Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball

Chapter Five

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind. A host of guests joined them for a banquet that seemed to go on forever. There were endless introductions, and there was course after course of food and far too little fresh air. To make things worse, an uncomfortable strain surfaced every time Callum came in close proximity to his father.

The minutes both dragged by and jolted forward. But not a single one passed during which Kate’s pulse didn’t gallop with trepidation at the thought of what awaited her that night.

When Callum took her hand and indicated their intention to leave, her knees nearly gave way as she stood. Every eye turned in their direction, and Kate could feel the weight of expectation. Did they think her a good match for Callum? Or was she seen as an imposter, a foreigner, amongst so many Scots?

Kate grew a little faint, her head spinning, her stomach aflutter. Fortunately, Callum had a strong grip, and with no indication of any extra effort on his part, he escorted her to the stairs. The case clock that stood against the wall in the entry struck ten.

When they reached her room, she turned to face Callum, the door at her back. Breathe, she reminded herself. The air felt thin. Kate couldn’t say a word. Her body was alight with nerves that ricocheted around inside her like a firecracker gone off in a lidded kettle. She reached behind her back to open the door, but her clammy palms and trembling fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

Callum leaned against the wall beside her, one arm crossed over the other, and stared at her, the hint of a smile ticking in his cheek. “Do ye need me to get the door?” he teased and then gently reached out and moved her aside. “Allow me.” With one deft movement he pulled down on the doorhandle and pushed the door wide open.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. Surely . . . surely he wasn’t planning to come in with her now . . .

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I’ll be back in half an hour. Does that give ye enough time?”

She dipped her chin in the slightest nod.

“I promise to come unarmed, if that’s your concern.” He held up his hands to show he held no weapon, and this time he didn’t suppress his smile.

Teasing again. His absolute irreverence gave her the boost of courage she needed. Kate stepped into her bedroom and spun back to face him. “Don’t count on the same from me,” she said with half a smile and firmly closed the door.

She rang the bellpull, and Helen soon arrived. The maid took out the pins in Kate’s hair one by one, without saying a word. She seemed to sense Kate was in no mood for chatting, and for that, Kate was grateful. The routine task was familiar and brought Kate an odd sort of comfort, though it couldn’t quiet the buzz of her thoughts. She touched a finger to her wedding ring, remembering the dizzying spiral of warmth Callum had ignited when he’d pressed a kiss to that very spot after the ceremony. A drove of butterflies erupted in her stomach, for there was certainly more kissing to come.

Don’t think of it, she scolded herself. Not now.

She looked up and met Helen’s eyes in the mirror as the woman plaited her hair. Her maid gave her a mournful, sympathetic look, which only served to heighten Kate’s nerves. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Helen, it’s not as though I’m a lamb going to slaughter.”

Helen shook her head. “Poor dear,” she muttered to herself as she unlaced Kate’s stays.

Kate sighed and looked heavenward. She would receive no comfort from this quarter.

After finishing with the stays, Helen drew out Kate’s night rail. Kate remembered choosing it as part of her wedding trousseau, but now that it was time to wear it, it only heightened her nervousness. It was a white gauzy, lacy thing, and Kate shivered as Helen pulled it over her chemise. Next came her sultana robe, a sky-blue silk trimmed in delicate lace. Helen crossed it over Kate’s chest and pulled the collar as high as it would go. She cinched it tight, tying it in a fierce knot, as if it were some sort of armor and Kate was going into battle.

When at last Helen stepped back, she looked Kate over from top to bottom until finally she gave a resigned nod. She cleared her throat. “Courage, my lady,” she said and then turned on her heel and left the room.

Hardly comforting.

Kate took a seat at the vanity and picked up the small bouquet given her by the kind young woman in the pews. Struck with the sudden recollection of her promise, she went to her trunk in the far corner of the room and retrieved her Bible. With the inkwell provided at the small desk, she took the quill and on the front page wrote Callum’s name and her own and then the date of marriage. She carefully spread the flowers out and closed the thick book, pressing the flowers between the pages. Now to make sure the flowers were undisturbed. She went back to the trunk and placed her Bible under the multitude of sketchbooks she’d packed. Those should be heavy enough to hold the flowers in place as they dried. Pleased, she returned to the vanity and began to run the brush through the loose hair at the end of her braid, needing something to do lest her nerves get the better of her. How long had it been? Twenty minutes? Thirty?

