Page 27 of A Scot for Bethan
Once alone, she took every care with her appearance, smoothing the folds of her gown, shaking off the dust the journey, making sure to erase all trace of anguish on her face. The pounding of her heart though, she couldn’t do anything about. After waiting for so long, she was finally about to meet the man who would marry her on the morrow.
A knock on the door a moment later startled her.
“Dewch i mewn.” She was so startled she only realized too late that she had given the instruction to come in in Welsh. Still, she wasn’t sure English would have been much better, and the meaning would be obvious.
A petite woman entered with a ewer of warm water and a piece of cloth. There was an odd look in her eyes. Diffidence? Pity? After placing everything on the table, she curtsied and retreated. Evidently, she didn’t speak English either. The knot in Bethan’s throat tightened another notch. How much worse could this get?
“Tapadh leat,” she thanked the woman, who was already closing the door.
Well, no use in lingering unnecessarily. She had better get on with the task of making herself presentable. There was no doubt the water and cloth had been sent by Cameron, who always saw to her comfort.
Before leaving the room she took in a deep, fortifying breath. This was it. Feeling absurdly like the fourteen-year-old girl she had been when her wedding contract had been signed, she stepped out into the spiral staircase. She promised herself she would write to Gwenllian as soon as she could, and tell her all about her groom, in the hope that she would be able to reassure her friend.
In the courtyard she found a small group of men talking, predictably, in indecipherable, rapid Gaelic. Cameron was nowhere to be seen. Angus, Murdo and Hamish had also disappeared. Everything within her roiled. Surely they had not left already, without ensuring she was all right first, without saying goodbye?
She walked over to the men, making herself as tall as she could. Soon to be mistress of the place, she had better start as she meant to go on. She could not be seen as hesitant or frightened.
“Does anyone here speak English?” she asked, bracing herself for their blank looks of incomprehension. “Béarla?”
All eyes turned to a tall man who, despite his tall stature, seemed to be no older than she was. Her heart skipped a beat. Could this be Dougal Campbell? If he was, then she was pleased to see that her first reaction to him was not one of revulsion. He seemed quite personable.
“I do,” he said with obvious reluctance. It was not hard to guess he would have liked nothing better than to have someone else deal with her, but seeing as he was the only one capable of talking to her, he had no choice but to volunteer. “Rory McIntosh, at your service.”
Ah. So not Dougal then. Her heart plummeted.
“Where is Laird Campbell?”
Let him be still here, please.
“He’s…talking to the steward.”
“Well, I’m ready. Please take me to his nephew, Dougal.” Better to get this over with as soon as possible.
Silence met her request.
“I’m so sorry, my lady. The old laird’s son…” The man floundered, looked helplessly around him. Unsurprisingly, no one offered any help. “I’m afraid Dougal Campbell is dead.”
Chapter Eight
Dead.
Arms wrapped tight around her middle, Bethan stared at the altar in front of her without seeing anything, just like she had all those years ago at Sheridan Manor, when William had asked her what was wrong. She felt just as at a loss now than she had felt then.
Her husband was dead. Or rather, the boy she had been betrothed to for so long would never marry her. Her father’s machinations had all been for naught. Her situation was unchanged. The twenty-one-year-old woman she’d become was in just as hopeless a situation as her fourteen-year-old self had been.
They had buried Dougal the day before, the morning after their arrival, in other words, on the day he should have married her. His death had preceded the retinue’s arrival by less than half a day. Had they not stayed for Sir Patrick’s niece’s christening, Bethan would have made it in time to meet him, perhaps even marry him on his deathbed. She could not help but think it would have been better, if admittedly grim. As a widow, she would have been afforded considerably more leeway than as an undesirable, penniless virgin expected to be chaste. AsDougal Campbell’s widow, her future would have been assured, perhaps even her happiness. No one would have minded if she went back home or even remarried. She would have been free.
If only it had not rained that day, if only they not taken refuge in Sir Patrick’s castle, if only they had not accepted his invitation or had not?—
No.
Bethan put an abrupt halt on her wayward thoughts. Dwelling on them could only cause her pain. What was done was done, and poor Dougal was dead, killed by a bloody flux contracted during the retreat from Dublin, where Robert the Bruce and his men had gone to reenforce his brother Edward’s army.
She hadn’t even known he’d gone there in the winter. No doubt this also accounted for his decision to send Cameron to get her. He’d thought to rest for a while after another hard campaign and finally set his affairs in order. Instead, he’d gotten eternal sleep.
Footsteps were heard behind her. Bethan stiffened and turned around. Master McDuff, the castle steward, was walking up the aisle, oblivious to her presence in the shadows. He came to a halt when he saw her. She had sat at the end of the pew, as close to the wall as she could.
“Forgive me for interrupting, I didn’t know you had come here to engage in private prayer,” he said, coming closer. “You must be devastated.”
