The Laird’s French Bride
The Laird’s French Bride
Connie Brockway
The castle buzzed with activity. Floors were mopped, privies limed, larders stocked, bedding laundered.
Carpets were beaten, faces washed and new tapers set in place of the old, even if the old were not yet burnt out.
All of this was being done because Rob Macalduie, the young Laird of Barras’s would-be bride was on her way to inspect his holdings, buildings and his people to see they were worthy of her.
In addition, she was coming to look over the young the laird himself with much the same purpose in mind.
If she liked what she saw, they would be wed three days hence. If not, she would leave.
For as well as being a very rich girl raised in the French courts and fostered by the powerful Duke of Gordon, Jeanne Forbes and was one of the king’s favourites.
As such, even though a marriage between her and Rob would unify their two Highland clans – clans that had been fighting for generations – the duke had given her the unprecedented prerogative to deny Rob’s suit if she didn’t find favour with him.
It was not a pronouncement that anyone in either clan – their wealth and manpower depleted by years of contention – liked.
What if this Jeanne with her frenchified notions took a dislike to a tapestry in the Great Hall?
Or what if they served her mutton and she preferred beef?
What if she favoured slender men dressed in black velvet and lace?
Well, she’d certainly not find his likes in the tall, broad-shouldered and heavy muscled figure of Rob Macalduie who’d spent most of his twenty-two years swinging a claymore.
How could the king have agreed to leave the fates of his brave liegemen to the whim of a seventeen-year-old girl?
But he had and there was nothing for it but to hope that Jeanne Forbes understood her duty.
At least, everyone agreed, Rob understood what was at stake.
Which is why he’d been driving his servants and kinsmen this past fortnight, exhorting them to scrape lower, bend a deeper knee, and above all to be careful of what they said and in what tone they said it.
None of which sat well with his cousin, Alex Graham, who thought it all well below the dignity of a laird of Barras to humble himself for a girl.
But then Alex also thought he would have made the better laird than young Rob and – in spite of the old man naming Rob his chosen heir with his dying breath – should have been named such with the old laird’s passing four years ago.
It was a claim that Rob had never bothered nor needed to refute.
He’d let his record on the battlefield and the prosperity his people enjoyed speak for his ability to lead.
Now, he wanted to guide them on to a new path – one of peace.
Truth be told, at twenty-two Rob Macalduie of Barras was sick unto death of death.
Indeed, Rob was so sick of killing and raiding, ambushes and slaughter, and so set on the notion of peace, that he’d taken pen to paper to court Jeanne Forbes from afar.
He’d begun his suit nearly a year ago when the subject of an arranged marriage between them had first been broached by the king himself.
His first letter still had the power to embarrass him in recollection.
Young girls, his aunts had counselled him, love pretty words, particularly words they could wrap in ribbons and tuck beneath their pillows at night.
If securing her hand entailed having to spout sweet-sounding inanities then, by all that was holy, inanities he’d spout.
He would have done far more to secure welfare for his clan.
He’d been surprised when in her returning letter she’d bade him dispense with such fudge and went on to advise him not to bother writing again in an ill-fated attempt to convince her that he was the sort of man he imagined she must want.
Thenceforth he’d dispensed with the inanities and written her, if not eloquently, honestly.
In return for his efforts, he found himself discovering his bride’s nature. Her letters revealed Jeanne Forbes to be practical and willful, comically pleased with her own cunning – though Rob suspected she wasn’t nearly so sly as she imagined herself to be – generous, quick-witted and engaging.
The only thing he didn’t know about his bride was what she looked like.
At the start of their correspondence she had made the stipulation that they should not tell each other anything of their physical appearance, as appearances can change in a heartbeat – a point she graphically illustrated in a tale about an uncle who rode down to a pub one night a bonny, braw man and returned two days later sans nose, one eye and an ear, lost in a brawl in the tavern’s yard.
She thought they should instead focus on that which mattered more – their characters, their values, their temperaments.
Which was all very fine and high-minded, but when everything was said and done, though mature far beyond his years, at his core Rob was still a young man and could not help but want what every young man wants, which was a bonny armful in his bed.
