Thorn in My Heart (51 page)

Nedas whispered words warmed her ear. “Ye honor me, child. Agness McBride was goodness itself.”

Too good to have borne such a daughter.
Leana leaned back, struck afresh with guilt. “What would Mother have said?”

Neda studied her for some time before she answered. “She wouldVe cautioned ye to spend mair time thinkin of God and less time thinkin’ of yer braw cousin.”

“Is it…too late to do that now?”

“ ‘Tis niver too late to think of God.” At the sound of Jamie's footsteps on the stair, Neda slipped the basket of herbs back on Leana's arm and kissed her cheek in farewell. “Pray. Listen. Show Jamie yer true heart. Let him see the goodness inside ye, Leana, for there is meikle of it.”

“But his temper—”

Och!” Neda waved away her concerns. “Angers short lived in a guid man.”

Leana gripped the basket. “What of our dear Rose?”

The smile on Nedas face dwindled. “Let me tend to your sister while ye're gone, for she needs a mither as well.” When Leana tensed, the older woman shook her head briskly. “Nae. Do not burden yerself further, lass. Rose is not yer concern this week. Think on the Lord Almighty and yer new husband, in that order. And see to it that ye worship at Saint Michael's on the Sabbath. Are we agreed?”

“We are.” Thanking her with her eyes, Leana hurried through the kitchen and out the back door, circling around to the front of the house, where the chaise was waiting. Jamie stood beside it, the planes of his face hard in the fading light of day as Willie stored her trunk behind the seat.

Neda had included her favorite scented soap, her best nightgown, and one good dress. Not the claret gown though. Leana feared Jamie might be reminded of the first moment he saw her wearing it when he'd come to her room, asking her to serve as proxy, putting their misfortune in motion through no fault of his own.

“Thank you for waiting while I filled my basket.” She took his hand as he guided her into the chaise.

“There's no room for that behind you,” he said curdy, climbing in beside her.

“I'll gladly hold it on my lap.”

He glanced at the odd assortment of goods, then at her. “What's all that
rubbage?”

“Hope,” she said simply, setding into her seat as he shook the reins and their journey began. “ ‘Tis a basket full of hope.”

He snorted, the look on his face nearing disgust. “If by ‘hope’ you mean some foolish notion of winning my affections, then leave the basket behind, Leana. My heart is spoken for. You may have the rest of me for seven days but no longer.”

The basket nearly spilled from her lap. “But Father said I would have seven
months/That
it would be August before you and Rose might marry.”

He looked at her, the knowing gleam in his eye not at all like the Jamie she loved. “
You
have seven months to produce proof of an heir in your womb. But I promised your father that I'd give you my undivided attention—weren't those the words he used?”

She nodded, her eyes widening with fear.

“Aye, my undivided attention for just seven
days.
So there you have it. One week, lass. No more.” He urged their horse forward with a light crack of his whip, smiling grimly into the deepening twilight. “Your father is not the only one who can twist words to suit his needs.”

“One
week?”
she whispered, feeling sick. “Jamie, a week is hardly enough—”

“Nae, it's more than enough. Ask any woman who has conceived on her wedding night.”

She sat up straighter, remembering Neda's words. “And what if I've done just that?”

His expression darkened. “I sincerely hope you have not. Is it… possible?”

Heat flew to her cheeks. She'd discussed the intimate details of a woman's monthly courses with her sister and Neda but never with a man, and especially not Jamie. Still, he was her husband, and he
deserved an answer. “Its possible, though not likely,” was all she said, then counted the calendar days in her head.
But possible.
Leana pressed her lips together and patted her basket. “I shall make the most of my week and be satisfied with that.”

“That's settled then. When we return to Auchengray, it will be as though it never happened. There will no mention of this… this
bridal
week. Especially not to Rose.”

“I would never hurt my sister like that.” She touched his arm to be sure he heard her. “Despite what you may think, I love Rose even more than I love you, Jamie.”

He glared at her, his entire countenance frowning. “Do not say those words again, Leana. It will not change my opinion or my feelings concerning you. I do not love you and never have.”

