Sybil liked the idea of that very much. Could it be so simple to wash away her past, to erase the dishonesty that had brought them to this day? She hoped so.
For her wedding day, she would let herself believe it. Someone poured her another dram, and she drank it to help push aside her worries.
The women rubbed ash on Rory’s feet as well. While the women scrubbed her and Rory’s feet in the tub, the younger ones giggled and whispered behind hands, and the older women openly speculated about the likely duration and frequency of what would occur between the bride and groom tonight in this bedchamber.
Sybil met Rory’s gaze, and the sounds of the women’s voices faded. Today they would begin their marriage and a new life together. Nothing that came before should matter.
When the women finished, Rory helped her to her feet. She stood in the tub with her skirts tucked up, facing Rory and surrounded by twenty chattering women.
As they stood staring into each other’s eyes, she felt overwhelmed by how she had gone from feeling despair to such hopefulness for the future. He cupped her neck and started to pull her in for a kiss.
“There will be time for that later, laird!” one of the older women shouted, and pulled on his arm. “Leave her to us now, or there will be no wedding today.”
“I entrust my bride to your good hands.” Rory bowed to the gathered women and winked at Sybil before he went out the door.
For the next hour, the women fussed over her, dabbing lavender scent on her wrists and throat, brushing her hair until it shone. They left the back of her hair loose and wove tiny braids on the sides that they pinned back.
They cooed as they worked. “Lucky lass, thick hair as black as midnight.” “Have ye ever seen eyes that shade of violet?” “Milky skin as smooth as a babe’s bottom.”
The door opened and all the women, including Sybil, sucked in their breath as a tall, bony woman came in carrying a dazzling blue gown.
“’Tis blue for luck, of course. The color will be lovely with your eyes,” the woman said. “The laird asked me to alter it for ye. This is the gown his mother was wed in.”
“Ach, I remember that day well,” Grizel said, wiping a tear. “May you have a marriage as happy as hers.”
“Oh, thank you!” Sybil said. “I could not wish for a lovelier wedding gown.”
“The laird’s mother was a head taller,” the woman who brought it in said. “I did my best, but let’s see how it fits.”
Sybil lifted her arms, and the seamstress dropped the voluminous skirt over her head. A collective sigh went through the women as the silk slid over her skin and fell into place.
The seamstress tugged the laces on the bodice tight, rested her hands on her hips, and leaned back to examine Sybil. “I did a fine job, if I do say so myself. A good thing, too, for the blue color would never outweigh the bad luck of a wedding gown that doesn’t fit.”
“I remember the laird’s mother in that gown,” one of the older women said. “Ach, she was a beauty, tall and fair with red-gold hair. Our chieftain had a fever for her from first sight.”
It was in a man’s nature to feel that way at the beginning. After Rory’s fever cooled, would he regret letting desire cloud his judgment? Even if he never learned of the deception, would he come to resent being tied to a wife who brought nothing but herself to the marriage?
“One last thing for luck.” Grizel stuck a small sprig of white heather in Sybil’s hair. “’Tis early for it to bloom, but I found this bit growing in a corner of the castle garden where it was protected from the wind and cold.”
“A sign of spring to come,” Sybil said.And hope.
One of the women held up a looking glass.
“Oh my, I do look like a bride.” Heaven help her, this really was happening.
“Aye, and a bonny bride ye are,” the woman said. “But where’s your smile gone, lass?”
“If you’re worried about what will happen here tonight,” another woman said, and patted the bed, “I’d be willing to take your place.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” another said, and the women laughed and refilled their cups.
“Every lass is a wee bit nervous on her wedding night.” The woman who spoke this time must have imbibed more than her share, for she was slurring her words. “Another nip will help.”
Sybil took the flask and let the liquid courage burn down her throat.
“No matter what everyone else says,” the woman said, squeezing Sybil’s shoulders, “I think our young laird made a fine choice.”
Before she could drink another long gulp, the women took the flask from her and pushed her toward the door. Sybil paused in the doorway and looked over her shoulder at the women.