Page 65 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Clara slanted him a wry look that made him laugh. “Aye, well, a fellow likes to be sure.”

She leaned into him and Hamilton realised they had both slowed their steps, allowing her father to get farther ahead of them. “I came here because my father was sent here. I had no choice, no say, but I was glad. I wanted to come to where there were people, to find a husband. Do you think that is very bold of me?”

He snorted at that. “I think it very sensible. Living with the Reverend Halliday is nae for the faint hearted, I reckon.”

“Hush, he’ll hear you,” Clara scolded, though when they looked ahead, the Reverend and Mrs Cameron had their heads together and were oblivious to anything except each other. “I think they’ll do very well together,” Clara said, smiling at the sight. “Papa needs someone to stand up to him, to keep his feet on the ground and speak sense.”

“Aye, Flora Cameron is a sensible woman,” Hamilton said with a twinkle in his eye.

“You think she set her cap for him,” Clara asked with interest.

“I dinnae ken nor care. I dinnae blame her, either. She’s worked hard and raised five bairns after her lout of a husband drank himself to death. She deserves some ease, and she can handle yer da, and that’s all to the good.”

“You are a wise man, Hamilton Anderson,” she said, squeezing his arm.

“I am,” he said, affecting a grave expression. “But it speaks well of ye that ye recognise the fact.”

Clara gave him a playful smack, shaking her head sadly. “Odiously conceited, dreadful man,” she said with a sigh.

“Maybe, but I am yer own dreadful man, conceited or otherwise.”

“Are you?” Clara asked softly, and Hamilton looked down at her, seeing the question in her eyes. “There won’t be another Mrs Scott for me to worry about, or to turn a blind eye to, then? For I’ve never been very good at pretending things aren’t exactly how they are.”

Hamilton took her hands in his bandaged ones, touching them gently as he stared into her eyes so she could see the sincerity in his. “Never, lassie. If I speak my vows, I’ll mean them until my dying breath. I have sown my wild oats and enjoyed doing it, but that’s over. I mean to have the kind of marriage my parents have, that my brothers and my sister seem to have achieved too. All or nothing, Clara. I’ll have yer heart for my own, and ye will have mine too, all of it. Can ye stand it?” he asked, his lips quirking, yet meaning the question all the same. He knew what he was, and he knew he could be overpowering and over exuberant, too full of energy and restless spirit.

“I cannot wait, Hamilton, and you must know you have my heart. You have had it for longer than I think I knew myself.”

“Aye, well, I’m irresistible,” he said with a shrug, and then ducked away, laughing as she tried to clip him around the ear.

“That’s right, lassie, ye start how ye mean to go on,” called a woman from her upstairs window, watching them as they passed in the street. “I’ve a nice heavy skillet I can lend ye if ye like. He’s got a heid like his da’s that one, stubborn as mule and hard as iron.”

“Aileen Carson, I’ll thank ye to keep yer suggestions to yerself,” Hamilton called back, taking Clara’s hand in his. “Come away, lassie, before she gives ye any ideas.”

Tugging her down the street, Clara ran after him, laughing helplessly as Mrs Carson called further suggestions until they were out of sight.

24th July 1850, Rochford House, Just outside Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Despite Hamilton’s initial wish to marry Clara before June was out, it was a full month later before the big day. It was his own choice too, despite his impatience to set a date, for he told her he would not be enjoying his wedding night with his hands bandaged, and the burns were severe enough to need time to heal properly.

The day dawned with a fine drizzle settling over Wick and the surrounding countryside, slicking the streets and giving the summer landscape a fresh dewy look that made all the myriad shades of green sparkle. The air was warm though and Hamilton sensed that the sun would shine by mid-morning.

His sister Georgie’s husband, the Duke of Rochford, nodded a greeting from his place at the head of the breakfast table. Georgie had kindly given Hamilton and Clara Rochford House to use until they found a house of their own, as his own rooms in Wick were bachelor accommodations and not suitable for a bride. The grand Palladian house was barely two miles from the centre of Wick, and the duke and duchess only used it when visiting family, Rochford’s seat being Mulcaster Castle in Cumbria. Mulcaster was a vast, intimidating cavern of a place that Georgie had somehow managed to turn into a home. The place suited Rochford, who was also vast and intimidating. Even by Anderson standards, he was a big man, and badly scarred, giving him a forbidding aspect that made him appear far fiercer than he was. His heir, eight-year-old Jamie, the Marquess of Draven, sat at his elbow. He was a sturdy lad with a shock of dark hair and the whisky coloured eyes of his mother. The boy was working steadily on a plate of eggs and bacon but stopped long enough to grin as he saw Hamilton.

“Good morning, Jamie lad, Rochford,” Hamilton said, helping himself to a slice of sirloin steak and fried potatoes and settling down at the table.

He tucked into the steak as Rochford grunted—his usual greeting in the morning—and lifted a coffee cup, regarding Hamilton over the rim. “A vicar’s daughter,” he said, his deep voice rumbling with amusement. “The poor wee girl.”

Hamilton paused, his knife and fork suspended in mid-air and scowled at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She could have done better,” Rochford lamented, shaking his head.

Hamilton rolled his eyes and applied himself to his breakfast, too used to such baiting from his brothers to rise to it.

“Your parents arrived half an hour ago, by the way. They said Lyall and the others ought not be far behind, but little Gordy had hidden his best shoes again and they were turning the place upside down looking for them when they left. Your mother went straight to the kitchens on arrival, of course, to ensure everything is prepared for the wedding breakfast.”

Hamilton snorted. “Of course she did. She won’t believe it’s all in hand unless she sees it with her own eyes. Probably not until we are all sat down and listening to the toasts.” He gazed down at the steak he’d been cutting into, and his stomach lurched as it hit him. He was getting married. Today.

He swallowed, the bite of steak feeling as if it had stuck in his throat. Married. Today. Something distinctly like panic surged through him.