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Authors: Ranae Rose

Tags: #Historical

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BOOK: Highland Storm
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Donning the garment had brought a tear to Isla’s eye and made her feel more a Gordon than anything, and she took care to hold the skirts away from the ground now as Alexander, equally resplendent in full highlander dress, carried her towards the kirk’s threshold.

His kilt was a blazing red, a stunning change from the muted green hunting tartan Isla was accustomed to seeing him in. He wore a black jacket over a fresh shirt, new hose and his best sporran. His shoes gleamed, evidence of the excellent care and little wear they’d received. His hair had been brushed to a glossy black shine and he’d left it loose for once, so that it nearly brushed his shoulders. The simply clad, rain-soaked Gordon Isla had first met along the muddy road had set her heart racing—this carefully preened man in his bright red tartan, looking every bit the heir of Benstrath, had set her cheeks burning back at the estate house, and they hadn’t stopped since.

A breeze blew over them, carrying with it the scent of a storm and causing the hem of Isla’s skirts to flutter. She wore a tartan stole over her shoulders, to which she had attached Briar’s lost horseshoe as if it were a giant brooch. Traditionally, a horseshoe worn by a bride was considered a symbol of fertility. While Isla hoped that that was true, she couldn’t help but feel it symbolised much more—the luck that had driven her and Alexander together, and the love and good fortune that would keep them together as man and wife.

Inside, the kirk was quaintly beautiful, with a small, stained glass window behind the altar, which admitted what sunlight there was to be had, casting a patchwork rainbow onto the floorboards. The priest appeared quite taken aback at the wedding party’s sudden appearance. Still, it wasn’t long before he agreed to perform the ceremony after a few words from Alexander’s father, the—alarmingly, it seemed, judging by the priest’s expression—large, gruff Laird of Benstrath.

Isla was surprised to find her stomach aflutter as she stood before the altar, facing Alexander, clasping her hands in his. Their eyes met, and she found it impossible to look away as they said their vows. The liturgy was unfamiliar to Isla, who had never been part of any Catholic ceremony. Her father had always spurned Catholicism, a fact that had only fuelled his hatred of the devoutly Catholic Gordons. Looking into Alexander’s eyes as their marriage was officiated, she found she didn’t mind.

When the liturgy ended and the cue for the ring was given, Isla was surprised when Alexander dipped his hand into his sporran, emerging with a silver band that he slipped onto her finger. She hardly had time to wonder at Alexander’s thoughtfulness before he brought his lips down on hers. A surprisingly hearty cheer rose from the small crowd of Gordons as they kissed. When they parted, Alexander scooped Isla up into his arms and they descended down the aisle in a smiling flurry of pale satin and blazing tartan. It seemed to Isla that they reached the kirk doors in no time at all. Then they stepped out to greet the gloomy countryside with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, the rest of the Gordons trailing behind.

The heavens had opened while they’d wed, and the charcoal clouds spilt their contents onto the wedding party, as if they were celestial well-wishers throwing grain. Alexander paused halfway between the kirk and the horses to bow his head and kiss Isla again, and she tasted the rainwater on his lips. “Thank God for storms,” she said when he raised his head again.

“Aye,” Alexander agreed. “I’ll never frown at a dark sky again.”

* * * *

Isla spent the fortnight after the wedding perpetually in Alexander’s company, walking or riding with him as he showed her every last nook and corner of Benstrath—when she wasn’t in his bed, that was. Seeing the sprawling estate and knowing that she’d someday be Lady of every last field and the crofters who worked them made her feel queasy with incredulity. She’d never imagined such a life for herself, not even before Hamish was slain. Her vision of the future had always included marrying a simple farmer and tending the land until she was laid to rest in it, returning to the earth she’d managed to scrape sustenance from. Then Hamish’s blood had stained that same soil, turning her prospects bleak and null.

Until Alexander had come along. He’d given her a truly new life, one she never could have imagined. Isla Gordon, Lady of Benstrath! Her stomach lurched, and she pressed a hand to her belly, willing herself to act at least a little bit the Lady she was destined to be instead of the crofter’s daughter she’d been born.

