Chapter Four
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
—Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
“A ye, you have the right to put a new road through Kintrie, according to what your father left to you.” Hugh Cameron smoothed a page on his desk and looked at Colin. “But you could encounter problems if it crosses other lands in Rothes. You would need your brother’s legal consent now that he is duke.”
“It would also need the Crown’s approval,” said the other man seated with them. Sir Ronan MacGregor leaned an elbow on the desk as he looked at a page Cameron handed him. “You will have to submit complete plans.”
“I can do that,” Colin said. “I have an obligation at the Theatre Royal for a few weeks, but once I return to Castle Kintrie, my brother and I will discuss the matter. Evan—Rothes,” he amended, “sees the need for this.”
“Good. I asked MacGregor to meet with us today because of his expertise up there,” Hugh said, indicating the tall, black-haired young lawyer seated between Hugh and Colin. “As an advocate, he handles more criminal law than I do. He knows what you might encounter with this project. He has a vested interest, of a sort.”
“The road you propose,” MacGregor said, “could greatly increase smuggling traffic through those glens.”
“I thought it might,” Colin said. He had met MacGregor at university years before—a decent fellow, a Highland laird now defending those in serious legal straits. “Invested interest?”
“My kinsmen and I are starting a new distillery. I have some experience…with whisky smuggling in that part of Scotland.”
“Certainly, I wish to stay on the right side of the law. But if the road helps those who must support their families through a whisky enterprise—so be it.”
“English laws tend to favor southern-made whisky over Highland,” Ronan said. “We Highlanders must make do.”
Though they all chuckled, Colin knew that details would not be mentioned openly here.
“So,” Hugh said. “You are back in the Theatre Royal—playing Romeo again!”
“Just briefly. A favor for dear Mrs. Siddons. I do have a rather odd legal question for either of you. Something that came up recently—for a friend.”
“What is that?” Hugh asked.
“Succinctly, if a handfasting was done years ago, but the couple has been apart since, is it still legal?” Colin asked. Hugh lifted his brows in surprise.
“By Scots law, a handfasting with consummation is legally binding,” Ronan said, “regardless if a wedding follows. But such promises do not always come to light.”
“Advise your friends to fix it legally,” Hugh said. “Or dissolve it entirely.”
His heart slammed as he gave a neutral nod. “Is it unlawful for one partner to wed again?”
“Very sticky,” Ronan said. “It could be settled in a Court of Session.”
“I see. Thank you. Will you come to opening night on Friday?”
“I would not miss it,” Hugh said, and Ronan nodded in agreement.
“Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much!” As Romeo, Colin dropped to a knee beside the young man playing Mercutio, who collapsed onstage.
“Not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’twill serve,” Mercutio gasped. The young, gangly actor was good, though Colin had barely learned his name.
The scene continued, rapid and intense; Romeo slayed Tybalt in revenge for Mercutio. Baird—Tybalt—went down like a tree, shaking the stage deck, groaning, shoving Colin as he fell.
“O, I am fortune’s fool!” Stumbling, Colin poured angst into the words and fled the stage.
Minutes later, he dropped to a chair in the darkened audience to wait for his next scene and flipped through the pages of his old script. Last night he had stayed awake until the wee hours reading his part aloud beside the fireplace in his home. After meeting with Cameron and MacGregor, he gave it his utmost in rehearsal but fumbled some lines. The other actors were patient, helpful, and just grateful to him. Baird mocked him for missing lines or phrases, though Colin simply ignored him.
Weary, he ran a hand through his hair and wondered why he had decided to do this.
Then the beautiful reason why he was there sat beside him in a shush of gray skirts. She smiled, candlelight from the stage golden on her cheek, glossing her dark hair.
“You are doing so well! It is a marvel how you mastered the script so quickly.”
“It is coming back to me, but I am missing lines. I will blunder through the rest and work at home later to commit it to memory again.”
“If you like, we can go over some of it now. Juliet and Nurse have a long scene, which gives you a little time.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Thank you. But the place is so busy.”
“There is one quiet place that we both know about. Come.” Without waiting for an answer, she left the auditorium to hasten down a corridor. He followed, leaving the cane behind; for short distances and onstage, he did not always need it; his healing was slow but sure.
Reaching the storage room behind the stage, he leaned past her to open the door.
“Are you sure?” he asked. She beckoned him inside and he shut the door behind them.
The room was dark as pitch until Maisie slid open a small panel in the wall. Because the space was behind the stage, light from the overhead chandeliers streamed through the panel. Stacked on shelves and the floor were costumes, props, furniture, rolled-up backdrops, and more. Years ago, they had discovered the cozy, private space. Colin looked around—and the hours they had spent here came flooding back.
“We used to rehearse here in peace.” She picked up a folded garment, set it down.
“We did,” he murmured. To fill the sudden silence, Colin leaned a shoulder against the door, opened the script, and read from his next scene.
“Father, what news? What is the prince’s doom?” He read the rest of the passage.
Maisie moved close to look at the page in his hands. She read the friar’s response, lowering her voice. “Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.”
“What a sweet wee friar,” Colin whispered.
“Be serious,” she whispered.
“Ha, banishment!” he read. “Be merciful—say ‘death.’”
“Hence from Verona art thou banished,” she said in her lowered voice. Something about the hoarseness—adorable, earnest, enticing all at once—plunged through him. He leaned closer, sensing a delicious warmth growing between them.
