A Perfect Knight For Love (27 page)

“My lady?”

“You’ve other duties of greater import and you’re disrupting my staff.”

His eyebrows rose and what could be a flush started at his lower jaw. “Thayne told me to—”

“I’ll handle these ladies. You truly need to return to your duty of protecting my husband . . . from drowning.”

“He’s swimming.”

“Looks more like he’s fighting waves.”

“His Lordship’s the best swimmer in the clan, my lady. He’s half fish.”

“Not that I’ve noticed ,” Amalie answered, to a lot of giggling all around them.

“The lasses might need guarding.” He was definitely flushed now.

“I thought they were . . . visiting.”

He set his lips.

“Oh leave. We’ll not need you again.”

He debated arguing further, then bowed. He swiveled without lifting his feet and started across the floor. They all watched him. His exit was given silence until he reached the door. That’s when the giggles broke out. It bothered Sean, if the way he dipped his head and the haste he ran the steps was an indicator. Amalie turned her attention to her new charges. The redhead was still glaring. One of the others met her glance before looking hastily back at the floor.

“Maves?”

“My lady?” Her maid bowed.

“Have we enough rooms to see these ladies to separate ones?”

“Please doona’ separate us, my lady!” One of the girls, for she looked little older than that spoke up, tears filling her eyes.

“You wish to share a room?” Amalie asked it gently.

“Aye.”

“I’ll order you baths and fresh clothing. You still wish to share rooms?”

“We’re . . . sisters, my lady.”

“Sisters?”

Now Amalie set her lips. It was obvious something needed to be done about Jamie. It was just as obvious her husband wasn’t effective at it. It was an unheard breech of the justice system and needed to be stopped. She’d heard of magistrates even up here in the wilds of the Highlands. She had to find a way to reach one. There had to be some way to stop Jamie MacGowan from rampaging about the countryside raping and ravishing and spreading disease. Acting like a hedonistic despot with his own personal kingdom. Her frown deepened. From what she’d seen of Scotland, that’s exactly what Jamie thought he was.

She’d been wrong. The castle wasn’t civilized at all. It just carried the veneer of it until one peeked beneath the edges.

“Maves?” Her voice warbled. Amalie had to stop and clear her throat and hope she sounded more convincing and authoritative. “Would you see these girls to a chamber, order warmed water sent up, and find clothing that will suit them?”

“Of course, my lady. With your pardon, I’ll just go and speak with the head housekeeper of it. If you’ll follow me, misses?”

She had a head housekeeper? That was another surprise coating of respectability and civility to life here in this castle. It was a pure shame it was false. Amalie backed to the window seat again before another fitting was called for, tucked her legs back beneath her, and went back to watching the dark spots of swimmers in the loch.

Chapter 19

Amalie checked again in the huge mirrors brought from the dressing alcove so she could stand and look at herself. She looked perfect. Even the infant seemed to agree as she cooed from her cradle. Absolutely perfect. From the top of her head to the tips of the satin slippers peeking from beneath her hem, those women had created perfection. Once, not so long ago, she’d been gowned much like this, her hair painstakingly curled and pinned into a mass at the crown of her head, with four ringlets left to lie atop her shoulders and skim her back. Just two months ago, at her debutante ball. She’d been excited. Thrilled. Breathless with anticipation. But that had been before finding out the promise of her hand had already been given to an imbecile. Then came their meeting, while he fumbled and drooled and looked at her with watery blue eyes, making her quiver with dislike and something else.

Fear.

Amalie shuddered. She wouldn’t think on it.

The image reflecting back at her picked out the reddish highlights in her hair. This style was the rage ever since the French Dauphin’s mistress had created a passion for it. Ladies at court were still required to cinch themselves into a sixteen-inch waist, but they were to leave their coiffure powder-free. Not so the face and shoulders. Those portions were liberally sprinkled if a lady had suffered sun exposure, a disfiguring bout with smallpox, or had a propensity toward sweaty shine. All court ladies were to possess unblemished white skin.