She had just set her brush down when a brisk tap sounded, and the door that connected her room to Callum’s creaked open. Kate very nearly knocked her brush to the floor. She caught the handle right before it went over the edge.

“Is that your weapon of choice, then?” Callum asked, nodding toward the viselike grip she had around the brush handle.

Her pent-up tension released in a wave of laughter. “Yes.” She turned and pointed the brush at him, still smiling. “And now you know not to cross me.”

Her smile faded, and her mouth parted a little as she took in the sight of him. Callum wore a dark-green dressing robe, casually tied. Underneath he still wore his shirt and trousers, but his neck cloth and waistcoat were gone, along with his boots.

“Aye, I do,” he agreed. His voice had a distracted tenor, and it didn’t take long for her to realize she was not the only one staring. Callum’s eyes were fixed upon her in rapt attention, not in a rakish sort of way but the way in which one might look upon a great painting . . . in wonderment and admiration.

Unaccustomed to such adulation, Kate felt her pulse quicken in a sort of dreadful anticipation. She set the brush back down and made to stand, willing away the flush that left her a little breathless.

“Don’t get up just yet. I wanted to speak with you about something.”

At his words, her pulse slowed, thudding along with an almost painful throb, exhausted from the fits and bursts it had been subjected to all day. But she merely nodded and settled back in her seat, adjusting her robe as she regained her composure.

Callum pulled over the spindle-legged chair from the desk and set it down beside her. For the first time, she noticed the small two-handled silver dish in his hand.

“Oh, is that . . . ?”

He gave her a half smile. “This is a quaich.” He pronounced it quake. He set it between them on her dressing table.

“It’s tradition in Scotland that we drink a wee dram of whisky together, to bless our marriage. Usually ’tis done right after the ceremony, with everyone looking on.” He let out a deep breath. “But as my father is opposed to all things Scottish, we’ll do it just the two of us.” His face darkened, and the terse clip of his voice hinted at some underlying tension.

She knew there were plenty who considered the Scots to be a backward and intractable people, but this made no sense. “Opposed to all things Scottish? Is your father not Scottish himself?” As she said the words aloud, she remembered the duke’s clipped English accent, not all that different from her own.

“Nae, he’s very English.”

“But he’s a Scottish duke. I don’t understand.”

Callum peered at her as if trying to decide how much to tell her. “I’m sure a history lesson is not how you envisioned spending your wedding night, but I suppose there are a few things you should know. I’ll be brief.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees, his eyes growing stormy.

Kate instinctively leaned toward him.

“My grandfather came over from England as part of the effort to quell the Jacobite uprising. His show of valor at Culloden earned him King George’s gratitude and the dukedom of Edinbane. He brought his very English wife and young son—my father—and built Castleton Manor while he imprisoned Jacobite supporters and enforced new laws aimed at undermining the clans.”

He paused his speech, interlocking his fingers. “My father was raised by a man who dedicated his life to subjugating the Scottish people.” His last words were stiff and solemn.

“But your mother . . . isn’t she . . . ?” Kate would have wagered her entire dowry that Callum’s mother was Scottish.

“My father’s first two wives were English, born and bred. But both died without producing an heir, and my father married my mother, who did provide an heir—me—seven months after they’d wed.”

Kate sat without moving, taking in every detail. She didn’t pry further, sensing Callum would speak more freely if not compelled. But a quiver of fear moved through her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he resented her for being English. No doubt his father had arranged the marriage, giving Callum little choice in the matter.

“Blair, the one who gave us the quaich today,” he said, reclaiming her attention.

She nodded.

“He is my uncle, my mother’s brother. Blair and his family—the Stewarts—that is where you found me yesterday. I was helping them with their sheep.”

“I see.” Everything fell into place. The contentious scenes last night at dinner and this morning in the chapel. The overbearing tension between the duke and duchess. And Callum divided between his proud and titled English father and humble Scottish mother. But Scotland had clearly taken root in him, no matter his father’s prejudices. Where she fit into all of it, Kate hadn’t the faintest idea.

