Wicked Highland Ways Page 7

  Brenda will make yer towers into a home.

  He contemplated his reflection with a little more enthusiasm. Aye, she was strong enough to not turn her nose up at his lack of a castle. The first time he’d seen her, she’d nearly singed his eyebrows off with her spirit.

  She’s wild enough to draw ye upstairs too…

  Perhaps he didn’t care all too much about the clothing. What mattered was the wedding. He’d intended to court Brenda, but the truth was he didn’t know much about courting either. Now, chasing a lass, that was an altogether different sort of matter. One he knew a bit more about. Brenda had ignited in his embrace. Having the right to touch her meant he’d be able to explore their reaction to one another.

  And she’d take his towers and infuse them with the life inside her.

  Was he besotted?

  Perhaps.

  Maddox was toying with his beard again, enjoying the sight of Bothan shrugging his shoulders as he attempted to get the doublet to feel better.

  “You’d better get dressed too. You’re the one telling me no’ to offend the English Queen.” Bothan watched Maddox through the mirror. His captain lost his amused look when Bothan pointed at another suit of clothing lying on the bed.

  Bothan chuckled at the stream of Gaelic profanity Maddox let out. His burly captain approached the velvet clothing much as he would a snake, reaching for it with two fingers to pluck it off the bed and hold it up while he scowled.

  Maddox shook his head.

  Bothan grunted at him.

  Maddox rolled his eyes. “Only in bloody England would I be reduced to wearing something such as this!”

  * * *

  Brenda had come to England to wed. So there was no reason to continue to allow it to upset her.

  But not at court…

  Brenda tried to chastise herself over her fear. And there was no way to avoid realizing what the sensation prickling along her limbs was.

  Icy…cold…dread.

  Brenda struggled to stand still as she was dressed. But the source of her fear was deep inside her mind where the memories of her first wedding were impossible to avoid.

  She’d been so very young. Perhaps that was why the memories seemed so sharp. As they rose up from the dark corner where she’d banished them, she felt like she was being sliced anew by the images. Even at sixteen years old she’d known there would be an inspection of her body. But no one had warned her about the bedding.

  Ye must not think upon it…

  Her strict instructions worked for a bit. Brenda had never been very interested in clothing, but contemplating her reflection allowed her to dwell on something besides the coming night. In an effort to please their queen, the members of the noble family who were hosting her were truly giving the wedding preparations every effort. The dress Brenda wore was of silk and velvet. A stiff slip beneath it known as a farthingale held the skirts out like a bell. The underskirt was revealed by an opening in the front of the overskirt. Pearls were sewn onto the sleeves, and the corset laced tight beneath the bodice ensured her waist was small.

  The last time she’d worn something so fine she’d been a maiden.

  Brenda snorted. The sound earned her a curious look from one of the maids. But the lady of the house had arrived.

  “Enough now,” Lady Berkley instructed her staff. “She appears quite ready.”

  The maids lowered themselves before heading for the door. Lady Berkley looked at the supper tray Brenda had barely touched.

  “This is not your first marriage,” Lady Berkley remarked. “Maidenly nerves should not affect your appetite.”

  The lady of the house came forward, sweeping Brenda from head to toe. But it wasn’t done coldly. No, Brenda detected a hint of maternal affection.

  “Thank ye for the dress,” Brenda replied sincerely. “And for the attention of yer staff.”

  The maids had done Brenda’s hair, weaving ribbons as well as pushing pins with pearls attached to them into it. The finished effect was quite pleasing. If Brenda were in the mood to enjoy it. Even if marrying wasn’t to her taste, she admitted to enjoying the way the staff worked toward making sure she was presented well.

  “I would think wedding one of your own countrymen would put your mind at ease,” Lady Berkley continued.

  “It does,” Brenda said. “It is wedding at court I have no stomach for.”

  Lady Berkley drew in a stiff breath. Brenda watched the flash of memory in the other woman’s eyes.

  “I understand,” Lady Berkley said. “Best to hope your husband concludes matters swiftly.”

  Lady Berkley was doing her best, but there really wasn’t anything to be done for the matter. Court weddings meant beddings witnessed by any and all who wanted to follow the bride and groom back to their chambers.

  It was a revolting custom.

  Oh yes, Brenda understood it had begun as a way of ensuring men did not accuse their brides of being impure. More than one wedding had been arranged to end a bloody conflict between rival families or clans. And more than one of those unions had seen the groom attempt to discard his unwanted bride by claiming she had not been a maiden or that they had not consummated the union. So a witness from each family at the consummation was the best insurance against such allegations.

  At court, though, the custom had evolved into something far worse than two unknown witnesses sitting behind screens. Now, the bedding was often a gathering of the groom’s drunken friends who leered and shouted vulgarities. Brenda recalled it well.

  In spite of how hard she had tried to bury the memories.

  It was strange the power the recollections had over her. She hadn’t feared anything in a very long time. Once being widowed, she had become her own woman, and yet now she felt perspiration on her forehead as the bells from the chapel started to toll.

  She would not have it.

  Brenda stood up and turned to face Lady Berkley. The noblewoman sent her a look of approval.

