In Fair and Distant Lands
(Book Three: Mistress MacKenzie; Chapter Three: These Are the Days; 7: The Daft Days)
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Book Three, Chapter 3.7: The Daft Days
He kept glancing at her, and Leah felt it dance across her skin like lightning on a lake.
“. . . returned from Paris just this Fall, and took back up at Lallybroch,” Janet murmured, as they watched the hearth ash in the Great Hall be swept up with great ceremony, and then carted outside in four big buckets. The fire had been banked, still casting off enough heat to keep Colum and his nearest guests nice and cozy, and the first-footer would light a torch from the bonfire outside and carry the New Year's fire inside with him.
There'd been quite the competition for the role, cutthroat as anything in Sunset Boulevard. Angus said it ought to be him, as he was darkest of hair, or at least tied for darkest; Rupert claimed that height was more important, “and I've got half a foot on ye at least, ye wee gowk.”
He didn't, actually - but Young Alec of Hilton had that much and more, and coal-black hair besides, and he was heir to his house, so he would bring in the whisky and the oatcakes and the torch.
Eleanor was in love love, at least for the moment.
“She's a handsome woman, his wife,” Janet added.
“Mistress Fraser?” Leah asked, tilting her head to hear Janet over the noise of the crowd. She caught Dougal’s eye again, and looked away before she started to blush. She could feel a lock of hair brushing against her shoulders; that would be enough to give them away even without her acting all flustered and, and twitterpated.
“Lady Broch Tuarach, now young Jamie's claimed his place. But no bairns yet,” Janet added, clucking her tongue sympathetically.
Everything bairns, Leah thought, irritated. Bairns all the way down, I guess. “They can't have been married very long,” she replied, feeling strangely protective of a woman she'd never met. But Mistress Fraser made a damn good salve recipe; she'd earned some loyalty, even if she never knew it.
“Two years next summer,” Janet said.
So . . . a year, Leah thought. “It takes a while, sometimes,” she said noncommittally, watching the men carry in branches of smoldering juniper. Something something cleansing, Annie had said.
“Oh, aye,” Janet agreed readily. “Puir Letitia, there – married near twenty years before her lad was born, and no other bairns at all.”
Leah blinked. She'd never given it much thought before, but Janet was right – Hamish wasn't ten years old yet, and Letitia was a bit older than Leah (and Colum was a year older than Dougal, who was fifty, she'd learned – born in May). She'd assumed that Hamish was the only child who'd survived – doted on by his mother, pushed by his father, the pride of them both – not the only-only.
Janet raised a delicate eyebrow. “A miracle; everyone said so,” she drawled, watching Leah.
Leah nodded, covering her nose as the smoke began to waft through the Hall. The young men were waving their branches a little too vigorously, as if they'd never heard of the dangers of smoke inhalation.
“Well, it would be, wouldn't it?” she replied. “Good for them; they love Hamish so much.” Another wafting of smoke, and Leah stepped back from the burning display. “My God, what a stench.”
Janet laughed, covering her nose with a handkerchief. “Dinnae fash; it’ll all waft out soon enough.”
Girl, there was less smoke in Studio 54. The bracket clock brought down from Colum’s office was too far away for Leah to see the time, but it couldn’t be more than a few minutes to midnight, and then they’d open the door and let Young Alec in and the smoke out, and then it would be time for small gifts and brief kisses. Annie said some of the men would stay up to “keep watch” until the new dawn; Leah suspected it was an excuse to drink themselves silly.
Some of the others were craning their necks to see the clock, too, and Leah took the opportunity to nod a farewell to Janet and sidle along the wall toward where Dougal was standing; Annie said that some of the men aimed their kisses indiscriminately, and she’d be damned if she caught one from Angus. She wasn’t the only one jockeying for position; half the Great Hall was on the not-very-subtle move – that young man who’d been vigorously courting Laoghaire was making a beeline to her side (not that he’d gotten very far from her to begin with), and there was –
For god’s sake.
There was Eleanor, determinedly sidling toward the archway that led to the entrance, as if she meant to catch Young Alec on his way in. Leah swerved around the now-forgotten Apprentice Iain, standing beside Annie, who gave her a curious look, and laid a hand on Eleanor’s arm just as she was about to pass out of the Hall to where the lesser tacksmen were gathered for the serious drinking. Not an ounce of self-preservation. Thank god they’re all terrified of her father.