All of which came naturally for Amalie. She didn’t even need the small patch at the edge of a dimple to prove it, although she felt it gave her a slight sophistication and allure. She wondered if Thayne would notice. And furthermore where he was.

The household of the duke and duchess dined late, as per the dictates of the French court. Amalie had been given a light repast hours ago, just after the chamber had been vacated by Millicent’s army of seamstresses and all of their supplies. Amalie knew they’d repaired to the sewing chambers, somewhere in the bowels of this castle, alongside the storehouses and buttery.

Amalie had no choice but to accept what fate handed her. She was fully Thayne’s wife now with little recourse other than take up the role of chatelaine he’d given her. She’d hoped he’d assist her in showing where everything was kept and how the buildings connected through the halls designed into the barbican walls, but she hadn’t seen him. Had no contact with him. Nothing.

All she’d had were orders. To rest. Bathe. Get presentable for the fest. Amalie looked over at the baby and smiled, before approaching in a swish of rose-shaded satin to touch a tiny hand that immediately closed about hers. Such a sweet thing. And so fragile. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Amalie already loved her.

“My lady?”

It was Maves, hastening to the door to allow a retinue of Beth, and what might be a steward, attired in MacGowan colors that did little to hide an overly lean frame. Or maybe she was just comparing him to her new husband. Unfavorably. The latter held a velvet-wrapped tray in his arms.

“This is Beathan, my lady.”

“Beathan.” Amalie inclined her head. The man cleared his throat.

“His Lordship had this sent for you. From the treasury.”

She watched him set the tray atop the large table, before bowing and then exiting, with a great show of stiff back and martial-cadenced footsteps. And then the resounding boom of her door closing added to it. She nearly giggled. She’d forgotten Thayne claimed a treasury. He’d given her control of it, as well, and that was just another room she’d have to search out in the depths of this castle. When she went exploring.

Amalie walked toward them, enjoying the swish of material against her lower limbs and ankles. Then she gasped as Maves lifted a tiara fashioned of silver with little pearls dangling from every intricately wrought flower. There was a necklace of the same design that Beth held. It was the perfect touch. And Thayne hadn’t even seen her.

Amalie turned back to the mirror and held her breath as the tiara was placed atop her head, offsetting the dark tones of her hair. She was so glad she hadn’t insisted on powdering it! The necklace was a bit of trouble, though. It had been crafted for a larger frame and didn’t ride the crest of her breasts artfully. Instead, it settled with unerring accuracy right into the curve of cleavage they’d created with her new corset. She spread the chain across her shoulders but watched as the jewels settled right back, as if directing the gaze. Amalie sighed. It couldn’t be helped. She was small and everything in this castle wasn’t. Even in heels she probably wouldn’t reach Thayne’s shoulder.

“His Lordship’s Honor Guard is waiting for you.” It was Elinore with that information from the door.

“His Honor Guard? All of them?”

Elinore giggled. The others joined in. “Just four. They’ve been sent to escort you to His Lordship. I understand he’s awaiting you in the Chieftain Rooms.”

“Is . . . that normal?”

Maves smiled. “Women are rarely allowed in the Chieftain Room . . . nae. But as His Lordship’s na’ been wed afore, I doona’ ken if ’tis normal or na’.”

“Oh.”

Amalie’s voice caught in her throat and she knew she blushed. It wasn’t said as a rebuke, but it felt like one. She ducked her head ostensibly to work at lifting her skirts artfully before following her maids to the chamber portal, crossing each step plateau, and walking through the width of stone archway that supported his door. And then she was facing four large men she’d never seen before, all attired in Highland wear. With the amount of cloth draped over their broad shoulders and a large feathered bonnet atop their heads, they looked even more immense. And critical. As if she had to first pass muster with them before they’d escort her.

