Page 68 of The Scottish Bride

“Before the troubles, I studied it.” He lifted a shoulder. “My uncle asked if I wanted to go for the clergy, but I am not suited to that life. Though I did think to become a scholar at one point. I was young,” he added with a half-laugh.

“You!” She felt unaccountably delighted. “Wearing a robe and cap, a scholar! Harper knight, I did not see that in you. Horse and harp suit you best.”

“And sword. I realized it soon enough. What do you want to do, Tamsin?” His voice went low and somber.

“Well.” Bringing her thumb to her lips, she pondered. “We could tell your uncle we agreed to handfast. A year and a day.”

“You resist marriage. Why?”

She was silent, savoring the stillness, his closeness in the rumpled narrow bed. She did not want to disturb this island of peace. But he had been honest with her, and she must be the same with him.

“When I was married before,” she said, “I did not catch, you see, when we... So my husband left me alone and went back to his mistress. He gave her a little house in the village outside Dalrinnie.”

“Heatherstane? I know it.”

“She was English, and he had been with her for years, even with his first wife. He was much older than I, you see. And though he had no children with her or others—or me—he said that he was without an heir because of his cheap Scottish bride.”

“He was a fool.”

“I did not mind being left alone in that way, with him. I looked after the household, did as a wife was expected otherwise. And he left me to myself.”

“Some wives would count that a fortunate arrangement.”

“I did. But I learned to dislike marriage. I was so lonely. I thought that would be my fate. But—he died.”

“Were you ever mistreated, living in a garrison?”

“Ignored,” she said. “Isolated. I wanted to be with my family at Kincraig. With my books, my work. With my sisters. We had such joyful times, we three, and Henry too, and I missed them so. I still do. And I wanted to complete the work I had promised my great-grandfather I would do.”

“I promise you will not be lonely. I swear it.”

“I think I have been wrong about you,” she whispered after a moment.

“Not entirely.” He gave a wry huff. “But if we—married, you would be a helpmeet, not a servant to run the household, or the bookish wee scribe in the corner, or the Scottish bride, disdained in an enemy compound. Never that.”

He did not say she would be loved, nor did she expect that of him. Unsure herself what this was, she felt swept along when she needed time to think.

“You tried to tell me before, I think. I did not listen. I am listening now.”

“Then listen well,” he said. “You can trust this. Me.” He tapped his chest.

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she could not speak.

“Madam, the bells. We must see the abbot. What is your decision?”

She looked into his eyes, the blue of the sea, of a summer sky, the ice blue of some Viking ancestor who gave him height and strength and that commanding bright gaze. “Handfasting. Until next October, a year from tomorrow, if we fix the vows today.That should satisfy whatever Sir Malise might bring against it. Almost anything,” she murmured, knowing full well the danger left unsaid.

“If that is what you want, that is what we will do. Tamsin, I did not mean to—”

“Hush you.” The bells clamored again.

“I must hurry. The lads want to ride out this morning.” Sliding away, he stood, straightening his tunic and trews. “First, you and I must see my uncle. Ah, here are my boots.” Pulling them on, he held out a hand to her.

She stood. “Go ahead. I must change my gown and braid my hair for our handfasting.”

“Lass,” he said, “you could not look lovelier.”

Chapter Nineteen