“He’s got to light the hearth first, my lass,” she murmured, when Eleanor’s furious eyes turned to her, and the girl had enough sense to look a bit abashed and follow without a fuss.
“And you ought to stay with the pack, when there are so many strange men around,” Leah added quietly, angry that she had to say it, and that Eleanor had to hear it.
“I wasn’t –”
“I know you weren’t,” Leah said, pausing by the crush of young ladies carefully not-glancing at the young gentlemen. She could leave Eleanor safely with her sister; Margaret would probably keep them both out of kissing range. “But you don’t have to do anything wrong for someone to take advantage.”
She looked toward the hearth, at her husband with his head bent down to listen to Ned and Colum, Letitia already standing with them, and made a snap decision. “Come on,” she said, nudging Eleanor toward them.
Eleanor’s eyebrows immediately drew down. “Ye dinnae have to tell my father –”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Leah muttered, pushing anyway. I’m trying to do you a solid, kid.
The men straightened up as they approached, Ned Gowan sketching a very brief bow, Dougal’s eyebrows raising, and then the clock began to chime, an absurdly tiny sound in such a large gathering. Most of the crowd would have missed it, if they hadn’t been watching Colum. At his nod, they all hushed – or hushed as much as a hundred-plus people could; there was always some noise leftover – and listened.
Hamish had balked a bit, when his mother sent him to practice the day before – he knew what to do, mother; he’d done it the year before – and Leah grinned as she watched him scampering past the archway toward the door just as a booming knock sounded, a half-dozen other young boys following.
“There’s a visitor at the door, father!” he called, voice still child-sweet, and a low laugh swept through the crowd.
“Best let him in, my lad!” Colum called back, and Hamish caught the latch with both hands and leaned back. The door gave grudgingly – the damp made it stick a bit – then swung wider once its weight was moving.
“A good New Year untae ye all!” Young Alec cried, and the crowd parted with loud cheers to let him stride through the Hall, torch in hand and pockets stuffed with whisky and oatcakes (more of both waiting to be carried in by the kitchen maids).
Eleanor made a tiny squeak as she watched him, crowding back against Leah as he strode forward and thrust the torch into the hearth (primed with bracken they’d been drying for the last week). A holler shot up along with the flame, Colum raised his glass and shouted out something in Gaelic, and the fiddlers struck up the next song.
Young Alec grinned as he pulled the offerings from his pocket and laid them on the table before Colum, then looked around and spotted the nearest girl. With a slight bow and a wide grin, he held out a hand to Eleanor. “Your favor, lass?” he asked, and at her wide-eyed nod, he brushed his lips against her flaming cheek and pulled her into the crowd lining up for the next reel.
My good deed for the year, Leah thought with satisfaction, and turned to see her husband staring narrow-eyed after them. “Relax; there are seventeen million people here.”
Dougal grunted; it might have been agreement or threat, but he bent low to press a swift kiss to Leah’s mouth, then led her into the dance as well.
“You tricked me.”
The clock had chimed once, and fallen silent, and Leah no longer bothered to hide her yawns. At Dougal’s sideways glance, she leaned against him and yawned again. “You all acted normal – mostly normal – get up at a reasonable hour, go to bed in good time, and just when I started to relax, you hit me with a string of no-sleeping holidays. I am disgruntled,” she grumbled into his coat.
“Go to bed as ye like, mo nighean,” he said, patting her briefly and then standing her upright again. “And stay for a week, if it please ye,” he added, echoing her fervent prayer in the steward’s office.
“I will. But I want to give the girls their gifts . . .” she looked around the Hall – it was starting to clear out, if only a little, and her stepdaughters were laughing with some of the other girls at one of the tables. She looked up at Dougal. “You did put their gifts in the drawing room, didn’t you?”
“Christ, woman” he muttered. “Can ye no’ go a day wi’out deviling me?”
She jerked her chin up, cocking a stern eyebrow. “You had yesterday. And it was lovely,” she added, trying to force the heat away from her face, “but today is a new day.”
He snorted. “They’ll have their fripperies. Come here,” he said, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward the doorway to the stairs. He paused to catch Margaret’s eye and jerked his head, waiting as the girls scrambled up from the table and said their hasty good-nights to their friends.
They both looked happy. And tired, but mostly happy, cheeks rosy and eyes shining as they made their way up the stairs to the family quarters.
