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He careened fast into the point of no return. With immense strength of will, he caught her waist and put her at arm’s length.
“You can have me after the wedding.” he declared to her as much as to himself.
Looking at him with irksome eyes, she returned to her seat. “Blasted man!”
“After the ceremony, we’ll find the nearest bed,” he promised in hoarse tones, heated eyes roaming over her, “and stay there until we forget our own names.”
Her cheeks scalded with the intense colour of arousal.
Next morning, Catriona entered the inn where they had found rooms in Gretna Green. She had been to the village for a few necessaries. The weather gave a reprieve and a pale sun made its appearance.
Though full of doubts and reservations, she reckoned there would be no choice but to carry this through to its conclusion. She had been days away from her family; anything but this shroud of decency would taint their reputation in London, Anna included. She did not wish to make things difficult for her sister. Marriage to the blasted laird was the only way to straighten it. She had no right to choose otherwise after she had been caught practically red-handed.
A letter to her sibling might clear the whole charade, but a hunch told her Anna did not mind much this turn of events. Did she, Catriona, mind it? She wondered. That it would not be ne
cessary to continue in unpleasant London counted a huge point. That she did not need to marry one of those watery lords, counted another. Live in the Highlands, one more. Be able to appreciate the best horseflesh she ever gained the opportunity to set eyes on, still one more. Marry the McKendrick giant.
Question mark.
Before answering this, she must define her feelings for him. Problem was, those were so entangled, she could make no sense of them. Her body held no objections, that was for sure. But this craving for him addled her mind and added fuel to her emotions. These changes in her life were happening so fast, it became difficult to separate the wheat from the proverbial chaff about what was real and what was not.
“Did you find what you needed?” Her husband-to-be’s husky voice poured into her ears like warm honey.
Snapping her gaze to him clad in his usual shirt and tartan, she mused if she would ever be immune to him. “Yes.” She showed the parcel she carried. “I’d just like to borrow one of your tartans, if you can spare it.”
Luminous cinnamon eyes raked her up and down as he nodded. “Come with me.” And he turned to climb up the stairs from which he had been descending.
The inn proved to be cosy and not too crowded as expected. He had hired two rooms so that she could use one to get dressed.
Catriona waited in the hallway while he picked up the garment. It usually had almost eight yards by about thirty inches, so it should do for what she intended. “Meet me in the taproom in an hour,” he instructed when he handed it to her.
With a gesture of agreement, she entered her room next door.
Dressed the most formally he could—crisp white shirt, jacket, carefully pinned tartan, belt, sporran, fresh hose, and shod in impeccable ghillie brogues—Fingal waited for his bride in the taproom where the blacksmith agreed to do the ceremony.
He did not stand there for long before he heard footsteps on the wooden stairs. His eyes alighted on her, and he simply forgot about everything else. In a snowy long-sleeved underdress buttoned to her throat, she had pinned his tartan in pleats around the waist and pulled it up to drape it around her shoulders, fixing both sides with a brooch over her bosom. The wool fell to her slippered feet in an elegant skirt. The green, black, and white plaid formed a perfect background for the midnight braid falling down one shoulder. She was the most dazzling bride he had ever seen in his entire life. And she would be his, officially his, in a few minutes, because she had become his in every other possible way.
A square hand extended to her, and hers rested on his when she neared him. “You look beautiful,” he said huskily.
A smile rewarded him as she placed her hand on the crook of his arm before turning to the blacksmith. “You too,” she murmured.
He signalled for it to begin, and they turned to one another. Gazes merged, holding hands, they said their vows with serious and solemn demeanour. Fingal produced a ring he had bought earlier and put it on her finger. When he received permission, he held her cheeks and kissed her possessively, making her blush gracefully. Fingal took and kept the certificate after the innkeeper and his wife signed as witnesses.
It was done.
Mrs Catriona McKendrick put her hand on his arm as he led her to the wedding breakfast.
.
The chamber door closed with an expectant click when Fingal pulled it. Catriona’s gaze darted to her husband, colour blooming in her face. Silence fell in the enclosed room while their eyes communicated at an entirely different level.
“I hope you didn’t think it too simple a wedding,” he said in that deep voice that always unleashed things in her.
She tried for a smile that resulted faint. “No. It was cosy, to tell the truth,” she admitted, striving to hide the sudden bashfulness that shrouded her.
He prowled a few feet towards her, and she fairly absorbed the view of him. “Didn’t you miss your family?”
Wide dark irises rounded on him. “Yes.” Her nostrils inhaled forgotten air. “But we can invite yours and mine over at a more convenient time.”
