Thorn in My Heart (43 page)

“I am that, sir.” Jamie sighed heavily, fingering the warm ring.

“Aye, and righdy so.” Lachlan slapped a pewter cup on the wood between them and produced a flask, pitching the cork aside as soon as it pulled free. “You ve a long night ahead and a longer day after. A man needs his strength, and I've just the thing for it.” He poured a dram of whisky and tossed it down, then immediately poured another and handed it to Jamie. “Drink up, laddie. Drink up before I change my mind and keep it for myself.”

Jamie slipped the ring in his waistcoat pocket, drank the whisky in a single swallow, then held out the empty pewter cup. “I've need of another, Uncle. To keep the winter cold from my door.”

“Oo aye!” Lachlan chuckled. “A young man's bed should ne'er be cold.”

A winter's night, a woman's mind,
and a laird's purpose aften change.

S
COTTISH
P
ROVERB

L
eana sat at the top of the stair and listened to the empty house breathe. The night wind moaned outside, making the shutters ratde and the floorboards creak, while the stone walls remained solid and immovable.

Be like the stone, Leana.
And not like the supple wood, bending at the strong wind's command. She felt like neither stone nor wood but rather like the rose petals she'd strewn that morning across the bed in Roses room.
Jamie's room.
The petals were no longer fresh but brittle, easily broken, meant to release a last sigh of fragrance when crushed beneath the weight of a husband and wife becoming one flesh.

Jamie, Jamie!
He had broken her heart a thousand times, only to mend it with a gende touch, a warm glance. Did he know that he held such sway over her? That whatever he asked she would do and more? She pressed her palms against her eyes, holding back the tears that would not stop. She had never known what it meant to love a man, and now that she knew, she wished—oh, how much she wished!—that she did not.

Before Jamie walked through Auchengray's door, the only love she'd known had been pure, righteous, and honorable. Love for her mother long ago. Love for her dear sister now. Love without compromise. Love that required sacrifice. The love of a child for its mother, a sister for a sister. Love that grew like a garden, always lovely, fresh every season.

But this…this obsession with Jamie was a garden full of weeds, choking out the beauty in her life, twisting and binding itself to all living things until they withered and died. Her sweet sister would return tomorrow, if not this very night, yet all Leana could think of was Jamie.
How he looked at her, how he touched her hand, how he kissed her mouth.
Forgive me, Rose!
She could beg for forgiveness, but still she could not stop wanting him.

Jamie had looked at her—at her, not at Rose—before he pledged his troth. And for one splendid moment outside the kirk, he'd shown his true feelings for her. At least they seemed genuine, for his kiss was not that of a cousin but of a husband, a lover. She'd nearly swooned when he finished with her.

Somewhere outside in the darkness of the newborn year, the fiddler struck up a final tune. It faded as he played on, walking down the drive toward home. The musicians were always the last to leave, the others having gone off to celebrate Hogmanay while the servants were kept busy cleaning the barn. Jamie and her father were nowhere to be found. And Rose was yet to be seen on her wedding day.

Leana hummed the familiar fiddle tune, then realized with a sinking heart that she knew the words as well:

“Aye, dear Rose, you have,” she said aloud, her voice echoing down the stair. “I was to marry first, remember? I don't mind that you've taken my place, dearie. Only that you've taken my love.”

All at once the front door banged open, and familiar voices chimed through the empty hall.
Father. And Jamie.
She scooted closer to the wall, knowing they could not see her, yet fearing they might find her there, drenched in tears and sorrow on this happiest of nights.

“Wait, Uncle. Wait.” Jamie's voice was rougher than usual. She recognized the sound.
Whisky.
He seldom drank spirits and would sorely regret it come the morn's morn. In the quiet house she could hear every word Jamie said. “I'm supposed to carry my wife across the threshold. This threshold right here.”

“Aye, and break the bride cake over her head as well,” Lachlan said, equally besotted.

Leana hung her head, ashamed to recall she'd managed those wedding customs by herself less than an hour ago, leaping over the threshold for good luck, then crumbling a bit of black bun over her head as well. A pathetic gesture, but she'd done it nonetheless.

