Page 27 of The Baron’s Halo

“Details, details,” he laughed as they approached the door.

As if by magic it opened, a tall, stately butler standing at attention just inside. “Welcome home, my lord.” He bowed as Sandy carried her into the echoing stone foyer. All manner of warlike weapons hung on the walls, fierce-looking broadswords, maces, and battleaxes. A set of armor stood in each corner, polished and shiny, yet deadly.

“I had no idea the MacKays were so bloodthirsty.”

“We’re a small but feisty clan.” Sandy set her on her feet and kissed her. “Our motto is Gun eagal agus fior, fearless and true.”

“That certainly seems appropriate.” She laughed, enchanted with the castle, both inside and out.

The butler hurried toward Sandy.

“My dear, may I present Grant, the castle’s butler. Grant, Miss Isabelle Devereaux, soon to be my wife.”

“Soon to be, my lord?” The butler looked confusedly from Sandy to Isabelle, then his face snapped back into its stoic lines. “I will have your bags seen to, my lord.” He motioned to a nearby footman, who hurried out the door. “Will you be resting before dinner?”

“Not until after dinner, Grant. I had the coachman stop here to leave the bags and make sure dinner would be ready upon our return. We are leaving for the kirk in a few minutes’ time. I insist on having our marriage solemnized before the sun goes down.” He turned to gaze at Isabelle. “I will not have it said that we lived in sin, no matter for how brief a time. Come my dear.” He offered Isabelle his arm. “We will be back shortly, Grant.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The carriage took them back down the long, tree-lined driveway, then left onto the main road toward the village of Carnwath.

“If we’d turned right, we’d be on our way to Glasgow.” Sandy glanced at her and smiled. “And if we continue through the village, we’d be heading toward Edinburgh. That’s a journey we’ll take another time. You really must see Scotland’s capital with all its rich history and landmarks. It’s also the most beautiful city in the country. Some say in all the world.” His eyes twinkled. “You might enjoy the shops there too.”

“I suspect I would.” Isabelle squeezed his arm. There would be so much to see and do and learn in her new life here with Sandy. It was an adventure she scarcely would have dreamed of two months ago.

The bright autumn foliage in the late afternoon light made the countryside appear to be aflame with brilliant red, orange, and yellow leaves as they came into the village. Thatched cottages dotted here and there gave way to a row of three pretty little houses, beyond which rose the spire of a modest-looking church.

“That’s St. Mary’s.” Sandy nodded toward the structure. “It’s been the Carnwath parish church since the thirteenth century.”

“It doesn’t look that old. Well, most of it doesn’t.” Isabelle had spied a part of the church beside the main building that seemed truly ancient.

“The main church is dated from 1799, so not very old at all.” The carriage pulled up in front of an arched wooden door. “The older part there—” He nodded to his left at the smaller, badly pock-marked stone building. “—that is St. Mary’s Aisle, the North transept of the original church built in 1424.” He grinned as they moved toward the door. “All the small boys in the parish used to dare one another to go into it just as the sun was setting.”

“You were one of those small boys, I take it?” Isabelle smiled, imagining him as a young daredevil.

“I was the ringleader.” Sandy opened the door and a chill wind rushed by them.

Isabelle shivered and sped inside. The thick stone walls kept the cold in and the light out, save for the tall, narrow windows positioned at sparse intervals around the sanctuary. The light shawl her grandmother had given her this morning did little to warm her. One of the worst things about her precipitous flight north had been her lack of proper clothing, including a coat or cloak.

“Wait here and I’ll go find Mr. Pettigrew, the vicar.” Sandy headed toward the raised pulpit, then disappeared through the door to the side of it.

Isabelle shivered and pulled the shawl closer around her but found little warmth in it. Perhaps if she kept moving, she’d stay warmer. There were brass plaques fastened to the walls at equal distances, so she strolled over to the closest one to investigate. It was a burial plaque, commemorating Ewan and Adaira MacKay, who had died in 1622. Most likely Sandy’s ancestors. She continued around the room, noting more than half the plaques belonged to MacKays.

“May I help ye?”

Isabelle jumped and whirled around.

An older gentleman, in dark clothing with a white collar, stood in the center aisle looking inquiringly at her.

Clutching her shawl, Isabelle started toward the man, obviously the vicar. “Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Pettigrew?”

“I am.” He bowed his head. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Oh, I…I’m Isabelle Devereaux.” She glanced around the sanctuary, hoping Sandy had returned. It was just her luck he was still in search of the man in front of her.

“Mrs. Devereaux?” Something in his voice sounded suspicious, although that might simply be Isabelle’s notion.

“Miss Devereaux. I’m here…” Somehow it seemed wrong to announce she was here to be married when the vicar didn’t know her at all.