The Border Trilogy (4 page)

Though her cheeks flushed now with anger, Mary Kate hesitated to speak, not knowing what she might safely say. Duncan had bristled at her one brief display of temper, and the storm warnings were clear. She was certain Douglas’s offer had nothing to do with land, unless he expected thus to acquire control of Duncan’s estate when Duncan died. But by Scottish law Speyside would be hers, and to a man of Douglas’s wealth and power it would be but a paltry acquisition. She had no doubt he wanted her simply because she had bested him, because he knew he could have her by no other means.

For one brief moment she felt a near hysterical urge to laugh, thinking the borderer had certainly picked an effective way to be revenged upon her for a clout on the head. But since Duncan took the matter seriously, it was no laughing matter to her, either. Her father’s highland pride clearly stopped short of whistling a border fortune down the wind.

She tried another tack, infusing a note of pleading into her voice. “Please, Father, I remember Sir Adam well. He is naught but an arrogant, disrespectful lout, a man who holds women of low account. I disliked him more than I can say.” But her plea had no better effect than to inflame his frustration to anger, and as the storm broke over her head, she realized that he had made up his mind irrevocably to the match.

She had always known, for custom decreed it, that her father would one day provide a husband for her. Whatever other rights young highland women had, they were rarely allowed much say in such an important matter as marriage. And despite the fact that by Scottish law a young woman could refuse any suitor, a Scottish father within the confines of his home was a law unto himself. For any offspring of his, male or female, to act against his wishes would be scandalous. Indeed, in many parts of Scotland—mostly lowland areas where the Calvinists prevailed—such behavior was illegal and was severely punished.

Mary Kate knew she could never openly defy Duncan, who loved her dearly and who, she had no doubt, was puffed up with pride that a man of Douglas’s stamp, borderer or not, had made an offer for her. Moreover, Duncan’s honor was at stake now that his word had been given, and he obviously believed her distaste after but a single encounter with her suitor to be no more than natural feminine contrariness.

She couldn’t even tell him about her last night at Critchfield, for with the clarity of hindsight, she was too honest not to admit that her own behavior had contributed more than a little to the borderer’s assumption that she would be an easy conquest. That a true gentleman ought, in her opinion, never to make such an assumption would be deemed a mere quibble by her father, who would, in his own masculine way, condemn her loose behavior and declare the insult well merited.

It occurred to her that she might edit the tale, accenting Douglas’s behavior while limiting reference to her own, but she rejected the idea as soon as it entered her head. Duncan would ask too many pertinent questions, and she was a poor liar. Even the fact that she had successfully defended her honor would avail her little with her father, for she was certain he would, in view of his recent acquaintance with and liking for Douglas, roundly disapprove of the rough and ragged tactics she had employed. Impulse was second nature to her, but she often came to grief through not having thought out the consequences of her schemes ahead of time. She would not make that mistake now, she told herself. She would keep her own counsel. For once, she would behave prudently.

Duncan moved forward just then to lay one big hand on her shoulder. He was a barrel-chested, broad-shouldered man of above average height, and she automatically braced herself at his approach, thinking he was still angry, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. “Come, come, lassie. ’Tis a wondrous match, forby. Douglas has a mort o’ gelt, and he’s putting a bit by in your ain name for the privilege o’ claiming your hand. He’s got land of his ain, too, and he’s agreed he’ll no interfere wi’ your claim tae me estates when I’ve gone.”

“And you would take his word for that? A border’s word? When you’ve told me yourself that a sensible highlander trusts none but his own?”

Duncan shrugged. “In troth, I like the mon.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I ken weel that ye fear leaving your home, lassie, but though ye may be a wee bit lonesome at first in border country, ye’ll find your feet soon enow. I’ll warrant ye’ll have more gelt in your pocket and more servants at your beck and bay than ye’ll ken what tae do wi’. ’Tis a great honor, lass, and one day ye’ll be thanking me.”

“Never,” she said, gritting her teeth. Annoyed that he could believe Douglas’s wealth might sway her as it had swayed him, she stiffened under his hand, although an instinct for self-preservation still kept her temper under some control. “I cannot marry a borderer, Father. He does
me
no honor!”

Duncan glowered. “What is this willna and canna? By Christ’s holy rood, lass, ye overstep yourself, and I’ll no brook such damned impertinence. Would ye shame me, forby, asking that I gae back on me word? By God, ye’ll accept the mon and be fidging fain of it into the bargain!” He was shouting now, and she freed her temper at last, wrenching away from him and turning, arms akimbo, to reply in kind.

