Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Smiling to herself, Tyra slipped along the passageway leading from Isla’s chamber to hers.
Isla had spent much of the morning creating an intricate confection for her hair.
There were a myriad of tiny braids that somehow came together and were wound around her head like a golden crown.
Threaded through these was the string of tiny pearls she’d inherited from her late mother.
Her face was framed with wispy, flirty curls, softening what could have been a severe coiffure.
Even though this wedding was taking place in haste, her groom was a stern-faced and brusque lad and theirs was one of convenience, she was determined to make the most of it. This would be her one and only wedding and she would look her best. If not for Ewan’s eyes, then at least for Clan Mackenzie.
She was acutely aware she was the only member of Clan MacNeacail who would be present for the ceremony and she wished to present herself to the Mackenzies in the best light as a representative of her clan.
Holding her head high she was about to turn into her own chamber when she caught sight of Ewan at the end of the passage, about to enter his own chamber.
There was something in his stride and the frown so visible on his brow, that made her catch her breath. He appeared to be distressed, with a huge weight on his shoulders. Without hesitating she made her way along the passage to his room where she rapped on the door.
He flung the door wide but there was no polite welcoming smile for her. “Come in.”
She inched into the room, already regretting her decision, noting his clenched hands. Mayhap he was lamenting the nuptials to take place later that day. Her heart sank.
“I’m sorry tae intrude. I saw ye entering a few moments ago and it seemed as if there was much on yer mind. Is there a problem I may share wi’ ye?”
It was only then he managed a slight smile. He directed her to a seat by the fire, paced across to his cabinet, poured them each a dram of whisky and brought it to her. Instead of seating himself beside her as she expected, he stood by the fire, one hand clenched in a fist by his side.
She quailed inwardly.
He looks grim enough tae contemplate punching a hole in the stone mantel.
“Apologies milady. I have come from a discussion wi’ me councilors that has left me out of sorts.” He went on to explain what the Council had requested. “I’ll nae give them what they ask.”
She shuddered drawing in a sharp breath.
“I dinnae ken what it is they’re asking.
I ken little of these things.” She’d hardly dared contemplate what would take place between them in their marriage bed that night.
The moments when she had dwelled on it had been a confusion of excited anticipation and dread.
“Why would the sheets from our marriage bed be of such importance?”
He smiled at that and to her relief, she saw his hand unclench. “Ye are still innocent lass. The stain of virgin blood on the sheet proves that the marriage has been made true, according tae the laws of God and man.”
She felt her cheeks flush with heat. Now she understood. “Is it me maidenhead they question?”
He shook his head and swilled the last of his whisky.
“Nay. ‘Tis nae a matter fer yer concern.” He walked to the cabinet and poured several fingers of whisky into his glass. “’Tis I who’ll nae give the Council what they ask.
Fer, as we discussed, I’ll nae bed ye. Yer maidenhead will be intact, lass, and there’ll be nay stain on the pristine sheets. ”
He turned away and she could see the tightness in his shoulders and hear the rage in his voice. “I told ye there would be nay love in this union of ours.”
His voice was harsh, and so cold it chilled her to her bones, causing chards of ice to press her heart.
His words were crushing, yet something in her spirit rose up, burning bright, protesting.
Suddenly, hot tears brewed behind her eyes and she rounded on him in fury, her usual measured calm deserting her.
“I dinnae understand, Laird Ewan.” Her voice cracked under the weight of her fury. “Ye’ve been at pains tae tell me there can be nay love between us since the start, but what of yer kisses? What of yer touches and yer soft words?”
Ewan stood frozen, his eyes fixed on her as she went on.
“One moment ye’re thoughtful, kind, and the next ye push me away with cold words. Ye play wi’ me as if I am naught more than a fish caught on yer line, or a foolish doxy from the tavern? Dae ye laugh behind me back at the games of hot and cold ye play on me?”
He shook his head, his eyes filled with sadness.
“Nae lass. ‘Tis naught tae dae wi’ ye. ‘Tis me own cross I carry and me own past that confronts and torments me.” He reached a hand and clasped her arm. “Dinnae fret so, lass.”
