Chapter Six
Glenblath Chapel, Scotland, two months later
“You are already married…to me.”
Hamish stared at the cloaked figure, his stomach knotting.
It cannot be.
Perhaps Iona was playing a trick?
But no—Hamish’s sister sat beside his mother in the front pew, a look of astonishment on her face to match his own.
“MacLennan, this is most unseemly,” a harsh voice said, and Hamish recognized the nasal tones of his soon-to-be father-in-law.
Or perhaps not quite so soon-to-be.
“Papa, I—” the Honorable Aurora began, before her father interrupted.
“Silence, girl!”
Lord Young drew alongside Hamish and gestured toward the veiled figure. “What are you about, woman?” he sneered. “Are you a whore seeking to disturb my daughter’s marriage out of envy? If you think you’re entitled to him merely because you’ve spread your legs, you—”
“Lord Young, let me deal with this,” Hamish interrupted. He stepped closer to the veiled woman, whose knuckles whitened as she tightened the grip on her valise. “Madam, I dinnae know what brought ye here,” he said, “but I’m not married. I was, but she died from smallpox nearly three months ago.”
A murmur of voices rippled through the congregation. When it faded, the veiled woman spoke.
“No.” She set her valise down. “I survived.”
Then she lifted her veil.
Hamish couldn’t suppress the shudder. Were it not for the marks on her face, she might have been pretty—beautiful, even—with her bright hazel eyes framed by soft brown hair, heart-shaped face, and full, round lips.
But her skin was covered in scars, some a pale pink, almost white, others a deeper pink.
The more he looked, the more he could discern.
Sweet heaven, how she must have suffered!
She regarded him, her eyes showing no anger, only sorrow. He caught a flicker of shame in them before she blinked and it was gone, replaced by determination as she tilted her chin up, bringing her face more into the light, as if to challenge the world to deride her.
A collective intake of breath filled the chapel, followed by a series of mutterings.
“Dear Lord!”
“How horrible!”
“Just look at her!”
The young woman’s forehead creased, but her jaw tightened as if she gritted her teeth, striving not to be cowed by the disgust of those around her.
Brave lass.
Somewhere a child burst into tears and was quickly shushed. Then the bride let out a scream.
“Decorum, daughter!” Lord Young snapped, before he approached Hamish, his boots clicking angrily on the flagstones. “What manner of horror is this?” he demanded. “You signed a marriage contract, in exchange, I’ll add, for a very tidy sum. Are you playing me false, MacLennan?”
Hamish shook his head. “I signed the contract in good faith, Lord Young.”
“So this, this”—Lord Young wrinkled his nose and gestured toward the newcomer—“this ghoulish creature cannot have a prior claim on you.” He addressed the newcomer.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, girl, after coming here uninvited to ruin my daughter’s prospects?
I ought to have you publicly disgraced, sued for breach of contract.
Just look at yourself! I’ve never seen such a monstrous—”
“Have a care, Lord Young,” Hamish growled, as another child in the congregation burst into tears. “Ye’re upsetting the guests.”
“I rather think she’s upsetting the guests,” Lord Young said. He gestured to the woman. “Cover yourself up, for God’s sake. We shouldn’t have to look at you.”
The woman picked up her valise, then reached for her veil to lower it. She paused as Hamish raised his hand.
“Dinnae move, lass,” he said. “Lord Young, ye’re not master here. I am. This woman will leave only if I wish it.”
He approached her and lifted his hand. She flinched and stepped back. Though her jaw was still firm, tilted upward in defiance, he could discern a faint gleam in her eyes of unshed tears. “Tell me yer name, lass,” he said.
“D-don’t you know it?” she replied, a faint tremor in her voice.
“Tell me,” he growled.
“M-my name is Euphramia.”
She stepped back, holding her valise to her chest as if she wished to shield herself against that which might harm her—Hamish’s horror, Lord Young’s hatred, the Honorable Aurora’s screams…or the fear and revulsion of the congregation.