But, he couldn’t insist. She had him, in all ways, at point nonplus.
He needed to win her, not the other way round.
Which is why he stood now surrounded by his closest kin in the small gatehouse annexed to his small castle’s outer curtain wall, awaiting the arrival of his would-be bride, about whose looks the only thing he knew was that she had red hair like all the Forbes.
His men would have laughed themselves sick if they’d known how apprehensive he was.
He’d stood unarmed and afoot and, without a tremor, faced down the mounted charge of his enemy; he’d dived into an ice-choked loch with nary a second thought to drag an unconscious kinsman from its frigid clasp; he’d felt a broadsword plunge into his shoulder but fought on without check until the battle was over.
Yet at the thought of meeting this lass, this Jeanne Forbes, his belly clenched and his heart stuttered in his throat.
What if despite her lofty-minded intentions, despite the communion they’d found in their letters, despite what he wanted, what their people needed, she would not accept him as her husband?
He had never doubted himself before. He had never been allowed that luxury.
A laird must be purposeful and certain, show no doubt or indecisiveness.
And he hadn’t. But that was as laird. As suitor …
what did he know of his strengths – if he had any – or weaknesses?
Even if she was a squat, sour dumpling with a pockmarked face or a bony, unsmiling crone, Jeanne Forbes was a prize and a plum one at that.
He, on the other hand, was but a minor lord.
Not pretty. Uneducated. Without court manners.
She bent to his suit and he knew it well.
Barras was a lesser estate, his clan negligible in the Highland hierarchy.
His castle might be well-made and snug in winter, cool in summer, but there was no gainsaying it was small.
He had no money for velvet gowns and jewels, no troubadour to sing her to sleep at night, no imported spices to tempt her palate – nor even a cook who’d know how to use them – all things her letters had revealed she was accustomed to.
She improved his prospects; he did not improve hers.
What if she took one look at Barras castle and decided to return to the French court where she’d been raised?
And the worst of it was that not all he feared had a political foundation.
Whatever the girl looked like, whether or not she was a beauty, her words had found their way into his imagination, his mind … his heart.
For the third time in as many minutes he glanced out the small, narrow window at the road leading to the castle gates.
Though still some miles off, her party could be seen making its slow, stately approach.
A dozen men-at-arms and half again as many courtiers pranced about a pair of large, richly painted wagons.
Outriders in hunting garb rode the fields on either side of the road, their falcons sweeping the sky above, their coloured jesses streaming like banners against the blue summer sky.
“She’ll be pox-faced, have no doubt of it,” Colin Frasier, his uncle, warned him for tenth time. “Why else would she be so old and not yet wed?”
“At seventeen, she’s hardly a hag.”
“She’ll be pretty enough,” allowed his foster brother, Francis Macalvoy. “But as cold as the Shetlands in January. French women are all cold.”
“Ach. I say tumble her on her arse and spread her legs wide.” Alex, arms crossed over his chest, sneered. “She’ll say ‘aye’ soon enough she’s with child.”
“I might warn you, anyone raping the lady is far more like to find themselves beheaded then bedded.”
At the sound of the female voice the men swung toward the doorway.
A slender young woman stood silhouetted in the doorframe.
The afternoon sun set a nimbus glowing around rich, red-gold coloured curls that fell in long ringlets over her shoulders and flirted with creamy bosom displayed above her gown’s low décolletage.
Her eyes were dark and tip-tilted at the outer corners, lending her a faintly exotic air.
Her brows were equally dark and elegantly arched. A lovely, breathtaking lass.
She wore a mantua of rich blue linen, the front skirt pulled back and fastened into a train that revealed the front of the embroidered petticoat beneath.
The bodice was simple, the décolletage low and square cut, but the exposed corset beneath was studded with pearls and tooled in silver threads, laced tightly up the front and ending in a pronounced V at the waist. Around her shoulders hung a soft, primrose-coloured cloak.
A fashion not seen in the Highlands, the effect was lush and rich and provocative.