bone of my bone;
Everything happened too quickly for Charlotte to grasp what was going on. Suddenly she was taken away from her home, her family, and her whole life to a place too far away. around a group of people that she had never met, and now expected very expertly to blend right into roles that she wasn't even sure she could understand. The stress was getting to the girl, whose hair was tied and knotted on her head by a roundish woman who liked the idea of dressing her up rather than starting a conversation. A cousin of a cousin, was about all she was able to gather, that and her bodice being laced far too tightly, and her wrist still lightly burnt from the slash that took place. Scotland was more wild than she imaged, incredibly rolled with its hills and its land and its accents that she was too scared to ask the tongues to repeat. So most of the blurry day was a far off memory, becoming less and less understandable as it wore on. She struggled with the days of journey, the warning hisses of her mother to be a good wife, and any sort of fantasy she had about marrying an Oxford boy far out of her reach. Charlotte had been bred as a certain class, a lower one who pined to go up in standings, and since the death of her father the woman of the house turned from bustling girls to serious adults in a quick breath. And at this time the news she was more or less sold off to pay off an even deeper debt seemed even more uncalled for. So there she sat, doing her best not to let out any sort of whimpering sob, struggling with catching her breath in such a tight fitting dress against her breasts and ribs, and doing her best not to cause a scene. No one wanted a sobbing bride, her mother told her before shutting her up the carriage, and no one wanted a disobedient one either, and right now, Charlotte felt like both.
Just looking at her new husband was a challenge. She assumed no joy would come from it, no matter how sweet his face seemed to be. Now matter how soft his mouth was against the broken skin of her wrist as she puffed on the air that become a problem hitting her lungs, no matter how scared she might have felt. Within the whirlwind, Charlotte was now promised to another. She belonged to someone now. She didn't want to find him attractive, or her small silent victories that he was younger than her sisters scared her about. They teased her about become someone's third wife, panicked her about childbirth, and her own mind was just as much of problem. She must have come off incredibly rude, looking up into his eyes only for a passing moment, she did. And she allowed herself to be curious about him. That maybe her luck would turn bright, and her heart would be safe. She didn't except any sort of passion with the man beside her. She refused to believe that the love she thought that maybe one day she would get because of the books she read would make her happy. No, right now all she wished for was a harmless life. A son would be nice to keep the attention off of her. The less he looked at her, the better she would be. And even when her eyes would slip too long against his arms, or the curls around his ears, and how darling red it was.
The music was still loud, no matter how much it was dying down, and the strange celebration of a land she was unfamiliar with only caused the girl to tighten with the stress. She wanted to pretend it was all a bad dream. The dress was at least lovely, she was quickly changed by the woman who washed her and pulled her hair. It was the finest thing she had ever known and she was sure it was borrowed. The fabric was all silver and cream, and the hips were exaggerated by twice their size and her waist was slender than it had ever been and the sleeves that went to her elbows fluttered as she moved, each of her little nervous twitches, her small movements. Still, she doubted she was Adam's first pick for wives, and frankly Charlotte wasn't even sure she was ready to be a wife. But the girl sat tall as ever and painted herself up like she was kind. Most of the day had been a rush, of colors of red and greens and brows and the silver she wore and ring that was loosely around her finger that she spun whenever she got even worse. She hoped for silence, and she hoped Scotland would be kind to her. She hoped the cold air wasn't as cruel and the fields were as beautiful in the paintings. And most of all, she hoped her new husband would be just as sweet.
Charlotte scooted her body closer to Adam, and she slowly left her fingers from rubbing the fresh slice to bring her hand up to his wrist. Her touches were still nervous, just like everything about the girl, but she still manged to place it softly upon his skin to get his attention. She found herself moving even closer to him, unable to fight off the closeness as she gazed up at him. His eyes once again struck her, unforgivably kind as she slid her own thumb against his. Her mouth opened, but a stuttering sound first came out. She hadn't known what to refer to him as yet. She had only just learned her husband's name after all. Adam Walker. She was a Walker now, which was a strangely familiar last name for the British girl. But she was nowhere near to ask. She was scared to ask anything. Perhaps maybe she would come off arrogant or unintelligent. So past the sputters she manged a small, “I'm getting a tad bit tired,” in almost a whisper. Her thumb became more interested in touching his skin, rubbing against the bones. Thought her eyes did flash for a moment, coming to the realization that leaving the part meant falling into the bedroom. That was even more of a burden. The idea of being alone with him was more striking than being with his family and clan and she looked down, drawing her hand back down to her lap. If they left then there would be more attention to it. And the beers and wines and liquors kept pouring in the strange celebration and Charlotte lifted her hand up and picked up her wine glass and quickly finished it. Her stomach became warm like before and she looked back down at the cut, touching it with her thumb and praying that it would heal quickly.