Callum picked up the quaich and held it out to her. “And now that ye’ve learned the oddities of the family you married into, let us drink to our union.” He left no room for further discussion, and Kate supposed there might be a better time to satisfy her curiosity. Surely Callum would not be so charming toward her if he disliked her.

She took the quaich from him, holding it with both hands. “I’ve never had whisky before,” she admitted, and her hands trembled.

“Take a wee sip.” Callum glanced over at the bed. “It’ll help ye relax a bit, which wouldn’t be the worst thing for either of us.”

“I’m not nervous,” she burst out rather more loudly than she’d intended.

Callum smiled and said, “’Tis good to know my wife does not have a gift for lying.”

At that, she inhaled deeply and brought the quaich to her lips. The malt- and-honey-flavored liquid at first seemed benign, but the minute it went down her throat it burned. She began to cough and sputter. Callum took the cup while she patted her chest. “I don’t believe I am Scottish enough to drink whisky,” she rasped, eyes watering.

He laughed, a rich, deep-chested sound that brought a smile to her face. “Ah, but ye will be.”

The pronouncement caught her by surprise, yet a billowy warmth seemed to expand inside her at his words. Callum didn’t seem the type to give false praise. And she sensed he meant the words as a token of admiration.

“Now it is my turn.” He held the quaich up the way one would toast with a wine glass. “To our marriage. May it be long and prosperous.” He tipped his head back and swallowed. “So now we are blessed,” he said and began to place the quaich back on her dressing table.

“Not quite.” Surprised at her own boldness, Kate reached for the quaich, her fingers brushing his as she took it from him once more. She lifted it in a toast as he had. “And may your wife learn to drink whisky like a proper Scot.” She took a tiny sip and this time managed to choke down her cough.

“Hear! Hear!” he said and laughed, and this time the sound was heartier and more carefree. It brought her pleasure to make him laugh so.

But the sound on his lips soon faded. “Ah, Katie. Ye’ve taken me by surprise.”

With that one simple phrase, the humor of the moment vanished, and the air between them grew charged, like the unsettled feeling in the air before a summer storm.

Kate’s heart began to beat unreasonably fast. “I hope you mean that as a compliment.”

Callum leaned forward and gently tugged at the ribbon secured at the end of her braid. Freed of its tie, her hair slowly unraveled from its plait, laying in loose waves over her shoulder. He took hold of a loose strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers, his gaze on hers. Surely he could hear the thundering of her pulse. His other hand came to rest under her chin. “Aye, ’twas a compliment,” he finally said and pressed a brief and gentle kiss to her lips.

Without being aware of it, she’d brought one of her own hands to rest upon his chest. The air in her lungs didn’t seem to know whether to go in or out. “In that case, my lord, I think I should like another,” she said far too breathlessly. When had she grown so bold?

One of his hands moved to the curve of her neck, where his palm brushed her bare skin, sending cascades of pleasure through her. “If I must,” he whispered. He kissed her again, more insistently this time, and a buzzing warmth filled her from head to toe.

Kate leaned forward and began to kiss him back, running a hand through the hair at the base of his neck. It was as thick and soft as she’d imagined. He reached a gentle hand around her back, and his touch raised gooseflesh on her skin.

She pulled back, her heart racing, her breath ragged. She’d expected to do her duty, but she hadn’t expected this warmth, this . . . wanting. It was all happening so fast—she felt weak and trembly yet incredibly alive. “Callum?” she whispered.

“Aye?” Callum’s gray gaze was a heavy, tangible thing, striking a strange vulnerability in her that made her feel tender and raw.

“I’m still a bit nervous. Perhaps I should have another drink of whisky.”

He gave a soft chuckle, which slowly faded into silence. “Nae. There’ll be nae need for that.” His eyes drifted from her eyes to her lips as he sat statue still for several long seconds. “I promise to take things slowly.”

Then he reached for her, his movements measured and patient. He cupped the sides of her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead, to each of her eyelids. The warmth of his breath brushed her skin as he kissed her cheeks and her nose. Then he claimed her mouth, his kisses tender and soft. Her nerves melted away, and she had the distinct sensation of falling, of tumbling headfirst into something more wonderful than she’d ever known.

“Och, Katie,” Callum murmured. “Ye are a fine surprise indeed.”