Chapter Seven #3
He rose and, with barely a backward glance, walked to the door. “I will send for you when I’m ready,” he said, then with a flash of a smile, “You are indeed an instrument to be played.”
It wasn’t the first time I was confused as to the slant of his meaning.
Now, as he made his leave, mortification blanketed the heat of my desire.
I had responded to him, aye, shamefully so.
My body had come alive under his bold touch.
I had not meant to react like that, not at all.
I was angry with myself, for my wanton compliance.
And his comment irked me, that he would see me like that, as an object, a plaything, an overly willing wench to be used and dismissed.
I vowed that I would not allow myself to get so carried away when—if—he were to touch me again.
Next time I would say nay to him, and keep my distance.
Kade opened the door to a flurry of commotion.
The chambermaids and my sisters silenced abruptly at the towering, sudden countenance of my husband.
Without a word, he walked past them and down the hall.
As soon as he was gone, my sisters burst into the room, full of curiosity and concern.
They clutched gowns and adornments of many varieties.
The chambermaids rolled the full tub into the room, which steamed and splashed with the movement.
Still mildly stunned by the intensity of what had taken place, and also by its hasty removal, I lay still.
My sisters gathered around the bed, and Maisie pulled the fur down over my body.
They stared at my shredded shift and the blood smeared across my thighs and the white sheets. There was a collective gasp.
“Lord above, Stella, you’ve been ravaged!”
* * *
I COULD DO little to calm my sisters’ reaction.
After all, I had sworn to Kade that I would discuss nothing of what had taken place, and I was glad I was true to my word.
It wasn’t five minutes after my sisters arrived that my husband returned to the room, storming in purposefully as though he had forgotten about my presence—and that of my many attendants.
I was also glad that I was fully immersed in the deep bath before he made his appearance.
My sisters gasped at the intrusion and clutched drying cloths as though to shield me before their whispers began.
It was the first time I had ever seen Kade look mildly uncomfortable.
At the far end of his chambers, he was reaching to grab a rolled scroll from a high shelf, which he briefly unrolled to read, as though searching for something specific, or making every effort to concentrate on anything but our feminine circle.
“Add some bubbles,” Ann whispered to Agnes.
“It hardly matters if he sees her,” muttered Agnes. “He’s her husband.”
“Besides,” Maisie added, hushed, “’tis clear enough he’s already done much more than see her.”
“Aye, look at the state of her,” Agnes quietly agreed. “Flushed. Bloodied. Utterly traumatized.”
There were noises of sympathy before conversation turned to my wardrobe, more loudly now that the subject was no longer that of my plundering.
“What dress, then, Stella?” asked Agnes. “Not the green one. You always wear green.”
“That’s because it’s my favorite color,” I replied.
“Which dress do you favor...Kade?” Maisie asked boldly and with a trace of coy pushiness.
Kade looked at Maisie, and his indifference kicked in.
He took a moment to consider his answer.
“I’m sure Stella will look ravishing in any of the gowns,” he said.
I thought I might have detected a note of playful sarcasm in his reply, but I couldn’t be certain.
Either way, my sisters exchanged meaningful glances, as though pleased by his sentiment, before returning to the task at hand.
To us, Maisie said, “Ailie Mackenzie is so talented. I’m going to ask her to make some of these in my size. In pink, and in this light green.”
“Aye, her designs are so sophisticated,” Ann said.
“Which one, then, Stella?” persisted Agnes.
“I like the white,” I said.
“Not white, ’tis too plain. Something regal, since Wilkie’s wife is royalty after all.” This from Agnes, who, immediately after she spoke, gave an apologetic smile to Maisie.
“Isn’t it unlikely?” Maisie replied, jutting her chin upward just slightly. “Who would’ve thought that the king’s child would prove to be a lass? And a servant of all people!”
Kade’s movement stopped and he looked once again at Maisie, his eyes narrowed and uninterpretable. “She was never meant for servitude,” Kade said darkly.
Maisie blanched slightly at his remark but spoke evenly. “Aye, I’ve heard the story. I admire her, of course.”
“You would be wise to admire Roses by speaking only well of her,” Kade said, and there was warning in his tone.
I got the feeling Kade did not think highly of Maisie, whether it was from her offhand comment or some other digression—which I might have guessed at.
Either way, the animosity clung to him as he returned to his task.
Maisie did not reply but she continued to watch him.
Ann attempted to change the subject. “I think you look beautiful in yellow, Stella. It sets off your eyes.”
“I like the pink,” said Agnes.
I tried again. “I like the cut of the white one. ’Tis simple yet elegant.” I was so used to having my choices overruled that my voice sounded resigned even to myself; this decision, as every other, would be made for me.
“You should wear something more colorful,” said Agnes. “How about the blue?”
“Not blue,” Maisie replied. “I don’t like Stella in blue. It makes her eyes look positively wild.”
“The pink, then,” Agnes continued.
Kade, who was listening with more intent to the conversation than I might have expected, walked over to where we were gathered. He outsized my sisters by so much, he reminded me of a great bear who might have wandered into our party. My sisters fell entirely silent.
“Stella,” he said evenly and with unmistakable authority, “will wear the white dress. And in the future, you will listen to what she says as soon as she says it.”
My sisters went silent, staring up at my husband, mutely agog.
I couldn’t help feeling a sense of gratitude as my eyes met Kade’s.
His pronouncement afforded me with a small, nourishing power that was all but unfamiliar to me: I felt supported.
And listened to. The depth of feeling caught me off guard.
It made me want to reach out to him, to return the favor.
To me, Kade said gently but with that same ingrained authority that left no room for argument, “My guard is awaiting you outside the door. As soon as you are ready, he’ll escort you to me. Do not take too long.”
And with that, he again took his leave.
* * *
WILKIE AND ROSES were ready to depart for Ossian Lochs.
Their travel party was not overly large and required only four carriages, along with a number of guards and officers who rode on horseback.
Each carriage had been loaded with trunks of supplies and belongings.
Despite the fortuitous turn of events surrounding Roses’s newly discovered status as the daughter of the King of Scotland, which resulted in her inheritance—and Wilkie’s lairdship—of the most coveted estate in all the Highlands, the mood was heavy.
I did not know my husband well at all. But I could detect that he was deeply saddened by the departure of his brother.
He stood next to Laird Mackenzie as Wilkie shook the laird’s hand.
The laird, unexpectedly, embraced his brother in a heartfelt hug, patting him roughly on the back.
It was known that these brothers were especially close.
Their skills on the battlefield were discussed far and wide; their success as a team in maintaining and growing the wealth of Kinloch was often emulated but rarely equaled.
Now their close collaboration was at an end.
Wilkie was leaving now for Ossian Lochs, a three-day ride, and Kade would depart for Glenlochie tomorrow.
I could see the sorrow in Knox Mackenzie’s eyes, which to me was one of the more pronounced aspects to his character despite his obvious staunchness.
He had ruled without a wife since her death several years ago, and now he would rule without his brothers.
His sense of loss was palpable in the set of his shoulders and the low light in his unusual pale gray eyes.
Wilkie put his hands on Laird Mackenzie’s shoulders. “I’ll expect a visit soon,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll favor one of the Stuart lasses. The time is overdue for you to find another wife, brother.”
Laird Mackenzie, in a rare vulnerable moment, kicked the ground, raising a small tuft of dust.