“There is no world without Verona walls but purgatory, torture, hell itself—” Eyes closed, he recited the rest. He paused, watching her dark head as she studied the page. For a moment he forgot what he should say.
“Romeo?” she prompted.
“I did not want to be banished,” he said.
“What? That is not the line.”
“I never wanted to leave you, Maisie,” he said. The girl, the room, the memories swamped him. Here in this room, they had recited lines, fell in love, joined hearts, and made such tender love that he never found its equal in a few poor and passing encounters since. “I wanted to stay.”
“In Verona?” She looked up, eyes wide, so beautiful.
“With you. I came back for you, Maisie.” He tossed the script away and pulled her into his arms. “I promised I would.”
“Colin—” She wrapped her arms around his neck, craving the closeness she had missed and desired for years. Tears stung in her eyes, joy and sadness—and love—and as the tears spilled down her cheeks, feelings that she had trapped, silenced, ignored, fought for release. “You are here, finally!”
“Just for you.” He lowered his head and kissed her gently. She sobbed against his mouth, pressed her body to his. He slid his hands to either side of her head, fingers deep in her hair, and kissed her again, long, slow, and tender this time.
Tears wet her cheeks and her limbs trembled, and she sank a little, arms looped around him. His kisses were not the eager, awkward, inexperienced kisses of their youth, but deep, sensuous, head-spinning, knee-buckling caresses. His lips chased thought from her head, blew open her heart, and stirred her fierce, strong, desperate desire for him. Powerful feelings filled her almost out of nowhere, rising out of the past, always waiting for him to return to her.
She felt his hands slide along her body, shaping warm over the wool of her gown, caging her ribs, teasing along the sides of her breasts, slipping down to rest on her hips. Time seemed to fade back six years. Once again, they were cocooned in the cluttered storage room, threads of candlelight dancing over their bodies, fervent kisses the only dialogue they needed. Breathless, she drew away, rose, and pressed her cheek to his. He encircled her in a deep embrace.
“I missed you so,” she blurted. “I did not want to banish you. I thought it was best if we—”
“Either way, I had to go.” His voice was low in her ear, his breath warm on her cheek, his body hot and hard against hers. “And I thought you did not want to wait.”
“I wanted you. I wanted us ,” she whispered. “But I could not sever you from your father, or see you lose your inheritance and your dreams.”
“You were not the cause. Father was. He saw his mistake. But I never stopped thinking about you, and I hoped you would wait, even knowing you might not.”
“I did wait. But I was so lonely,” she said, shifting to kiss him, taking his face in her hands, standing on tiptoe, kissing his cheeks, his lips, caught hard and sure against him. Then she looked at him, tears sheening her vision. “I thought you would not want me when you came back. So I told Reginald Baird that I would consider his proposal. I am so sorry.”
He brushed tendrils of hair off her brow. “I talked to my solicitor and another lawyer today.”
She blinked, surprised at this turn. “About your inheritance?”
“I asked them about handfasting.”
She went still, heart slamming, hands resting on his chest, and felt his heartbeat.
“We are still married if we want it. Handfasting is legally binding if it is declared, and consummated—and we did,” he said gently. “I owe you marriage for that alone. Always have.”
“You do not, for I wanted it too.” She pressed close and kissed him deeply, her kiss, her message, her promise.
“So, my dear, it seems we have been married all along,” he said a moment later.
“But we separated. I thought that undid the handfasting.”
“By old Scots law, it remains legal unless the pair agree to dissolve it. We never did that.”
“What will you do now?” She remembered asking that six years ago.
“I want to declare you my wife if you want it too. I came here for that, Maisie. Not for Romeo. Not for old-time’s sake. I came here to ask you to marry me before a minister. But it seems I am too late if you are about to become engaged. And if so, we should not be doing this—”
“Hush.” She set a finger to his lips. So many dreams poured into her life at once that she could hardly take them in. They could be made now—or undone. “This is what I want. Wait here.”
She moved away and picked up a small wooden box from a shelf. Returning, she opened it to reveal a long curl of red ribbon.
“I kept the ribbon we used for our handfasting. After you left, I thought it was all pretend, just playacting, two foolish young people, and done. But I kept it here.”
He drew the red silk spiral from the box. “Not playacting. It was real. Even with the years.”
“I wanted it be real.” She sighed. “But now Baird has convinced himself we are engaged.”
“What do you want to do?” He took her hand, kissed it. He did not press her—she knew he would not. Suddenly six years felt like the passing of a day. She knew him so well, heart and soul, and now realized that he was the deepest part of her heart, her life, even while he was gone. The awareness of it felt full and real, as comfortable as falling into pillows.
“I made a mistake in offering him hope. How do I tell Baird that I forgot I was married!”
He gave a wry chuckle. “Tell him we promised marriage, but I left, and you thought it was over. But now we realize it was never over. Not for me.”
“Nor for me.” She flowed into his arms, his strength and warmth surrounding her. She closed her eyes as he traced his lips along her brow, her cheek, her mouth.
“He will hate us both,” she said after a moment.
“He will get over it. Come here.” He pulled her into another kiss. Then she gasped.
“Colin! Listen.” She paused as the woman playing the nurse spoke.
Hie to your chamber—I’ll find Romeo to comfort you. I wot well where he is.
“They are near the end of the scene. Romeo and the friar come next. I must go. We will solve this, my love. I promise.” He took her hand, kissed it.
Opening the door, he ushered her into the corridor. As they went, a brawny form loomed.
“Miss Gordon!” Baird said. “There you are! And Kintrie? We have been looking for you!”