Chapter 8

“Please, Mrs Stratham, don’t just stand there, come in and close the door.” The Laird ripped her out of her surprise.

They all sat around his massive desk, and the three of them looked at him. “It’s time we put this in the open,” he started with his authority dripping from every word. “My son says you did not accept his proposal,” his gaze bore into her. “Why was that? Don’t you love him?”

Harriet eyed him in astonishment. It seemed he conceived no woman in her right mind refused his son. Her mouth opened, no sound came; she breathed once, twice, and tried again. “It’s not that,” she blurted.

“So you love him,” he insisted.

Her eyes snapped to Samuel, then to Aileen, and to the Laird. Samuel sat there as if he had no hope left. “Well, yes.” At that, his green eyes clashed with hers with extreme amazement and exhilaration.

“What are you not telling us?” Taran pushed.

Her hands twisted on her lap as she lowered her head and blushed. “In five years of marriage, I never conceived.” She let the obvious conclusion hang in the air.

Aileen looked at her quizzically. “But we’ve seen widows conceive in their second marriages, which lead to the fact that men must also be liable in these cases.” The Lady McDougal had been trained by her mother to be a healer and she observed these contingences.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, “there’s no guarantee though.”

“If not for that, would you marry him?” the father asked.

Would she? Harriet mused. The arguments she gave Samuel when he proposed did not go away by themselves. She still was a penniless widow with no lineage or dowry unsure of her own fertility. Yet the unsurmountable problem here must be his family’s stand where she was concerned. What if they did not oppose the match? Would it be so bad if Samuel and her tried to be happy? Laird McDougal showed signs of flexibility no doubt by Lady Aileen’s influence. The clan’s interests and alliances were the pivotal issues here. Should the Laird decide to shift priorities, what did her heart wish? The answer stared her in the face. She wanted Samuel in her life with his tenderness, energy, intellect and the cosy home they could make together.

Why not own to her love for him?

The question made her look directly at the clan’s leader. “Yesterday, if possible.”

“Harriet!” Samuel exclaimed.

“Alright,” his father proceeded, “so here’s what. I have two spares so far,” and looked suggestively at his wife. “If no issue comes from Samuel, Roy can succeed him.” In the case of The McDougal, that was a compromise the size of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Scotland.

The four of them stood. Samuel came and took her in his arms. “My treasure! My Harriet, I love you so much!”

Her head tilted up to him, for he had the same height of his father, “I love you, too, Samuel.” She said rather shyly.

Aileen approached them and took one hand from each in hers. “Sam, you deserve to be happy more than anyone else,” she said with warm conviction.

“And I am,” he replied with a big smile. “I am the happiest man alive.” He kissed Harriet on the cheek.

“I’d dispute that, but I’m not spoiling the moment,” quipped his father as he poured four glasses with amber liquid. “Have you ever tried the best whisky in the Highlands, Mrs Stratham?” he asked, as he and his brother-in-law, The McKendrick always jested when they met.

She smiled openly. “Yes, these past weeks.”

Satisfied with her answer, he raised his glass. “I have not a clue whether I’m doing the right thing here. But one fact I’m sure of, I wish you to be as happy as I am, son.” With that, he tossed the drink.

“Thank you, papa,” Samuel responded and all the glasses emptied.

When they had put their drinks down, Sam fished for something in his pocket to produce the leather pouch she had seen back in the inn. From it he took the ring he had bought in Gretna Green. Looking at it better now, Harriet saw it was a simple band in gold with a stylized flower on top of it.

He knelt before her, tousled slick hair, eyes shining behind the spectacles. “Harriet, will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

“Son, you need not give her such a simple ring, we have heirlooms scattered all over the place.” Taran interposed.

Harriet turned to him. “If you don’t mind, Laird McDougal. Samuel proposed with this ring in the sweetest way possible, I’d love to have it from him.”

Aileen eyed her surprised at her uncomplicated tastes.

As Harriet returned her gaze to her betrothed, he said, “I bought it because of the flower.”

She lowered her eyes as scarlet colour bloomed on her face. He had compared her intimate parts with a flower that first time. “Oh, Samuel!” she breathed between embarrassment and elation.

Her future husband put the ring on her finger and kissed her hand with heated adoration.

In the weeks that followed, a blur of activity dominated the manor. Sam and his bride would get married here before departing south.

They kept it simple, just the family and the household. The ceremony would take place in the old chapel in the manor.

Dressed in his full tartan—crisp white shirt, red and black tartan pinned to his shoulders, sporran, kilt hose and ghillie brogues—Sam stood in his full height at the altar, waiting for his bride. He remembered years ago sitting on the front pew with two of his kin, Fergus and Gracie, as witnesses to his father and Aileen’s wedding. Only there had been no wedding that day.

Harriet came in on his father’s arm dressed in a demure cream satin frock, flowers in her hands. She was the most beautiful bride in the entire universe. His eyes lit at the sight of her joy written all over her flawless face.

“May you be very happy, Lady McDougal,” one of Samuel’s kin wished her afterwards. Harriet almost turned to Aileen before it hit her the woman was talking to her. Lady McDougal she had become not an hour ago. It would take a while for her to get used to it.

On her husband’s arm she made her way to the wedding breakfast. “You look very impressive in your Scottish attire,” she praised him under her breath.

“Thanks, wife,” he replied and smiled sheepish. “It proves extremely practical in certain ... circumstances.”

The provocation made steam escape from every single pore of her. He had made it a point to inform her that Scots wore no underwear. Darn it! That made ... everything so much simpler!

“Behave yourself, husband,” she admonished with an amused glint in her eyes.

“Only until tonight,” he insisted in answering.

