The MacNaughton Bride (4 page)

The baby of the family
– all six foot three and nearly eleven stone of him – was Grant
Chevres
MacNaughton
, mercilessly
teased and still fondly referred to as Cheesy.
 
Their mother had had an unfortunate fondness for goats’ milk
cheese during her pregnancy, and their father had been so enamored of her
– and over the moon about the successful birth of his third son –
that he had indulged her and let her name the infant.

He had been the first to
nickname him Cheesy, much to their mother’s distress.

Despite the hindrance of
his middle name, and two older brothers who enjoyed perfecting their punching
skills while holding him down, Grant prospered, as did the entire family in
general.
 
Grant was an almost disturbingly
good natured fellow who enjoyed drinking at least as much as his brothers, and
women quite a bit more so than either of them.
 
Women loved him.
 
They flocked around his youthful good looks and wanted to mother him,
and he was all too happy to let them attempt it, anyway.
 

But he was also in
possession of the
MacNaughton
temper.
 
Kell
controlled his the best of all of them.
 
Cheesy the least – and his nose had been broken more times than
any of them because of it.
 
It took
a lot to get Grant going, but once he had decided that a fight was necessary,
he was as deadly accurate and adept at it as his brothers.
 
He had to learn to be to survive the
loving attentions of his two older brothers.

There were several things
that would get Grant’s ire up, but two were predominant:
 
the mistreatment of a female –
for he had the utmost respect and admiration for any woman of any rank or
station – or any animal.
 
No
two things were more likely to guarantee a miscreant a thorough beating such as
he had never experienced than either of those two acts.

None of the brothers was
married – Grant being the least likely candidate, not simply because of
his age, but because he was constantly being offered the chance to sample yet
another lovely who was throwing herself at him.
 
Why would he confine himself too just one woman?

Of course, that was all
going to change today, and the brothers were doing their level best to make
sure that the eldest had as good a time as was possible, despite himself.
 
They were of a mind that
Kell
took himself and his station entirely too seriously
sometimes, and this was one of them.
 
He had banned the usual round of celebrations with his friends, which
should have been a week or so of drinking their way from house to house, only
to end up here, this morning, to get married.

“What’s she like, brother?”
Burke asked.
 
He almost waggled his
eyebrows, but decided against it.

Kell
sank down in a chair, considering the question seriously.
 
“She’s a tiny little sparrow.”

Grant leaned forward,
looking at
Kell
as if for the first time.
 
“Why, I do believe our dear level
headed brother is in love,
Burkey
.”

Burke, of course, had to
assume the same position, leaning forward so far that he almost fell out of his
chair.
 
“You think so?”

Kell
scoffed at the thought.
 
“How could
I be in love with her?
 
I just met
her less than a day ago.”
 
He
squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, and his brothers adopted know it all grins
that increased his discomfort several fold.
 
“Besides, whether I love her or not doesn’t mean a
thing.
 
I’ve already accepted and
largely spent her dowry.
 
She’s
going to be my wife, regardless.”

Grant sighed
dramatically.
 
“So much for your
romantic poet’s heart, big brother.”
 
His tone clearly stated that he was quite sure that
Kell
didn’t possess either the poet or the heart.

“Is she pretty?” Burke
asked boldly.

Kell
vaulted out of the chair and out the door, but his brothers were in hot
pursuit, not about to let him duck out of their fraternal inquisition.
 
He was the first of them to marry, and
the younger two were bursting with curiosity about his bride, and their soon to
be sister in law.

Kell
ran up the huge staircase as if the hounds of hell were following him, and the
closest equivalent on Earth was.
 
Ducking into the room he was using short term didn’t help one bit
– they followed him in like they belonged there.

Finally, he turned and
confronted them.
 
“Boys, I’m
perfectly capable of getting dressed for my wedding with no assistance from
you.”

They didn’t take the hint,
and they’d deliberately told his French valet, Pierre, to make himself scarce
for this particular ritual.
 
There
were no chairs to sit in, so they leaned against the sill and the wall, staring
at him as if he held the secret to eternal life.

“So, you never did answer
the Cheese’s question.
 
Is she
pretty?”

Kell
wasn’t about to encourage their behavior by revealing that he though that his
wife was incredibly gorgeous.
 
If
they got a whiff that he was well on the way to falling in love just by
spending about five minutes with her, they would never let him forget it.
 
“She’s passable,” he said, deliberately
without much enthusiasm, rummaging in the wardrobe and bringing out his outfit
for the wedding:
 
full Highland
regalia, dress kilt in dress tartan – which differed from the every day
tartan quite considerably.
 

The everyday
MacNaughton
tartan was a deep, rugged red and hearty
green.
 
There were a couple of
variations – a “muted” tartan in which the green was almost washed out,
that few favored – and a “weathered” pattern where the green was a little
more prominent but gray was also included.
 
Kell
preferred the every day style
over everything, and even in this day and age, when the fashion even in
Scotland was trousers and top hats.
 
The dress version of the
MacNaughton
tartan
was done in various shades of blue, from a deep navy to almost a sky, run
through with stark white and a tad bit of red in thinner stripes throughout.

But
Kell
preferred the traditional Scottish garb over just about anything.
 
Being the Chieftain of his clan, he
wore the finest of accoutrement – his plaids weren’t merely woolen, but
wool and silk combined, which alleviated some of the usual itch that
accompanied the wearing of them.
 
