But it was his face that caught her attention. With his jaw shaved, she could see him, therealJames Douglas, not the infamous Black Douglas. ‘Twas like she was marrying someone different, not the beast of the Scots. His jaw was as formidable as the rest of his, angular, with a cleft in his chin.
As she gathered herself to recall she was standing with this man on the steps of the chapel, she wondered if he had dimples when he smiled.
Then he spoke to her, and she blinked several times, trying to focus on the event at hand.
“Pardon?” she whispered. Was she missing her own wedding?
His lips curled suggestively to one side. “Are ye ready?” he asked.
She couldn’t stop herself. Tosia lifted her hand to stroke the smooth planes of his jaw that distracted her completely. The curl in his lips twitched, and Tosia snatched her hand back, shocked at her bold move.
James raised a jet eyebrow at her and grasped her hands, and Tosia dropped her gaze.
“Aye. I’m ready,” she answered.
He leaned in close as the priest lifted his hands to begin the ceremony. “Calm, lassie. I dinna bite.”
She started and pulled back, but he held tight to her hands, keeping her close.
“No’ unless ye ask me to,” he finished.
Tosia’s frantic eyes gawked at him, and that curled smile returned.
The rest of the daywas a blur to James, as his eyes remained riveted on the woman at his side who glowed brighter than the sunset — amber and gold and bronze, the richest treasure. He ignored the king’s gloating, matchmaker smile, instead savoring the vision of the woman he now called wife.
Tosia was nervous, ‘twas obvious to anyone who cast their eyes upon her. Unlike James, she kept her gaze lowered at the meal in the main hall and her hands twined in her skirts. But James was enchanted, his gaze following a luxuriant coppery lock of hair that spilled from her queue at her crown, over her milky shoulder to settle on the delicate curve of her breast.
She had touched him earlier. Why was she so uneasy now? Was it the excitement of their wedding, or did she fret about entering his bedchamber? As he let the rest of the hall fall away to concentrate only on this lovely creature, he presumed it was both.
Wasn’t she in the same predicament as he? Forced into a marriage at the behest of the king? The difference between them was James had experience in the bed, could send her away at will, and bend her to his dictates. She had no recourse. She wasn’t only at the mercy of the king; she was at the mercy of James as well.
That thought caused the hard wall he’d built around his heart to start to crumble. Even when the English had commandeered his castle, he at least had the option to burn it to the ground. This poor, downcast lassie had no such recourse. That wall in his chest crumbled more.
He had vowed to protect her, and he’d meant it. But how could she know that? In the past fortnight, she’d only known loss and upheaval and rumors of the monster she’d just wed.
No wonder she sat bowed, seeming to fold in on herself.
In that moment, he made another vow that she’d only know peace with him. That he would bring her as much joy as his twisted existence could muster. That he wouldn’t send her away, rather than ensure the bright light he saw in her glowed as brilliantly as possible. He had to convince her he wasn’t the monster from the tales she’d heard if they were to be a married couple.
James reached for her hand, and she flinched away.
Och, poor lass.
“Tosia,” he asked in the most tender voice his throat could form, “I dinna mean ye harm. Please have a measure of faith in me.”
While the rest of the hall found their amusements in their drink and feast, James and Tosia’s mutton and apple compote grew cold, and their mead cups remained untouched. For the two of them, nothing else in the hall existed. Tosia’s eyes shifted to his like a frightened doe. James leaned closer to her and plucked her hand from its hiding place in her skirts.
“Dinna fret. I’d like to hold your hand, if ‘tis acceptable?”
Her lips were sealed, but she didn’t fight against him. Repeating her movement from earlier, he placed her hand against his smoothly shaven cheek. It was cool to his touch, and he held her palm against his skin, sharing his warmth with her.
He expected her to yank her hand back as though she’d been burned, but she didn’t.
Did her curiosity outweigh her apprehension? James preferred to think so.
She lifted her furtive hazel eyes to his deep gray-green ones, holding his gaze as she held his face. Their shared look intoxicated him, putting the whiskey in their cups to shame. A flare of hunger inflamed in his chest as their gaze drew out.
“I dinna want ye to fear me,” he said in a ragged tone, then slipped her hand over his lips to kiss the soft skin of her palm. She stiffened, yet kept her face turned to his. “I made ye a vow, and ‘Tis one I intend to keep. I am nothing if no’ a man of my word.”
