Chapter Sixteen
The old man staggered off out of view and, the show over, the watching crowd dispersed. Cameron wrapped an arm around his wife's slender waist and squeezed. "You handled him very well."
She was shaking. "I don't know about that—he's always been bitter and morose and impossible to please—but thank you for letting me try."
He pulled her closer. "Forget the cup of tea, how about a wee dram before dinner? Settle your nerves."
She nodded and they entered the castle together, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist.
Having met her grandfather, Cameron now had a clearer understanding of why, that day on the causeway, in the mud and the bleak surrounds, a young girl would accept a marriage proposal from a man she didn't know.
She'd had nothing to lose.
It wasn't exactly flattering.
* * *
JEANNIE HAD DISROBED and washed, and was waiting in her nightgown by the fire, snuggled in her favorite blue shawl when Cameron came up to bed.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"No, I just wanted to thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me handle Grandad."
In the middle of pulling off his coat, he turned and quirked a brow at her. "Did you no' notice that rather fine punch I landed on the man?"
She rose from her chair, and stood before him, clutching the shawl tightly around her. "Aye, but you let me try first." He hadn't pushed her aside as if it were men's business, hadn't made her look weak in front of all those watching people.
She swallowed. "And I want to thank you for, for what you said. About . . . " She felt her cheeks heating, and swallowed. "For defending my virtue the way you did." So firmly and publicly.
He shrugged as if it were of little account. "You're my wife."
"But I'm no', am I? Not yet. And yet you declared in front of my grandfather and half the village that I came to my marriage bed a virgin."
He said nothing, just pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it on a chair, then sat down on it to pull off his boots.
"You had no way of knowing it was true."
He snorted. "Aye, I did."
She frowned, puzzled. "How could you know? We haven't . . . " She glanced at the bed.
He stood to undo his breeches, dropped them and came to her in nothing but his drawers.
He looked down at her, cupped her chin in his big warm hand and said gruffly, "Och, lass, the innocence of you shines from those bonny blue eyes.
And in this . . . " He bent and kissed her, his mouth firm, warm. Possessive.
The taste of him, hot, spicy, masculine, was like a spark to dry tinder.
She leaned into him, wanting more, and twined her arms around his neck as he teased her lips apart and took possession of her mouth.
He gathered her hard against him, deepening the kiss.
Heat rose from his body. Heat and a clean, masculine scent that she inhaled hungrily.
She heard a little humming noise, and realized it was coming from her, and then she forgot everything, except the taste and feel and scent of him.
She stroked her palms blindly over his skin, over his chest, and his arms, enthralled by the feel of his firm, masculine flesh. Ripples of sensation poured through her, her knees weakened and she clung to him.
And then, abruptly he released her—put her away from him and stepped back, breathing heavily. She reached for the bed post and held onto it; her legs were all jelly. She, too was panting. "Wh-what's wrong?"
He gave a raspy laugh. "Nothing's wrong, It's just . . . I gave you my word."
She blinked stupidly at him, her senses still in turmoil.
"You asked for two weeks' grace, remember? For courtship."
"Oh." Her gaze dropped to the front of his drawers, where some interesting action seemed to be happening.
"Yes, 'oh'." He turned away from her and stared out of the window. "So hop into bed now, and go to sleep. I'll join you in a wee while."
"But—"
"I shouldna have started something I canna finish." She hesitated, and he added in a hard voice, "Bed, Jeannie. I'll no' ask you again."
She bit her lip, and climbed into the bed. If he'd asked her a moment ago, while she was blissful in his arms, she would have said yes to him, wouldn't have thought twice about it. But he'd given his word, and he was a man who prided himself on never breaking it.
She was hot and rumpled and her body was sticky, and humming with a deep restless hunger. She wanted him something fierce, but she climbed into bed without a word and lay there, feigning sleep.
A good while later she felt him climb in beside her, but he didn't touch her, not this time. There would be no big warm body curled around her tonight.
What madness had caused her to ask for a fortnight? Her body ached for him now.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, ALONE again in the big bed, Jeannie lay thinking about decorative hangings for the hall, and the village women she'd now met, particularly Bridget, who'd made Jeannie's beautiful shawl.
Recently widowed and with a brood of bairns to feed, Bridget wasn't the only widow with bairns. They needed to earn money.
But Uncle Charles was dragging his feet. He was simply indulging her, she decided. He had no faith in the ability of the local women to achieve his vision or meet his superior standards.
Time to bite the bullet. After breakfast she sent Mairie out with a message to invite the best weavers in the village to take tea with herself and the old gentleman that very afternoon, and to bring their finest weavings with them.
They came, but instead of the enthusiasm Jeannie expected, she found herself facing quiet resistance.
The women, dressed in their Sunday best, were polite but reserved, speaking only when spoken to, barely nibbling on the biscuits and cakes Cook had prepared. None of them made a move to bring out their weavings, even when she invited them to lay them out on the side-table.
The old gentleman didn't make it any easier for her either, acting very much The Nobleman deigning to meet with Peasants, an attitude Jeannie hoped the women would forgive. Or at least overlook.