Dougal glanced at them as they reached the landing, eyes stern. “It’s getting late; get ye on to bed.”
They stared at him in dismay, then looked at each other, then at Leah, as if she had any part in this charade. “Father!” Eleanor exclaimed. “It’s . . . it’s Hogmanay, father . . .” she trailed off, shoulders sinking.
“For god’s sake, Dougal,” Leah laughed, sailing past him toward the Official Mistress MacKenzie Drawing Room. He had remembered, the paper parcels waiting on the table. She picked up the first, a soft little bundle marked with an M, and handed it to Margaret. “I thought you’d like these,” she said, and bit her lip as Margaret untied it.
“Oh, Mistress MacKenzie –” The embroidery silks spilled over of the paper, a soft rainbow gleaming in the candlelight. “Are these the same we saw in Dingwall? I wanted them so.”
“They’re bonny,” Eleanor said, peering over at them. Her eyes darted to the much larger package that Leah picked up, and widened when she unwrapped the book and saw the title.
“I know the bookseller said it had moral lessons,” Leah said hastily, “but there’s giants and horse people and –”
“And floating cities, and adventures,” Eleanor added, running her hands over the embossed letters spelling Lemuel Gulliver. Her eyes flicked up briefly to meet Leah’s. “Thank you.” Margaret murmured an echo, gently running her fingers over the delicate silks.
Oh my god. I did it. Inside, Leah’s heart did a little Snoopy-dance.
“And then a little treat for you both,” she added, trying not to sound too eager as she nudged a small box toward them. It took a few trials – Mrs. Fitz’s cook-pots weren’t quite what she was used to – but the final batch of carameled nuts turned out very well, and Eleanor’s little gasp was just.
Fucking perfect.
“Go on and have the rest, then,” Dougal said, nodding toward the remaining parcels.
Leah held her breath. Ribbons were fine, really – almost anything that said he’d thought of them at all would be great –
Eleanor yanked the string off hers first to see a little carved falcon, polished to a gleam and small enough to fit in her palm even with its wings outstretched. A pretty toy for a child, not a young lady –
But Eleanor held it gingerly, and stroked a careful finger along one shining wing, and her smile was real.
And Margaret held a delicate silver brooch shaped like a thistle, as intricate as anything Leah had seen in her own world. She tilted it in the candlelight, watching it shimmer, and her voice was softer than usual when she thanked her father.
“Look at the little pin,” she murmured, showing Eleanor. “It’s so slight, ye could wear it on silk and not leave a mark.”
“Time ye had something fine,” Dougal said, gruffly. “Off to bed now, ye bandits. I’ll no’ have ye making a spectacle with strange men in the Hall.”
Fuck’s sake, Dougal. Leah cut her eyes toward him. But they went off happily enough, admiring each other’s gifts. “Fripperies, you said.”
He offered no more than a snort, then went still when she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. “That’ll do,“ she murmured, more pleased with him than she ought to be.
He wasn’t, like. He wasn’t an involved parent. He spent more time with Hamish than his own daughters, usually, and that was probably how men were raised, but goddamn, look at you leaping over those low expectations like a sick buffalo. The brooch really was an elegant piece, and Margaret did admire fine craftsmanship in her quiet way. And the falcon might be a toy, but it was a lovely thing chosen just for Eleanor’s pleasure, just for a girl who liked to watch the falconer.
His hand cradled the back of her head, and she let him bend down enough to take her mouth for a moment, then pushed him back before he got too greedy.
“I am going to bed,” she muttered, swallowing a yawn. “To sleep,” she added, when his eyes flicked down to hers. “You can go and drink all night, but if you wake me up when you come to bed, I’ll have my revenge.”
A man could be content, on a night like this.
A man with an ale in hand and a bonny lass in his bed had little else to wish for, Dougal thought, strolling back into the Great Hall to stand the Hogmanay watch. A stag to hunt, perhaps. An incautious neighbor with kine to spare. A full horn of powder and a pack of redcoats, if the Lord were feeling generous, but good sport though it might be, a full belly and bed were enough to see a man through.
And his bed was full of a sonsy wee creature, sharp as nails and soft as a cat when he stroked her right. The poor bastards bunking down in the Hall had nowt but thin pallets and free hands.
