The Devil in Plaid(26)

Fresh tears stung her eyes. “Please,” she whispered.

“Don’t even try it, my lady,” the man growled. “I’ve been warned about ye. I won’t be helping ye escape this night or any other.” He shut the door, once again leaving her alone in the dark.

She had only wished to ask for a candle.

Slowly, she sat up and reached out to where she knew the tray was and felt for the mug she had glimpsed. Her hands shook as she brought the cup to her lips. Precious liquid brimmed over the top, spilling over her fingers. She froze, afraid her weakened hands would drop the cup. Once more, she tilted the mug to her lips. Warm ale coursed down her throat. She wanted to cry for the sweet relief. She grabbed the bannock, washing down each bite with another sip of ale, soothing the gnawing ache in her belly. When she was done, she lay back down on the pallet and prayed for sleep.



“My lady, ‘tis time to rise.”

The words pulled Fiona awake, but she was so weary, she rolled away from the noise. She had no intention on rising, not for some time, mayhap never again.

“Please, go away,” she muttered.

“But I cannot, my lady. I’ve been charged with the task of helping ye make ready for yer wedding.”

Fiona’s eyes flew open. “My wedding!”

“Aye, my lady.”

The maid was young, mayhap six or seven and ten. Her brown hair wound in a braid around her head. Delicate brows were pinched above her soft brown eyes. “If ye please, my lady, we do not have a lot of time.”

Fiona winced when she pushed against the floor to sit up. She ached all over. “I thought the ceremony was arranged for Sunday.”

“Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but I believe new arrangements were made after ye tried to flee.”

Fiona shook her head. “But I didn’t try to flee, not really.”

The maid lifted her shoulders before she turned away. At that moment, Fiona knew she had not made an ally in the maid.

The young lass turned back around with several garments in her hands, a simple linen shift, a plain brown wool tunic, and an unadorned cream-colored surcotte.

The garments were plain, even for a peasant wedding, but at least they would cover her ankles.

“My name is Julia. I will help ye dress, my lady.”

Fiona buried her face for a moment in her arms, her heart breaking for her father, Esme and Abby. Whispering a prayer for her maids’ safe and swift arrival, she took a deep breath and climbed to her feet. “What choice have I?” she said numbly, following the maid into the larger chamber.

Julia circled around Fiona and began untying the laces of Fiona’s finely embroidered but tattered surcotte. When it fell away, the maid bent and clasped the hem of Fiona’s tunic and pulled it over her head.

Then Julia gasped. “Saints above, my lady!”

The maid gently outstretched one of Fiona’s arms. Bruises lined her wrists and lower forearms from when Jamie had wrested the poker from her grip and pinned her arms behind her back.

“Who did this to ye?” the maid asked softly while she examined Fiona’s other arm.

“My laird, of course,” Fiona answered bitterly.

Julia’s face showed her displeasure, but she held her tongue and did not speak out against Jamie. Fiona had not expected otherwise. The MacLeod clearly held the loyalty of his people. Julia, no doubt, believed—as many did—that a husband had the right to punish his wife.

In silence, the MacLeod maid finished dressing Fiona.

“Follow me,” Julia said when she finished.

Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She did not want to dishonor her people and give into the weakness that had gripped her the night before. Praying for strength, she stepped out into the hall.

Julia led her down a winding staircase to the solar. “Wait here, my lady,” she instructed before dipping into a quick curtsy. Then she hastened from the room.

Fiona sat down in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The flames flickered in a dance, drawing her gaze.

It was her wedding day, but instead of feeling hopeful and excited, she was terrified.

A fresh rush of tears flooded her eyes. If only her wedding could wait until Esme and Abby arrived. Having them by her side would bolster her courage. But that was not to be.

She was both bride and enemy.

There would be no one who even thought well of her at the ceremony, not to mention, someone who might love her.

She fisted her hands together and straightened her spine. “For my people,” she whispered.

Taking a deep breath, she drew strength from her fury. Soon, she would boldly stand before Jamie MacLeod with anger in her heart, and she would bind herself to his dark soul.

Then she would pray for death to take her from her misery.

*

Jamie sat at the high dais with Matthew at his side. Otherwise, the great hall was empty. Everyone awaited his arrival in the kirk.

“Ye might have changed yer plaid,” Matthew said, shaking his head in disapproval. “Ye stink.”

“Do not make me regret asking ye to walk her down the aisle,” Jamie snapped.

Matthew waved a hand in front of his nose. “I already regret it.”

Jamie cast the older man a look that would have made other men cower.

Matthew chuckled. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. ‘Tis yer wedding day, after all.”