Page 22 of Highlander’s Lust

The Wedding and the Night

“‘Tis no’ too warm for the flowers to wilt, Miss Jean. In me estimation, there is naught so lovely as a summer weddin’. The flowers and verdure cannae be beat!”

Eby had finished weaving small sprigs of heather blooms into a circle around Jean’s hair. As befits her status as a maiden, her long ruby-hued tresses flowed down her back, sweeping against the back of her skirts, crowned with the garland of flowers pinned to the top of her head. Her face was pale, the only color provided by the dark lashes, periwinkle blue eyes, and the soft pink of her lips; Jean’s expression was hard to read. She seemed to be lost in deep thought.

Eby gave her a little nudge. “I’m finished. We’re all done. Sorley is waiting outside to take ye down to the chapel, dearie.”

Because of the heat, Eby had dressed her mistress in a light silk silver over robe, cut so low across the bosom that the neckline could only be held in place and attached to the short bodice with a small diamond pin brooch. It glittered in her cleavage like a tantalizing dewdrop. The gauzy fabric of her shift gown had been coaxed to show over the top of the scooped opening, making it look as though Jean’s shoulders were rising out of the foamy sea mist, like Aphrodite when she rose up out of the Mediterranean seas.

“Ye’re as pretty as a picture, Miss—och! To think I will be callin’ ye yer ladyship from this day forth. Now, go on wi’ ye; we dinnae want ye late for yer own wedding.”

Jean felt she was walking in a dream and might wake up and find herself back at the lodge at any moment. She felt so uncertain, and her mind was in turmoil. The only solace she held on to was the knowledge that if Eby thought his lairdship to be irredeemably evil and beyond all hope of change, her maid would have moved heaven and Earth to stop the ceremony. If Eby believed there was hope for Laird Brisbane to change his ways, then she, Jean, must hold onto that positive train of thought too.

Still, the image of allowing his lairdship to open her like a flower at the beddan this evening needled Jean. As a well-brought-up girl, she wanted to obey and please her husband in all things; but if Jean were to be honest with herself, a small part of her was rebelling at accepting the status quo for how it stood at this moment. As thrilled as her body was to know she would lay next to Laird Brisbane tonight, her mind stubbornly refused to accept it.

Thus, with these thoughts raging in her head, Jean accepted Sorley’s escort to the Brisbane clan kirk on the east side of the castle. As they trundled down the labyrinthian passages, up and down staircase after staircase, and finally out into the east tower courtyard where the kirk nestled underneath the tall battlements, Jean found it hard to imagine she would soon be mistress of all this magnificence. When she was young, her parents had taken her to visit her uncle’s castle, Mac an Goill. It was a vast pile of ancient stones with an intimidating history. The MacGills of Mac an Goill had been seneschals of the northern tip of the Highland coast for over seventeen generations, and if Jean was to be honest with herself, she had to admit that Uncle Gilbert, the proud MacGill chief and her mother’s half-brother, would most probably rather die than to be caught with his plaid hem between his lips and his manhood in anyone other than his wife.

It did not matter how glorious the many generations of Brisbanes believed their castle to be. Their legacy stood for nothing but ribald laughter because of their bad behavior.

Jean gave a sob. Sorley gave her a side look but did not say anything. His expression was unreadable. Eby, who was walking behind Jean, holding her train, moved to walk beside her mistress and held her other hand.

“Courage, mistress, courage. Time heals all wounds and brings enlightenment to those who seek it.”

Jean could not be mistaken. She heard Sorley give a snigger of laughter, but by the time she turned her head, his face was blank once more.

They were outside the kirk doors. It was too late to turn back now. Eby placed the veil gently over her head, and then Jean allowed Sorley to lead her up the aisle to where her betrothed was standing. He was so tall and so devastatingly handsome, Jean was appalled at how her heart jumped and her stomach fluttered whenever she laid eyes on him. It was enough to make her want to forgive him immediately, to throw herself into his arms with carefree abandon, to beg him to do with her whatever he wished.

The ceremony was over quickly. When the clergyman pronounced them bonded in wedlock, Jean saw a look of happiness and relief cross her husband’s face, as though he had been holding his breath until the ceremony was made official. The marriage contract would be drawn up in the fairest hand and brought for the young couple to sign later on that week. But in the eyes of the church and under heaven, Jean was now Laird Brisbane’s wife until death.

It was a solemn thought.

Jean hooked her hand over Laird Brisbane’s elbow as she had done many times before, but this time when he gave her hand a reassuring pat, there was a more proprietorial touch about, or maybe that was her imagination.

The villagers and servants had gathered outside the church doors and lined the path all the way back to the banquet hall, cheering and waving their hands in the air, wishing his lairdship and his beautiful young bride many blessings on their union. Jean found it deeply touching and vowed that, no matter what happened, she would strive to do her best for the clan in all things.

When they reached the banquet hall, there were only fifty or so guests there—Gavin, Sorley, and Chieftain MacTavish being the only people Jean recognized from her previous visit. Everyone rose as the newlywed couple approached the dais. Laird Brisbane took her hand, raised it to his lips for a kiss, and said, “This is where I first laid eyes on ye, Jeannie, and I vowed to make ye me wife then an’ there. An’ look, is it no’ true when they say that money can afford a gentleman’s every wish to be made real?”

He guided her to the ornately carved armchair on the right side of the high-backed chair set aside for the laird and helped her to sit down. Jean could not fault his behavior; he was acting with the utmost respect and dignity.

Gavin MacTavish was seated on Laird Brisbane’s left, next to his father, the chieftain: too far away from Jean for her to interrogate him about the other night. She inwardly shrugged at this method of obtaining the truth, realizing her husband would have had ample opportunity to tell his friend to cover his story.

Gavin raised his glass in her direction, craning his head forward so she could see him. “Here’s to yer good health, Lady Brisbane. May yer union be immediately blessed wi’ a bairn.”

The hall filled with loud cheers at these words, and the toast was drunk. Laird Brisbane looked happy and patted Jean’s hand, smiling down at her with a hungry look. He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “I cannae wait for the beddan, lass. When I raised that veil off yer face, I could hardly stop meself from taking ye then an’ there to the bedchamber. Ye’re enough to make the strongest man lose his restraint.”

Jean tried to smile in return, but the nervousness she was feeling twisted her mouth into a tremulous pucker.

This will never do! I must strengthen me resolve an’ be brave, or else it will end up with me being the prisoner chained in fetters, just like the clan motto says. Only I’ll be shackled by bairns, bedchambers, and bawds! I will have none of him ‘til he proves himself worthy.

As if to prove her right, Laird Brisbane embarked upon his second bottle of whisky within a very short space of time and was soon roaring out toasts and raising his glass one-for-one with Gavin. Even Chieftain MacTavish was moved to reprimand the two men. “Ye rascals! Be still yer glasses for a while. ‘Tis a wedding feast, no’ a wake!”

Gavin and Charlie ignored him, continuing to shout out ridiculous toasts: “To her ladyship’s blue eyes,” and “Here’s to the little toe on her dainty right foot; may it be bussed and trussed like the rest of her!”

It was ribald and embarrassing. Laird Brisbane tried to force a glass of whisky down Jean, grabbing the back of her neck and tilting the tasse toward her mouth. But she kept her lips clamped tightly shut, and he gave up with a shrug and called for another bottle of whisky.

“Why d’ye no’ like the grog, lass?” he slurred. “Yer faither assures me ‘tis his best.”

Jean eyed her drunken husband askance, “I grew up with the stuff, ye realize.”