Black Richard's Heart (The MacCulloughs #1) - Suzan Tisdale Page 0,24
his temples.”
“Gray?” Aeschene nearly squawked.
“Och! Do not fash yerself over it,” Marisse told her. “He be not ancient. He cannae be more than sixty.”
“Sixty?” she screeched, filled with dread. Whilst she was by no means the most bonny woman in all of Scotia, nor had she ever been wooed or courted and her chances of having any husband at all were nil, she still had a romanticized idea of what she envisioned in a husband. Her mind raced in several different directions. From panic to dread, until she heard Marisse laughing.
“I wish ye could see yer face right now,” Marisse laughed.
“Ye lied?” Aeschene asked, feeling both relieved and angry.
“Aye, he cannae be much over five and thirty I think.”
That made him fifteen years older than herself. Still, five and thirty was a damned sight better than sixty. Five and thirty she could live with. Keeping those thoughts to herself, she turned toward Marisse. “Ye be a cruel wench at times.”
“How borin’ would yer life be if I weren’t?”
Black Richard and his men wasted no time in setting up the tent. Lachlan and Rory managed to build a fire, though the rain was determined to douse it. White smoke billowed, the branches hissing and cracking with each raindrop that fell.
Black Richard had been trying his best not to look at his wife every other moment. He could not help but wonder what she and her maid were discussing.
He could have made the decision to keep riding, at least until they were off of MacRay lands. But the rain had come down in huge, fat, heavy drops, soaking his new bride and everything else around them. What kind of husband would he be if he forced her to ride in such conditions?
“The tent be finished,” Daniel informed him, drawing Black Richard’s attention back to the here and now.
“She be a right bonny lass, yer bride,” Daniel remarked with a wry smile.
“Shut up, Daniel,” Black Richard said as he stormed away. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that which he already knew.
Approaching his wife and her maid, he said, “The tent be ready.”
Aeschene stared up at him, as if her eyes worked perfectly. ’Twas the oddest of things, those eyes of hers. He’d met blind people before. In all those encounters, the person would always look in the general direction of the person talking to them. Never did their eyes actually meet his own. Often times, the sockets of the eyes were disfigured or misshapen, and sometimes the orbs were missing all together and covered with patches.
But Aeschene’s eyes looked as normal as his own.
He took her outstretched hand and led her towards the tent. “Ye and Marisse will have the tent this night,” he whispered to Aeschene.
She came to an abrupt halt, her face contorted into confusion. “But it be our weddin’ night,” she whispered.
He bloody well knew what this night was. “Aye, but we have only the one tent, lass. Would ye have yer maid sleep out of doors in this weather?”
“Och!” Marisse chimed in. “I would not mind at all, m’laird.” She was smiling cheekily, as if she were enjoying the awkward moment.
He’d never been tempted to strangle a woman until now. “And have ye catch yer death?” he asked gruffly. “I think nae.” Turning back to Aeschene, who was looking more and more deflated, he said, “Lass, we shall reach me keep on the morrow. I could not rest well knowin’ yer maid was sleepin’ out of doors, in the rain and cold.”
Appeased with the sincerity in his voice, she said, “Verra well. I thank ye, and I be certain Marisse thanks ye as well.”
Although she was thanking him for his kindness, she still sounded disappointed, almost crestfallen. Nay, he decided ’twas naught more than wishful thinking on his part, to believe for a moment she was looking forward to their wedding night.
‘Twould have been easier to sleep on hot coals, surrounded by a swarm of drunken lute players.
Just inches away, whilst he slept on the cold, wet ground, lay his beautiful wife. He was angry with only himself, for not planning the journey home more carefully.
He should have brought a dozen extra horses, one of which she could have ridden instead of with him. He should have brought a dozen extra tents, one for each of his men, and one for himself. Instead of dried beef and apples, he should have brought a barrel of the finest whisky in which to quite literally drown himself.