“I will never be glad, Father, nor eager. Indeed, if you want this match so much, you may marry the man yourself, for I will not! Why should I consider
your
honor when you would force me to submit mine to the will of that…that prick-eared, border-bred Jack-sauce!”

When Duncan went rigid with fury, Mary Kate gasped in dismay, realizing at once that despite all her good intentions, she had allowed her temper to carry her beyond the limit of what he would tolerate. It was too late for remorse, however, for her father’s immediate intent was only too clear. She stepped back, involuntarily putting up her hands to fend him off, though she knew such a gesture to be weak as well as useless, and despised herself for making it. In an attempt to recover her dignity, she said carefully, “I beg your pardon, Father. I ought never to have spoken so to you.”

“Nae doot. Fetch a switch, Mary Katharine.”

“Father, I—”

“Whist now, and do as you’re bid.” His gray beard bristled. “Ye’ll no speak such nash-gab tae me, daughter. Not wi’out ye suffer the consequence, as ye ken full weel. Ye’ve met the mon but once in your life, so this blathering canna be but a bairn’s wicked tantrum, which is a thing I didna tolerate when ye were a week lassock and willna tolerate from ye the noo. A swingeing’s what ye’ve asked for, and by the rood, a swingeing’s what ye’ll get.” He pointed toward the door. “Fetch me a switch.”

Sighing, Mary Kate did as she was told, and when Duncan had exerted his paternal authority to his complete satisfaction, he threw the switch onto the fire and released her. “A bargain’s been struck,” he said sternly, “and a proper good bargain it be, sae ye’ll submit wi’ a good face on it. Sir Adam returns on the morrow tae speak wi’ ye himself, as is proper. Ye’ll don a decent gown, conduct yourself wi’ propriety, and we’ll be having nae more o’ this defiance, gin ye please. D’ye take my meaning, lass?”

“Aye,” Mary Kate replied, her manner grim but subdued. His meaning was clear, and she knew now that he would not hesitate to force her submission by whatever means he deemed necessary. Though Duncan was not by nature a harsh man, he could be an obstinate one, and she knew her own stubbornness was no match for his, particularly when, as now, she could not believe herself to be altogether in the right.

She wiped dampness from her eyes with the back of her hand, but the gesture brought her no sympathy. Duncan merely ordered her off to bed without her supper as he had done when she had misbehaved as a child. In general an indulgent parent, he had shown little tolerance then for her “damned insolence” and had never allowed her to be rude or impertinent to him or to any other adult, so she couldn’t be altogether surprised that he had lost his temper with her tonight. Her behavior, she readily admitted—if only to herself—had been inexcusable. She had known the moment the offending words crossed her lips what the consequences would be, but she didn’t mind the punishment as much as the knowledge that her father had made up his mind to the marriage.

She knew Duncan had been disappointed, even shocked, by her negative reaction to the match. He had clearly expected her to be delighted. For that matter, any girl in her senses probably would be delighted, she decided, because any girl in her senses would care more about Douglas’s status and wealth than she would about being forced to live in border country under the arrogant man’s thumb. But Mary Kate was not just any girl, and she was convinced that she would hate being married to a man who would insist upon treating her as his chattel.

Once she had reached her bedchamber, she flung herself down upon her bed and began racking her brain for a way out of the betrothal. However, by the time she finally fell asleep, none had occurred to her, except the slight possibility of appealing to Douglas’s better nature if, indeed, he actually possessed a better nature.

When she joined her father to break their fast the following morning, though her demeanor was not cheerful and her greeting was subdued, there was nothing else that he could condemn in her appearance. Her hair had been brushed smoothly off her brow and confined in a delicate lace caul, and her indigo gown was cut in the latest style, sporting wide cuffs and a belled skirt, all lavishly embroidered with crimson and yellow roses on twining, leafy green stems.

“Good morrow tae ye, lassie,” Duncan said heartily. “’Tis a muckle fine day, and gin me nose tells me true, we’ve an excellent repast a-coming. I’ll wager you’re even more ravenous than what I am m’self.”

Her reply was noncommittal, and she made no effort to further the conversation. Duncan allowed the silence to continue while the housemaid served their meal but regarded his daughter thoughtfully when, her expression still glum, she only picked at her oatmeal and ignored altogether the baconned herring he served to her with his own hands.

