Chapter 33
Susanna decided that it would be more proper to move from the church, to hold the wedding in the parlor at Tyemorn Manor, which meant, of course, that few people would witness the nuptials.
But since she and James had given the village of Ayleshire enough to talk about for months, the private ceremony was more to Riona’s liking.
Harold was sent on his way, which was just as well, since it looked as if James would cheerfully pummel him again. The moment the carriage left, a pony cart arrived, bearing the minister and Mrs. Dunant.
“I cannot believe that you don’t have to marry that odious man,” Susanna said, smoothing the folds of Riona’s dress. The second time she’d done so today. “I am so very pleased.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “I thought you approved of Harold.”
Her mother looked disconcerted. “How could you think that?”
“Because you urged me to marry him, that’s why,” Riona said in disbelief.
“That was before James arrived.”
She raised her eyebrows at that. But her mother didn’t add to the comment.
“Just think, both my girls married on the same day.” Susanna looked inordinately pleased with herself.
James had answered all her questions. “Captain Hastings assures me that he’ll bring Maureen back for a visit before they settle permanently in Inverness. At the moment, they’re staying with his parents.”
Susanna’s look changed to concern and he reassured her. “I believe that Mrs. Parker’s worries on that score were greatly exaggerated. According to Hastings, his parents have no objection to the match.”
“Or to the wedding? A most romantic thing for him to do,” Susanna said, smiling at him.
“Yes.” But that’s all he would say.
A spot had been cleared before the fireplace, and the large family Bible placed on the table.
Behind it stood the parson, Mr. Dunant, and his wife.
Her gaze was pleasant yet curious while the pastor, evidently irritated about the change of venue, glared at everyone in the room.
In punishment, perhaps, for moving the wedding from the church, he’d retreated into an uncharacteristic sermon about sin and its consequences.
Mrs. Dunant merely patted him on the arm from time to time, and he’d finally ceased.
Her mother and Ned stood behind them, with Polly, Abigail, Rory, and Cook behind them.
But it was James who was the focus of her attention, tall and overpoweringly male.
Riona recited her vows in a voice that held laughter in it, unable to hide her joy. James’s voice sounded firm and sure. She slanted a glance at him as he stood there, unable to believe, even at that moment, that he was to be her husband.
When the ceremony was over, he looked down at her, his impossibly blue eyes twinkling. “Are you up to a journey?” he asked.
“Now?”
“Now,” he said.
Of course she was. Anywhere he wished to go.
“Where are we going?”
“Gilmuir.”
A wedding trip to a castle. What could be more enchanted?
Less than an hour later she found herself in their coach, her bags packed, and James beside her.
“We’ll stay in Inverness tonight,” he said, after they’d waved goodbye to her family. “At an inn I know.”
They reached the city after night had fallen, the journey surprisingly swift.
But it might have been because she was with James.
They’d sat together facing the horses, his arm around her.
She couldn’t keep from patting him from time to time, or stroking her gloved hand across his sleeve, small touches that reassured her he was really there.
“How did you arrange their elopement?” she asked, under no illusions that Captain Hastings had devised the plan on his own. It was the perfect solution to their problems, and yet it had taken James to ensure that it happened.
“I merely told the good captain that the woman I love was determined to sacrifice herself for him. He agreed with me that such an event could not be allowed to happen. Even an Englishman has a sense of honor, Riona.”
She smiled at him, shaking her head.
“A very dramatic way of proposing, James.”
“I was in the mood for a bit of claiming, Riona,” he said with a grin. “Call it public passion, if you will. We do fine in private, but I think the world needs to know how I feel about you.”
That declaration earned him a kiss.
The innkeeper’s wife and the tavern maid were as goggle-eyed as the women of her household around James. Riona didn’t bother frowning at them, knowing, from prior experience, that nothing she could do would have any effect.
They were led to a chamber that startled her with its appointments.
The third-floor room boasted a dressing table, a wardrobe, and a large fabric-draped screen in the corner.
The fireplace, with its chiseled white stone mantel, dominated one wall.
But it was the bed that commanded the room.
Four tall, carved mahogany posts stretched upward to the ceiling, left undraped by curtains so that the ornate carving was revealed.