Must he repeat it again and again? Did he not realize that once would last her a lifetime? /
never said I hvedyou.
She forced herself to speak the unspeakable. “But you will
love
me, as a husband. Do what you can to…give me a child.”

He turned away. “Have you no shame?”

“Im covered in shame, Jamie.” When her chin began to tremble, she willed it to remain steady. “The only thing that will take away my shame is to bear your heir and claim you as my rightful husband. You must know it is my only hope and my deepest desire. I will not pretend otherwise. Nor will I grovel and beg for your affection each night.”

“See that you dont. It's most unbecoming in a woman. I will do as I've promised. Let us speak no more of it.”

She had her answer. The pleasures of yestreen were lost to her, like a thick mist evaporating with the light of day, leaving no trace. All that was left was duty.

Her heart broken yet again, Leana gripped the sides of her basket as though drawing strength from the woven heather itself. “I only have one favor I might ask during our week.”

“Favor?” He already looked unwilling to grant it.

“May we attend Saint Michaels on Sunday for our
kirkin?”
She hesitated to mention the wedding custom, for theirs would include no friends nor the traditional feast that followed.

He exhaled evenly. “Aye, the kirkin, for our first Sunday at kirk together.”

And our last
He did not need to say it for Leana to hear it.

Jamie fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced the silver wedding ring. He tossed it into her basket as though it were a worthless trinket. “Wear this, lest our innkeeper heave us out on the cobblestones.”

She found the slender ring among her bundles of seeds and slipped it onto her finger, the cold silver warming quickly.
Let Jamie warm to me as well.

The last of the light was gone. Darkness wrapped them in a black, woolen blanket of cold. She was grateful the air was calm, that no night wind pierced her hooded cape or Jamie's sturdy coat, yet she moved a bit closer to him for warmth. He did not move away, nor did he acknowledge her. They ran out of words to say and rode in silence, passing through the crowded streets of Brigend, winding their way to Devorgillas Bridge and across the span into Dumfries. Sandstone and red brick houses loomed over neady paved streets, the interiors brighdy lit with candles and glowing hearths. Turning down the High Street, Leana imagined young and old gathered behind the many doors, celebrating the start of another year.

As their chaise drew up to the Kings Arms Inn, its noble patrons coming and going with much ceremony, Leana prayed—how hard she prayed!—that 1789 might end on a more promising note than it had begun. And that her first week with Jamie would not be her last.

They were greeted at the door by a convivial bellman, their chaise and bags prompdy attended to and a key placed in their hands. “Will you be joining us for supper?”

“Aye,” Jamie answered.

“Nae,” she said just as quickly.

The portly man grinned. “We can arrange for dinner later if you re hungry, sir. That is, if Mistress McKie will permit you to leave her side.”

“She will,” Jamie said shordy and stood back for her to start up the elegant stair, thanking the man as she went. They found the room spacious and well furnished, with a sitting desk by the window and a good
store of candles for the handsome wall sconces. A manservant appeared at the door with their few belongings and plunked them onto the floor, his palm eager for Jamie's coin.

“Will ye be needing anything else?” the gaunt lad asked.

Leana shook her head, then turned to Jamie when the door latched. “May I unpack for you?”

“If you like.” He sat on the edge of the bed—not a box bed with curtains like the one at Auchengray but a standing bed with four corner posts and no tester stretched above it. The openness of it made her feel uneasy. Exposed.

Her hands shook as she lifted out his linen shirts and wool stockings, stacking them in a chest of drawers the same as she might for her father, uncertain how Jamie preferred such things to be stored. He did not comment, so she did what seemed best, placing her things in a separate drawer, lest the fabrics touch.

She finished—too quickly, she feared—with no plans for what might come next.

He stood abrupdy. “Are you sure you wont join me for supper?”

“Jamie, I'm more tired than I am hungry. Perhaps a nap would be in order. Do you mind?” He assured her that he did not and disappeared into the hall, while she hung her discarded cape on a hook by the door, then undressed for bed. It was better this way. He would find her resting, perhaps wake her for a short time, then leave her to her sleep. Much needed after yestreen.

