Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (16 page)

“From this day forward, ye will trust me,” he said. “And from this day forward, I will trust ye, though it willna be easy, given the lies that ha’e so easily poured from yer lips since the day we met.”

              “That sounds like a command. Do ye think it is yer right to command me, Malcolm?”

              “I dunna speak of commands,” he said. “Love…marriage is about more than protection and trust. Those things are vera important but there is something else. When the man and woman are equals in the marriage….”

Sorcha believed he was talking about a consuming and passionate love of which she knew nothing. “Can ye nae peer into the mist of the future and see how it will turn out for us?” she asked.

              A smile quirked his mouth. “I told ye before, the Sight doesna work that way. And I havena had a vision for many years now. Sometimes, Sorcha, we must work toward a future we want to see.” He stroked her cheek with his lean finger and his thumb traveled lazily over her lower lip. “E’en those with the Sight dunna always trust in visions.”

              “We will see, Highlander,” she breathed, his closeness and his touch causing a warm ache to spread traitorously through her body. “As much as ye want to, ye cannot just command the future and ye canna just command
me
.” Sorcha sensed he knew she was speaking from inexperience. At least she was not speaking from fear. And yet she could not deny a small voice inside her that said,
Ye want to be commanded by this man.

“We best go now,” Nathair said, grinning. “’Tis nae fashionable to be late to yer own wedding.”

They’d both forgotten about the blonde war advisor. Gillis came into the courtyard and joined them.

“Aye, we’d best go,” Malcolm said.

              At the moment, Sorcha could not peer into the gossamer mist that hid the future. The thought was both alarming and exciting. “Very well, then, as ye command, Highlander. But dunna get used to me bending to yer commands.”

25

The ride to the auld stones on the shingle of grass and sand had never felt longer.

              Sorcha sat astride Malcolm’s horse, Malcolm’s arm snuggly about her waist, her back pressing against his wide chest. Gillis rode his palfrey and Nathair sat his war horse.

The sun was still shining, but occasionally a storm cloud covered it, and the sea was thrown into brilliant blue shadow. Malcolm was so close she occasionally felt his cheek pressed to hers, the shadow of whiskers on his hard jaw rough against her soft skin.

              The leaning stones came into view as well as the throng of villagers and clan members who stood around the stones. One of the Maclean men took the reins as Malcolm helped Sorcha down from his horse. They both removed their boots and Malcolm offered his hand. She hesitated but took it as they walked barefoot over the sand-dusted grass to a middle stone, where Father Roslin waited. A sea breeze ruffled his puffy grey hair, giving him a comical appearance. His hefty form strained the limits of his cloak and he smelled as if he were enjoying liberal draughts of the fine Douglas whisky.

The crowd hushed, all eyes turned toward them. Father Roslin began to speak. “Does anyone here ken any reason this couple shouldna be married?” He was greeted by silence. “And the bride and groom, is there any reason for prohibiting this marriage?”

“Nay,” Malcolm said.

After a long moment, Sorcha finally spoke. “Nay.”

“Well then, Malcolm, wilt though have this woman to be thy wedded wife, wilt thou love her, honor her, and keep her and guard her in health and in sickness, as a husband should a wife, and forsaking all others on account of her, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will. I will speak my vows in Gaelic and Nathair will translate.” He placed his hand upon the big stone, looked into Sorcha’s eyes, and waited. “Place yer hand over mine, lass,” he whispered, his eyes dancing with arrogance and merriment.

Sorcha placed her palm over Malcolm’s, his skin warm. She expected the ceremony to be a blur of indistinct words and passé, traditional sentiments, but when Malcolm began to speak, his voice unhurried, deep, and masculine, she was intrigued by the sounds rolling off his sensual lips. The lilt and hammer of his native tongue was mesmerizing. Nathair translated:

If someone threatens Douglas, they threaten the Maclean.

If someone harms Douglas, they harm the Maclean.

If someone aids and shelters Douglas, they aid and shelter the Maclean.

We began in lies but from this time forth we will live together in honesty and mutual respect and affection.

Loyalty begets loyalty.

Honesty begets honesty.

I, Malcolm Maclean, pledge myself to thee all the rest of the days of my life, Sorcha Douglas, my wife.

Whate’er may come, this sept of Maclean clan and this sept of Douglas clan are united against all enemies, standing together to weather all storms.

A king decreed our union and so it shall be.”

“Sorcha, wilt though have this man to be thy wedded husband?” Father Roslin asked. “Wilt thou love him, honor him, and keep him and guard him in health and in sickness, as a wife should a husband, and forsaking all others on account of him, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?”

