Chapter 3
In a haste that Rose could hardly comprehend, Laird MacKay secured a special license for their marriage, not a small feat, and she found herself standing in the church, promising her future to him as his wife.
Rose’s heartbeat surged so quickly, so loudly, within her that she hardly even heard the priest’s words as she stood at the altar with Laird MacKay.
Tension wrought her body, unmovable and seemingly without end.
This was to be one of the happiest days in her life.
While she knew that she would not have been marrying for love previously, there was an undeniable charm to the Viscount before he revealed his true colors.
Now, standing before the enormous Highlander, Rose could only focus on the panic that swirled through her, twisting her stomach into knots.
Rose was dimly aware of the clergyman finishing his recitation of the “Solemnization of Matrimony,” and soon after, a blessed ring being slid on her finger. She looked up into Laird MacKay’s eyes as he repeated the words offered by the priest, his large fingers still on the ring.
“With this ring I thee wed, with me body I thee worship, and with all me worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
They both received communion, and Rose had to assume that several scriptures were read, because she seemed to blink, and such a long time had passed. They signed the register, declaring themselves legally bound, and the ceremony was concluded.
Solemn, quiet, and filled with no great fanfare afterward.
As she glanced at her new husband once more, a frown darkened his striking face, and Rose swallowed hard.
Her pulse quickened, fluttering in her throat, and renewed anxiety consumed her.
Was he to leave? Was this the moment when she would be again left stripped of her assets and abandoned by the man who was to be her spouse?
Humiliation at the hands of another man will surely destroy me.
The two of them remained standing at the head of the aisle before the small altar in her parish church. The few people gathered stared at them in silent confusion and worry. Laird MacKay glanced about, looking back at his man-at-arms who stood just behind him. At all times, in fact.
“Was that all there is?” he asked, the dark slashes of his brows deeply furrowed.
Rose’s eyes flared, and she nodded numbly. The guests remained frozen just a few feet away from her, the tension rising so that it began to choke her.
“Och, nay. We willnae have it ending there. A handfasting. At once.”
Familiarity with the Scottish custom was slim on her part, and Rose turned to the clergyman with her brows still up to her hairline.
It was hardly her place to deny the man his wishes, nor anyone there, considering he was a Laird.
She had heard of the event, however, and what she did know was that it was a formal marriage custom, binding the bride and groom.
Laird MacKay was not running.
A brief sigh escaped her before Rose righted herself.
She could not deny the relief. Her groom was only seeking to instill his own customs. He was not leaving her with nothing, ruining her family.
If anything, she would always be grateful to the man for that simple fact because she had taken for granted the honor of a man once before.
He will claim you as a bride truthfully, in the ways of his people. It will be all right, Rose. It will.
In a flurry of activity, Laird MacKay’s man-at-arms, along with some of the lesser clergyman, gathered a bit of white cord.
Her groom’s hand swallowed her, smattered with scars, and tanned from the sun against her pale, unmarred skin.
She watched his face with rapt attention, Laird MacKay’s dark gaze never leaving hers.
She was consumed by that stare, in a bit of a daze as the cord wrapped around their hands, her stomach flipping about.
The heat of Laird MacKay’s palm melted into her, the room seeming to disappear around them, leaving only the two of them and the pristine white cord that entwined around their joined hands.
“I, Dominik Kane, Laird of MacKay, take thee, Rose Barton, daughter of Lord and Lady Fernside, for my wedded spouse. I give me promise to be true to ye, in all things, from this day forward. I pledge to ye me living and dying, equally in yer care. I shall be a shield for yer back, and ye for mine.”
Laird MacKay nodded at Rose, his brows rising as he squeezed her hand.
She blinked, coming back to herself a hair, and doing her best to repeat the vow to him.
Still, he supplied her with the words when she faltered, and before she knew it, she was saying back to this proud Scottish Laird words that rang with a sense of prophecy and potency.
“I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back, and you for mine.”
A slight upturn of her groom’s face sent her pulse reeling for the heavens once more, and Rose stood breathless before him as the handfasting finished.
The intensity of the moment was indescribable.
Laird MacKay’s blazing gaze was still locked on her, and Rose could not look away even if a shot rang out in the church.
Time had slowed, and then all at once, it picked back up again, and her new husband was taking her down the steps of the church, ignoring her parents’ plea to remain for a wedding breakfast.
“Is the carriage prepared, Oskar?” Laird MacKay spoke to his man-at-arms, and Rose pulled back, bristling at how this obstinate man was treating her as if she were nothing more than a piece of luggage.
It was as if the candle of intimacy that had burned during the handfasting was abruptly snuffed out.
“Aye, me laird. All is waiting and ready for the journey north.”
Rose looked between her new spouse and parents, renewed panic rising in her chest.
“We have not had the wedding breakfast nor the celebration. Am I not even to have a moment to say farewell to my family?”
“As I have mentioned before, lass. I daenae have any desire to remain in England for a moment longer than is necessary.” The Laird’s stare was firm and steely, but Rose held her ground, taking a singular step backward, making the man sigh and roll his eyes. “Verra well. But be quick about it.”
