Page 11 of The Highlander’s Virgin Nun (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“A fter ye,” Caelan offered as he held open the dressmaker’s door for her.

Rosaline took a step inside and immediately could smell the fresh linens and silks. Her eyes drifted around the shop in amazement.

Even outside the shop, she had been in awe. She had never been one to dwell too much on clothes, generally preferring to select any form of comfort she could over fanciful designs and fabrics. But these were works of art .

The dresses on display were simple—not adorned with endless bows and beads, but rich in fabric and color. As she began to walk around the shop, she skimmed her hands across the fabrics, deciding which one felt best on her skin.

If not for their voice, Rosaline would not have noticed the dressmaker entering from the back door of the shop.

“Good afternoon, Laird Sinclair.” The older woman bobbed a polite curtsy. “What can I do for ye today?”

“Good afternoon Mrs. Milloy. This is Rosaline. She is me betrothed. I am lookin’ to get some new dresses for her.”

“Ah, how lovely to meet ye, Miss Rosaline,” Mrs. Milloy chirped, coming around from behind the counter and offering Rosaline her hand. “I can certainly help with that.”

“I dinnae need anything lavish,” Rosaline said as politely as she could. “Just a few comfortable and presentable dresses to tide me over.”

“Ye’ll ken what’s best for a laird’s wife, Mrs. Milloy,” Caelan interjected.

Rosaline was trying to remain simple. She did not want to take too much from these people, should they choose to hold it against her someday. But she supposed he was right—a laird’s wife had to be dressed well in order to keep up appearances.

“Nae a problem. This way, dear.”

Mrs. Milloy guided Rosaline into a small room at the side of the shop, separated by a thick velvet curtain hanging from a wooden beam. The curtain closed behind her, and the dressmaker let her know that she would bring some options to try on, just to first establish fit and style.

Inside, there was a long, ornate mirror. Rosaline stood before it, taking in her body for the first time in years. Of course, the convent had no mirrors, as vanity went against their holy vows. She had seen the reflection of her face in the water and had acknowledged its natural aging. But this was the first time she had seen her body in full. She knew she had lost weight at the convent, as she had to fight for every scrap of food she could get, but she had not realized just how malnourished she looked until now.

Rosaline turned the side and pulled her dress tight at the back, revealing her true waistline and profile. She was so desperately thin. Her cheeks had sunken beneath her cheekbones, and tendons were visible at her neck. While she still felt strong enough, her appearance made her sad. Her body deserved to be cared for and fed; she would make an effort to restore it to full health.

“All right, love,” Mrs. Milloy said as she ducked beneath the curtain, piles of fabric in her arms. “Let’s take off what ye’re wearin’ so that we can find somethin’ a bit more form-fitting.”

Rosaline suddenly felt very shy. If her body looked this thin with clothes on, she could only imagine what it would be like without.

But Mrs. Milloy wasted no time. She immediately began to untie the laces at the back of the dress and then bent to lift the skirt over Rosaline’s head. With just her slip underneath, Rosaline saw the thinness of her arms and chest, her collarbone as visible as ever. Her legs were thin, but she had managed to retain some muscle. Her body had fought for survival despite the lack of nutrition. It was not quite as bad as she had envisioned.

“Lost a lot of weight recently, lass? This dress is miles too big for ye.”

“It was loaned to me by Caelan’s sister. Me dresses werenae good anymore.”

Rosaline felt a pang of shame at the admission. She was certain that a woman like Mrs. Milloy, clearly skilled and well-conversed, would be able to see straight through her words—that she had arrived at Castle Sinclair with nothing.

But the kind woman did not bat an eyelid.

“That’s all right, lass. All the more reason to shop! Now, let me just mark this muslin with yer correct measurements, and then we can get to the fun bit—colors and fabrics.”

Mrs. Milloy held small pins between her lips, gracefully using the sharp tools, and tightened the fabric at Rosaline’s arms, chest, waist, and hips. She pinned the muslin where it touched, but did not prick her. Finally, she knelt and folded the fabric to just a half inch off the floor, getting the length correct for Rosaline’s height.

“That should do. Now, what colors and styles do ye generally go for?”