“Never mind all that, lad,” Lachlan was saying. Their footsteps moved closer to the stair. “To bed with you now. The hour is long past midnight, and you've need of a good night's sleep.”

“And a good wife to sleep with!” Jamie chuckled at his own jest.

When the men's boots touched the bottom step, Leana bolted to her feet and backed toward her bedroom door, wondering how she might open it without giving herself away. By the time her hand touched the latch, it was too late. They'd rounded the landing and were staring straight up at her. “Happy New Year,” she said lamely.

“And to you, lass,” her father said, continuing to climb toward her, his arm around Jamie's sagging shoulders. When they reached the top of the stair, Jamie stopped direcdy in front of her, with Lachlan behind him providing support.

“Leana.” Ever the gendeman, Jamie made certain his bleary gaze traveled no lower then her face, even though her wool wrapper covered her from neck to toe.

“Leana,” he said again, “how can I ever thank you for all you've done?”

Oh, Jamie.
She didn't want to be thanked. She wanted to be loved. Could he not see that? Was it not written across her face in a bold hand?

Lachlan peered over Jamie's shoulder, his eyes sharper than she'd expected. “Leana, your cousin has asked you a question: How might he show his thanks?”

Leana could barely breathe, let alone think, with Jamie's eyes boring into hers. She saw desire there. Aye, and a bit of fear. How well she understood them both.

“Father, I…1 believe Cousin Jamie has already…expressed his gratitude. In many ways.”

Lachlan would not be dissuaded. “Have you something to show for it, lass? A gift perhaps? Something solid, such as coin for your tocher or coal for your grate?”

Jamie glanced over his shoulder. Something in his expression made her father lean away from him ever so slighdy, diough Jamie said nothing. When he turned back to her, his gaze was filled with regret. “I have nothing to give you, Leana. Even the clothes on my back were bought with your fathers money.”

“Jamie…” She touched his arm. “There is nothing I need. Nothing except the one thing you cannot give me.”

The muscles in his neck tightened. “I would if I could.”

“I know,” she whispered, feeling a fresh spate of tears springing to her eyes. “Good night, Jamie.” She released the latch behind her and disappeared into her room, closing the door behind her, then falling against it in a crumpled heap.

The mens footsteps faded down the hall and their voices as well. Pressed against the door like a common eavesdropper, she heard the door to Rose's room open and close with a soft bang. Silence filled the second floor of the house. Her father had gone in to speak to him, it seemed.
To bed, Leana.
Sleep could not cure a broken heart, but it was a beginning.

She slipped beneath the woolen covers, leaving one taper burning high on the dresser where it would not disturb her slumber. Clouds had moved in and blotted out the moon, for the window was dark, and her whole room, except for the tiny flame, remained pitch black. “As dark as a Yule midnight,” Neda would say. Darkness was nothing to fear. Far greater fears gnawed on Leana's soul. A life without love, without a husband, without children. For her it was no life at all. But what if that was the life the Almighty had chosen for her? If it pleased him, could she bear it?

The knock at her bedroom door was so soft she almost didn't hear it until it came again, three light taps in a row.
Jamie?
She threw back the covers and reached for the candle, laying her other hand across her neckline in a moment of modesty. Foolish. He'd already seen her heart; the rest of her held no secrets. She took a slight breath to give herself strength, then lifted the latch, holding the taper in front of her as she opened the door.

She blinked in surprise. “Father?”

Lachlan lifted one finger to his lips to silence her, then pushed open the door, inviting himself in. His gaze darted toward the latch, and she quickly closed it, shivering from the cold and his icy, sober stare.

“What is it, Father?”

“You know verra well what brings me here. To convince you to take what is rightfully yours.”

“Rightfully mine?” She balked, distancing herself from him. “
What
is rightfully—”

“Not
what!”
he hissed, his face reddening. “
Who!
Jamie McKie, the cousin you married in the kirk today, with the whole parish as witnesses. That's who is rightfully yours, by Gods law and mans law as well.”