But getting used to her new role was difficult without Alexander by her side to remind her that she really was his wife. After a fortnight’s reprieve, spent in each other’s arms, he’d finally returned to his daily responsibilities around the estate—namely, breaking the three young horses that were ready to be introduced to the saddle. Isla would never have asked him to neglect his work, but that didn’t change the fact that without him by her side, awkwardness seemed to hang over her head like a storm cloud.

She laid down her hairbrush and sighed. Early morning light was just beginning to spill through the bedroom window, but Alexander had already left for the stables. Should she go too, to watch him begin the day’s work with the three colts?

No—she didn’t want to distract him, and procrastinating wouldn’t change the fact that she needed to find a way to spend her own days in the large estate house. She stood, smoothed her skirts and abandoned the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom, determined to be useful.

With Alpin and his mother silently brooding over Alexander’s marriage, tensions were already running high in the household and the last thing she needed was a reputation for idleness.

She drifted down the hall and stairs, unsurprised to find herself at the kitchen door. Aside from Alexander and his father, who were both busy outside the house, Mrs Mary was the only resident of Benstrath who’d shown her any real kindness. The pleasant aroma of baking bread greeted her as she pushed the door open, seeking friendly company as much as work.

“Isla!” Mrs Mary cried, looking up from the ball of dough she was kneading. “What can I do for ye? A cup of tea, perhaps, or—”

“Nae,” Isla interjected hastily, eager to dispel any impression of having come to be waited upon. “I only came to help as I might.” She smoothed non-existent wrinkles out of her freshly laundered skirts and scanned the kitchen for any sign of a spare apron.

“Surely ye’ve better ways to spend such a fine day than toiling in the kitchen with me,” Mrs Mary protested, working the pale lump of dough and chuckling as if the thought of Isla working in the kitchen was ridiculous. “Why, it’d be a fine day for a ride, with sunshine as we’ve not seen the likes of for a fortnight.”

“Alexander has returned to the stables, to break the three colts while the weather’s fair. I’d be ashamed to spend the day in idleness while my husband labours so.”

Several grey curls popped loose and bobbed around Mrs Mary’s temples as she
tsked
and shook her head, kneading the dough with renewed energy. “Och, well it’s lovely of ye to say so, dear, but I dinnae need any help. Truly, I’d run out of work if ye helped me with the day’s meals!” She shook her head and punched the dough as if horrified by the prospect.

Isla watched her handle the dough, her stomach giving a faint twist again as suspicion began to creep up on her. Did even Mrs Mary doubt her ability to contribute anything to the household? She crossed the kitchen, striding towards the counter where the matronly cook laboured, determined to prove her usefulness. “Mrs Mary, I—”

Mrs Mary dropped the lump of dough, and settled her gaze on the hem of Isla’s skirts. “How’s your foot, dear? It doesnae hurt ye to walk on it so?”

“Nae, not a bit,” Isla lied, fearing the gleam in Mrs Mary’s eyes that told her she was about to be subjected to an examination.

Mrs Mary would have none of it. After wiping her hands on her apron, she rushed Isla across the kitchen to a stool and pulled off her shoe and stocking to begin unwinding her bandages. When Mrs Mary had removed them and laid them in a neat pile on the floor, she began a thorough inspection of Isla’s foot. “It doesnae hurt when I press here?”

Isla clenched her teeth and suppressed a groan. It did ache, though not nearly as badly as it had two weeks ago, and she wasn’t about to admit it and give Mrs Mary an excuse to usher her from the kitchen. “Nae. I reckon I’ve healed.”

Mrs Mary simply
tsked
again and continued to palpate Isla’s aching foot, a technique that Isla suspected might be an effort to drive her from the kitchen. “Mrs Mary,” she half-gasped, in an attempt to avoid outright groaning, “do ye not think I know one end of a kitchen from another, or are ye simply loath to share my company?” In truth, she was unfamiliar with the estate house’s large, well-stocked kitchen, but that was beside the point. She knew how to cook, and that was what mattered.

Mrs Mary donned a sober expression and slowly lowered Isla’s foot to the floor, taking her hand instead. “Isla, dear,” she whispered, “Alex told me how your poor mother died when ye were young, leavin’ ye to be raised by just your father. I would never humiliate ye by asking ye to cook when ye’ve never had anyone to teach ye how.”