Calming, she hauled in a long, deep breath to steady herself, breathing it out slowly before she spoke. “We’ve already shared a bed on two occasions, Laird Ewan. Is there naught between us?”
He shook his head, seeming unable to answer. A long, uncomfortable pause hung in the air between them like a pall of black smoke belching from the chimney.
The air cleared and he lifted his head, meeting her eyes.
“I dinnae wish me own confusion tae cause ye hurt, Lady Tyra. I’m nae good at dealing wi’ the pain of memories that come over me when I draw closer tae ye.”
She glimpsed the pain and longing in his gaze and the ice surrounding her heart melted a little.
“Is this tae dae wi’ the memories of yer late wife that haunt ye?”
He formed his mouth into a tight line and nodded.
“Aye. ‘Tis so. I will explain meself tae ye another day.” He brightened, touching her hand, sending a ripple of warmth to her heart. “’Tis our wedding day, and I dinnae wish tae burden ye wi’ the sad truths of the past.”
She nodded. There were sad memories pressing on her heart also.
And when he told her he felt his pain more as they drew closer, she recognized the truth in his words.
In the few moments of closeness she’d shared with Ewan, she’d also felt the pain of her own shattered dreams. Those were the times when her past reared up, threatening to intrude on the future, dashing her hopes of finding love.
A pang of something like jealousy tied a small, painful, knot in her belly. Did he still love his first wife? If she still held his heart what did that bode for her marriage to him?
All at once, aware that her unshed tears were in danger of trickling down her cheeks, Tyra turned her head away, gulping in another steadying breath. It would not do for him to see the hurt and confusion his words had caused.
“Thank ye, milaird.” She nodded, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I must return tae me own chamber tae prepare fer the ceremony.”
Head high, she marched to the door. He stepped forward to open it and she moved past him into the passageway without another word.
On entering her chamber she could not contain a gasp of delight. In her absence the gown she had commissioned from Maeve was hanging by the garderobe.
The gown took her breath away. It was the saffron-yellow wool with the gold threads she’d chosen from the peddler, now transformed into a fashionable creation that would not be amiss in the royal court.
It had a more fitted waist and a fuller skirt than she’d been used to, with buttons and a fur trimming down the front and gold embroidery at the neckline.
The seamstress must have worked day and night to have it ready for the special day.
Not far behind Tyra came a troop of maids from the kitchen with buckets of hot water.
She luxuriated in the large copper tub lathered with rosewater soap, taking care to keep her hair dry and Isla’s handiwork undisturbed.
Her body thrummed with a combination of fear, nervousness, excitement at the thought of what was to come.
It scarcely seemed possible that today she’d be wed to Laird Ewan.
Yet, there was still so much unspoken between them.
After bathing, calmed by the soothing warmth of the waters, wrapped in her fur robe, she was partaking of a small repast of cheese and bannocks when there was a loud knocking at her door.
“’Tis me, Tyra. May I enter.” It was Isla’s voice.
Tyra’s soon to be sister-in-law burst into the room. Catching sight of the wonderful gown, she beamed.
“I was hoping tae assist ye wi’ yer dressing.” She examined the hanging gown. “Maeve has done a beautiful job in such a short time. It will suit ye, Tyra. Ye’ll be gold from head tae toe save fer those wee pearls in yer hair.”
Tyra’s hand went to her hair and the necklace entwined there. The little pearls kept her mother’s memory close. “And I thank ye fer yer artful fingers.”
Isla laughed and took down the dress. “Here, allow me tae help ye and tae make certain yer hair stays as it should.” She held the gown over Tyra’s head and eased it down without disturbing a single strand.
“Ye look beautiful, me sweet Tyra. Me braither will be lost wi’ admiration when he sets his eyes on ye.” Isla, concentrating on the many buttons, did not see the little frown creasing Tyra’s brow at her words.
“I hope that is so,” she whispered.
Before they vacated the chamber, Isla took up her scissors and cut a thin strip of fabric from Tyra’s old plaid woolen cloak.
“Ye must have yer clan’s plaid fer yer hands tae be bound with yer husband’s.”
Tyra’s heart jumped at Isla’s mention of the word ‘husband’. It made her happy and sad at that the same time.