Malcolm waited patiently.

“I will. I pledge myself to thee, impossible and arrogant Highlander….”

He arched a dark brow.

She cleared her throat. Stared at the heaving sea. At the caves. At the auld stones. And finally back at him. His impossibly wide shoulders. His plaid. His sparkling topaz brooch.
His face.
Intense amber eyes greeted hers and his lazy, sensual smile made her think of the kisses they’d shared, his male taste and scent, the feel of his smooth, muscled skin. The way he’d kept her warm in her bed after the incident at the burn, his powerful body protective while she slept.

“I’m a patient man, Lowlander, but my patience runs short. I can help ye repeat the words if ye canna remember them.”

She held her chin high. “I can remember them.” Her voice was clear:

“If someone threatens Maclean, they threaten the Douglas.

If someone harms Maclean, they harm the Douglas.

If someone aids and shelters Maclean, they aid and shelter the Douglas.

We began in lies but from this time forth we will live together in honesty and mutual respect and affection.

Loyalty begets loyalty.

Honesty begets honesty.

I, Sorcha Douglas, pledge myself to thee all the rest of the days of my life, Malcolm Maclean, my…husband.

Whate’er may come, this sept of Maclean clan and this sept of Douglas clan are united against all enemies, standing together to weather all storms.

A king decreed our union and so it shall be.”

Malcolm reached inside his plaid and retrieved a necklace. “This belonged to my mother Isobel and she wanted me to give it to my bride on the day I married.”

Sorcha looked at the necklace and the deep blue stone pendant attached to it. “’Tis beautiful.”

“It’s an auld stone, a Viking love charm. Isobel’s father bought it for her mother from a gypsy who claimed it had powerful love magic. After Isobel’s mother died in a fire, her father later gave it to her as an heirloom. He told her ‘Love doesna always come to us on our own terms. We ha’e to decide whether or nae to accept it into our lives, to risk all for it, when it does come.’ He also told her we must nae always rely on love charms and stones but make our own magic. When my mother met my father, Leith, she did risk all for love, and I honor them by giving ye this necklace.”

Sorcha held her braid to the side so he could clasp the necklace about her neck. Once he’d done so, he pulled two rings from his pocket and handed them to the priest to be blessed. The priest blessed the rings, handing one to Malcolm and then one to Sorcha.

“A ring has no beginning and no end and symbolizes the love within a marriage,” Malcolm said.

She felt a quiver of emotion as he slipped the ring onto her finger—alarm, excitement, and surprise—for she realized if he changed his mind about the marriage now, she would have been disappointed.

“Now, lass, ye do the same.”

She didn’t understand her emotions as she slid the ring onto his finger and repeated the words. “A ring has no beginning and no end and symbolizes the love within a marriage.”

He leaned down and kissed her boldly. The clans cheered, for everyone loves a wedding, even if it’s for political reasons. And it was clear that Malcolm had won over many of the Douglas clan members despite her efforts to thwart the marriage.

Oat cakes were broken apart and sprinkled on the bride and groom for good luck. Pipers led everyone back to the keep, winding their way through the village and the gold-dusted meadows. The hillsides were a froth of yellow, for the gorse had bloomed, heralding the Scottish spring. Sorcha was quiet and often felt Malcolm’s eyes upon her.
She was Malcolm Maclean’s wife now. The wife of a powerful man she hardly knew.

They returned to the great hall and he carried her over the threshold. Soon there was dancing and feasting. Cups were raised and toasts were made to their health. “
Sláinte!
” the men and women cried.

As the evening wore on, Sorcha sat quietly at the dais, Malcolm next to her. She hardly touched her food as they were greeted by a sea of faces wishing them well. It was raining hard and the night beyond the large windows with their elegant tracery and glass was lit by bold streaks of lightning.

“Do ye ken, Sorcha, in Mull, ‘tis customary for the newly married couple to sleep in a barn their first night?”

She did not meet Malcolm’s eyes as she toyed with a goblet of wine. “’Tis a good thing we are nae in Mull this night.”

“If ye had to sleep in a barn, lass, Malcolm would keep ye warm the night through,” Nathair said.

Sorcha ventured a quick glance at Malcolm and in that moment she knew he’d recognized her fear. She quickly looked away.

He took her hand. “Show me the chapel, wife?”

