Desire surged through his veins, conquering all traces of his panic. He needed no further encouragement. They had a few hours left to them before the man of God would bind them beneath the Samhain mantle. He pulled her toward the broch.
Adrienne stiffened instantly. “Nay, not in the broch.”
So he took her to the stables. To a thick pile of sweet purple clover where they spent the remaining hours of the afternoon of their wedding like a beggar’s precious last coins on a splendid feast.
CHAPTER 29
ADRIENNE’S WEDDING DRESS SURPASSED ALL OF HER CHILDHOOD dreams. It was made of sapphire silk and elegant lace, with shimmery threads of silver embroidered at the neck, sleeves, and hem in patterns of twining roses. Lydia had produced it proudly from a sealed chest of cedar-lined oak; yet another of the Hawk’s clever inventions. She’d aired it out, steamed it in a closed kitchen over vats of boiling water, then lightly scented it with lavender. The gown clung at the bosom and hips, and fell to the floor in swirls of rich fabric.
It had been stitched by the Rom, Lydia told her as she and a dozen maids fussed over Adrienne, for Lydia’s wedding to the Hawk’s father. Lydia’s wedding had also been celebrated at Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea at the Beltane festival, before the same kind of double fires laid at the Samhain.
But Lydia had gone ahead now, up to the ridge. The maids were gone too, shooed on by Adrienne a quarter-hour past. It had taken every ounce of Adrienne’s courage to get through the past few hours.
Lydia had been so elated, practically dancing around the room, and Adrienne had felt so wooden inside—forcing herself to pretend. She was about to do something that was guaranteed to make Lydia and Hawk despise her, and she had no other choice.
How could she bear the looks on their faces when she did it? How would she endure the hate and betrayal she would see in their eyes?
Adrienne stood alone in Lydia’s lovely bedroom, amidst slowly cooling round irons and discarded choices for underthings and half-empty cups of tea, left undrunk in nervous anticipation.
The time was nearing.
And her heart was freezing, breath by bitter breath. She shivered as a crisp breeze tumbled through the open window of Lydia’s bedroom. She crossed the room intending to close it, but froze, one hand upon the cool stone ledge. She stared mesmerized into the night.
I will remember this, always.
She drank in Dalkeith, committing each precious detail to memory. The full moon held her spellbound as it bathed the ridge in silvery brilliance. It seemed closer to the earth and so much larger than usual. Maybe she could step into the sky to stand right next to it—perhaps give it a firm nudge and watch it roll across the horizon.
Adrienne marveled at the beauty of it all. This place is magic.
She had a perfect view of the feast from the window. The ridge was alive with hundreds of people spread about the fires on bright tartans, talking, feasting, and dancing. Wine, ale, and Scotch flowed freely as the people celebrated the harvest to come. A rich harvest, her husband had seen to that.
Children played children’s games, running and squealing and circling back to loving parents. And the music … oh, the music drifted up to the open window, blending with the soft roar of the ocean. The powerful hypnotic beat of the drums, the pipes and wild chanting.
Between the two circles of fire, she could just make him out, the laird of Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea was dancing with his people, his head tossed back, adding his deep butterscotch cry to the song. Her husband. At least she’d gotten to love him for a while—maybe not forever, but…
The beat of drums intensified, and she watched him circle the fire. So primitive and savage, yet so incredibly tender and loving.
I adore this place, she thought. If I could have ever dreamt a place to go, back in the twentieth century, I would have dreamt this one.
She let her forehead fall against the cool stone wall a long moment and squeezed back the tears. “I love him more than life itself,” she whispered aloud.
And that had been the deciding point.
“Nay.” The Hawk raised his hands in mock protestation. “You must leave me with strength to wed and bed my wife, this eve,” he teased the laughing women who tried to lure him into yet another dance.
Despite the disappointed looks and saucy remarks about his virility, the Hawk made his way higher up the ridge. He’d seen Lydia wander that way with Tavis while he’d been dancing. He paused a moment and looked back at the castle, his eyes searching the windows intently. There it was. Lydia’s room, his wife’s silhouette visible against the brightly lit window. He watched her turn her back. She was on her way.