The Other Highland Laird

CHAPTER III

The days that followed were fraught with activity involving a constant stream of seamstresses, merchants delivering fabrics, and fittings with shoemakers. Marion went through the motions with such a lack of emotion, either positive or otherwise, that her mama became quite agitated.

On the day of the wedding Marion woke early and looked out of her window, hoping the mists would roll in and make travelling to Bothwell Castle impossible, but the fates were not on her side and the heather clad hillsides basked in the gentle sunlight. Outside the air was sharp, slicing through Marion’s flimsy bridal attire. Lady Buchane threw a heavy cloak around her shoulders, being careful not to disturb her carefully coiffed hair that had taken Netty all morning to arrange.

‘You look very unhappy, my lady,’ Netty had observed as she dressed Marion.

‘I can’t really feel anything anymore, Netty,’ Marion said, limp under her ministrations.

‘You must be well prepared for your wedding night,’ Netty had giggled, as she filled a tub with hot water and stirred in scented salts.

‘My wedding night?’ Marion repeated, frowning. She had heard what happened the night of a wedding, and she quaked inwardly at the thought of submitting to Robert. He was not without good looks and a certain degree of charm, and as Lady Buchane had said, ‘His hands look gentle so he would be a good lover.’ Marion had not taken any note of Robert’s hands. The only hands she remembered and longed for were Brice’s large, gentle, capable ones. She shook her head. She must not think of Brice, she told herself resolutely, as the carriage bumped over the moors on the way to Bothwell Castle. She concentrated on the scenery instead, soaking in the sight of the heather and bracken; the wild flowers that skirted the rough path; the foliage – scattered in some places and abundant in others; the serene blue of a loch, reflecting the sky… sights she would never see again after the wedding, for Robert had said they must be off to France without too much delay. It was as if he was anxious to hasten their departure and as if there were something in France that he couldn’t stay away from for too long.

It seemed like fate mocked her as she alighted from the carriage – for there was Robert with William and Brice by his side. Marion locked eyes with Brice for barely a second before she lost her footing and fell forward. Brice sprang forward to catch her – their bodies touching for one brief instant - and Brice saw that his own desperation was reflected in Marion’s eyes.

‘Are you alright?’ Brice asked, steadying Marion.

She nodded, and Lady Buchane rushed to her daughter’s side to adjust her dress. Robert stepped forward possessively to claim his bride, linking arms with her and leading the party into the Chapel. The ceremony seemed over almost before it began and Marion was aware of how singularly uninvolved she was in the proceedings – moving like a marionette, she thought dully, even the play on her own name failing to bring a smile to her downturned lips.

After the vows were repeated, quite mechanically in Marion’s case, Robert placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders and leaned over to kiss her lips. Marion evaded the kiss and Robert’s lips made contact with the side of her mouth. His fingers dug into her cheeks as he turned her head around and pressed his lips to hers. His lips were cold; the kiss more a show of possession or a stamp on a contract, rather than an expression of feeling. Brice looked away, his expression stoic.

They left the Chapel and proceeded directly to the lavish feast laid out in the Great Hall of the Castle. Marion was forced to dance and to stand by while toasts were proposed, hoping the evening’s festivities would include them for as long as was possible in order that the inevitable wedding night could be postponed.

‘Marion,’ Robert said, too soon, Marion thought with quaking heart as he took her arm, ‘we have to go up to the nuptial suite now.’

Marion felt her chest constrict with a nameless pain and fear choke her. She looked for Brice but he was nowhere in sight and she supposed he must be in the room by the Chapel. She pictured him in the darkness mourning her loss and in the morning shrugging off whatever feeling he may have for her, and getting on with the business of living. Tears sprang to her eyes.