Isla stared into Mrs Mary’s sympathetic eyes, dumbfounded as the woman patted her hand in what was obviously intended as a comforting gesture.

“Alex loves ye, I can tell. Ye dinnae need to turn to the kitchen to impress him—there are other ways to keep a man’s affection, as I’m sure ye’ve found by now. Why, a beauty like yourself…nae, ye dinnae need to cook a thing.”

Searing heat crept into Isla’s face, and she realised that she’d been listening with an open mouth. She clamped it firmly shut as shock began to give way to relief. “Ye think I dinnae know how to cook?” She suppressed laughter for the sake of Mrs Mary’s feelings.

Mrs Mary patted Isla’s hand again, obviously mistaking Isla’s strangled giggles for confirmation. “It isnae your fault, and dinnae fash yourself—I shallnae breathe a word of it to Alex.”

Isla kept a straight face with considerable difficulty. “Who do ye think put dinner on the table every evenin’ then, with my mother gone?”

Suddenly, Isla was pressed against Mrs Mary’s generous bosom, pinned in an embrace by the woman’s surprisingly strong arms. “I’m sure ye tried your best, dear. Your mother would have been proud.”

Isla pulled out of Mrs Mary’s grip as soon as she dared, pushing a stray lock of mussed hair out of her eyes. “I’m none so bad in the kitchen, truly. If ye’d only let me help, I—”

Rapid footsteps interrupted Isla’s assurances, and a slight, tow-headed figure burst into the kitchen. Isla recognised the boy as a young cousin of Alexander’s.

“Mrs Mary!” he cried, panting as he leaned against a counter to catch his breath. “Look what I hae found in the wood just out back!” He opened one fist, and a handful of dark, round berries tumbled onto the countertop.

“Currants!” Mrs Mary cried, clapping her hands together and matching the boy’s enthusiasm. “Well done, Ian. I suppose ye want me to make somethin’ sweet with ‘em?”

Ian grinned, revealing a mouthful of red-stained teeth, evidence that other berries had never made it to the house. “Will ye, Mrs Mary?”

“Of course,” she said, beginning to usher the boy from the kitchen, “but only if ye get out from under foot like a good lad.”

Young Ian skipped happily from the kitchen, apparently buoyed by the promise of a treat. When Mrs Mary turned back around, Isla had already scooped up the handful of currants and had donned a grin of her own.

“You’re busy enough, Mrs Mary. I reckon I can make something to satisfy the lad’s sweet tooth, and ye willnae have to worry over it.”

Despite Isla’s claim, Mrs Mary looked quite alarmed to see the currants in her custody.

Chapter Six

A little over an hour later, Isla surveyed the results of her labour with satisfaction. The scones had risen into perfect, golden-brown puffs, dotted with fat, juicy currants. They looked and smelt heavenly, and she suspected them to be her best ever, courtesy of the exemplary berries young Ian had delivered. Still, only a taste test could confirm her high hopes.

“Mrs Mary, would ye like to do the honours before the wee devil shows up and gobbles ‘em all down?”

Mrs Mary emerged from the pantry, into which she’d disappeared a few moments before the scones had finished cooking. Isla suspected that she’d done so in order to allow her enough privacy to quietly dispose of whatever substandard product came off the griddle. She was barely able to hide a grin as the woman rounded the counter, unnecessarily smoothing her flour-dusted apron.

Mrs Mary’s eyes widened as she surveyed the scones, plump and resplendent with berries. Slowly, she reached out and took one, tearing it in half to inspect the insides, which she looked at as if expecting some monster to leap out of the treat instead of a few wisps of steam. When none did, she raised one half to her mouth and took a bite.

“Well, what do ye think?”

After chewing with excruciating slowness, Mrs Mary finally swallowed. “Wonderful,” she whispered in tones of awe. “Isla, they’re wonderful!”

Isla grinned. “So, ye think they’ll meet wee Ian’s standards, then?”

Mrs Mary flung a protective hand over the scones, looking scandalised. “Ian,
phaw
! Ye must take these to Alexander straight away!”

BOOK: Highland Storm
2.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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