  “That’s the way of it,” Lady Berkley said. “Refuse to be broken by the idea. Do what you must, and do it quickly. All in the interest of being able to banish it to the past and know it is finished. ”

  Well said…

  Brenda left the chamber with Lady Berkley’s words ringing in her ears. Outside the doors to the chamber, several younger girls waited. Their eyes sparkled with anticipation. They reverenced Brenda before one handed her a bunch of wildflowers tied with a ribbon. The girl giggled shyly before she and her companions took up their positions around Brenda.

  They were young and innocent. To them, marriage was a time of wearing pretty gowns and sitting at a banquet table filled with delights. They would be kept busy with discussing details of the ceremony and entertainment to be presented at the banquet. The wine would flow, and the music would make it simple for the hours to fly past. Their mothers would have them all safely abovestairs in their beds by the time it came to the bedding ceremony.

  Brenda had once been just like them.

  Born to a good family, one that kept her closeted. She pressed her lips tightly together against a new wave of bitterness. Oh aye, she’d been a proper lamb on the way to the slaughter at her first wedding. Tonight, during the banquet, the younger girls would all be sent away under the guise of protecting them from men who had indulged in too much wine. Those younger girls wouldn’t be there to see the way the celebration turned ugly as the guests began to taunt the groom with vulgar suggestions. Nannies and maids wouldn’t dare breathe a word of the matter to their young charges for fear they’d lose their well-paying positions.

  Well, ye aren’t a lamb now…

  No, she’d grown into a she-wolf. Brenda had heard it whispered as she moved through the passageways of her home. It was meant as a slur, yet she embraced it. Allowed it to ring in her ears, drowning out the tolling of the bell. Somehow, she made it to the e
ntrance of the chapel. The girls all hushed as they spied the Queen of England. Brenda sank down into a deep reverence along with them before Elizabeth raised them up.

  She-wolf…

  Brenda lifted her chin and strode forward. Let Bothan see her as she was, for she would not be transforming into a meek and obedient wife.

  * * *

  The English court had a reputation of enjoying revelry.

  Brenda watched as Elizabeth Tudor’s nobles danced and feasted. And drained their goblets over and over. She wondered if any of them even tasted the fine wine the Berkleys had provided for the occasion. Lord Berkley himself was the very image of the jovial host. His cheeks were red from how much he’d smiled, and his hat came off his head every few minutes as he proudly oversaw the entire affair, greeting everyone who ventured near him.

  “I doubt most of them even know who married,” Bothan spoke beside her. “Or care. It seems more important that they have a reason to feast and celebrate.”

  Her new groom wasn’t any more pleased with the festivities than she was. He’d ripped open the top few buttons on his doublet and sat with one elbow braced on the tabletop as the musicians played and the nobles of Elizabeth’s court danced. His wine goblet was left untouched after only a disgusted look toward the fine glassware.

  Bothan didn’t know the songs, and Brenda had only a dim memory of some of them. However, it seemed not to matter to anyone that the bride and groom sat at the table instead of enjoying the festivities. Brenda picked up her own wine glass and drank deeply to still the tremors shaking her as the candles began to burn lower and she watched the nannies begin to remove their young charges from the hall. She could feel the mood changing, like the very air was becoming soiled. A servant filled her wine glass again, and she brought it back to her lips.

  Bothan reached between them and plucked the wine goblet from her fingers. “Are ye truly so displeased with yer circumstances, Brenda?”

  Brenda turned her attention toward him. Somehow, she’d forgotten the way the man affected her. Consumed by her own thoughts, she’d not really given him much of her focus. Now, though, he was so very close to her, and his blue gaze was just as piercing as before. There was a flutter in her belly as her breath caught.

  “Would ye truly prefer Galwell Scrope sitting here beside ye?” Bothan demanded.

  His jaw was drawn tight, irritation clearly evident on his face.

  “I do not care for court weddings.” Brenda didn’t care for how much of an admission her words were. Bothan’s eyes narrowed as he heard the emotion edging her tone. “I am not a child, Bothan.” Brenda had lowered her voice.

  He tilted his head to one side and leveled a stern look at her.

  “Ye declared to one and all that ye would have me, and I am past the age of thinking such a declaration is something I might trust as a future filled with happiness.”

  She was being blunt. Most people didn’t deal well with straight talk. It might have been wiser to keep her thoughts to herself, yet some impulse had sent them past her lips.

  She looked away, reaching for a piece of fruit sitting on her plate. Bothan captured her hand, closing his own around it.

  He is so much larger than ye…

  Brenda shuddered. It was another of those responses she held no power against when it came to Bothan. When he touched her, she felt the connection more deeply than she’d ever considered possible.

  “Ye can be certain I will have us on the road north at first light, Brenda,” he assured her.

  She looked back at him, drawn by the tone of his voice. She’d heard him tease her. Recalled the way he’d boasted to her. Yet this was something different. A familiarity she had no idea what to do with.

  Except shy away from.

  Brenda tugged on her hand. Being in contact with him unsettled her, to say the least, and she needed her composure to survive the coming night. Bothan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Ye deny me, Brenda?” he asked softly. “Ye are me wife.”