Rosaline’s eyes widened as her mind went blank. She had picked out dresses as a girl, often leaning towards pinks and purples, but those were a child’s choices. She was an entirely different person now. At the convent, she could not choose, ever. The act of voicing her opinion was an entirely alien notion to her. She had no idea what she wanted.

Mrs. Milloy saw the panic on her face and immediately sought to quell it.

“Nae to worry, dear. It is often better to try things anyway, in case one’s preferences have changed over the years. Let me bring some samples in for ye to try on.”

Before Rosaline could thank her, the dressmaker had slipped out the same way she had come in.

“Willnae be long, Laird Sinclair,” she heard her say to Caelan as he waited outside the changing room. “Just goin’ to try a few styles to see what the lady likes best.”

Within a moment, Mrs. Milloy returned with an even larger pile of fabrics over her arm and hung them on a small rail inside the changing room. Rosaline wondered how she had the strength to carry them all.

Mrs. Milloy tied an underskirt around Rosaline’s waist and picked the first dress from the rail. Rosaline was thankful that she had not asked her to pick one first.

A dark blue dress was slipped over her head and fell naturally onto the underskirt. Mrs. Milloy adjusted the fabric so it sat correctly and then tightened it at the back with a small clip, shaping it better to Rosaline’s waist.

“Well, I think this color is just dashin’ on ye.” Mrs. Milloy beamed at her in the mirror, smoothing the fabric down her sides.

“It is a beautiful dress,” Rosaline agreed, equally pleased with its fit.

The color was not one she had seen on herself before, navy being generally reserved for grown women, rather than girls. It brought a kind of sadness to see herself thrust into adulthood and marriage, with only torture and isolation for a transition. But still, she had survived. She was lucky to be here, alive, mostly well, and being cared for.

“I like it very much,” she declared.

“Why dinnae we show yer man?”

Before Rosaline could protest, Mrs. Milloy pulled back the velvet curtain and gently turned her around by the shoulders.

“What do ye think of the blue gown, Laird Sinclair? It matches yer tartan quite nicely, I think.”

Caelan suddenly snapped to attention. He had been leaning against the doorframe and gazing out the window in thought. His eyes flicked to Rosaline, and she swore she saw his mouth drop open a little in surprise. He quickly straightened and took a deep breath, composing himself.

“It is a bonnie dress, indeed, Mrs. Milloy.”

“Me dresses are only made bonnier by the wearer. Suits her well, dinnae ye think?” Mrs. Milloy was not going to let him off without a compliment. Rosaline almost enjoyed watching him squirm.

“Aye, a good match,” he relented, having to lower his eyes in the end.

“We shall try a few more just to check any other colors that may bring out her dark features. How many are ye lookin’ to purchase, Laird Sinclair?”

“Two or three will suffice, I’m sure,” Rosaline quickly answered, retreating into the dressing room and hoping that would be that.

“At least eight, please, Mrs. Milloy. A mix of day and evenin’ dresses.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Milloy agreed, as eager to settle the sale as Rosaline was to avoid it.

“And one more thing.” Rosaline’s shoulders rose at the dressmaker’s voice. “Ye said ye are to be married. Do ye have a wedding dress already?”

“Nay. Is this somethin’ ye could manage within the week?”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Milloy nodded earnestly. “I can have the wedding dress and four dresses delivered to ye within two days. The rest I will deliver after the ceremony.”

“Wonderful,” Caelan murmured.

“Caelan, I—” Rosaline blurted out.

“Quiet,” he cut her off. “Accept the gift.”

Rosaline was whisked back into the changing room without the chance to utter a single word. She was in such shock and discomfort that she couldn’t even have thought of any objection if she had the time.

“I get the impression that ye are a woman of simple, classic styles. Is that right, Miss Rosaline?” Mrs. Milloy asked.

“Eh, aye.”

“Understood, lass. I will make a dress that suits yer frame and yer taste—nothing that will overwhelm ye.”

“Thank ye.”

“I will bring it to the castle for a fittin’, and make any adjustments upon delivery. If there are any parts of the wedding dress ye dislike, ye can tell me then and I will alter it.”

Rosaline merely nodded, overwhelmed already.

“Dinnae stress, lass. There are worse positions to be in than marryin’ a laird who is buyin’ ye a whole new wardrobe,” Mrs. Milloy quipped, with a warm, wide smile.

