Page 34 of Highland Fire

It was to be a grand wedding in the traditional Highland manner.

Though it was a press-gang affair and everyone knew it, there was no unseemly haste.

There was no need. No one was going anywhere.

From the Braes o’ Mar to the village of Ballater, the glen was completely cut off by the storm, a little world unto itself.

The banns were published in church for the specified three weeks before the event. As the whole parish was invited to witness the ceremony, and the church could hold only a fraction of that number, Glenshiel graciously decided that his granddaughter should be married from his own house.

By and large, no one reproached the principal characters or even hinted at misconduct.

Those in the know, with a sly wink and nod, rather congratulated Glenshiel in stealing a march on the unsuspecting sassenach .

The wily old fox had cleverly snagged a matrimonial prize for his granddaughter, a girl whose virtue was unquestionable.

And he’d done more. The Randal clan, soon to be reunited, must once again be in ascendancy in Deeside.

The regrettable English strain could only benefit from a fresh infusion of vigorous Scottish blood.

The future looked rosy indeed. Rand, hearing the good-natured raillery, took it in good part. Caitlin shrank into herself.

In the weeks preceding the wedding, there wasn’t a female in the parish who was idle.

The ladies outdid themselves in preparing a banquet for the ceilidh which was to follow the religious service.

At Glenshiel House, the pace was frenetic.

Charlotte Randal rose to the occasion with commendable zeal.

She deployed her army of servants like a general at the commencement of a major battle.

Rugs and drapes were beaten and hung on washing lines to air; every wooden floor was scoured with sand, then scrupulously swept.

Chandeliers were let down and dismantled, then washed and carefully reassembled.

Silver, crystal, porcelain—everything was cleaned and minutely examined before being put away.

Even the stags’ heads in the great hall came in for their fair share of attention.

A detail of maids, especially employed for the grand occasion, set to work.

With hard-bristled brushes, they routed years of ingrained grime and dirt till the stags’ coats shone like satin.

In the midst of so much activity and excitement, Caitlin forced herself to put a good face on things.

Not surprisingly, since the night she had been discovered in Rand’s house, she had taken up residence with her grandfather.

She wasn’t a prisoner exactly, but she was well guarded.

Even a visit to the outside privy required the presence of a chaperone.

As for Rand, she saw him only at church services, when they were hedged about by hordes of people.

She was coming to think that he was deliberately avoiding her.

What Caitlin could not guess was that Glenshiel, distrusting his granddaughter’s frame of mind, had warned Rand off.

The days for courting were over, he told him.

There would be no private little tête-à-tête with his granddaughter until the ink had dried on their marriage lines.

As the days passed and the wedding preparations went forward without interruption, Caitlin’s mind became more and more frozen.

She didn’t know what to think, what to expect.

The Randal had promised to take care of everything.

He didn’t want to marry her. He had told her so in no uncertain terms. She would not fit into his world, he had told her.

He was highly conscious of what he owed his name and family.

His words, the insulting way he had uttered them, were burned into her brain.

At every hour, she expected to be summoned to her grandfather’s presence to be informed that the Randal had cried off.

It was what she wanted to hear. Somehow, she would find the strength to weather the mortification and ensuing scandal.

What she did not think she could bear, what her pride could not endure, was marriage to a man whose hand had been forced by circumstances.

For most of the time, she seemed to be weighed down by an immense lassitude.

She couldn’t think for herself. To make decisions even about trivial things was beyond her.

It was her aunt who decided that her grandmother’s wedding gown would do very well for Caitlin if it was made over into something simpler, in the current mode.

When Fiona suggested that Caitlin’s long hair should be dressed à la grecque , Caitlin readily agreed.

Only her grandfather’s timely intervention at the urging of the maid prevented Fiona from wielding the shears.

Caitlin could not have cared less. Mrs. MacGregor supplied the wedding bouquets, an assortment of dried wildflowers with the traditional white heather for luck.

Whatever was suggested found favor with Caitlin.

As the wedding day drew nearer, everything became more unreal to her.

At the bridal tea, when the ladies came to view the wedding presents, she presided with grace and charm but afterward could never remember who had spoken to her or what had been said.

She dutifully stitched her bridal clothes till her eyes teared and her fingers curled with cramp, but she was hardly conscious of what she made.

On the day of her wedding, when she rose from her bed, she moved as a sleepwalker.

The piper on the gallery gave a mighty blast on his pipes.

A moment later the jaunty strains of a Highland air rang out and Caitlin slowly descended the staircase on her grandfather’s arm.

In their wake came the bridesmaid, Fiona, in pale peach organdy.

In one hand, she clasped her posy of dried flowers, with the other, she carefully steered the train of the bride’s gown.

Rand, resplendent in full Highland dress, watched their progress as if mesmerized.

He could not seem to find his breath. The lustrous white taffeta was a dramatic contrast to his bride’s dark coloring.

It also did something wonderful for her figure.

Above the low, square-cut bodice, the swell of her full breasts rose, soft and womanly.

Her skin was translucent, her features as fine and as lovely as an Egyptian cameo.

Her delicately rose-tinted lips were parted as though she, too, had difficulty drawing her next breath.

Her hair, caught back in a silver net, gave her the look of a medieval madonna.

He willed her to raise her eyes and look at him.

One look into that carefully averted gaze, and he would know his fate.

If she hadn’t wanted the marriage to take place, she should have made her protests long before now.

She’d had all of three weeks. In that time, she had been as cloistered as a nun.

He couldn’t get near her, not until they were to be joined in holy wedlock.

He didn’t know what she was thinking. It still wasn’t too late to call the whole thing off.

She could feign sickness, or simply refuse to go through with it.

If all else failed, she could tell that cock-and-bull story which she’d told him.

He couldn’t accept that she was his sister.

He would have known it. And if she were, he would not have been plagued these last three weeks by the agony of unsated desire.

During the daylight hours, he’d flung himself into a frenzy of activity, trying to wear himself out.

At night, he’d tossed and turned on his lonely bed, aching from wanting her, tormented by thoughts of tasting her, pleasuring her, burying himself deep inside her.

If she were his sister, he wouldn’t have had such carnal thoughts.

Why wouldn’t she look at him? Had her grandfather browbeaten her into submission?

His thoughts circled, adding to his confusion.

He was remembering that never-to-be-forgotten morning three weeks before when Caitlin was rudely dragged from his bed and hauled before her grandfather.

He had wanted to murder Glenshiel and his minions.

The old man had gone on the rampage, shaming her.

Rand had listened in stunned silence for only a moment or two before putting a stop to it.

“That’s enough!” His voice had thundered through the cavernous hall, setting the overhead chandelier to humming, and men had looked away from the icy challenge in his stare.

Stripping off his dressing robe, he had draped it over Caitlin’s shivering form and had pulled her gently into the shelter of his arms. As she wept copious tears against his bare chest, over her bowed head, he had flayed Glenshiel with his eyes.

“She is innocent of any wrongdoing,” he stormed.

“If you have something to say, say it to me.”

“Ye’ll wed with her?”

Rand didn’t have to think twice about his answer. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect her from scandal.”

Glenshiel had regarded him somberly for a long interval, as though this answer was not quite what he wanted. His wily old eyes flicked to the gallery, where Daroch was stationed. “There is another solution,” he said, almost baiting Rand.

Rand’s voice was dangerously soft. “Over my dead body. I mean that sincerely. She’ll have me, or she’ll have no man.”

The wily gleam in Glenshiel’s eyes had warmed to something suspiciously like humor. “I believe ye.”