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Instead of answering, he sank to one knee.
“Oh!” She placed a hand over her heart.
He held out a bunch of sadly wilted wildflowers, scowling at them. “It took longer to get to Edinburgh than I thought it would. Here.”
She took the limp wildflowers, cradling them as if they’d been the finest roses.
He looked up at her, his brown eye steady and focused exclusively on her face. “I said if I ever courted you, I’d bring you wildflowers. Well, I’m courting you now, Helen Carter. I’m a scarred and lonely man, and my castle is a mess, but I hope someday that you’ll consent to be my wife despite all that, because I love you with all my poor battered heart.”
By this time, Abigail was nearly jumping up and down with excitement, and Helen knew tears were in her own eyes.
“Oh, Alistair.”
“You don’t have to answer now.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, I don’t want you to answer yet. I’d like to have the time to properly court you. To show you that I can be a good husband and that I have some faith in the future. Our future.”
Helen shook her head. “No.”
He froze, his gaze fixed on her face. “Helen…”
She reached down and stroked his scarred cheek. “No, I can’t wait that long. I want to be married to you right away. I want to be your wife, Alistair.”
“Thank God,” he breathed, and then he was on his feet.
He pulled her into his arms and gave her a quite improper kiss right there on High Street, in front of God, the gaping crowd, and her children.
And Helen had never been happier.
SIX WEEKS LATER . . .
Helen lay back on the big bed in Alistair’s room—their room now—and stretched luxuriously. She was, as of ten o’clock this morning, officially Lady Munroe.
They’d had a small ceremony with only family and a few friends, but Papa had been able to attend, and Lord and Lady Vale had come, and really they were the only ones who mattered, anyway. She’d noticed that Papa had even gotten a tear in his eye as she’d come out of the little Glenlargo church.
He was their guest now for a week or so and was a floor below in a newly appointed room. Abigail and Jamie were exhausted from the excitement of the day. They were in the nursery a floor above with Meg Campbell, former housemaid, now raised to the exalted rank of nursemaid. Alistair was already talking about hiring a governess for the children. Badger had doubled his size in the last month and a half and was probably asleep in Jamie’s bed, though the dog was supposed to sleep in the kitchens.
“Admiring your new curtains?” Alistair’s rough voice came from the door.
She looked over and smiled at him. He was lounging against the doorframe, one hand held behind his back. “The blue’s so lovely in here, don’t you think?”
“I think,” he said, advancing toward the bed on which she lay, “that what I think has very little influence on the decorating of my castle.”
“Really?” She widened her eyes. “Then no doubt you won’t mind if I have your tower painted puce.”
“I have no idea what color puce is, but it sounds entirely revolting,” he said, and put one knee on the mattress. “Besides, I thought we’d agreed that you might do anything you wished to the rest of the castle as long as you left my tower be.”
“But—” she started, intending to tease him further.
He laid his mouth against hers, stopping the words in a long kiss.
When next he raised his head, she gazed up at his dear face dreamily and whispered, “What have you got behind your back?”
Alistair propped himself on one elbow beside her. “Two gifts, one small, one a little larger. Which would you like first?”
“The small one.”
He held out his fist and opened it to reveal a lemon. “Actually, this is a gift that comes with a condition.”
She swallowed, remembering when last they’d used a lemon to prevent conception. “What is that?”