The banqueting hall was humming with conversation when Tyra and Isla arrived at the arched entryway.
As all eyes turned to them and the hall grew silent.
Judging by the abundance of Mackenzie plaid on display, she guessed there were many council members present along with some of the wives who lived close enough to the castle to be there at short notice.
Ewan and Duncan were there, beside Father Conran under the tall, stained-glass, windows, at the furthest end of the hall.
As she made her way through the smiling throng of guests, she was conscious of the numerous murmurs of approval that heartened her, raising her spirits somewhat after her earlier encounter with Ewan.
But it was the tall, broad figure of her black-haired groom, clad in his great kilt and black velvet jacket standing beside the priest that caused the breath to hitch in her throat and jolted her heart.
By all the saints, he is the bonniest lad I’ve ever seen.
The intensity of his gaze on her did not waver as she and Isla walked slowly down the vast length of the hall. It was as if an invisible cord stretched in front of her going from her heart all the way to Ewan, drawing her closer to him with each step.
As she reached his side, a shaft of sunlight speared through the window, casting a sprinkle of blue, gold, red and green lights that danced across the hall. Tyra breathed deep, her heart fluttering like a butterfly against her ribs.
This was magic, pure and simple. No matter what else may come to pass between them, in that moment and forever after, she would always be aware of its presence in her heart, whatever it was that was drawing them together at that moment.
As their eyes met, Ewan smiled and reached for her hand, igniting a river of sparks along her arm. Isla moved to stand on her other side, the length of plaid ready in her hands.
Father Conran said a brief prayer, thanking the guests for their company and praising the Lord for his blessing on the couple to be wed.
The ceremony was simple. A far cry from the long mass held for her brother Edmund’s marriage to Annora. But this was an irregular ceremony, held at short notice, outside the kirk, without the necessary publishing of the banns.
“Daes the bride consent tae this marriage freely and without coercion.” Father Conran studied Tyra’s face as she responded.
She’d been ready for the question, for the ceremony of handfasting could only be legal if it was made clear it was not a forced marriage and that both parties to the ceremony consented freely.
“I enter this marriage of me own free will. It is what I desire and nay person has used coercion or any other form of persuasion. Me decision tae wed wi’ the Laird Ewan Mackenzie is mine alone.”
Father Conran turned to Ewan and posed the question seeking the groom’s consent. Ewan bobbed his head and answered a simple “Yes.”
Then came the binding of their hands. Father Conran first took Ewan’s right hand and then Tyra’s.
They each curled their fingers together and held them tight.
She looked up into Ewan’s blue eyes as first Duncan, then Isla, wrapped their wrists and hands with the lengths of plaid.
As their eyes met, her heart thudded so loudly she half-expected Ewan would hear it.
The warmth of his fingers as they curled around hers sent a swirl of sensation coursing through her veins.
“Now, can each of ye pledge yer marriage vows tae the other.”
Ewan spoke first, his words warming Tyra’s unsteady heart.
“I wed ye, Tyra MacNeacail, above all others tae be me lawful wife. I promise tae protect ye always and pay ye every respect.”
There it was. He promised respect and protection, but nay more. She swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, took a deep breath, released it, and spoke her vow.
“I wed ye, Laird Ewan Mackenzie, above all others tae be me lawful husband. I promise tae be a faithful wife and discharge me duties tae the best of me abilities. I will always respect ye.”
Her vows seemed to stick on her tongue. With no mention of love between them the ceremony hardly seemed real. Yet, a loveless marriage, agreed to by both parties, still bound them together.
She glanced around, half-expecting to see worried faces, heads shaking, at least some reaction to the curt, almost brusque, sentiments expressed in the ceremony. Yet all that greeted her, was a sea of smiling, happy, faces.
Once Father Conran had pronounced them to be husband and wife, they were swamped by well-wishers.
Hamish was there, a wide grin on his rugged face. He patted Ewan’s shoulder. “Well done lad,” he said, before turning to congratulate Tyra. He took her hand and pressed it to his whiskery lips.
“Welcome tae Clan Mackenzie, Lady Tyra.”