Thorn in My Heart (45 page)

Did every bride feel the same way?
Surely not!
She buried her face in the covers to hide her laughter. No bride could possibly feel as she felt, for no bride had come so close to losing everything. Jamie was the husband she'd almost let go. Jamie was the man God had put across her path, and she'd nearly walked away from him out of fear. Fear that he did not love her and never could.

But he did love her and had thoroughly proven so. She would never doubt again.

In the murky interior of the box bed, she found the white kell, more by touch than by sight. She could feel the intricate patterns carefully wrought across the fabric, stitched by a loving hand in another country. Did that woman know how gready she would bless a Scottish lass this Hogmanay? Leana could never place it over her head again, for a kell could only be worn by a maiden. The thought both saddened and thrilled her. A maiden no more. A woman, a wife.

She smoothed her hand across die veil, an unspoken farewell. The diin cambric was covered in roses, and so was her marriage bed. She must now think of how to tell Rose, her dear, precious sister, that Jamie had chosen her instead. Might the lass be crushed, or would she be relieved? After all, Rose was young and had often confessed she was afraid to marry. With many years left to find a husband, a society debut could still be in her future. Besides, hadn't Rose pushed Leana in Jamie's direction since the moment he arrived?
You were right after all Rose!
That's what she would tell her sister. That her instincts had been right and her efforts had not been in vain.
Dear Rose.

A hint of daylight crept between the bed curtains. From down the stair came familiar sounds, a household stirring from a winter night's slumber. Jamie slept on, his breathing even, his smooth face that of a younger man, free of any cares that might wrinkle his brow. She curled up against him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and draping one arm across his broad chest.

Perhaps she would sleep, just for an hour. It was bound to be a hectic day, and she had so much good news to share when she awakened.

Awake thee, my Lady-Love!
Wake thee, and rise!
The sun through the bower peeps
Into thine eyes.

G
EORGE
D
ARLEY

J
amie's eyes opened only a crack, then he squeezed them tight, shutting out the invading light of day, which had thrust its bright saber between his bed curtains, the unsheathed point aimed directly at his throbbing forehead.

The year 1789 was off to a very bad start.

Pain droned between his eyes, like a bagpipe playing one long, bleating, endless note. The chanters tune that danced around it was a taunting one.
Nae mair whisky for you. Nae mair whisky for you.
Jamie vowed that come next Hogmanay he would remember that dreary song and be more prudent with his drinking. One cup of ale. Nae mair.

He forced himself to swallow, disgusted by the bitter taste in his mouth. A fresh pitcher of water and Hughs razor would be a welcome sight. But he'd have to part the bed curtains to get there, and it was entirely too bright in the room to suit him. Perhaps if he pushed the fabric aside a bit at a time, the light would not be so painful.

Stretching out his hand, he tugged at the curtains, and a pool of daylight fell across his arm. In the far corner of the room, the narrow window was flooded with sunshine. It seemed that while he slept, the gray skies of yestreen had transformed themselves into a canvas of pale, shimmering blue stretched across the heavens. In January? Unheard of.

He longed to know the time. Was it late morning? Noon? Later still? He rubbed his eyes, then his brow, moaning as he did.
Happy New Year, laddie.
Though his head remained foggy, his eyes slowly adjusted
to the dim light around him as he pulled the bed curtains open further. It was noon at the earliest. Strange that no one had come knocking on his door. Lachlan would be ringing the bell for dinner before long. And whatever was his shirt doing on the floor? Had the fire burned so brighdy he'd torn off the sark in his sleep?

Jamie lifted himself with great difficulty into a sitting position. He threw back the covers, absendy turning to look over his shoulder as he did.

Leaned

Jamie snatched his hand back, as though bitten by an adder, and stared at the sleeping woman. It
was
Leana; there could be no doubt. She was curled up with her back to him, her hands tucked beneath her cheek, her slender legs drawn up against her chest. Her flowing, blond hair covered some of her pale skin but not enough of it. Not nearly enough. She was naked. In his bed. Fast asleep.

