As they descended the stairs arm in arm, her uncle’s words gave her the courage she needed to lift her chin and fix a gracious smile on her lips.
Just as she had feared, the minute she was recognized most conversations lurched to a halt. Even the musicians faltered, striking several discordant notes in a row before resuming the tinkling notes of the dance. The conversations resumed at a much lower level, most of them accompanied by sharp nudges and nods in their direction.
Uncle Ross remained unfazed. Catriona followed his lead, her smile frozen on her face as they joined the dance. Her uncle was surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size.
She caught a glimpse of Georgina and her husband Stephen beaming at them from one of the scarlet-lined boxes overlooking the theater floor, then pivoted to find Alice glaring at her with a malice equal to her sister’s goodwill. Alice was partnered by a handsome young militiaman with short-cropped hair and an impressive set of side-whiskers. It seemed her cousin still couldn’t resist a man in uniform.
A scattering of light applause greeted the end of the minuet. “Would you care for some punch?” her uncle offered.
Catriona regretted her nod almost immediately, as his departure left her standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor.
Like a vulture sensing a fresh corpse, Alice came swooping down out of the crowd. “I can’t believe you’d dare show your face in public after you’ve dragged our good name through the mud by making such spiteful accusations,” she hissed. “Simon certainly had no problems performing with me.”
“He never had the chance,” Catriona replied coolly. “I was there. Remember?”
With a scathing “Harrumph,” Alice melted back into the crowd, tossing her yellow curls.
Catriona shook her head, thinking what a shame it was that her cousin and Eddingham hadn’t wed after all. They would have made a perfect match.
She glanced around to discover that her uncle had been waylaid by an old acquaintance with a reputation for repeating the same long-winded stories at every social occasion.
Uncle Ross shot her an apologetic glance, but the man had already seized his arm, offering him little chance of escape and Catriona little hope of rescue.
When someone bumped her from behind, she whipped around, convinced Alice had returned after finally thinking up a witty retort. But the offenders turned out to be a blushing young couple.
“So sorry, miss,” the gentleman said, tugging at his fashionable forelock.
The girl giggled and bobbed a charming curtsy. “Please do forgive us.”
As they proceeded on their way, hand in hand, it was easy to see why they had nearly trampled her—they were too busy gazing adoringly at each other to watch where they were going. Judging by their youth and the simple gold band flashing on the girl’s finger, they were also recently wed.
Something about the way they looked at each other reminded Catriona of Jem and Bess ducking into the forge on her wedding day, soaked to the skin but glowing with joy.
She closed her eyes against a blinding rush of sorrow. She didn’t belong here any more than Simon did. There were doors that would be forever closed to her as well. Doors that led to long, snowy winter nights snuggled beneath the blankets in her lover’s arms. Doors that led to a houseful of laughing, golden-haired children who looked like cherubs but had devilish green eyes. Doors that led to a lifetime of love.
Desperate to escape the prying eyes that were still watching her every move, she turned and began to wend her way toward an arch at the far end of the ballroom.
The first note from the bagpipes cut straight through her heart. She couldn’t have moved if a chandelier had been about to crash down onto her head.
The ancient instrument’s song soared in passionate abandon within the confines of the ballroom walls, mocking everything that had come before it as only a pale imitation of music.
Catriona slowly turned to find a grizzled old man standing at the top of the stairs, working the pipes with every last ounce of his strength. Everyone in the ballroom looked flabbergasted. Her own astonishment grew when a dozen men, all garbed in green and black tartan kilts and plaids, came marching down the stairs in regimental precision, their shoulders thrown back and their heads held high. They formed a double row at the bottom of the stairs, creating a human passageway for whoever chose to descend next.
As the piper finished his tune, leaving his final triumphant note hanging in the air, everyone stood in stunned silence for a moment, then erupted in thunderous applause.
Believing the entire exhibition to be part of the evening’s entertainment, the men began to whistle and stomp and shout, “Capital idea!” and “Simply smashing!”
Another man appeared at the top of the stairs. Their applause faded.
The silence was so profound that all Catriona could hear was the thundering of her heart in her ears as she gazed up into her husband’s narrowed green eyes.
T
his was the Simon she remembered from the barn—clean-shaven, clear-eyed, his hair neatly trimmed and barely brushing his collar. He was dressed as finely as any other gentleman in the ballroom, but he wore her beloved old tartan—the Kincaid plaid—draped over one broad shoulder and pinned with a silver brooch.
As the crowd recognized him, a shocked murmur went up, quickly rising to a swell that rippled from one end of the ballroom to the other.
One might be offended by his parentage if one was so inclined, but there was no denying that Simon Wescott was a gorgeous specimen of masculinity. Several of the women whipped out fans and began to frantically fan themselves, while others gripped the arm of whoever was standing closest to them, near to swooning.
As Simon started down the steps, heading straight for her, Catriona was afraid she was about to be included in the latter category. Only she had no arm to grip. No one to catch her should she fall.
This was the Simon she remembered from the docks—dashing, dangerous, an element of natural command in his every step. He looked every inch the conquering hero, determined to claim whatever prize he had won. A path magically opened between them as the Highlanders fell into step behind him.
She glanced around frantically, expecting Uncle Ross to come charging to her rescue, to denounce Simon for the scoundrel he was and whisk her away to a safe, boring life that contained no risk of having her heart broken all over again by this silver-tongued Adonis.
But her uncle was watching the proceedings with as much avid interest as the rest of the crowd.
Simon stopped right in front of her, his green eyes smoldering with a passion she remembered only too well.
This was the Simon she remembered from her bed—confident in his own prowess, wildly naughty…and utterly irresistible.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, wishing she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.