“Dougal, man!” Angus shouted, and Dougal took the cup he offered, taking his place at the table with his fighting men. One or two of the tacksmen’s sons had fallen into their pallets already, young lads not yet used to the drink; others crowded round the rest of the tables lining the walls, telling tall tales and making a serious challenge to Leoch’s ale stores. “By God, we thought ye’d never come back!”
“Aye,” Rupert added in his deep voice, a sly grin on his face. He’d drunk enough to fell a lesser man before the clock had chimed midnight; his big belly could carry twice that much and more before he felt it. “’Tis a sad day, when a man takes a wife and moun give up his fun.”
A baritone chorus of agreement echoed through their corner of the Hall, and Dougal snorted. He was there, wasn’t he? And not in his own bed, where his wife might make a haughty sniff about his ale but had her own ways of soothing him.
“There’s nae fun wi’ a wife,” auld Donal said, mournfully, and he should ken it – married these thirty years and more. “Even if they let ye tussle wi’em a bit before the weddin’, they dry up cold as Carn na Criche once the vows are said. Puir man,” he added, patting Dougal on the back.
“His wifie doesnae seem as cold as all that,” Rupert laughed, then clammed up tight as an arsehole at Dougal’s steady look. Cousin he may be, and friend besides, but Rupert ought to ken that a man didn’t speak of his wife as he might a mistress. Good Christ, he’d never spoken a word of Maura in all their years wed, or not to the men, at least.
Angus lacked Rupert’s weathervane – or he’d been drinking more seriously – and drunkenly crossed himself. “May Christ save every man frae a cold marriage bed,” he intoned, and raised his cup high. “And grant us all a friendly wench when we need one most!”
A man could agree with the last part, at least, so Dougal laughed and drank deep as Rupert leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Ye ken there’s a lass or two might be coaxed out tae the hayloft,” he said, and several of the men perked up at that suggestion. “They’ll have their pick tonight, though; best ye neaten yerselves up before ye go callin’.”
That cleared the table considerably, and left more ale for the men with no interest, or hope, in wenching. Dougal’s eyes moved over the room, noting the men sleeping soundly (few, and worth watching – a man who could catch his sleep in chaos might make a soldier), the ones who kept one eye on the door and one on their ale (another group worth a second look), the ones who might need a clout about the ears to settle them. A handful of scullions were tidying up the debris with Mrs. Fitz at one door and Bridget at the other, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings; the young lassies had already been sent safely to their beds.
Bridget was looking fine as ever, even after a day that began before dawn. She wasn’t a lass to go looking for a hayloft coorie, but he’d coaxed her to his bed once or twice, and she kent how to keep her mouth shut if a man made it worth her while. Then he’d turned his mind to Leah, and Bridget had the wits not to fuss about it. A sensible woman.
Her eyes flicked toward him – or no, they were looking over the room just as his own had, assessing – and Dougal found himself wondering if –
She’d skin you both alive.
Well, she might at that, if she knew. Foolish to risk bringing a woman to his wife’s own doorstep. He’d not done so much to Maura, for all his sins against her; she’d have torn her own strip off him. And Leah was well-pleased with him, so she kept him pleased and comfortable. No reason to seek a candle when his own bed was a hearth.
Just good sense to keep her happy.
You ass, Leah thought, turning over for the umpteenth time. Got me so used to you, I can hardly sleep alone. She’d been tossing for hours, it felt like, and at last she seized his pillow and put it in place of her own, and finally fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He wasn’t stumbling; it was only that the corridors had begun to sway a bit. He fumbled loudly at the doorlatch, cursed himself, and tried again. Revenge, she’d said, and he’d no desire to learn what her quick mind could devise.
She was sleeping. She’d not pulled the bedcurtains, and he saw her foot-warmer still by the hearth, scolding him for neglect. He toed it away from the ash, picked it up, and dropped it, shaking out his singed fingers as he looked uneasily at the bed and its vengeful inhabitant.
Still and quiet, thank Christ.
Worn herself ragged since Christmas, he thought, and felt some unfamiliar twinge deep in his chest. The ale, no doubt; hadn’t she said it’d give a man . . . something, he hadn’t been listening owermuch. But she looked bonny with her curls spread out over her pillow. He could warm her better than a stone, in any case.
His boots came off with only a bit of struggle; his belt as well. The coat was a bugger, his fingers clumsy on the buttons. He left it all in a heap beside the bed and crawled between the sheets, fitting himself against her back, sacrificing one of his legs to soak the cold from her feet.
