Alan, his father, and the minister were all waiting when Annista and her father went in. Two other men followed them, to neither of whom had Annista been introduced. MacKallan’s man of business, she supposed, and perhaps a lawyer.
This terrible travesty of a marriage would have to be witnessed.
Of Evan MacKallan, there was still no sign.
Annista’s stomach rebelled when she saw the men waiting. A good thing she had taken no breakfast, else surely she would have disgraced herself.
Alan MacKallan—her bridegroom—looked, well, very much the way she felt. Angry, for aye, if anything sustained her through this it would be her anger. With her father, with the whole MacKallan clan. With life itself.
Perhaps a bit sick. Rebellious. Controlled. He no more meant to let his feelings show than she did herself. It might be the one thing they had in common, that they hated what was taking place.
A fine thing upon which to base a marriage, hate.
Father grasped Annista’s arm as they approached the pulpit, as if he feared she might flee. The chapel was not large, a private place with the pulpit to the left in front of the chancel, behind a carved wooden screen, and only four benches, two on either side.
They stopped in front of the chancel with the minister facing them. An aged man he was, with white hair and hands that shook as if with palsy as he raised his prayer book, already open. Would he truly need to read the words, which must be so familiar to him?
“Go, son.”
MacKallan nudged Alan into place, and with a grimace he stepped up beside Annista. His arm bumped hers lightly even as Father took her hand and put it into her bridegroom’s before stepping away.
Was this truly taking place? It seemed so, for here they stood—this stranger, this enemy and herself—holding hands like any willing couple.
Blood rushed in Annista’s ears, so loud she barely heard the minister when he began to speak—because his old voice quivered like his hands, and her thoughts were all for escape.
What would happen if she tore her hand from Alan MacKallan’s and ran? Would her father haul her back again by force? Hold her here till the words were said?
What if she refused to speak them, to make the promise? Would it be a wedding, then?
And what kind of unholy wedding might it be anyway, when both participants were unwilling?
Alan stood stiff at her side. Unmoving, his fingers as cold as the air of the chapel. When asked the questions by the aged, earnest preacher, he hesitated and Annista’s heart bounded.
Mayhap he would refuse.
But then she heard him make the response. The promise.
I will.
His voice was low and gruff but he said it. He said it.
The old man’s pale blue eyes moved to Annista. He began to speak. Ah, she was going to faint here and now onto the flagstone floor.
She knew it, for all the blood that had rushed to her ears in anger now fled her, leaving her dizzy.
The old man stopped speaking and waited expectantly. Everyone waited expectantly. She was required to say something.
It should be Evan here at her side. Because she needed to keep her promise to her mother—to herself—and kill him. The best place to do that would have been the marriage bed.
Just thinking of Robena would have given her the necessary strength.
But this stranger stood beside her instead, his fingers cold and tense.
The minister cleared his throat and began to recite the rite all over again, as if she had not heard the first time.
Annista interrupted him and said the required words.I will.
If she stayed, she would have the opportunity to deal out what Evan MacKallan deserved. Eventually.
