Chapter 25
April 24, 1803
Clara’s headache woke her. She forced her eyelids open and stared at the beams above. If she remembered correctly, they weren’t infested by worms, but something else . . . Termites? Termites that shat on the bed.
Which is when she realized that a heavy arm was pinning her down. She turned her head carefully—because her skull might crack open—and found her husband lying on his stomach, his head turned away from her. Nut-brown, tousled hair spread over white sheets—
White?
Very white pillows and sheets.
She sat up, and Caelan’s arm slid away. They were in the top room, the one that used to have the owl and Isla’s fancy furniture, now empty except for a bed that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Through open windows, she could see smoky green woods and the loch beyond. Birds were singing, and pink-tinged clouds floated over the water.
A hand drew her down against a warm chest. A naked chest. Clara squeaked and jerked back. “Caelan!”
“Wife.”
She hurdled straight out of the bed, the heavy mass of her hair whipping around her shoulders. She was wearing a chemise, but Caelan . . . Caelan had turned on his back and pushed down the sheet to his waist. He was naked.
“Oh my goodness,”
she breathed, staring at him. She had no words to articulate what she felt about his muscled chest. The hair on his chest. The golden color of his skin against all those white pillows. His wicked smile.
“Where did this bed come from?”
she managed. It was made from ruddy chestnut wood with a gracefully curved top and bottom. And it was low, perfect for a shorter person like herself, unlike the fancy bed—
She pushed the thought away. No Isla.
“Auld Magnus gave it to us,”
Caelan said, folding his arms behind his head.
“It’s beautiful.”
She ran a hand along the curved baseboard. “We should thank him today, don’t you think? What a marvelous wedding present.”
“The sheets are from the villagers. You’ll love this, Clara. Your Mr. Cobbledick arrived at the castle when we were at church. Today a tub to collect rainwater and a stove to heat the water will be set up on the roof. Elsbeth informed me last night that once the ceramic—not glass—bathtub is installed, our privy should be referred to as a water closet.”
Clara’s mind reeled. “I don’t remember hearing that. Actually, I don’t remember much after falling asleep in the pub.”
“Aye, you were drunk as a lord,”
her husband said comfortably.
“Everyone saw? Mr. Cobbledick?”
“No one was surprised you were jug-bitten. They reckoned that you drank two or three glasses more than any woman in recent memory. Many a Scotswoman can hold her drink, but you’ve struck a blow for the reputation of all Englishwomen.”
Clara shuddered at the memory. “As long as everyone understands that I’m not doing it again. I shan’t be tasting anyone’s whisky, even if it’s your own blend. Is Elsbeth downstairs? I’d love some tea.”
“You ordered me to send the household home last night,”
Caelan said, grinning. “I’m not sure I’ve got the wording right, but the gist was that you refused to consummate your marriage with anyone else on the premises. Then you washed your face, climbed into bed, and fell asleep like a baby.”
Her eyes widened. “I have no memory of saying anything of that nature.”
“Your first command as the lady of the castle,”
he told her, flat-out laughing now.
Clara moaned. “This is so embarrassing.”
She hesitated. “We didn’t . . . Did we?”
“Not yet. We both need to be awake.”
“Right,”
she said, turning away hurriedly. “I’ll go down to the nursery to brush my teeth.”
“Elsbeth brought your things upstairs. Not your trunk, but the rest. We’ll have to order a wardrobe for your clothing.”
“Oh, not like—”
She stopped.
A heavy silence filled the room.
“Perhaps a smaller wardrobe,”
Clara said, adding awkwardly, “Less imposing.”
“Auld Magnus makes some beautiful dressers. Your gowns would have to be folded rather than laid flat.”
“That would be fine,”
Clara said. She hurriedly changed the subject. “Did you see the color of the clouds over the loch?”
He didn’t look, just kept his eyes on her. “Pink, are they?”
Clara’s stomach was twisting, and her knees felt wobbly. “Yes,”
she said rather faintly. “At any rate, did you say that no one is in the castle?”
“I did.”
He threw back the white coverlet and swung his legs out of the bed, reaching for his kilt.
Clara hastily turned away. “I’ll make a cup of tea,”
she said hurriedly, starting to move toward the door. “No, I have to brush my teeth first.” She fled into the privy. A pitcher of water had been left on the windowsill, along with two toothbrushes and two bowls of tooth powder.