She hung her gown, hid her shift and stockings in the chest, and slipped into her best nightgown made of fine cambric, embroidered around the neck, sleeves, and hem with Scottish bluebells. It was her design, meant to match her
eyes
, though Jamie would not notice. Raiding her basket, she nibbled on seeds, nuts, and currants, praying as she did for a blessing she knew she did not deserve. A tepid glass of water from the pitcher and her appetite was sated.

Leana slid between the chilly sheets and rested her cheek against the wedding ring that felt so strange on her hand. A wife, yet not. Only one week to make it so. Never would a man be wooed more thoroughly
than Jamie McKie. After much tossing and turning she drifted to sleep, lost in a dreamless world.

“Leana?” Jamie woke her with a low-pitched whisper.

Half-asleep, she smiled at the sound of it, so close to her ear. “How was your supper?”

“The meat was tough, the ale watered down, and the potatoes harvested some other season entirely.” He yawned, then blew out his candle, extinguishing the shadows in the darkened room, the curtains drawn tight against the cold. “Perhaps their specialty is breakfast.”

“Perhaps.” Leana rolled toward him in the feather bed, suddenly wide awake.
Oh, Jamie.
He lay very near, the tails of his long shirt brushing against her nightgown. “Jamie, I pray this night will—”

“Shh.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Let us speak no more of it, remember?” Not another word was said, though his hands and his mouth were not silent, and in the darkness she heard him speak her name. Just once.

Let us embrace, and from this very moment
Vow an eternal misery together.

T
HOMAS
O
TWAY

T
he bluebells on her gown. That was the first thing he noticed. Though the morning light was faint, he could still make out the delicate embroidered flowers circling her neck as she slept on her back. He stroked one flower along her collarbone, feeling the small loops of thread beneath his fingertip, and imagined her huddled close to a window, spectacles perched on her nose, squinting at her needle and hoop, stitching a nightgown no man was meant to see.

Yis your fault, Leana.
He kept reminding himself of that, holding guilt at arms length, determined not to be sullied by it. But his conscience was ever vigilant, prodding him with the truth: The first night, his whisky-soaked mind had thought she was Rose. Yestreen, sober, he'd known she was Leana, and still he'd responded to her touch.

With a certain resignation, Jamie propped his head on one elbow to study her features. She was not a beauty. Her face was too long, her eyebrows thickly drawn, her nose and mouth a bit full for a gentlewoman, her coloring wan. In her spectacles she looked like a stayed lass of thirty years. But in the dark of the night, when she'd smoothed her hands across his chest and whispered his name, all those unappealing details had flown out of his head.
Leana.
He'd spoken her name aloud once, not meaning to. She'd wept without making a sound, even as he cursed himself for being careless, for giving her false hope. Heaven knew she'd brought enough of that in her cone-lined basket.

Nothing could come of this week but misery. Not love, not marriage, not a future. And not, he prayed, a child. He was bound to honor the terms made by his scheming uncle and bound to do his duty by
Leana, but he would do as little as possible. Rose was waiting for him, his dark-haired, dark-eyed, darling Rose. He would not dishonor the girls newfound love for him by allowing himself even a moment of genuine pleasure with her sister.

Her sister.
It was beyond comprehension how such a thing could have happened. He only knew his uncle was somehow behind it. Lachlan had threatened to withhold Rose's hand in marriage to force the proxy wedding. Might the pernickitie man have vowed to ruin Leana's life as well? Jamie would not ask her, fearing the answer. Such knowledge would not make the week ahead easier. Only more difficult.

She stirred, turning toward him, her eyes still closed, her generous mouth open. Jamie rolled to his feet in one swift movement, shivering from the cold room and the fear that rose inside him. He could not love two women. Half measures were not his way of doing things. If he loved Rose, then he must spurn Leana. Discourage her at every opportunity. Give her no room to build a nest inside his heart.

Turning his back on her, he used the chamber pot and dressed quickly. The dark sky matched the inns fine pewter plate: thick, gray, with a dull sheen. He was almost out the door when Leana awoke, catching him with his hand on the latch.