“Shush, don’t stiffen up on me,” he said in a low voice, his breath warm on her cheek. “I don’t believe that you’re frightened, not you, a Sherbrooke of Northcliffe Hall. My family and my people will all welcome you. You will be their mistress.”
She was quiet. They rode beneath the incredible canopy of green formed by the tree branches meeting across the drive. As they drew nearer, there were men and women and children and all sorts of animals appearing along the road to welcome Colin home. There was great cheering. Some of the men threw their caps into the air, women waved their aprons. Several mangy dogs yapped and jumped about Colin’s horse, who took it all in stride. There was a goat chewing on a length of rope, not appearing to care that the master was once again gracing them with his presence.
“Everyone knows you’re my bride, my heiress bride, here to save my hide and my castle and keep my people from starvation or emigration. They are probably cheering God’s beneficence rather than us. Though you did find me. I should perhaps let that be known. Then you would be soundly cheered. MacDuff should still be here. I wanted you to have a warm welcome.”
“Thank you, Colin. That’s kind of you.”
“Will you be able to walk?”
“Certainly.”
He smiled over her head at the utter arrogance in her voice. She had guts. She would need them.
Sinjun awoke with a start to pale evening light. For a moment she was confused, then memory righted and she closed her eyes against it. It seemed impossible, but it wasn’t. Colin hadn’t told her. He’d conveniently remained silent on what she considered to be a very important part of her life here at Vere Castle, as his wife. She shook her head, blanking out incredulity and anger at him for his damnable silence, and stared about the huge bedchamber, the laird’s bedchamber, with a gigantic bed set up upon a dais, a bed that would hold six men lying side by side. The room was wainscoted with dark oak, beautiful really, but the dull, very dusty burgundy draperies that were all pulled nearly closed made the room as somber as a monk’s cell. The furniture was old, and she recognized the Tudor style of the huge armoire that dominated one entire corner of the room.
She still didn’t move, just looked about her. She thought of the list of things to be done that was already forming in her mind. So much to be done. Ah, but where to begin? She didn’t want to think about her reception as the countess of Ashburnham, but she had to.
Colin had kept his arm about her waist as he led her through the gigantic oak front door into the large square first floor. He kept his arm around her even when all the servants appeared, all of them staring at her, all of them doubtless seeing it as a very romantic gesture. The minstrel’s gallery rose on three sides on the second floor, the railing old and ornate. A quite large chandelier hung down from the third story. There were high-backed Tudor chairs against the walls, and little else. She saw all of this in a haze, listening to Colin as he introduced one person after another. She hurt, but she wasn’t a coward or a weak-kneed miss. She smiled and repeated names. But she couldn’t remember a one after the repetition came out of her mouth.
“This is my aunt Arleth, my mother’s younger sister. Arleth, my wife, Joan.”
An older, sharp-chinned face came into view and Sinjun smiled and took the woman’s hand, bidding her hello.
“And this is—was—my sister-in-law, Serena.”
Ah, a very pretty young woman, not many years older than Sinjun, and she smiled nicely.
“And these are my children. Philip, Dahling, come here and say hello to your new mama.”
It was at that point that Sinjun simply stopped cold in her tracks. She stared at her husband, but he said nothing more. She thought she couldn’t have understood him properly. But there, walking slowly toward her, their faces sullen, their eyes narrowed with suspicion, were two children. A boy, about six years old, and a little girl, four, perhaps five.
“Say hello to Joan. She’s my new wife and your new stepmother.” Colin’s voice was deep and commanding. She would have answered if he’d spoken to her in that tone. He’d made no move toward his own children.
“Hello, Joan,” the boy said, then added, “My name’s Philip.”
“I’m Dahling,” said the little girl.
Sinjun tried to smile, tried to be pleasant. She loved children, she truly did, but to be a stepmother without any warning? She looked again at Colin, but he was smiling down at the little girl. Then he picked her up and she wound her arms around his neck and said, “Welc
ome home, Papa.”
Papa! It couldn’t be true, but it was. Sinjun managed to get out, “Are you really darling? All the time?”
“Of course, what else could I be?”
Colin said, “Her name’s actually Fiona, like her mother. There was confusion, so everyone started calling her Dahling, her second name.” He then spelled it for her.
“Hello, Dahling, Philip. I’m pleased to meet both of you.”
“You’re very tall,” Philip said, the image of his father, except for cool gray eyes that were staring at her hard.
“You’re all rumpled,” Dahling said. “There’s an ugly scar on your face.”
Sinjun laughed. You could always count on children for unadorned candor. “That’s true. Your father and I rode all the way from Edinburgh—indeed, nearly all the way from York. We’re both in need of a good bath.”
“Cousin MacDuff said you were nice and we were to be polite to you.”
“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Sinjun said.