But it was hard going.
After the tea had been served, and laborious conversation made, Jeannie marshaled her courage and addressed them all.
"Thank you for coming. As some of you have seen, I'm doing what I suppose most new brides do, making over my husband's home.
" A few women nodded, grateful for the extra work her activities had provided.
She continued, "But stone walls make for a cold home, and I'd like to remedy that.
This beautiful shawl that Mrs. Fraser made is so lovely.
" She smoothed the blue shawl around her shoulders.
"I understand you are all excellent weavers, and I'm sure you've all heard of what a fine artist the laird's uncle, Mr. Sinclair, is.
So I thought, if we put the two together .
. ." She explained her vision of the project, a series of wall hangings designed by Uncle Charles and woven by the women.
While she spoke, Uncle Charles sat back, buffing his nails in a bored manner and sighing from time to time in a world-weary manner, making it clear that this project was not his idea. And that she was casting pearls before swine.
Jeannie felt like strangling him, but forced herself to continue brightly on. When she'd finished, there was a long silence.
Finally one of the women cleared her throat. "'Tis a grand idea, my lady, but the thing is, most of us already sell our weavings in Edinburgh. And all our own designs." From the way she was pointedly not looking at Uncle Charles, it was clear she was less than impressed with his airs and graces.
Uncle Charles sat up. "In Edinburgh?"
"Aye," Bridget Fraser joined in. "To a fine, exclusive shop down there. And they pay us in cash." She glanced at Uncle Charles.
Jeannie said quickly, "Och, did I not mention that we'll be paying in cash, too—and at a better rate than the man in Edinburgh." Cameron had told her about that, and mentioned he planned to see if he could improve the women's terms of trade.
"What shop in Edinburgh?" Uncle Charles demanded.
When Bridget told him his frown deepened. "I don't believe it." He turned to Jeannie and added in a voice quite audible to the women, "I know that establishment. It's elegant and exclusive and would never stock village crafts."
His comment caused a ripple of muttering among the women.
"Perhaps you're a little out of touch, Uncle Charles," Jeannie said diplomatically. "Fashions change, as you know"—she avoided glancing at his attire, which had been fashionable last century—"and Cameron told me these ladies are among the finest weavers in Scotland."
She turned to the women with a smile. "Why not show Mr. Sinclair and me some of the beautiful pieces that Edinburgh ladies flock to buy?"
Suddenly the women were eager to show off their wares. All in a spirit of defiance. Uncle Charles's skepticism and snobbery had fired them up.
Out they tumbled from baskets and bags; shawls, scarves, blankets, cushions, hangings, all in gorgeous jewel colors, some with simple, elegant designs, some a bold riot of intricate patterns. They took Jeannie's breath away.
Uncle Charles stiffened, then, unable to help himself he came forward and examined some of the pieces, fingering the fine weave, turning them over to examine the back, draping the fabric this way and that. His interest visibly grew; he couldn't hide it.
He separated out half a dozen weavings. "These might be acceptable for the hall," he told Jeannie.
"Acceptable? I'll have you know—"one of the women began.
"I think these are destined for Edinburgh, Uncle Charles," Jeannie interjected hastily. "We'll discuss the hangings later, if any of these ladies are interested."
The women folded up their pieces, packed them back into baskets and bundles, and returned to their seats.
Jeannie served a fresh round of tea. When they'd finished, she said, "So, would any of you be willing to work with Mr. Sinclair and me to bring some warmth and color to these cold stone walls. At a price to be agreed, of course."
The women exchanged glances. There was a long silence.
Uncle Charles was the sticking point, Jeannie knew, but she was determined to give him a project to work on, and to coax him out of his isolation. And to give the village women a chance to earn money. And to make her home a warmer, more welcoming place.
She waited.
Finally Bridget spoke. "With his own hands the laird worked to give me back my home again.
I'll not deny his bride her wish. I'll make two hangings for you, my lady—one to whatever pattern Mr. Sinclair there comes up with.
The second will be a piece to my own design.
I will accept payment for the first, but the second will be my gift to the laird's bride. "
A lump rose in Jeannie's throat. "Thank you, Mrs. Fraser," she managed. "I am most grateful for your generosity."
Bridget Fraser smiled back at her. "I remember what it was like to be a new bride, wanting to make a house into a home," she said softly. The sentiment, coming from a black clad, still-grieving widow, seemed to prompt the others.
Another woman spoke up gruffly. "Aye, I'll do the same — one of my ain pieces as a gift, and another to Mr. Sinclair's design. For cash."
One by one each of the others joined in, offering one weaving, unique and personal, for a bride gift, and a second to be made in conjunction with Uncle Charles, for cash.
By the end, Jeannie's eyes were blurry with tears. The castle was going to be drowning in woven hangings, and it would be all the warmer and more beautiful for it.
For Jeannie, it was already a warmer and more beautiful place. After so many lonely years with only Grandad, Rab the dog, and the sheep to talk to, these women had just offered her acceptance. And the beginning of friendship.