his drink, then rose. “Ye’re right. I suppose I dae need tae make some effort fer me bride.”

“Good man.” Ewan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him from the room.

Niamh woke from a restful sleep hoping that she’d imagined Catriona’s pronouncement that the wedding would be the day after they arrived. She’d barely finished the breakfast tray the servants brought her before that hope was dashed.

Catriona arrived with servants carrying a lovely dress and everything else a bride might need. “’Tis time tae start getting ready. I’ve a cream for yer skin tae make it glow, and another fer yer hair tae make it soft and shiny. The maids are here tae aid ye in getting ready, and tae make ye feel well taken care o’.”

Niamh blinked, stunned, as the maids finished filling the tub. She could barely do more than simply stumble along as they guided her to the tub, helped her remove her nightdress, and assisted her into the water, which was perfumed with rose petals across the surface.

She felt numb. It was clear that everything was well-planned but an event such as a wedding, even a simple one, took the better part of a season to prepare. And the dress – how could it possibly fit? Had her father informed a seamstress or a tailor of her measurements?

How long has he been planning this? How long was he lyin’ tae me?

Maybe she was over-thinking the matter. Niamh clung to that thought as she bathed, and afterward as well, while Catriona and the maids massaged the cream into her skin and brushed and braided her hair into a silken waterfall of auburn, with the front braided back to keep it from her face.

Then it was time to dress. The chemise was soft linen, almost like satin or silk, and fit as closely as any she’d had at home. The dress that was slipped over it was likewise a perfect fit, needing only a little bit of tightening around the waist, bodice and sleeves – all of which was accomplished with the silken cords threaded through the upper half of the garment.

The dress itself was the soft, pale blue of a winter sky, the cords a slightly deeper color, with green stitching about the hem and sleeves. It perfectly complemented her hair and eyes.

Niamh watched her reflection in the mirror as the maids fussed about her. The woman she saw was beautiful, she supposed, but the elegant fit of her dress only served to show Niamh how deeply her trust had been betrayed. A gown such as this would take time to make and could not be made to fit so well without prior knowledge. Even the swiftest messenger would not have been able to arrive in time for such a dress to be completed now – not if they’d left around when she and Alistair did.

The dress, like the wedding preparations, had been made in advance – well in advance – of her acceptance. It appeared to her now that her father had never intended for her to have much of a choice, if any, about marrying Alistair MacDuff.

A necklace settled around her throat, and she blinked, startled out of her thoughts as Catriona fastened it. The silver of it was intricately wrought, with a series of precious stones woven into a delicate knot-work design. Niamh gasped. “This isnae mine…”

“’Twas yer maither’s. Or, tae be more accurate, ‘tis an heirloom o’ the MacLean family. Every MacLean bride wears this necklace, coronet and the bracelets that go with it tae her wedding. Yer maither didnae get the chance, running away as she did, so ‘tis even more important fer ye tae wear them now.” Catriona settled the necklace into place, then moved to fasten the bracelets around her wrists.

Looking at the beautiful, engraved jewelry that should have been her mother’s, then her own, proved to be the last straw. The tears Niamh had been fighting to contain all morning escaped, and before she knew what was happening, she was crying, and Catriona was guiding her gently to sit on the bed.

“Och, I ken, ‘tis all a bit overwhelming. Perhaps I should have showed ye everything last night, tae help ye feel more prepared. But ye seemed so tired…”

Niamh stopped listening. It was clear Catriona thought she was only suffering from the nervousness and emotions most brides were supposed to experience on their wedding days. How could she tell her that her tears stemmed from so much more than that?

How could she tell her that she was afraid – no, terrified – for what marriage would mean for her, especially given the expectation of heirs for the lairdship? How could she tell Catriona that she mourned not only her mother, dead all the years, but her father, who had so grievously betrayed her trust? How could she possibly explain the maelstrom of fear and hurt and sorrow that filled her?

As far as she was concerned, there was little, if anything, to be joyous about in this marriage. It might not be the worst fate that could have befallen her, but in her mind, it wasn’t far removed.

In the end, however, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Catriona anything. Instead, she took a few deep breaths to stem the tears, let Catriona clean her face, then looked at the healer. “Thank ye. Afore the ceremony, could I have a few minutes alone?”

“Aye. O’ course. The serving lasses and I will be right outside, so just call if ye need aught.” Catriona gave her a brief embrace. “’Twill all turn out right, and better than ye dreamed. Ye’ll see.”