His heart pounded in his chest, the pain in his head already forgotten. One thing was certain: He was sober now. Wretchedly so. What had happened? Where was Rose? He tried to swallow but could not manage it. Water, he needed water or he might choke on his own spit. Slipping one leg over his side of the box bed, he eased one foot to the floor, then the other, as gingerly as possible, not wanting to wake her, not until he sorted things out. What had happened? Where was Rose? And why, in heavens name, was her sister asleep beside him?

Jamie stood, then yanked the bed curtains shut, trying to block out the sight of her, desperate for a moment to think, to remember. What had he done? What grievous sin had he committed in the dark hours of the night? It was obvious, wasn't it? Her scent was all over him. He bolted to the washstand and splashed the pitcher of water over his hands, his face, his mouth, his chest, like a man possessed.

The vivid images that appeared unbidden were not as easy to scrub away. His falling asleep, dreaming of Rose. A woman slipping into his room, slipping into his arms.
Jamie, in me.
Rose. He'd been certain it was Rose.
I've always hvedyou, Jamie.
She'd said his name, said that she loved him.

I love you still.

Leana.

His blood rising, he grabbed a towel and dragged it across his face and arms, drying them with a vengeance as the truth sank in: She had come into his room, pretending to be Rose, and ruined his wedding night. And not just his wedding night, his marriage. No bride would ever stand for such wanton behavior from her bridegroom. To be unfaithful to her, on their wedding night,
with her sister!
Unthinkable, unspeakable. Rage seethed inside him, drenching him with heat, despite the empty hearth and the freezing cold room.

He'd not been cold in the wee hours of the night. Oh no, he'd been very warm indeed. Awakened memories suddenly washed over him, burning him from the inside out. The intimate things they'd done, the coundess ways he'd bared his soul to her. The endearments he'd whispered in the dark, in the sanctity of their marriage bed. To Rose, he'd thought. To his wife.
Not to her sister!

Jamie drew the ends of the linen towel taut between his hands, stretching it, twisting it, nigh pulling it to shreds.
How dare she! How dare Leana do this to her sister and to me?
But she
haddaied.
It was done.

He stared at the curtained box bed, wishing he could turn back the clock. Twelve hours would be enough to save him.
God help me.
Such things were impossible. But one thing he could do was rid himself of every trace of her. Aye, he could do that. He plunged the towel into the bowl of water, then scrubbed his skin clean from head to foot, disgusted with himself for having been part of such swickerie, however unwittingly.

It was Leana's fault, from start to finish. Not his. Not Rose's. Leana's alone.

What had she called herself? A “willing accomplice”?

Very willing, Jamie.
Aye, she'd certainly been that.

His conscience assaulted him.
You were willing as well. Very willing.
The towel tightened in his hands, threatening to stop the blood from flowing to his fingers. Of course he was willing. He thought she was Rose. Leana knew what she was doing. And he did not.

He pressed the towel between his teeth, biting down hard on it,
forcing himself to think of every careless word he'd ever spoken to Leana that might have led her to believe, to foolishly convince herself that…

The vows.

True, he'd spoken them with feeling and conviction but only because in his mind he was saying them to Rose. Leana heard him pledge his troth, but those vows were never meant for her.

The kiss.

He lowered the towel, remembering how it had been when he kissed her. Aye, after the ceremony. Outside the kirk. That must have been it. Somehow he'd given her the wrong sense of how it was between them. They were cousins, they were friends, they were in-laws, but they were not lovers. Not then. Not now. It was only one kiss. And hadn't she been the one who said, “I wish you would”?

The dance.

He'd held Leana in his arms but no more than any other partner whirling about the floor. Had his touch been too familiar? Had his gaze told her something he'd never meant to say?

Good night.

There, in the hall, at the top of the stair. What had he said to her? “I would if I could.” But he could not, of course. Could not even consider it. He was married to Rose. Leana knew that and had chosen to ignore it.

