Page 43 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
He smiled at the thought because that was just what he wanted. He would be happy if no one else was there except the minister and the two of them, and he was sure Ailsa would be too—if she would marry him at all, that was.
Why would she marry me? I have nothing to offer her; no wealth, no prospects, and not even anywhere to live if I am ever allowed to leave this godforsaken place.
For a moment, he sank into misery again, then forced himself to imagine Ailsa in a wedding dress of bright red velvet, like the one he had first seen her wearing. He was sure, however, that she would look beautiful in anything.
She would be wearing her emerald earrings and pendant, and she would have spring flowers in her hair, with a matching bouquet of tulips, daffodils, and bright yellow buttercups. She would smell like a fresh spring breeze and gaze up at him with those stunning apple-green eyes, and they would be full of adoration. Adoration for him.
The wedding ring would be gold; the richest, purest gold he could lay his hands on, and when he heard Ailsa make her vows he would be suffused with a joy he had never felt before.
For a few moments, all his problems did not exist. He was not in a jail cell. He was not awaiting trial and John was still alive; he would stand with him at the altar as his best man. When they were married they would go to Ailsa’s bedroom and make tender but passionate love. He groaned as his member stiffened in response to his thoughts, but that was when he came crashing back to reality again.
There would never be a wedding or a wedding night, but it had been a wonderful daydream.
He stood up and walked the length of the cramped cell to look up at the tiny window high above his head. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and he knew that if it rained much of it would blow through the unglazed window and soak him. He would have to move right to the back of the cell and hope for the best.
When the rain came it was as bad as he had thought it would be, and he cowered as far away from the window as he could, shivering. After it had passed over he called the guard for another blanket. For a moment, the man stood, indecisive, glaring at him, then he brought a thin, threadbare blanket and squeezed it through the bars of the cell. Ramsay wrapped himself in it and lay back, looking at the ceiling.
* * *
Ramsay managed to drift off to sleep for a while, but he was startled into wakefulness by the sound of the cell doors clanging, and he opened his eyes to find Larry looking down at him. Despite himself, he felt a surge of hope. Granted, there was no love lost between the two of them, but they were of the same blood, and that had to count for something, he reasoned.
“Good to see you, Larry,” he said politely, attempting a tight smile.
“I wish I could say the same.” Larry was contemptuous as he looked down at his cousin’s tattered and dirty clothes and his lip curled in disdain. “Look at you; such a disgrace to the family.”
Slowly and deliberately, Ramsay got to his feet, his anger rising to meet Larry’s contempt. “The family has all but disowned me,” he growled. “I have never felt as if anyone cared about me at all. You would not have spoken to me so rudely if I was John.”
For a moment, Larry looked uncertain, then he shot back, “But you are not John, are you? Because of you, John is dead. You are the son of a servant, and a lowly servant at that; a kitchen maid, for God’s sake! Ha!” He gave a cynical laugh but backed away a few feet towards the cell door.
“And a Laird!” Ramsay yelled. “My father is Laird Ormond, but everyone seems to forget that. Except John. Do you think I would have killed the only person who ever showed me any love and respect?”
“It does not matter whether you killed him out of jealousy or let him die!” Larry cried. “He is still dead because of you and your neglect.”
“I am not denying it.” Ramsay’s shoulders slumped and he looked at the floor. Larry was right. He was to blame, and although he had not fired the fatal arrow, he could not deny his negligence. He sat on the straw-covered floor again and put his head between his knees.
Seeing his advantage, Larry decided to press it home. “I remember when we were all boys,” he began. “You were eight, I was nine, and it was John’s tenth birthday, April the fourth. Do you remember?”
“Yes, I do,” Ramsay replied wearily. He knew exactly what Larry was going to say because it was a memory he would rather have forgotten, and Larry knew it, which was why he was dredging it up again.
Just to make things worse, Larry said in a matter-of-fact voice, “My birthday is on the twelfth of September.” He paused, and a smug smile appeared on his face. “When is yours?”
The awful truth was that no one knew Ramsay’s exact birthday, since he had not been born within the castle itself, but in a ramshackle cottage attended only by an itinerant woman who had left the area shortly thereafter. no one had cared enough to find out once his mother died. The Laird had taken enough of a fatherly responsibility for his son to have him raised in the castle and had given him his surname, but beyond that, Ramsay might as well not have existed.
Knowing that Ramsay had been born in winter, John had suggested that he should pick a date in November, which was not too close to Christmas, and they had settled on the second. However, Larry knew this fact and knew that it hurt Ramsay and aggravated the sense of inferiority caused by his illegitimacy.
“November the second,” Ramsay replied dully.
“But that is not your real birthday, is it?” Larry asked slyly. If he expected an angry reaction from Ramsay, he was disappointed.
Ramsay sighed. “I think we have had this discussion before, Larry, have we not?” he asked. “Is there a point to all this?”
“John was showered with presents that day,” Larry said laughingly. “I usually get quite a few myself on my birthday. Do you?”
For as long as he could remember, Ramsay had received a present from John, but his birthday had been roundly ignored by the Laird and everyone else. While he was small, John had given him one of his old toys, but as they both grew into young men, he had presented him with new items, such as a stout leather belt or a money belt. Ramsay always refused clothing. It had seemed too demeaning, somehow, that his brother had to supply him with the shirt on his back.
There was always a bottle of good wine as well, which Ramsay carefully rationed out over a week or so. Now there would be no more birthday presents unless they were from Ailsa, but the chances of that were very small. The only chance of that would be if some miracle happened, he managed to regain his freedom, and his life was spared.
“I used to receive one from John,” Ramsay replied.