“E-Euphramia Mary…” She blinked, slowly, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed, before she held up her left hand to reveal the plain gold band he’d placed on the third finger in that dreary little bedchamber in London. “…MacLennan.”
Hamish’s mother rose, trembling. “Son—is it true?”
A hush fell over the congregation, as if the world awaited his response, praying that it was merely a jape and that the beautiful and wealthy Miss Young would become Lady MacLennan and her dowry would save the estate.
Hamish nodded, slowly. “Aye, Ma. It is.”
“No!” The Honorable Aurora let out another scream. Lord Young grasped her by the arms and she dissolved into sobs.
“Desist, girl!” he snarled. “Would you disgrace my name by acting in such an indecorous manner before these savages?”
Savages, eh?
“You wanted me to marry that savage, Papa,” Aurora cried. “I had no wish to—Oh!” She screamed again as her father backhanded her across the face.
“Silence, slut! I arranged this marriage because no other would have you after your disgraceful behavior. But you’re not even good enough for them.”
“Lord Young,” Hamish began, “there’s no need to—”
“There’s every need, MacLennan,” Lord Young snarled. “Rest assured, you’ll pay for the insult.”
“I heard it on good faith that this woman was dead.”
“Then my misfortune is also yours, MacLennan.”
Lord Young wrinkled his nose and glared at Euphramia, who stood as still as a statue, save a slight tremor in her skirts.
“I wish you joy of her,” he continued. “She’ll be your misfortune, but I have every intention of seeking recompense for mine.”
“I’ll reimburse ye for any expenditure incurred in bringing yer daughter here, Lord Young,” Hamish said, his voice a low growl, despite the turmoil in his heart. “Would twenty pounds suffice?”
“The wedding gown alone cost—”
“Fifty, then,” Hamish said, “provided ye leave forthwith and release me of any obligation toward yerself and yer daughter.”
“But…”
“It’s fifty or nothing.”
“Very well.” Lord Young grasped his daughter’s shoulder and steered her along the aisle, her feet tripping as she tried to keep pace.
Hamish ought to have spared some sympathy for the girl, but despite her father’s contempt, she at least had a future ahead of her—marriage with another, and a dowry large enough to ensure financial security.
Whereas I find myself not only with no dowry, but an increase to my debts.
How the bloody hell was the estate going to survive when, in his mind, he’d already spent half of the Honorable Aurora’s dowry?
“Ahem.” The vicar cleared his throat, a habit that now made Hamish’s fists itch with the urge to plant them squarely on the man’s nose.
“Forgive me, Reverend Sutherland,” Hamish said. “It seems, unfortunately, that I have a wife still living.”
Unfortunately…
As he uttered that cruel word, unable to confine his bitterness, the newcomer—no, like it or not, he must think of her as his wife—flinched, as if he’d struck her. Then, with quiet dignity, she lowered her veil, turned, and walked, alone, to the chapel door. It creaked open then shut with a clang.
Whispers broke out among the congregation and Hamish gave vent to his anger.
“Be quiet!” he roared. “Go to yer homes and leave me be. Ye’ve no reason to remain here. There will be no wedding here today.”
The guests dispersed. Some approached Hamish to offer their condolences; others scuttled past him, unwilling to meet his gaze. Iona let out a laugh, which was quickly silenced. Hamish’s mother paused and remained by his side until the chapel was empty.
“Hamish, son, what will ye do?”
“Other than arrange passage for Lord Young and his daughter to Edinburgh, I know not,” he said. “I’ve no wish to think on what will befall me after today.”
“But ye must, son.” She gestured toward the chapel doors. “They all depend on ye—family, servants, tenants, and…and…her.”
He placed his head in his hands. “I know, Ma, but all I want at this moment is to not be the laird, for everyone to leave me be.”
