Page 40 of The Devil in Plaid
Chapter Twenty
In the morning, Fiona awoke feeling better than she had in days. She stretched her arms above her head. Then she sat up on her side and looked expectantly toward the hearth.
The chair by the fire was empty.
Relief and disappointment battled for domination in her mind. She laid back and stared up at the high ceiling while the events of the day before raced through her thoughts.
She had started the day a terrified bride, but by nightfall she had become a hopeful wife.
A new world had emerged, one where reason revealed the hollowness of their clans’ mutual prejudices—but had it all really happened, or had she dreamt their truce?
She glanced down and saw the blood mark on the sheet, drops from a cut Jamie gave himself, and knew it had all been real. But then she drew in a sharp breath, remembering it was the morning after her wedding. Soon, the priest would come to examine the sheet. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed the instant before a soft rapping sounded at the door.
A groan fled her lips. “Please, I need more time,” she called out.
Julia peeked into the room. “’Tis only I, my lady.”
Fiona expelled the breath she’d been holding. “Thank God.” She motioned for her maid to enter. “Please, do come in and hurry!”
Julia bustled through the door with a sack in hand.
Fiona stood and seized her crumpled tunic off the floor. “Will ye help me dress before the priest arrives.”
“Of course, my lady, but leave those garments. Our laird would like ye to wear what I have in here.” The maid held up the bundle she carried and plopped it down on the chair by the hearth. After she stirred the embers, rekindling the flames, she motioned for Fiona to join her. Then Julia fished inside the bundle and withdrew a lavender brocade surcotte.
Fiona’s eyes widened in surprise. “’Tis lovely,” she gasped.
Julia smiled. “The underdresses are silk. Look,” she said, pulling out a kirtle and tunic, both a lovely shade of buttery yellow.
Warmth flooded Fiona’s heart. She viewed the fine garments as another testament of Jamie’s newfound consideration for her wellbeing. He had made certain she had attire fit for the lady of the keep before having to, once again, face his kin.
And the priest…
“We must hurry,” Fiona gasped.
No sooner did Julia finish tying her surcotte, when a sharp rapping sounded at the door.
“That will be Father Peter,” Julia said.
Fiona held her breath as the priest entered, followed by his deacon who carried an incense thurible, and Matthew, Jamie’s second.
Straightaway, Matthew crossed to her side and in a hushed voice said, “Our laird had a dispute to settle this morrow. He asked me to accompany Father Peter to ensure yer fair treatment and to provide ye with whatever comfort is in my power.”
Fiona nodded gratefully and placed her hand on Matthew’s offered arm.
Father Peter did not glance in her direction but went straight to the bedside. She blushed at the sight of the blood stain. For a moment, she feared God might strike her and Jamie down for the lie, but then she remembered the spirit in which they chose to deceive the priest. They wanted time to form a bond that would benefit and strengthen their union; thus, bringing their clans closer together.
She watched nervously as Father Peter muttered a blessing and made the sign of the cross over the sheet. Then he stepped back while his deacon swung the incense burner over the blood—Jamie’s blood that he spilled to safeguard her honor.
“He isn’t a bad man, is he?” she said in a low voice to Matthew.
“Father Peter?” he whispered.
She shook his head. “Nay. I meant our laird.”
“The good Lord has not seen fit to make a better sort of man than Jamie MacLeod.”
Fiona looked in Matthew’s eyes and saw only truth.