Caelan reached over her shoulder and picked up his toothbrush. He briskly poured a little water over it and dipped it into her pot of toothpaste powder. Clara stared at him mutely.
“Oil of peppermint?”
he asked, brushing vigorously.
She nodded. Somehow this felt more intimate than lying next to him in bed, which had been unnerving enough.
He pushed over an enameled bowl. “Clove oil.”
They used each other’s tooth powder and then walked back into the chamber. Clara headed straight for the door.
“You’re going downstairs in your chemise?”
Caelan observed, following her. “And me in naught but my kilt? I like it.”
“I need tea,”
Clara said, trotting down the steps in her bare feet. Her headache was beginning to ease, but she wanted to be out of the bedroom. The whole situation was too overwhelming.
The door to the drawing room stood open. Clara glanced in and froze. The red sofa that used to be in the study now sat under a window with two comfortable chairs to its sides. A simple but beautifully made table held her stacked books along with a couple of whisky decanters, while another group of chairs was clustered before the fireplace.
“Round about here, we set up a newlywed couple,”
Caelan said at her shoulder. “Everyone knew the castle was empty. Those who don’t have much will have brought us some potatoes or a jar of honey.” He grinned. “A jug of their whisky.”
“If Mrs. Baldy offered her services as a cook, I refuse.”
“Elsbeth says she can make a good porridge, and Mr. Cobbledick says her cracklings are addictive. But if you wish, we can hire a proper cook from Inverness, one who knows how to pot mackerel.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“I’m hungering for orange fritters.”
His expression was hungry, all right. That was a ray of happiness in the midst of Clara’s anxiety: her husband might have lost the great love of his life, but he was still hungry for her.
Her bare toes curled thinking of it.
The ragged silk carpet had been replaced by a wool rug in a teal-green plaid. Rather than majestic and royal, it looked homey and toasty warm.
“The plaid of the McIntyre clan, as it was donated by Fiona,”
Caelan said. “If you care for the idea, I’d prefer a rug woven in the MacCrae tartan. Or we can order another round one from France.”
“I’d love a rug in the color of your kilt. We need a bookcase or two in here, and a few small tables for lamps, but otherwise it’s perfect. Do you think we need curtains?”
She glanced over her shoulder when he didn’t answer.
“I do not, as my wife’s chemise is translucent in the morning sunshine.”
“Oh!”
No wonder he’d had that smile.
Clara rushed past him and down the steps to the kitchen. A sturdy table and chairs stood in the middle of the room. The pantry door was ajar, and even from the door she could see baskets piled high with potatoes alongside tin boxes of tea, sugar, and oats.
“This was so kind of them,”
she breathed. “We must visit each person and say thank you, don’t you think?”
“Aye, they would love that,”
Caelan said.
“If Elsbeth and Maisie did stay away from the castle, we have a helpful broonie. The tea kettle is hot.”
“They may have crept in this morning,”
Caelan agreed.
“Easy to do as the front door doesn’t close.”
Clara turned to find teacups and stopped short. New dishes were stacked in the cupboard: sturdy pieces that would stand the test of time, not gold-rimmed plates chosen for prestige.
“My goodness,”
she said, taking down a plate to look at it. “They gave us crockery.”
What happened to Isla’s French plates? She couldn’t ask without saying her name aloud. Happiness seemed to be floating in the air, and she didn’t want to ruin it.
“A local pottery, Jamieson’s, works in salt-glazed stoneware. You’ll like this: Jamieson’s daughter Grisel oversees the whiteware pottery. I’d guess every family gave us a plate or two. They all use it themselves.”
“They shouldn’t have,”
Clara said, carefully replacing the plate.
“Why not? They’re happy that we are marrying. They’d rather their laird wasn’t living in a pigsty. Do you know what Auld Magnus said about you?”
She shook her head.
“‘But to see her was to love her.’”
Clara felt herself turning pink. “That’s terribly kind of him. And quite poetic.”
“We love a good poem in the Highlands. By the way, Alfie has shared the story of the homicidal suit of armor with everyone his age, and they with their parents. Most of the village is waiting for the next installment. Fiona told him that he’s not allowed to plague you until you’ve been married for two days.”
Clara measured out tea leaves and poured steaming water over them. “I like Alfie.”
“Aye. He could use a cousin or two. Or six. We could fill up the south tower.”
“How do you like your tea?”