But when tonight finally came, they barely had time to enter Samuel’s chambers, crazed with want. He made her lie on the bed, rucked her skirts up, rucked his tented tartan up to display a full, dripping erection that he dipped in her impatient channel unceremoniously.

“Bluidy hell, Harriet!” he rasped, panting. “You’re so wet, so hot,” he thrust deep. “And you’re gripping me like doomsday!” he became frantic. “What did you do?”

She had no answer, but when he yanked her bodice down to gobble her breasts, they were so tender she fell off the edge with his mere caressing them. Perhaps she was about to bleed, her body became more sensitive in those days.

Well, if she was about to bleed, it seemed a strange one, she mused next day as she sat with Taran and Aileen at breakfast; having left an extremely exhausted Samuel to sleep a little more as he had not tired of taking her the whole night.

The simple smell of eggs made her stomach roil. She had no choice but excuse herself to rush to her dressing room. After she had composed herself, she opened the door, nearly stumbling on Aileen.

The other woman inspected her from head to toe. “How late are you?”

All kinds of blush surfaced on her skin while her head made hurried calculations. Wide eyes, mouth agape, she looked at the Scottish woman. “Two weeks!” What the blazes had happened, she had not even realised it?

Disguised mirth suffused on her friend’s face. “Well, the two of you did work fast!”

“Good grief!” was all she could blurt. “What am I supposed to do?”

Practical as usual, Aileen replied. “First, I’ll make a mix of herbs for you to take with you so you won’t feel so sick,” she started. “Right now, I’ll make you tea with them, and we’ll meet the men.”

Just like that, The Lady McDougal took matters in her capable hands.

As they resumed breakfast, Samuel sat down with a sated, relaxed stance by Harriet. Aileen had just brought the tea and Harriet’s stomach seemed to settle.

“I believe the new Lady McDougal has something to share with us,” the other woman prompted.

The men’s eyes focused on her and she could not prevent the renewed wave of crimson that dominated her skin. “I—” her throat cleared. “I believe I am ... I am ... with child.”

Two pairs of green eyes widened on her. The Laird’s smug, Samuel’s overjoyed. Her husband lost his tongue, but stood to hug her tight, emotion overflowing him.

“Well-done, son.”

“As if he did it by himself,” defied his wife.

“I did not know what I was saying when I stated I was the happiest man alive,” Samuel managed. “Only now do I get the full meaning of it.”

“Congratulations to both,” The Laird amended.

“She wants to keep her position until the babe is due,” Samuel told his father while they walked to the waiting carriage that would take them back to Oxford.

“We seem to have a penchant for single-minded women,” he answered, a hand on his son’s shoulders.

Sam smiled, admiration for his wife on his face. “It will be good for her because I’ll be busy with my appointments at the university.”

“And looking for a bigger place to live.” His father completed.

The younger man agreed. With a child on the way, they would need more room. “That shouldn’t be too difficult, the freshmen will arrive only mid-August, there will be many places to let until then.”

“I would be happy if this child grew up here,” his father expressed.

“It’s our plan,” Sam replied. “But I need time to organise my work so I can do it mostly by correspondence.”

Taran nodded.

Roy and Errol ran to the entrance followed by Harriet and Aileen walking arm in arm.

“They became fast friends those two.” The Laird pointed out.

“I’m glad they did,” it was soothing to see his family in harmony.

The boys fussed, the women exchanged last words, the men added up plans. And soon the carriage was on its way.

Inside, Sam held his wife, a hand splayed on her middle protectively. Turning a radiant face to him, she smiled and kissed his firm lips.

They arrived in Oxford a day before the professor. The Hayleys invited him for dinner, and Sam thought it an opportune time to apprise them of the latest developments. Despite their utter surprise, they cheered the newlyweds and proved accommodating in the couple’s arrangements for the foreseeable future.

The day after that, Sam came to pick Harriet up to take her home after work as the professor sat in his study with Trent. Mrs Marsh directed him there. Inside, he found his wife, the nobleman and his mentor.

“Mrs Stratham?” the older man showed surprise.

“Yes, professor,” Michael was saying. “I believe there seems to be, say, improper things going on involving your governess.”

So Trent would follow up on his earlier design to cause Harriet’s dismissal. So he could prey on her misfortune and offer a ‘salvation’ as his mistress.

The loathe that surfaced in Sam’s guts would be enough to disintegrate his former friend.

Firmly, he closed the door behind him when the Londoner turned to see him and took a pause.

Harriet sat stiff, seemingly disgusted with the wastrel’s words.

“I don’t like the way you’re talking about my wife.” Sam angrily strode to the other man’s chair, legs braced, hands on his waist.

Trent sprang from his seat. “Wife?” Ridicule suffused over his paunchy frame. “You married a nobody?”

Harriet came beside him as both closed ranks.

“She’s not a nobody. She is Lady McDougal to you.” His green gaze met the other man’s steadily.

Trent’s face reddened as he eyed one and the other with spiteful intent. “She must have muddled your mind!” he accused.

“No, she didn’t,” Sam answered stonily. “You are the one muddled by a wasteful life.”

“I recommend marriage, Lord Trent,” came the lady’s amused comment. “It would do you a well of good.”

“No doubt,” the professor agreed.

Trent neared her with such rage in his eyes that Sam put his arm around her. “Careful, Trent. She’s carrying my child.”

That seemed to punch him right in his fat middle. “Damned you are, McDougal.”

“I don’t allow foul language in the presence of delicate ears.” Interjected the professor. “I’d say you are done here, my lord.”

Without a word, the lordling swung to leave.

“Trent,” Sam called. The man turned in clipped movements. “You forgot to bow to the lady.”