This Heart of Mine (28 page)

“It’s glorious!” Velvet exclaimed. “Where did he ever find such a gown?”

Maggie laughed. “When a Borderer gies ye a gift, lassie, ’tis nae wise to ask where he got it.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a necklace that blazed with diamonds and pearls set in rose gold. “These are Hepburn family jewels, and he says for you to hae the loan of them for yer wedding.”

“Oh, Maggie, please thank Lord Bothwell for me!”

Maggie smiled and nodded, then went about the task of helping Pansy to ready the bride. The serving woman had seen the woebegone expression on Mistress de Marisco’s face earlier, and the men were already talking of the fierce argument between Lord Gordon and his betrothed wife. His lordship must have seen her look, too, and had obviously comforted the lass before sending along the jewelry. He was a man who knew how to make a woman smile, was Francis Stewart-Hepburn, thought Maggie, who had known him all her life.

Stripped of her filthy riding clothes, Velvet climbed into the high oak tub and sighed blissfully. Then suddenly she sniffed. “Gillyflowers!” she exclaimed.

“Aye,” said Pansy. “I may have had to pack light, mistress, but there was no need to forget the essentials. I slipped a small vial of your scent into the pack.”

Together the two women soaped Velvet, then washed her long auburn hair. There was no time to dally, Maggie said, for the wedding was set for eight o’clock. The men were already decorating the hall, delighted at the diversion. Half a dozen of Lord Bothwell’s men had ridden into the nearby village to bring back the preacher. She chattered on, Pansy joining in, while Velvet only half listened to them.

Married.
She turned the word over in her mind.
Married.
She still felt as strongly about her situation as she had five months ago when she had first heard of Alexander Gordon. It was not that she didn’t care for him, for to her discomfort she found that she did. Whether or not it was love she couldn’t be sure, never having been in love before. What she did know was that she felt trapped. She was willing to marry Alex, but not quite yet. I’m not even sixteen, she thought.

Her mother had been married for the first time at fifteen, and
Velvet knew that that was precisely why she had wanted her youngest child to have more time. Somehow Velvet didn’t believe that she would be like her mother with several husbands and so many adventures, but it would have been nice to have had a little more time at court. She was also unhappy about Alex’s tricking her into a handfast marriage, followed by this hurried religious ceremony by a Calvinist preacher. She had been raised in the holy Catholic church, and although she was not particularly religious, she knew in her heart that until she was wed in her own church, she would feel slightly wicked.

Pansy and Maggie worked quickly to prepare the bride who silently obeyed their orders. Another serving wench arrived with a tray containing a small meat pie, steaming hot from the oven, and a tall goblet of heady, sweet red wine. Velvet ravenously wolfed the meal down, for she was very hungry. Then she suffered her face and hands to be rewashed. Silken undergarments and charming silk stockings with gold roses embroidered on them were brought and put on her. Somewhere a pair of shoes that fit her were obtained, and finally the gown was dropped over her head. The fastenings were neatly done up, then Pansy sat her on a chair and brushed her long, auburn hair until it shone with dark red and gold lights. The hair was left unbound to signify her virgin state and her head crowned with a wreath of wheat, symbolizing fertility. Then Pansy carefully fastened the necklace about Velvet’s neck. As the young tiring woman stepped back, she gaped in awe when Velvet stood and turned to face her.

“Oh, mistress! You’re absolutely beautiful!”

Maggie’s face was also soft with admiration. “I dinna believe that
Hermitage
has ever seen a more beautiful bride,” she declared.

There was a knock on the door, and Maggie opened it to admit Lord Bothwell. He was dressed in the elegant red and green Hepburn plaid and a black velvet jacket. His blue eyes swept approvingly over the bride as he said, “Christ almighty, lass, ye’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. With each minute that passes I further envy Alexander Gordon.” He held out his hand to her. “Will ye gie me the honor of escorting ye?”

“With pleasure, my lord,” Velvet answered. “Since my own dear papa isn’t here. I cannot think of anyone else I would prefer but you.”

Bothwell winced at the mention of her father. Dear Lord! He certainly wasn’t old enough to be the lass’s father—or was he? He dismissed the thought immediately with a grimace and sent Maggie a black look, for he had heard her muffled chuckle. Her gray eyes danced with merriment.