He donned a starched white shirt which he tucked neatly into the waistband
of his kilt and shouldered his way into a vest, then Burke held the arms of his
Prince Charlie jacket and he eased into it, stretching the fabric a bit across
his shoulders.
 
It had been quite a
while since he’d had to dress so fancily – since his father’s funeral
several years ago, and apparently he’d added some weight – all of it
muscle across the breadth of his shoulders, apparently.

The deep blue jacket was
short and ended around his waist.
 
The lapels of both the jacket and the vest open, revealing much of his
shirtfront.
 
The jacket was
plainish
, except for the decorative gold buttons shaped
like a shield, three of them each side down the front and sleeves of the
jacket.
 
Grant affixed his “flying
plaid” on his left shoulder with their father’s gold plaid broach and pin,
draping the swatch of dress tartan fabric down his back until it ended just
above his white kilt hose and flashes.

Kell
sat down on the end of the entirely too small bed he’d used last night and
slipped his huge feet into his dress
ghillie
brogues
and laced them up his thick calves.
 
Burke handed him his dress sporran and chain, which he looped around his
waist, so that the pouch settled just below his privates.
 
Kell
allowed
himself a small smile, remembering the first time he’d dress in formal Highland
garb with his father’s grave assistance, and had commented on the weight and
location of his small sporran.
 
His
father had lifted one of those bushy gray eyebrows and commented acerbically
that its purpose was as a purse of sorts, but that it would also serve as a
good reminder that little boys wearing sporrans should conduct them selves like
gentlemen.

Kell
had given his father a quizzical look, and the older man had bent down a
little, as if sharing a secret.
 
“Young man, if you jump and run while you’re wearing a sporran, I can
assure you that you’ll only let the cantle hit you in the balls once before you
settle down.”

The old man had been
dreadfully right, as
Kell
recalled.
 
It had only taken once for that big
silver clasp to knock itself into his privates, and he was quiet – and
slightly nauseous – for the rest of the event.

His dress sporran had a
solid gold cantle – it had been his father’s and his father’s before that
for generations back – that was carved with the family crest.
 
Originally, sporrans were used as purses,
since kilts didn’t have any pockets.
 
Now they were really just decorative accessories.

Burke dragged him down to
his own bedroom so that he could see himself in a full length mirror.
 
Burke had much more care for what he
looked like than
Kell
ever would.
 
But when
Kell
looked into the glass, he had to admit he didn’t look too bad.
 
Grant slapped him on the back.
 
“You’re a fine figure of a man,
Kell
.
 
You’re
almost passable, even!”
 
He preened
in front of the mirror.
 
“But
neither of you’ll ever hold a candle to me.
 
The good Lord saved the best for last in this family.”

Of course, his brothers
both had to smack him sharply as they all tromped back down to
Kell’s
temporary room to finish dressing him.

Aislinn
,
meanwhile, was being fluttered around by Jenny.
 
The dress
Aislinn
was wearing had
been her mothers, worn years before and carefully preserved by Jenny
herself.
 
It was one of the few
things that
Aislinn
had of her mother, and she was
determined to wear it, despite the fact that its hooped skirts were out of
fashion.
 
The dress hadn’t been the
most fancy of dresses even in its time, but it was the finest garment
Aislinn
had ever worn.
 
Its linen was fine woven and a deep blue – “married in
blue, love will be true”.
 
She
hoped the singsong bride’s rhyme would bode better for her than it had her
mother.

There were two bodices with
the ensemble, one for fancy, with lace insets and pearl beading and buttons
which she was wearing for her wedding, and one plainer one so that the dress
could be worn for more every day events.
 
The lace and bead encrusted skirt was supported by not one but two
hoops, and fell to just above
Aislinn’s
toes.
 
Her shoes were the only part of her
outfit that she was concerned about, since she had only the one pair, but they
would have to do.
 
Her train was
full court, trailing along behind her like a fabric tail.
 
When it was spread out, the lace
designs and beading was breathtaking.
 
For now, though, Jenny bustled the train against her bottom.

Her veil was of an
intricate blue lace that complimented the dress, and fell down her back in
glorious waves, much like her hair would if
Aislinn
had had her way.
 
But Jenny
prevailed in the area of hair styles, impressing on her charge that she was a
woman now, and needed to wear her hair up.
 
Tendrils of it escape from the beautiful coiffure, of course,
and formed fine baby hair ringlets around her pale face.
  
Jenny had brushed just the barest
touch of color to
Aislinn’s
cheeks, which generally
needed little such artifice, and did the same to her full lips.
 
Aislinn’s
eyes sparkled with intelligence and good health, and were surrounded by sooty,
thick lashes.
 
There was no need
for any sort of assistance there.

While
Aislinn
had disappeared this morning, much to Jenny’s dismay, Jenny had busied herself
doing an errand that
Aislinn
had presented her with
upon waking.
 
It was no mean
feat.
 
But the last touch she added
to the young woman’s ensemble – after the diamond teardrop earrings that
was the only jewelry her mother had left her – was to use a
plainish
brooch of her own to fasten a good sized square of
the
MacNaughton
tartan she’d found by rummaging
around the place.
 
Luckily, it was
also blue and white, and it matched the dress perfectly.
 
Aislinn
had
decided that it might do nicely to try to adopt something of her husband’s into
her dress, and an homage to the family – the clan – she was
joining.