She placed a kiss on his cheek. “Aye, son, I ken that. I’ll leave ye to collect yer thoughts. But eventually ye’ll have to face yer responsibilities, and that lass ye married.”
“I will,” Hamish said. “But not today.”
*
The hisses and cries of the congregation swirled in Mia’s mind as she ran from the chapel doors toward the long drive along which she’d traveled moments before. But there was no sign of the carriage that had brought her here from the inn.
Not that it would have made a difference.
She’d exhausted the last of her funds on the final stage of the journey and had nothing save the clothes in her valise and a shilling in her reticule.
And that shilling was, by rights, the property of Dr. McIver, who’d given her five pounds for the journey—which, despite his protests, she’d promised to repay as soon as she was able.
The castle that had towered above the tree line from the moment the carriage emerged from the forest now engulfed Mia with its shadow.
She shivered and drew her cloak about her.
On the path toward the mountain in the distance, she could discern the edge of the shadow, the shape of battlements on the ground, and beyond, a squat gray rock that glistened in the sunlight as if it contained a thousand tiny diamonds.
She set off toward the rock, pausing halfway to catch her breath.
Dr. McIver had tried to persuade her to remain in Surrey for another month to regain her strength, but she hadn’t wanted to trespass on his charity any longer.
She’d argued that the fresh air of the Highlands would revive her, as well as the company of a kind and loving husband.
At night, since her recovery, she had lain awake, dreaming of the man with the kind eyes and rich voice who had thanked her so beautifully for her kindness.
He’d promised to never forget her, to honor her gift for eternity.
She reached the rock and leaned against it. At close quarters she could discern a rainbow of colors—not only within the rock itself, where she could discern soft blues and purples among the gray, but the patches of lichen added yellows, greens, and a tint of red to the mix, completing the palette.
Dr. McIver was right about the Highlands—it was the most beautiful place to behold. And it was her home.
Or she’d believed it to be.
She turned her face to the sun, letting its warmth caress her face.
It seems, unfortunately, that I have a wife still living.
So short a sentence. Each word on its own had little significance. She’d used them all on numerous occasions. But the order in which he uttered them…
At first, her mind had refused to accept he’d said them.
They must be a figment of her imagination, brought about by the demon who sat on her shoulder.
That invisible little creature had emerged the first day she’d set eyes on her pockmarked reflection.
Each time he came to the fore, he told her that she was no longer fit to live, let alone be seen.
He had grown from the stares of the other inmates at the convalescent hospital.
Then, when she’d ventured further afield, the sneers of contempt and disgust in the wider world gave him an almost solid form until she could hear his laughing in her ear.
And what had she focused on to conquer that little demon?
She had steered her soul toward the man who’d promised to honor her forever.
Throughout the journey to the Highlands, while she’d endured the looks of horror from the coachmen, innkeepers, and her fellow travelers, she had brought forth the image of him. Of Hamish MacLennan—her husband.
She had pictured a man with strong, smooth features and soft green eyes filled with love and tenderness. But the reality far surpassed her dreams. The man who’d turned to face her in the chapel was larger, handsomer, stronger, and more virile than the limit of her imagination of masculinity.
And he’d scorned her before a chapel filled with his family and friends.
She inhaled, taking in a lungful of the sweet, pure air, and listened to the sounds of the Highlands—the rush of the wind in the trees, a distant waterfall tumbling over rocks, and the faint cry of a bird of prey.
Opening her eyes, she tipped her face upward, searching the sky until she saw it, an eagle circling far above, calling to his mate.
Then she heard an answer, as the bird was joined by another in a dance of courtship.
“What am I to do?” she cried.
But the eagles did not respond. Instead, they spiraled upward until they disappeared out of sight, leaving her alone.
And, for the first time in her life, she was alone, totally alone, friendless and destitute in a strange land.
Hamish MacLennan had spoken the truth. It was a misfortune—his, and hers. It would have been better for everyone if she had died.