Clara felt too shy to look at him.
Caelan sat down. “Strong and black.”
After she joined him at the table, a warm foot nudged one of hers. She startled.
“Head still hurting?”
She darted a look at Caelan from under her lashes. He had stubble on his chin and hair that was going every which way, yet he was more handsome than he’d been in church. She nodded, afraid that her voice would give away her feelings.
Her lust, to label it correctly. Something along those lines. Deep affection. Embarrassingly deep affection.
“I don’t want to drink whisky again. I mean it.”
“You kept it down,”
her husband said cheerfully. He got up, went to the larder, and came back with a hunk of bread.
Clara closed her eyes. “No, thank you.”
She tried digging her fingers into her temples, but it didn’t seem to help with the drumbeat.
Caelan was chuckling in a very unkind manner.
“I’m rethinking the idea of marriage,”
Clara said weakly. “Your laughter isn’t charming or gentlemanly, in case you’re wondering.”
“I have a solution for wha’ ails ye.”
“I do like it when you speak like that,”
Clara said. But she didn’t open her eyes.
One arm went under her knees and another around her back. “We’ll go out into the fresh air.”
He paused. “Unless you’ll vomit on me.”
“Probably not,”
Clara said tentatively.
Something touched her forehead, and Clara had the idea that he’d kissed her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. The subject of kisses was so complicated—and enticing—that she scarcely noticed as Caelan bore her out of the house.
“I luve the fact—”
“Luve?”
she interrupted.
“Aye.”
“That is so . . .”
But she kept her eyes closed because it was embarrassing to feel this affectionate.
No, lustful. Aching. More so every time he spoke with that deep Scottish accent, so she concentrated on praying that she’d get her composure back. Somehow.
Meanwhile he kept walking, and unless she was mistaken, dropping kisses on her forehead and nose every few steps. Her eyes popped open when she heard the rushing of the loch. “No!”
she gasped, stiffening.
“Not unless you want to,”
Caelan said. “But, lass, I wud like a bath.” He carefully set Clara down.
“Wud,”
she said, distracted. “Would?”
“Aye. Head still hurting?”
She nodded. It wasn’t entirely true. Perhaps a little true.
“You’re looking fishy around the gills,”
Caelan said, smiling down at her. “Swimming is an excellent cure.”
“No, thank you. I’d be swept into the mouth of a great whale.”
“There’s a bathing hole around the bend, and I promise to fight off any hungry whales.”
“I’ll think about it when I see it,”
Clara decided.
This time, when he picked her up, she wasn’t even startled; presumably, at some point she’d get used to a man who liked to open his arms and catch her against his chest. Caelan began walking on the side of the turquoise-colored loch, following a path that curved along the shore.
Clara focused on his smell because it made her feel safe. “You know what you said about feeling affection for me?”
“Hmm,”
Caelan said.
“Affection is everything,”
Clara told him, realizing the truth as she said it aloud. “Love is nothing. My mother would say she loves me.” When he didn’t respond, she opened her eyes. He had stopped walking and was gazing down at her, very sober.
“Lass.”
His husky voice had deepened.
“You might not believe it—sometimes I don’t—but the truth is that she probably does love me. She doesn’t like me very much, and my point is that you don’t feel affection unless you like someone. I would prefer that my husband felt affection and liked me, even if he didn’t love me.”
That wasn’t entirely true—she could hear the falsity in her own voice—but it was braver to say and less humiliating.
“Shall we have a bath now?”
Caelan asked, avoiding the whole tricky subject.
He placed her gently on her feet. Sure enough, someone had quarried a small pool out of rock, around the size of four bathtubs.
“It truly is a bathing pool,”
Clara said, walking to the edge. The water here was paler than turquoise, with glints of gold, as if shards of light shimmered beneath the surface. “Is it deep?”
“Not even over my head. My grandfather had men chisel it from the rock whenever they had a spare moment, but there weren’t many such minutes,”
Caelan said.
“The water looks like a shawl sewn over with gold sequins. Blue is the most expensive dye, you know.”
She put her bare, dusty foot into the chilly water. “I’m not sure—” But she said it while turning to face him, and the words died in her mouth.
Caelan had unbuckled his kilt and thrown it over a bush. His chest muscles ranged down in organized squares. Below that . . .
“What?”
Clara yelped.
He raised an eyebrow.
“What is that?”