It was a ridiculous notion and she didn’t like the feeling but that didn’t change it. She raised her chin to look each of them in the eye and waited. And got one grin followed by another before they turned and surrounded her. Amalie hoped they didn’t intend to keep this stance the entire way down the wheel-stair, but that was a forlorn wish. The staircase was built wide. Moving with one man in front of her, one at each side, and one behind, presented no obstacle with spacing. They were regimented and took the steps in another cadence resembling a march. Amalie kept pace with one hand holding her skirts, and the other one keeping the necklace from bouncing while sounds of their steps got swallowed up by all the stone about. The only thing that suffered was her nerves.

What was keeping them?

Thayne reached the end of his raised platform and turned back the other way, ignoring the throb of his wound as the pace kept tempo with his worry. Anxiety. Bother. Apprehension. Potential embarrassment. Concern. He ran his hands along the handles of his skeans, tucking them more securely into his belt as if the last pivot he’d made had jarred them; checked the alignment of his sword against his side; flipped the plaid tartan band back over his shoulder with a rough gesture; readjusted the brooch holding it in place; took a deep breath that chafed against the red ribbon covered in medals and jewels that spliced his chest. The ribbon felt like more bondage atop his black doublet, which was tighter now than when it had been fashioned. That was his fault. Unlike his brother, Thayne fully adhered to the Highland creed that a man could only claim what he could hold. Such a standard required strength and practice and preparation. Continually and ever increasing. All of which broadened his chest, arms, and shoulders. With the exception of his
feileadh-breacan
, clothing rarely fit him properly within weeks of construction. Leaving him feeling constricted. Short of breath. Bound. Imprisoned. And that was before he factored in the starched shirt ruffles at his chin, choking him even though he hadn’t bothered fastening the top button.

He’d combed and pulled his hair back to a queue that reached between his shoulder blades. It wasn’t a concession to fashion. It made it easier to observe and react. He wasn’t powdering it, and he wasn’t adhering to any decree of wearing tight curls above both ears. He refused. He also refused to wear the frock coat, knee breeches, and satin stockings laid out earlier, as if the duchess actually thought he’d obey her edicts and wear frippery. Not in this lifetime. And not him. He needed his legs free and mobile, and his sword and skeans handy. If his wife found him uncivilized-looking and barbaric, it wouldn’t be the first time. Aside of which, he doubted she’d ever seen correct court fashion and wouldn’t be any sort of judge.

Thayne snarled at the shield facing him. That made it easier to start back across the platform toward it, not feeling the seam of his wound flex and stretch, nor seeing the plastered walls two stories in height, the hammer beam ceiling, nor the length of painting all along the roofline done by Valentine Jenkin just after he’d finished Stirling Castle. Beneath that, the MacGowans displayed every manner of banner and shield and weapon and tartan. Most taken in battle; some . . . just taken. It was an impressive room, the perfect backdrop for the MacGowan laird to receive his clan. Sitting in regal splendor in the chair set on this dais. The chair was carved from thick wood. Constructed for his largest forebear’s dimensions, it was even large when Thayne sat in it. They’d set it back a bit to allow room to pace in front of it, from one end of the dais to the other.

This delay didn’t bode well, and he knew it. He’d given orders to his staff. Sent every bit of feminine nonsense for her use, ordered them to see her dressed correctly . . . but nothing could be done about uncouth manners. Inelegant posture. Lack of training in court etiquette. His Honor Guardsmen had instructions. If she failed to be presentable, she’d be locked back into the chamber and given a late sup, while Thayne would attend the fest alone. Such an act would create more talk and probably more challenges he’d have to meet on the list, but he wasn’t presenting her if she wasn’t presentable.

All of which was his fault.

It was his mouth speaking the wedding vow, and now that he’d wed a superior servant—and an English one at that—he had no choice but to deal with the consequences. He hoped like hell the glimpses he’d had of charm and elegance in the past few days weren’t his imagination.