Wearing stockings in bed, the daft creature.
Christ, the rest of her was warm.
And cushioned.
He breathed deep, and if his breath came out too softly, if it carried the shape of something soft and foolish, there was no one awake enough to hear it.
The collective groaning from the Great Hall was loud enough that Leah fancied she could hear it from the solar, where the ladies sat enjoying a (much later than usual) breakfast. Dougal had hardly budged, only grumbled a bit when she rose and took away the shoulder he’d been hiding behind. His own fault, for not pulling the bedcurtains when he stumbled in – when was that, even? Couldn’t have been much before dawn.
She frowned down at her plate.
I guess a good wife would take him some tea.
Yeah, but he married you, so he gets what he gets.
But she had a pot of ginger tea made for herself that afternoon (it’s just a good tea for winter, she told herself, ignoring the fact that she asked for two cups), and when at last she heard him stirring (and stomping, and thumping) from where she sat in her drawing room, she carried it into their chamber.
He sure as hell tied one on, she thought, cataloging the bloodshot eyes and scowl, the way his big hand clutched at the back of his skull as if it might fall off. Judging him unfit to hold anything too delicate, she poured some tea into his ale-cup and nudged him toward a chair by the fire. He dredged up some noise from his chest, something between a complaint and a threat, and she rolled her eyes. “Drink this, you big baby.”
He eyed the cup suspiciously before sipping with exaggerated caution. His lips pursed. “Was hopin’ for something stronger,” he grumbled.
“You’ll live,” she answered, dropping into her own chair and watching him over the rim of her cup.
He took another gulp of tea and winced – it had cooled a bit, but not enough to be quaffed like an ale. “Ye look far too smug this morning –”
“Afternoon,” she corrected, and smirked into her cup at his growl.
“Enjoyin’ your day while yer husband suffers, are ye?”
“Very much,” she said brightly, and watched him flinch a bit at the sound. “It’s been a peaceful day, besides all the groaning.”
And that earned her the least-menacing glare that Dougal MacKenzie had likely ever managed in his life, but he sat there quietly enough as he finished his cup, and only scoffed a little when Leah refilled it with cool water and pressed it into his hand with a word or two – not very sharp – about headaches and hydration.
He felt almost human at the end of that cup, and studied her, nursing her own tea, the firelight flickering over her face and hair, glittering against her wee spectacles. She cut her eyes toward him, sharp and questioning.
“And did you have fun carousing, my fine braw man?” she asked, and if her voice was wry, her eyes were not.
Dougal huffed out a breath, not entirely painful. “Carousing,” he snorted. “Listening to Rupert saw through the table with his snores.”
“Was that what kept me up all night?” she quipped, then her tone deepened. “Hours I lay awake, waiting for you to come and tend to me.”
If his cock weren’t still pickled, he’d have dragged her right to the floor. As it was, it gave no more than a twitch of interest, a promise of future pleasures. Her eyes twinkled, the damned woman – she knew what she did.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve had an awfully busy day; I’m going to lay down and rest before supper.” She rose gracefully and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I suppose I’ll permit you to rest with me, if you’re still feeling poorly.”
Dougal’s head gave only a minor throb as he stood. Rest be damned – well, perhaps a little more rest was necessary – but then he’d keep his sharp-tongued lass occupied until Handsel Monday. “Missed me, did ye?” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and crawling naked between the sheets. He ought to help her off with her gown and stays, but some witch had hexed him with heavy eyelids and a fumbling mind, and he felt Leah slide in next to him before his eyes could open again.
It hung in the air as she settled in, resting her head on his shoulder and tugging at his arm until it circled her waist. “No,” she said at last, without much bite, and Dougal snorted half-heartedly. “But it’s winter, and you’re warm,” she added. “You can sleep where you like when summer comes.”
“I’ll take ye off collectin’ rent again,” he muttered, yawning. “See if ye dinnae want a warm body then.”
He heard her make a deep, echoing yawn. “I’ll want a straw-tick, at the very least. In a covered cart.”
The corners of his mouth quirked. Soft lass, he thought, half-lost to sleep again. But she was soft in his bed, tucked into him, her lips so gentle against his chest that he barely felt them, might have imagined them. Might have dreamed them, as he slipped below again.
Chapter Four: Brilliant Disguise begins on Sunday, August 23 with Part 1: Ease
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