Turning, Rose faced her parents, stepping close so that she could hold each of their hands. Peggy stood behind them, giving her a quick glance that silently informed Rose that she would have everything in the carriage ready for her. As her lady’s maid stepped away, Rose focused on her family.
“I will write soon. Please be well, and if there is word of anything or should something of great import arise, do not hesitate to send word. I shall do my best to continue to care for you even while I reside in Scotland.”
“We are so proud to have a daughter of such worth, sweet Rose.” Her father patted her hand, smiling with glassy eyes that reflected both joy and sorrow.
“Do be safe, darling. I will look for your letters.” Rose’s mother kissed her cheek, and the couple moved backward, allowing Peggy to gather close and escort Rose to the coach that was waiting on the street just in front of the church.
As much as Rose might have preferred a longer moment with her parents for farewells, it was likely for the best that this was kept short. Knowing them as she did, it was more than reasonable to assume that they would dissolve into an emotional state as their only child was leaving.
So now, Rose simply stepped up into the carriage and took her seat, leaning out the window to wave her goodbye as she was carted away to Scotland.
The roads beyond the city were in much worse condition. Rose was tossed about this way and that as the carriage trundled along the journey north. Worse, every time she lost her balance, stumbling into either the coach wall or her new husband, the Laird smirked, clearly amused by the situation.
“Must you continue to grin like that every time this blasted carriage tosses me?”
With his brows raised, the man turned to her, openly smiling as another jolt on the road made her pop up in her seat and land back down with a yelp.
“If it wasnae so hilarious, I wouldnae need to smile.” He just kept up that damned smirk, and Rose was at the end of her rope. “I suspect ye’re nae very familiar with long journeys on the road.”
“And what of it if I have not? Is it a requirement you failed to mention to Miss Wood that your wife must be as comfortable on a horse as one of your men?” Rose scoffed, reaching down for the mass of her skirts, much greater than usual considering she wore her finest gown, and pulled them up so that she could stuff them into the space next to her on the seat.
“I should think it would be quite difficult to find a woman suitable if that were the case.”
“What on earth are ye doing, lass?” Laird MacKay eyed her bundle of fabric, flicking his stare angrily away when it almost landed on her legs.
Yes, two can play that game, now, can’t they?
“I am avoiding the damage to my gown. Every time we shuffle about, it catches on my shoe, and I will not tear the fabric.”
“And here I thought that the English were even more strict than the Scots.” Her husband scoffed, rolling his stare to the large window on the side of the carriage, where his man, Oskar, rode alongside them. “And yet here ye are flashing yer skin like—”
“I would be quite careful with the word you choose just now, Laird MacKay.” Rose glared at him, refusing to back down or be put on the spot by his comments. “We ride in privacy, and I should think that my husband, of all people, will need to become used to seeing the sight of my feet.”
Oskar snorted outside the coach, clearly able to hear their conversation. Rose leaned down so that she could narrow her eyes at him through the window.
“She’s as stubborn as ye are, me laird.” His laughter filled the air outside the carriage, and Rose could hear Peggy scoffing on the other side as she flanked the carriage on her own horse.
“Perhaps we’ve just met the wrong English all this time, and the country is in fact as unyielding as this one. ”
Rose’s jaw dropped open, and she was about to launch into another tirade, this one directed at the man-at-arms, but Peggy appeared at the window on the other side, clearing her throat loudly to get Rose’s attention.
“My lady, please. I must say I am terribly shocked that you would even dare to be so openly frustrated. Challenging a man like Laird MacKay. Have you fallen ill?”
She wanted to snap at her, to remind Peggy of her place, but the truth of the matter was that she had no one to blame but herself at present.
Rose had grown uncomfortable and annoyed through the long ride, and she had undoubtedly let it get the best of her.
It was unwise to challenge the Laird, even more so her husband.
Breathe calmly, Rose. This is not how to begin things.
Still, Rose had never felt such strong emotions bubbling through her before. Being around Laird MacKay did something to her that she could not deny or comprehend. It was vexing, utterly dizzying, and apparently, quite the distraction.
After silently scolding herself, she realized they had somehow reached a small village.
The carriage pulled along the road that led through the trade route town, coming to a halt in front of a large building in good condition.
When she stuck her head out to see where they were, Rose’s stomach dropped.
They were at an inn.
On the night of their wedding.
Oh no.
“Me Lady,” announced Laird MacKay, stepping out of the carriage and turning to offer her his hand.
She took it, the warmth of his palm melting into her again. Rose could remember the way it felt to hold his hand during the handfasting, the way the world had dropped away around them for a time.
But as she looked down at him now, allowing him to help her out of the coach, she saw a flash of brilliance dart through his eyes.
His tone had been entirely teasing, and he smirked at her again.
She did not know what to make of it. This odd tension that swam between them rattled her nerves and made mustering any speech an impossibility.
None of that mattered, however, because this was the night of their wedding.
Rose knew precisely what English tradition demanded of them.
She could hardly believe that it would be all that different for a Scottish Laird.
She was now a wife, and while none of the other customs she wished to enjoy had been allotted to her, this one she worried would be upheld with certainty.
Oh, God, please help me. Help me make it through my wedding night.