Rosaline managed to return it before the dressmaker slipped the navy frock over her head and readied a green one to try on next.

* * *

The pair mounted Miller for the journey home and set out below dimming skies. The appointment at the dressmaker’s had taken longer than was necessary, as Mrs. Milloy had insisted on holding a few white fabrics against Rosaline’s skin to ensure that they would not select one that might “wash her out.” Rosaline had thought white was white, but she had left with knowledge quite to the contrary.

Thus, as they rode back, the sun began reaching the horizon, and the sky darkened from a bright baby blue to a rich evening cobalt.

“There is an extra fur beneath the saddle if ye get cold.” Caelan’s tone was devoid of care, but his actions revealed him to be more attentive than he wished to come across.

Rosaline said she was fine for now, shrouded as she was in the warmth radiating from his body.

As they rode back to the village, Rosaline heard the faint sound of drums and saw brighter light than usual coming from the center of the rows of cottages.

“Is there a celebration?” she asked.

“A festival,” Caelan replied. “I thought we would be back before they began, but it seems they have started early.”

The smell of bonfire filled the air as they drew closer, and the music filled her ears. Pipes, drums, and fiddles were being tuned and tightened, and a few test runs were underway. Boys carried firewood from their cottages to the center of the village, all working together to build a bonfire that would heat and light the whole community. Women set up tables outside their homes with piping hot food in pots, ready to sell and share.

“What is it for?”

“It is an ancient festival, to worship a faerie that once visited our lands. It is said that she arrived depleted, starved and alone, but the villagers took her in and nursed her back to health. In return, she gifted our ancestors with great strength. It is said to be the reason us Sinclairs are such good fighters.”

“How lovely,” Rosaline murmured, thinking how fascinating the story was.

Immediately, she pictured the faerie and wondered about her wings. Shortly after, three little girls ran by with costume wings on their backs, made by their mothers from branches and cloth. Rosaline adored the sight.

“Ah, Cullen Skink,” Caelan announced, pulling Miller’s reins to the right and steering them towards one of the cottages.

“Good evening, Me Laird,” a healthy young mother greeted as he dismounted. “A bowl for ye and the lady?”

“Aye, please, Ingrid.”

She scooped a generous serving into two wooden bowls and handed them to Caelan. He gave her two gold coins in return, which she tried to refuse at first but later accepted, as he pressed them into the hands of her two children instead.

Holding both bowls in his large hand, Caelan helped Rosaline down from the horse and tied him to a nearby post. He handed her a bowl and began to walk through the village, allowing her to take in the festivities. Musicians gathered by the bonfire and struck some beautiful ancient tunes, and she watched the villagers dance around the flames.

“It’s wonderful,” she remarked.

“Aye, it certainly is.”

“Me braither would love this.”

Conall always adored gatherings like this, thriving when surrounded by their clansfolk. He would run into the crowds at a young age when their clan held festivals like this one, and would not return until the night was over, immersing himself completely.

“Are ye far apart in age?”

“He is nine years older than me. We got along well as children.”

“But nae as adults?”

There was her chance to tell him more of her story. But Rosaline was not sure whether to do it or not. She did not want it to be used against her. He could decide that anything would be better than the Abbey and subject her to a similar cruelty.

But Caelan had already seen her desperation to escape. He had seen her malnourished body and how she had fled with no earthly possessions whatsoever. He knew more than she had revealed, so he might as well know the whole truth.

“He was the one who sent me to the convent,” she admitted.

Now done with their soup, Caelan took her bowl and listened as she spoke, both facing the flames of the bonfire.

“Me faither died when I was seven, and chaos broke out at the castle. I was too young to remember why, but violence was everywhere. Conall sent me away for me own safety; he thought I would be protected at the Abbey. Who could have kenned that holy women could be such demons? I sent him letter after letter askin’ him to come and get me, that anywhere would be better than there, but he never replied, and I havenae seen him since.”

“I’m sorry, lass. That’s terrible.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons. Maybe things werenae better where he could have taken me back. I havenae lost faith in him yet.”

Rosaline stared into the flames, feeling more vulnerable than ever after finally voicing her trauma. Her heart raced, and tears threatened to spill over her eyelids, but she held her breath until they sank back down. She would not let it defeat her.