Sorcha nodded. The crowded room with its well-wishers felt close and overly warm. There were cheers and hoots as Malcolm led her through the hall. Sorcha smiled as her eyes alighted on Gillis, who sat on a bench in the shadows petting the head of one of the hounds. He smiled back. Then she saw Tomas, who did not smile.

He stood also in shadow, his arms crossed over his chest, and there was something hard and bitter in his eyes. Sorcha remembered with dismay that Nessa was in the dark, damp dungeons below. She didn’t want to think about Nessa or the burn or the fact that they hadn’t yet found Lulach, who had smiled with glee as he’d pushed her over the cliff with his booted foot. She wondered how long Nessa had been meeting with him in secret.

In the doorway to the courtyard, beneath a carved heraldic panel, Malcolm’s eyes roved Sorcha’s face as if he wished to memorize every detail. “Race ye to the chapel?” Thunder boomed and lightning flashed far out over the sea. There was a thin crescent moon that occasionally appeared through cloud drift.

She nodded. They ran through the slanting rain, hand in hand, laughing like children. It was the first light moment Sorcha felt all day.

Inside the small stone edifice, Malcolm shut the door and they were alone. It was dark except for the flickering candles on the altar and the moonlight that occasionally spilled through the gaps in the roof that needed to be repaired. The chapel was small and simple in design. A few benches ran along the nave toward the altar at the east end. Masks of Green Men stared down at them from the walls, along with the carved, stern wooden faces of saints. Small bells hung high near the altar and an external stair turret in the northwest corner ran up to a loft above the altar screen. The wooden ceiling was unusual; it had been painted long ago to look like the sky, so that whenever one looked up, one looked toward the heavens.

“Saints and sinners are we all,” Sorcha said. “’Twas something my father often said.”

“Ye dunna spend much time in the chapel, do ye?” he asked.

“Nay. I admit the only time I pray is when I fear I am in trouble. Or someone I care about is in trouble. And then I dunna pray here. I prefer to pray by lochs that are so still ye can see unending skies in them or in woods so deep and thick ye can almost hear the trees’ thoughts. I did spend time here when I was a child. I sat in these pews with my brothers, usually in the back. We werena vera good at keeping quiet. Gordon and Tavish would whisper to Gillis and me, telling us tales of our ancestors, claiming they haunted the keep and the chapel, claiming we were descended from sinners and were we called Black Douglases because our souls were black. They would try to frighten me especially. But I didna frighten easily.”

“I can believe that,” he said.

“They liked to tell me one tale in particular, about our wily ancestor James Douglas, James the bold and ruthless, the first noble supporter of William Wallace. He was rumored to fear English archers so much if he caught them during a battle, he didna kill them but gave them two choices. They could either lose an eye or ha’e a few fingers sliced off. Once they made their choice, the horrid action was performed, and they were sent back to their army, alive, but useless and terrified.”

“All clans boast ancestors who were rogues or saints, madmen or those with the courage and wisdom of a king. But we dunna ha’e to be what our ancestors before us were. We can be something different.” He studied the masks on the wall. “We all wear masks. I am outwardly arrogant, commanding, and brash. I dunna deny it. As a Highlander, I ha’e been called many things. Barbaric. Brutish. Wild and untamed. But perhaps I am other things too.”

He pulled her into his arms, searching her face. “Yer afraid of me, Sorcha. Afraid of my nature, of what will happen when we retire to our bedchamber tonight, for the first time, as man and wife. Yet I thought, as a Douglas, ye didna fear anything.”

“I am nae afraid of ye, Highlander.”

He touched her face and she trembled.

He leaned close. “Sorcha, I would ne’er harm ye. I dunna want ye to fear me, to fear what will happen between us.”

He kissed her tenderly. “Tonight we must make a show when we leave the great hall. The clans will expect me to carry ye off to the bedchamber. Some will follow us upstairs, including the priest, who will bless the marriage bed. But Sorcha, tonight, when we are alone, I willna force myself upon ye. I willna touch ye until yer ready. I give ye my word. And no one has to ken it but us.” He pulled her close, cradling her head against his chest.

He assumed she’d been with a man. She did not want to tell him she was a virgin, and that, as was the custom, others would be looking for proof of the consummation of the marriage the next morning, on the bedsheets.

They stood together for a long while, Sorcha listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart and the sound of the rain drumming the roof and dripping through the gaps near the back of the chapel. The painting was flaked and curled along the edges of the gaps, making it seem as if there were tears in the sky itself, reminding Sorcha there was another layer beyond this milk-and-water sky, and
that
was the real world.