Velvet put her hand into Francis Stewart-Hepburn’s, and together they walked from the room and down the narrow stone stairway into the Great Hall. Velvet’s eyes were round with amazement at the transformation that had taken place in just the few hours that she had been at Hermitage. The hall was decorated with pine, red whortleberry, and white heather. At the entry to the Great Hall Lord Both well said something low to one of his retainers, and the man hurried away to return a moment later with a small bouquet of white roses and white heather.

“The very last of the roses.” Bothwell smiled at her. “One of the serving girls found them by a sheltered wall and cut them for ye.”

“You’re so very kind, my lord,” Velvet said. “You almost make me feel guilty for being such a reluctant bride.”

“Captive brides are a tradition here on the Border, lass,” was his reply, “but I believe that within a few short days yer anger will have cooled. He’s a good man, ye know.”

“Aye, the queen said that of him,” Velvet replied.

“Did she now? Well ’twas never said that Bess Tudor was a stupid woman.” Bothwell stopped a moment and lifted her face with his hand. “Gie us a wee smile now, Velvet de Marisco, for I can see ye love the man, even if ye’re too stubborn to admit it. Pride is something I well understand.” She smiled up at him, and he said, “Aye, lassie, that’s it! Now, come forward, and we’ll meet yer fate head-on. Never fear to meet yer fate!”

Then he led her into the Great Hall, and a mighty cheer went up from the Borderers gathered there. Before the high board stood the hastily summoned preacher of Scotland’s new kirk and Alexander Gordon, the Earl of BrocCairn, freshly scrubbed, and with a black velvet jacket borrowed from Lord Bothwell to wear over his dark green, blue, and yellow Gordon plaid. On his shoulder he sported a magnificent gold clan crest, identifying him as the chief of his clan, the Gordons of BrocCairn. On the pin was the raised and snarling badger with red ruby eyes, and around the beast were inscribed the words “Defend or Die.”

The pipes began to skirl softly as the bride was led forward. Lord Bothwell placed Velvet’s hand in Alex’s, and without further ado the preacher commenced reading the marriage ceremony. Where are the beeswax tapers in the gold candelabrum, the sweetly singing choir, and the family priest in his glorious white and gold vestments? thought Velvet. For a moment she almost cried, for she so wanted her parents, her sisters and brothers, Uncle Robbie, Dame Cecily, Uncle Conn, and sweet Aunt Aiden. Instead she found herself in the stone hall of a Border castle surrounded
by men, being married by a Calvinist preacher to a man she half feared.

“Say aye!” Alex hissed at her, and she said, “Aye,” as he pushed his own chieftain’s heavy gold ring upon her marriage finger. She had been paying absolutely no attention to what was happening at all. This was her wedding. Was she going to tell her children and her grandchildren one day that she didn’t remember the ceremony because she had been daydreaming? She giggled, and the preacher looked sourly at her, making her want to laugh all the more. Alex squeezed her hand in warning, and Velvet got a grip on her emotions though she was becoming nearly hysterical.

“I pronounce ye husband and wife,” the preacher said, and another mighty cheer went up in the hall.

Alex pulled her into his arms roughly and kissed her with a passion that left her breathless. When he let her go she was blushing, and his eyes mocked her. “Now, m’lady, ye’re most truly wed wi’ me,” he said softly. “Wedded, and soon to be bedded.”

“I will never truly feel wed with you until we are married in our own church and my family is about me,” Velvet said stubbornly.

“God’s blood, madame! How many weddings do ye want?”

“I think,” said Bothwell, interrupting what seemed to be another storm brewing between the Earl and Countess of BrocCairn, “that it is my turn to kiss the bride.”

Velvet held up a cheek for him to kiss, but Francis Stewart-Hepburn laughed mischievously and said, “Nay, lass,” as he took her lips. It was but a moment, and it was a sweet kiss. As he let her go he said, “ ’Tis the only time I’ve an excuse to sip yer honey, lass, and ye’re far too sweet to resist.”

The preacher had disappeared, and the lord of the castle led them up to the high board. “I must apologize for such a simple wedding feast, my lady,” Bothwell continued, “but I was not expecting to gie a bride away tonight.” Then he signaled the servants to bring in the meal. There was venison, boar, pheasant, quail, duck, and capon. There were platters of salmon and trout dressed with cress, bowls of peas and carrots and beans, as well as hot breads and tubs of butter and cheese. Ale and wine were both served.