I hve you, I love you.
How many times had she told him that last night? Why hadn't he listened to her voice instead of her body? How could he have been so deceived?

Nae.
She was the one who was deceived. Her sort of love wasn't genuine at all but a delusion, a hope based on air. Not a blessing, as love should be, but a curse. A curse…

Aye, than it!

Gripping the towel in one hand, he snapped it through the dry air, pleased with the crack it made, like a whip against a post. What had his father said when he'd blessed him? “Cursed be anyone who curses you.”
Let Leana be cursed then! She
deserved that and more.

Flushed with a sense of justice, he threw the towel to the floor and
marched over to the clothing press, yanking out the first shirt he found. He dressed with a haste born of anger and tied the laces on his breeches with a brutish hand. Suitably dressed for the grim day ahead, Jamie yanked the bed curtains aside without ceremony, no longer caring how much racket he made or how rudely she was roused.

“Get up, Leana.”

She sat up with a start, shaking her head, her pale eyes wide but not quite focused. Her hair fell around her shoulders as she lifted her face to him and smiled. “Jamie.”

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

O
LIVER
G
OLDSMITH

D
on't speak my name.”

Leana gasped. “Jamie, I—”

“Don't.” He pressed his hand against her mouth, stifling her. She felt his palm, cold as granite in winter, flat against her lips, his fingers digging into her cheek, the hem of his coat brushing her knee. He told her again, every word distincdy formed so she would not miss the import of his message. “Do…not…speak…my…name.”

His message was clear but not the meaning.
Why, Jamie? What has happened?

Desperate to say something, she formed her lips into the shape of a kiss beneath his hardened palm. When he pulled away his hand, the release of her tender smack was surprisingly loud in the silent room. But it did not please him. It infuriated him.

“How dare you kiss me!”

“But…1 only kissed your hand.”

“Yestreen you kissed my mouth more times than I can count.” His
eyes
were colder than his hands. Moss green had turned to a frozen loch, with unseen depths too dangerous to fathom.

Tears began gathering in her eyes. “I admit I kissed you, J—”

“Don't—”

“But I
did
kiss you, and you kissed me. Willingly, I thought.” Though how could she know? She'd never kissed a man before, had never before done any of the things they'd done. She'd misunderstood
him completely, it seemed, and disappointed him thoroughly. “I did not know I—”

“
Och!
You knew, Leana. You knew exacdy what you were doing. Did you hope I simply wouldn't notice?”

“N-notice what?” The first tear spilled out, landing on her bare skin. Suddenly desperate to hide her nakedness, she pulled the bed linens around her, furtively tucking them underneath her, covering everything she could.

He repeated himself, as though for a child. “Did you hope I wouldn't notice the difference between you and Rose?”

“Of course you would notice the difference.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of words that made no sense at all. “We are…very different, Rose and I. Nothing alike.”

“Enough alike it seems. In the dark.” He leaned over her, his hands clenched by his side, his lip curled in disgust. “In the pitch black of a moonless night very much alike. As you well know.”

“I know…
nothing!”
Except that she loved him, loved Jamie. After all he'd done to please her, in this room, in this bed, why was he being so cruel? “I don't know what you're saying. I don't know—”

“You knew I was drunk. You knew I was hoping to see my wife—”

“But /am your wife. At least, I will be—”

“You knew and took advantage of it. That's what you knew.”

“Jamie—”

“Don't!”

“Nae!” She held the bedsheet against her and scrambled to her feet, forcing him to take a step backward. “I will not! I will not stop saying the name of the man I love. Jamie, Jamie. Please, dear Jamie.” She stretched one hand toward him, but he jerked away from her touch. “Tell me what I've done that's upset you.”

“
Upset
me? You've ruined me.” He spun on his boot heel and paced the room, back and forth on the hardwood floor, crossing the yellow square of light pouring through the window.