  The certainty in his voice made her stomach clench.

  “Oh yes,” she snapped back. “Yer chattel. Well then, since the courtship has ended, let us get to the matter ye are truly interested in.”

  She flattened her hands on the tabletop and pushed the heavy chair she was sitting in back. The pages behind her were caught by surprise, but they recovered quickly. They pulled her chair well away from the table, making Bothan release her hand or risk being seen fighting with her. She knew anger was an unwise thing to let rage in her for it would make her foolish, but the flare of her temper gave her the strength to charge into what was eating away at her soul.

  Best done quickly…

  Truer words had never been spoken.

  The English nobles sent up a cheer as she stood and turned for the side of the high ground on which the head table was positioned. Bothan tried to follow her, but several of the men caught him at the bottom of the steps. They were soaked in wine, hooting and shouting as they dragged him away.

  Brenda caught only a glimpse of Bothan growling at them before a flurry of women in silk skirts and starched neck ruffs surrounded her. They chuckled softly as they escorted her toward the bridal chamber. The musicians followed, along with servants with trays of food and pitchers of cider.

  Her temper failed to keep the dread from her as her clothing was stripped away by the women amid their laughter and enjoyment.

  “Your groom is a beast.”

  “I wonder if his member measures up to the rest of him?”

  “Is it true that Scots prefer to mount their wives from behind?”

  “I wager he’ll not last past twenty thrusts.”

  “I take your bet!”

  Brenda wanted to scream, but she doubted any of them would have noticed. Instead they tugged on the laces, keeping her corset closed. Once the garment was unlaced completely, they tugged it down her arms and pulled her smock up and over her head.

  “You’re pretty as can be.”

  “Best we get you into bed before the men arrive with the groom.”

  But Brenda wasn’t ready just yet. Someone pushed her down onto a stool as some of the ladies plucked the pins from her hair and brushed it out.

  “Drink up,” a woman in a huge neck ruff said as she tried to press a goblet into Brenda’s hands. “Better to be merry while you might be.”

  Brenda was certain her throat was so tight not even a drop of the cider might pass. The women had no mercy in them, or perhaps it might be better to say they simply didn’t think she minded that she was bare and they clothed. Once her hair was lying across her back in a simmering curtain, they all circled around her to inspect her. One even reached out to pinch her nipples into sharp points.

  Brenda recoiled. “Do not.”

  The lady lifted her hands in surrender. “As you like, dear. But men like taut nipples. Mark my words. Pinch them up, and your husband will finish in half the time!”

  There was a round of laughter as the others nodded in agreement. Brenda ducked between two of them, heading for the large bed and something to help her recover her modesty. The bed ropes groaned as Brenda landed on the bed hard. She grabbed the bedding and pulled it up to her chin.

  She made it none too soon, either. The men were heard coming down the passageway. The door was kicked in to the delight of the waiting women. They let out excited cheers as the musicians played and the servants poured more cider.

  Brenda was certain she was near to going mad.

  “Enough!” Bothan roared.

  “He’s eager to get to his bride!” one of the men shouted.

  “She’s ready for you!” someone else yelled.

  A moment later, two of the women grabbed the bedding and yanked it from Brenda’s grasp. There was a swish and the bedding was tossed aside, leaving Brenda grabbing one of the pillows and hugging it.
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br />   “Go and get her!” a man urged Bothan.

  Bothan was clad in only his shirt. He looked at the horde of English nobles waiting eagerly for him to join her in the bed. Brenda gasped as one of the women near the bed grabbed the pillow and tried to pull it from Brenda’s grasp.

  “Get out!” Bothan roared. He wasn’t planning on being ignored this time. “Or so help me Christ, I’ll break every right arm in sight!”

  There was a fight to get through the doorway first. Bothan’s men, who had managed to keep up with their chief, began to toss velvet-clad men toward the exit. It turned into a brawl that the musicians tried to play through until one of Bothan’s men grabbed an instrument and broke it across his thigh. A woman smirked and another one fell over as the courtiers fled from Bothan.

  Brenda stared at the panic, blinking as she tried to believe her own eyes. As her brain processed the sight of her new husband kicking the last man in the rump because he was moving too slowly, her chest loosened up, allowing breath to flow freely.

  “How do these bastards think themselves more civilized than us in the Highlands?” Bothan demanded on his way back into the bedchamber. He grunted in disgust as he reached down and yanked the bedding off the floor. There was a snap as he raised it high and shook it so it unfolded in the air above her. He let it settle down over her before he snorted and went to one of the tables where a servant had left a pitcher behind in his haste to escape the threat. Bothan lifted it up and took a huge swallow from the side of it. Once he lowered the pitcher, he looked at the trays of food sitting on the tables.

  “They truly meant to make an evening’s entertainment out of our consummation?” Bothan muttered, revolted. “I will never understand the English.”

  “The Scottish court did the same at my first wedding,” Brenda said. There really was no purpose in saying it aloud. But relief swept through her as she said it. The bedding was cold from having been on the floor, but she clutched it close to hide how badly she was shaking.