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“All right, all right, off ye go. Ye’ll have yer turn walkin’ down the aisle soon enough,” he shouted to the stragglers, Georgia and Ayda, before shooing them out. “Right now, the Laird of Huxtable is waitin’ at the Kirk for yer sister and we must make haste. I expect all of ye to get into the carriages and be off to the Kirk at once.” He clapped his hands with a gleeful smile that made him look like the cat who had just gotten the cream.
Iona was the last to exit the room before Saoirse. She also paused at the threshold and glanced over her shoulder. The look on Iona’s face nearly tore Saoirse in two. She could see both the happiness and the sorrow mingling and dancing together in her mother’s gaze, but it wasn’t clear which one was more keenly felt.
“Ye truly dae look beautiful,” Iona murmured.
Saoirse couldn’t help but feel as if her mother was searching her soul, sharing in the same insecurities about the marriage to come. With a shake of her head, Iona blew Saoirse a kiss before turning on her heels and walking out the door, leaving daughter and father alone.
Suddenly, Saoirse felt as if she was five years old again, staring at her father as if he were the only man she could ever possibly love. He moved to her side in three long strides, his lips twitching as if he was suppressing both a smile and secret pain.
“Are ye ready then, Lass?” he asked, offering his arm.
Saoirse hesitated to receive the support. “What if he’s cruel man, Faither? What if he doesnae love me?” She stared at her father, hoping that he had the answers and the words that would give her the strength to step out of her room.
“Dae ye really think that poorly of me?” Michael asked as his lips dropped into a frown. “That I would have ye marry a man who would be cruel to ye? Nay, that is somethin’ that ye must nae worry about. I would never allow my daughters to be matched wit’ such a man.”
It was precisely what she had needed to hear. As her father smiled encouragingly, that hope spread to her own lips, tugging at the corners until her entire being felt lighter.
“So, what dae ye say, Lass? Are ye ready for yer next big adventure?”
* * *
The tall stone Kirk stretched up toward the sky and blocked out the light of the sun as it rose up over the village. Among headstones and weeds and the rustle of yew trees, the carriage stopped with a jolt, turning Saoirse’s blood to ice.
This is when ye’ll want to flee, like Anna said, but ye mustnae.Her foot tapped relentlessly against the floor of the carriage as she watched her father’s hand drift to the door to open it. A lump of fear formed in her throat, stealing any last words she might have wanted to squeak.
Michael got out first, and turned to offer his hand and flash her delicate smile. “Have courage, Lass.”
“I’m tryin’,” she whispered back.
Slowly, she slipped out of the carriage, keeping tight hold of her father’s hand as he guided her toward the ominous front doors. She had always found Kirk entrances to be the very opposite of welcoming, being so heavy. The large black nails studded into the wood and the hinges that screamed upon opening didn’t help much, either.
Inside the Kirk, the congregation seemed to have misunderstood the occasion. Deathly silence blanketed the pews, like they had all been gossiping a moment ago. Nobody smiled, nobody wept joyful tears, the Kirk humming with collective nerves that poured into Saoirse as she halted at the top of the aisle.
“I pray yer future is a happy one,” her father murmured, nodding toward the man who stood halfway along the passage to matrimony. Saoirse’s husband. A stranger in every way. Just a name to her, really—Noah Bartley, the Laird of Huxtable.
As if hearing Michael’s words, the man turned. Saoirse’s eyes locked with his, her heart jolting in surprise: those eyes were so dark they almost looked black, cloaked by the shadow of arched eyebrows. But that wasn’t the only shock that struck Saoirse, and the second was definitely more pleasant—never in her life had she seen someone so impossibly handsome.
The man waiting to receive her was younger than she had expected, no more than a few years older than her own age of three-and-twenty. He was tall, very tall, with the athletic physique of a man who had both strength and agility. Powerful arms strained at the sleeves of a thin, white shirt as he held them rigid at his sides. Long, wavy, dark-brown hair fluttered slightly, like there was a draft somewhere, as did the heavy wool of his blue-and-gray tartan, drawing Saoirse’s eyes to his sculpted calves.
As her father led her to Noah, her view became crisper… and he became even more handsome. Chiseled features, a sharp jaw dusted with a close-cropped beard, full lips with a deep bow that Cupid would have envied, and a high-sloping nose made him seem imaginary for a moment. A dream of the perfect man.
“By this, I put my daughter in yer care,” Michael said, distracting Saoirse as he slipped her hand into that of her imminent husband.
The roughness of her husband’s palm snagged the silk of her glove, and his grip was a mite too crushing, but she blamed it on nerves. Unable to believe her good fortune, she batted her eyelashes and flashed a timid smile beneath her veil. An action that she immediately regretted.
Her husband scowled as if she were an insect in his drink. Perhaps, hewasa statue, being so stone cold and rigid.
He’s nervous, that’s all.Pushing her hesitation and fears aside, Saoirse stepped closer to her future and returned his crushing grip. His scowl deepened, and though the sky was bright and blue outside, she half expected to hear a roll of thunder sweeping in or a crack of lightning. Dark clouds certainly swarmed over his head.
Saoirse swallowed, determined to find some sunshine in him.Ye can glare all ye please, but I promise ye this much, husband of mine—whether it be today or another, I’ll have ye love me.
How could she give up her freedom for anything less?
CHAPTER2
Noah swallowedhard as he clasped Saoirse’s hand. With his nerves rattling his bones, he tried everything he could to keep his hand from twitching. Out the corner of his eye, he noticed how regal his bride looked. The veil teased him with silhouettes and suggestions of beauty, his attention drawn to a long, slender neck, but he wouldn’t discover the true nature of her appearance until he lifted that fine material.
What is that scent?He struggled to concentrate as her fragrance flowed around him, unleashed with every flutter of her veil. It was as if he were rushing through the glen and having the wildflowers engulf him. She smelled like… he couldn’t quite figure it out, but it reminded him, ironically, of being free.