“I’ve come to inform you that you’re not entitled to an annulment. As your husband, I did fulfill my marital duties to your satisfaction—
and to mine
—not just once, but numerous times.”
A round of shocked gasps went up from the crowd. Uncle Ross hid his face behind his hand, but it was impossible to tell if he was on the verge of laughter or tears.
Catriona folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “How do you know I was satisfied?”
Simon’s lazy smile set off a fresh fluttering of eyelashes and fans. “You might want to withdraw that question, Mrs. Wescott. A gentleman wouldn’t divulge those details…but I just might.”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway. You’re too late. The bishop has already called an ecclesiastical council. By nine o’clock in the morning, our marriage will be over.”
“If it’s my virility in question, I’d be more than glad to provide proof. All you have to do is step over to that curtained alcove with me for a quarter of an hour—that is, if we skip the
pleasantries
.”
Several of the women tittered behind their fans. Catriona felt her own cheeks heat as she remembered just how exquisitely
pleasant
some of those
pleasantries
had been.
“Of course, the bishop might require some witnesses,” Simon added. He politely scanned the crowd, raising his voice. “May we have some volunteers?”
Several hands shot into the air, all belonging to men.
“Hoot, mon, if this is how ye English go about wooin’ a lass into yer bed, I’m surprised yer race hasn’t completely died out by now.”
Catriona blinked in shock as Kieran stepped out from behind Simon, scowling in disgust.
“If I may interrupt this touchin’ little reunion before it brings a sentimental tear to me eye, I’d like to tell ye the real reason we’re here. We’re on our way back to the Highlands.
We’re goin’ to drive this Eddin’ham fellow off the Kincaid lands once and for all.”
Catriona scowled right back at him, beginning to feel woefully outnumbered. “And why should I care? You made it quite clear that you don’t want or need my help.” She waved a hand at Simon. “Why, you already have the chieftain you wanted right here in front of you!”
Kieran and Simon exchanged a glance. Simon nodded.
Clearing his throat, Kieran awkwardly dropped to one knee, the proud set of his shoulders unyielding. Gazing up at her, he said, “Catriona Kincaid, we swear our fealty to ye as the one true chieftain o’ Clan Kincaid. Ye have our loyalty, our swords, our hearts and our very lives if ye require them to serve ye and protect ye for as long as we—and ye—may live.”
As he bowed his head, the other Highlanders went to their knees, one by one. The grizzled old piper was the last to bow, his knees creaking with the effort.
Catriona stood paralyzed with shock, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, as Simon unfastened the plaid from his own shoulder and gently laid it over hers before dropping to one knee in front of her.
Instead of bowing his head, he took her hand in his and gazed up into her eyes, just as he had in her bedchamber on the morning they left for Gretna Green. “Catriona Kincaid,”
he said solemnly, “from the first moment I laid eyes on you, I should have known you were the only woman in the world for me. I was too stupid and stubborn to realize it, but I fell in love with your courage, your spirit, your beauty, your wit, and now I can think of nothing and no one else. If I were a better man, I would have confessed my love to you—and to myself—before taking you to my bed. But my hunger for you was so great that no power in heaven or hell could have stopped me from making you my own.”
There was a brief commotion as a woman near the punch bowl finally succumbed to a swoon.
Simon gently caressed Catriona’s knuckles with his thumb. “I can only pray that you’ll forgive me for taking such ruthless advantage of our bargain and will allow me to make amends by doing me the honor of agreeing to share my life, my future and my name by remaining my wife. You told me once that you felt there was no place in this world for you. Well, I’m here to tell you that there is. And that place is in my arms.”
He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with a tender fierceness that made her heart clutch, then lifted his beseeching gaze to her face. His next words were so deep and soft that only she could hear them. “I know you loved me once, Catriona. Please tell me it’s not too late for you to love me again.”
Too late.
The words seemed to toll through her mind like a dirge.
They were offering her everything she’d ever wanted, and for the first time in her life she was afraid to take it. She had believed for so long, hoped for so long, guarded her dreams as if they were priceless treasures. How could it be that now—when she needed it the most—her faith was spent?
How could she ever trust a man like Simon to be constant in his affections? How could she ever be sure that his words came from the heart and weren’t just a stanza of some pretty speech he’d memorized in the theater? How could she keep her heart—and her dreams—from being crushed beneath his polished bootheels once again?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tugging her hand from his grip. “I can’t. I simply can’t.”
She turned her back on them all just as they had once turned their backs on her, determined to walk away with her pride intact, if not her heart.
She’d only taken a few steps when Simon’s voice rang out. “I asked you once how long you would wait for the man you loved and you told me, ‘Forever.’ Was that a lie?”
Since she had no answer for him, she just kept walking.
“I’m not fighting for them. I’m fighting for you. And with or without you, we’re going to Balquhidder to take back Castle Kincaid.”
She stopped and turned around to find them all on their feet. Surveying Simon through a shimmering veil of tears, she said, “Then may God go with you, because I can’t.”
C
atriona huddled in the window seat of her bedchamber, enveloped in the worn folds of the Kincaid plaid. Robert the Bruce was curled up at the foot of her bed, looking equally doleful. Although another perfect spring day was dawning outside the window, it might as well have been deepest winter. She didn’t even bother to open the window and invite in the balmy, honeysuckle-scented breeze. She was content to watch through the thick layer of glass as the world went on without her.
Nearly a week had passed since the ball. Simon and her clansmen should be arriving at Balquhidder any day now. She closed her eyes, haunted by a vision of Kieran’s stubborn neck broken by a hangman’s noose, Simon sprawled on the ground, his golden hair matted with blood.
There was a curt rap on her door. Before she could tell whoever it was to go away and leave her alone, her uncle flung open the door and came charging into the room.