Velvet ate sparingly, taking a bit of capon and another slice of trout, some vegetables, bread, and cheese. She was very nervous now, and her stomach was rolling. Only the wine seemed to settle it, but she drank sparingly even of that. She had been placed between Alex and Lord Bothwell, both of whom took delight in filling and refilling their plates and goblets until she thought that they would surely burst. A large apple tart with heavy cream was the
last thing to be presented and it was the only dish that tasted good to her, so she ate two large pieces of it.

The pipes started up again, and the men began to dance upon the gray stone floor. The fireplaces and the tapers smoked as the wind had risen outside, somehow managing to slip through cracks in the stone walls. Above Velvet were many colored banners and pendants. Francis leaned over to tell her that they were taken in various battles over the centuries by the Hepburns and their allies. The skirling bagpipes, the kilted clansmen dancing a dance she was told was the sword dance, the orange firelight shadowing the hall as it leaped in time with the pipes—all combined to create a savage splendor that she would not soon forget. This was what she would tell her children and grandchildren. It was all really quite exciting.

Then Lord Bothwell said quietly, “Maggie is outside the hall, Lady Gordon. She will escort ye to yer bedchamber.”

Velvet started at the address “Lady Gordon.”

“Is it time so soon?” she asked him plaintively.

“Aye, but remember what I told ye to do, lass. Face yer fate bravely and squarely. Alex has told me of yer parents, and I suspect beneath yer maiden fears ye’re their daughter well and true.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Go along now, my lady Gordon. I’ll be sending ye yer man in a few minutes.”

As Velvet stood to leave the high board, Bothwell raised his goblet and cried out, “The bride!” His words were echoed by the hundred men who were in the hall.
“The bride!”
was their toast. Her head held high, she acknowledged them with a return toast. “A Bothwell!” she shouted, and they cheered her as she drank. And then she made her way out of the hall to where Maggie and Pansy awaited her.

“God, she’s bonny!” Francis Stewart-Hepburn said admiringly after she had gone.

“Aye,” replied Alex. “And stubborn, and beautiful, and maddening, but, damn me, I want her!” He sighed. “I’m not so sure I should not have married a more biddable female.”

Bothwell laughed somewhat bitterly. “Biddable females breed up weak sons, cousin. This little wench of yers will give ye a litter of fire-eaters for BrocCairn. Have another cup wi’ me, and then go to her.”

While they drank of Lord Bothwell’s excellent Burgundy, Velvet was shown to the bedchamber she would share with her new husband. There she was divested of her finery by Maggie, while Pansy brought her a silver basin in which to wash her face, hands, and teeth.

“Have you eaten?” Velvet asked her tiring woman.

“Aye, mistress, I mean, my lady Velvet.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Maggie is letting me stay with her, me lady,”

“Steer clear of Dugald, Pansy. He means to seduce you, I suspect.”

Pansy giggled at her mistress’s words. “I may be a country girl, me lady, but I’m wise to the likes of Dugald. He’ll get naught without a wedding ring for me finger first.”

Velvet was completely nude now and she looked surprised when the two women led her to the big bed. “My nightshift, Pansy,” she scolded the servant.

“Nay,” said Maggie. “ ’Tis the custom in the Border that ye greet yer new lord in yer bed without a shift, but as God has made ye, m’lady.” She tucked Velvet beneath the lavender-scented sheets and the soft fur coverlet. Then she plumped up the fat goosedown pillows behind her back. “There! Now ye’re ready, and just in time, I vow!”

In the hallway outside they heard men shouting, and then the door was flung open and the room filled up with laughing clansmen. Velvet clutched the covers to her bosom, drawing them almost to her chin.

God’s blood, Lord Bothwell thought as he looked at her gardenia skin, wide green eyes, and auburn hair. She’s exquisite! I’d best get my men from this room before there’s a riot. He shoved his cousin forward. Alex had been stripped down to just the lower half of his plaid. “Yer husband, Lady Gordon!” Bothwell announced. Then he said to his men, “Come, lads! There’s a troupe of gypsies outside
Hermitage
walls this night, and I’m thinking we should invite some dancers in to entertain us.” He moved out of the room, and thus diverted, the two serving women and his retainers followed him.

The door closed behind them, and Alex, swiveling, shot the bolt before turning back to Velvet. He gazed at her for a long moment, and she reddened beneath his close scrutiny. Then he moved about the bedchamber blowing out the candles until only the one on the table by his side of the bed remained. A small, cheery fire burned in the fireplace. Without a word he pulled off his plaid and climbed into bed before she even had a chance to see him, except for a flash of taut buttocks.