“Father!” He could not have shocked her more. “I was merely a proxy, standing in for my sister. It is Rose who has the right to claim Jamie. It is Rose who married him today.”

His eyes were slits. “Did you not hear me say earlier that this would be your only wedding? Your only hope for a husband?”

She stood her ground, though the candle in her hand trembled. “I would rather be alone forever than steal my sisters husband.”

“Och! What a stubborn child you are.” His voice was low but frighteningly even. “Did you think by speaking your sister's name in the kirk the deed was done?”

“Aye…1 did think so.” She nodded, swallowing great lumps of fear that kept rising to choke her. “I…1
do
think so, Father. You can be certain Reverend Gordon thinks so.”

“I am laird of this property, and it is only what I think that matters.” He deliberately stepped closer, holding up one finger as though to shake it at her. “And I say its not the wedding that matters, its the marriage. The kirk can be paid to believe it was you who were meant to be the bride all along. Marriages are not made in kirk; they are made in bed.”

She looked away from him, ashamed. “What if Jamie does not want me in his bed?”

Lachlan thrust his finger in the direction of Jamie's room. “You cannot tell me that my nephew is not thinking of you—
you
, Leana—this very minute. Imagining you in his arms and meikle more, I'll warrant.”

“Father, I…1 have no reason to believe that's so.” Inside her, another voice begged to differ.
His eyes said so. His kiss said so. It could be so.

“I've watched Jamie all day, lass. Gazing at you like a besotted schoolboy. Dancing with you and feeding you sweets from his own hand. And kissing you.” He rolled his eyes.
“Losh/Yve
never seen such a vulgar display by the kirk doors in all my long life.”

She'd not heard him use the Lords name so freely.
Forgive him, Father. And forgive me as well.
For what? For loving a man who very well might love her after all?

Her father pressed his case, leaning so close he nearly burned his waistcoat on her candle. “He wants you, lass. No matter what your cousin may say with words, his heart, his eyes, and his body cannot deny the truth. What did his body tell you, Leana? When he held you, when he kissed you, what message did he send?”

Need.

“Aye, I can see it reflected in your own eyes, even in the dark of night. And what do his
eyes
tell you, lass? What story do you find there?”

Desire.

“So be it. And when you look into his heart—and don't tell me you can't, Leana, for I've known you these twenty years, and no one has a better grasp of such things than you—in that heart of his, what do you find?”

Longing.

She turned away from him, weary of being forced to reveal what she'd kept hidden, tired of being probed so deeply by one who knew her better than any man on earth. “Father, what would you have me do?”

“Jamie asked you, as clearly as any man could, what he might do to thank you. Did you hear him say those words?”

Leana nodded. It was fruidess to argue.

“And his last words to you:
I would if I could.
Well, Daughter, he
can
and he
wilir
His voice, still tinged with whisky, sharpened to a low hiss. “It is Jamie McKie, or it is no one, remember.” Lachlan stepped back, like a barrister releasing the jury. “I leave you to your thoughts, Leana. Do what you must.” He blew out her candle and unlatched the door, leaving as quietly as he came.

Leana stood there, the candle wax cooling even as her limbs began to tremble from the cold. Or from fear. Or from desire. It was impossible to separate them now. Her father could not be trusted, that much she knew. But could she trust her own eyes and ears to tell her the truth when her heart wanted Jamie so desperately?

Not only her heart. Her body wanted him as well. She was not a girl, like Rose. She was a woman, and she could not pretend otherwise.

Forgive me.

She put the candle aside, shivering as she tightened her wrapper. Her fathers demands alone could not make her climb into Jamie's bed. Even her own longings would not be enough to open his door. But if Jamie desired her…if Rose did not love him…if their spoken vows might be valid after all…if his kiss was true and his warm gaze genuine… if he meant what he said…
I would if I could.

Could he? Could Jamie decide for them both?

Her mouth fell open in astonishment at the simplicity of the answer:
Aye!
She could not trust her father, but she could trust Jamie. He would welcome her openly, or he would refuse her soundly. Jamie would decide. Not Lachlan, not her.