“Eat, lass. Ye mun keep up your strength. I’ve nae wish tae see ye swoon wi’ hunger at Sir Adam’s feet.”

His words brought an unwelcome memory, and she bit her lip, avoiding his eye. “I’ll not faint,” she said at last, smearing marmalade on her muffin and nibbling it to please him.

“Mary Kate,” he said then, warily, “I trow ye’ll no shame me by behaving in an unseemly fashion.”

“No, sir.” She smiled at him, a glint of irony in her eyes. “I doubt it would serve any good purpose.”

“Ha’ ye come tae your senses, forby?”

“If you like to call it that. I doubt Sir Adam will agree to withdraw his suit, and so—”

“Och, ye’ll niver ask such a thing o’ the mon! ’Tis an honor he does ye, an honor tae the whole o’ Clan Chattan. Would ye then disgrace the name o’ MacPherson wi’ your foolish maundering?” He glared at her fiercely. “Ye’ll obey me, lass, or by the rood, I’ll make ye wish ye’d niver been born. D’ye mark me, Mary Kate?”

“Aye.” She sighed. “But I cannot like the idea of marrying a man who will expect me to submit to his every decree in the manner I’ve been given to understand a borderer expects his wife to submit. It is not in my nature to behave even as meekly as my Aunt Critchfield behaves.”

Duncan’s brown eyes twinkled suddenly. “In troth, ye’ve little o’ your Aunt Critchfield in ye, lassie. But consider, gin ye will, what Critchfield’s life would be like had he married my sister instead o’ your dear mother’s.”

The vision leapt to Mary Kate’s eye of her uncle as she had seen him that last night at Critchfield, sprawled drunkenly in front of his giant fireplace throwing dice with his cronies. Into that same vision stormed the slim, wiry figure of her father’s indomitable sister. Aunt Aberfoyle bowed before no man. Indeed, she would have had Critchfield on his feet and sober before the cat could lick its ear. Mary Kate’s spirits lightened considerably, and she looked across the table at her father with a smile twitching upon her lips. “You put the matter into perspective, sir,” she said, adding thoughtfully, “My future is still in my own hands, is it not? If I must wed the man, then by heaven, I promise you I will teach him that a highland lady is chattel to no man. He must learn to coat his commands with honey if he expects me to obey them.”

Relieved by her change of mood if not necessarily by her words, Duncan grinned at her. “What ye do after you’re wed’s nae concern tae me, lassie, but I trow that even Sarah’d think twice afore misbehaving herself wi’ such a husband as young Douglas tae answer tae. And dinna be thinking tae run home the first time he loses his temper wi’ ye. I’d only send ye back tae him.”

Remembering the oaths she had heard and the savage kicks at her bedchamber door, Mary Kate was conscious of an uncomfortable feeling that Duncan might be right. Douglas already had a score to settle with her. Nonetheless, she told herself firmly, before she was done with the man, he would rue his latest impudence. Drawing a long, steadying breath, she smiled more cheerfully and asked her father when he expected Douglas to arrive.

“He said he’d be along at half after ten. He’s been wi’ friends, forby. Och, and there is one other sma’ matter.” Duncan looked uneasy. “Ye mun understand that Douglas hasna much time tae call his ain, what wi’ being at the royal beck and bay, as he be. He wishes tae be wed as quick as may be.”

“How soon?” Now that she had picked up the gauntlet, so to speak, the details were relatively unimportant.

“I dinna ken. He said we should discuss it today.”

“Well, it cannot be for at least a month,” she stated calmly. “There are banns to be read, after all.”

“Aye,” Duncan agreed, but he looked doubtful. They finished their meal in silence, and then he suggested that she occupy herself in some ladylike pastime, preferably in the front parlor, so that he would know where to find her when Douglas arrived.

Mary Kate agreed unenthusiastically, since ladylike pastimes did not rank high on her list of favorite occupations. She was a skilled needlewoman, however, having in fact done the delicate embroidery on her gown herself. She enjoyed fancy work, but Morag MacBain, their housekeeper, had done the piecing, cutting, and hemming of nearly every item in her wardrobe. Several unfinished projects occupied her workbasket, because she often grew bored before her work was completed; however, despite that unenviable characteristic and although the work had been done in spurts as the mood struck her, Speyside House was strewn with colorful cushions, hangings, and quilts of her own design.