James closed the door behind them, placing her valise near the vanity and putting his own bag next to it.
“I can arrange a bath if you’d like,” he offered.
“Perhaps later.” She opened her bag, removing her nightgown and her brush from the top.
He stood at the edge of the screen erected in the corner. “This inn boasts a clever tub.”
She walked to where he stood and peered around the screen. There, a tall armoire with a rounded top rested on a marble pedestal. James went to open it, but instead of it being a place to hold clothes, the unit tilted down until it rested on the floor, becoming a bath.
“How marvelous,” she said, raising and lowering it herself. “But how did you know? Have you stayed here before?”
He nodded.
She pushed back the tendrils of hair from her face as she sat at the dressing table. Staring at herself in the mirror, she saw his reflection behind her. He was so large and the room, although commodious, was not built to house a MacRae.
He was smiling at her in perfect accord. As if he understood every thought she had, including a feeling of shyness she’d never before felt around him.
She stood and moved to him, beginning to smile as she neared him. “The innkeeper called me your wife.”
“That he did,” he said easily, reaching for her. She went into his embrace easily. “Riona MacRae.”
“It has a nice sound,” she admitted. “Will we be happy, do you think? Or will we argue and disagree from time to time?”
His smile grew in scope. “We are neither of us saints, dear wife. If you thought yourself married to one, I must change your mind. Quickly.”
“Oh, but you could be an angel,” she said, teasing him. “An angel with black hair and heavenly blue eyes. At least the barmaid thought so. And the innkeeper’s wife.”
“And I never saw the one of them,” he said, smiling. “How foolish you women are, to judge a man by his appearance.”
“And you men do not?” She frowned at him.
“We are constrained to our corsets because of men’s idea of beauty.
We must purse our lips just so and never seem to notice that our bodice barely covers our breasts.
A woman’s hair must be long, however unruly it becomes.
No, it is the men who judge a woman upon her appearance. Either that, or her fortune.”
His smile faded. “Like Harold?”
“Exactly like Harold.”
He released her, stepping back and surveying her. “While I care little for your fortune. Thus I must have judged you solely on your character and your charm.”
“Did you?” She felt her cheeks warm at his words.
“I was entranced by your mind first, I recall. When we walked in the darkness together.”
“A forbidden thing to do.”
“Then I’m grateful for your wanton streak.”
“I would be happier if you were not so handsome,” she told him, a confession from the depths of her heart. “It is easier, I think, to love a homely man than an impossibly beautiful one. A wife should not have to worry about women stumbling over themselves in an effort to see you.”
“They do not,” he said, his face deepening in color.
The sight of his discomfort made them equals in this moment of revelation.
“Oh, but they do,” she said, smiling.
“Would you prefer that I had a scar and a limp?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her answer disconcerted him, she could tell. “Or if you had some flaws. Any that might be apparent.”
He shook his head, his smile back in place. “Perhaps I can arrange a duel with Alisdair after we return to Gilmuir. Or fall down the stairs to the shipyard,” he added wryly.
“I don’t want you hurt,” she was quick to say.
“Then perhaps I can inquire if there are any faux scars for sale, like beauty patches.”
“Or you could scowl more,” she suggested. “Look fiercer than you do. Or blacken one of your teeth.”
He laughed, the sound echoing through the room. “I think you exaggerate, but my esteem has grown by it. Thank you.”
She busied herself with unbraiding her plait, wishing for the thousandth time that she wasn’t cursed with such unmanageable hair. A few gold pins dropped to the ground, and both she and James bent to pick them up.
“I hate my hair,” she said when they stood. The frizzed ends flared around her head. “Nothing else represents my life so much as my hair. Its length is measured by propriety, and it doesn’t matter how unruly it is, I must fashion it as society decrees.”
He smiled. “I am partial to it, myself.”
“Are you?” She sighed. “But I truly hate it.”
“Then cut it,” he said.
She glanced at him, the thought skittering to a halt within her. “Cut it?”
“Yes,” he said folding his arms and looking down at her. “Didn’t you say that when you married you would?”
“I was jesting. Or it was only a wish.”
“Why should it only be a wish?”
“Because it isn’t done, for one thing,” she said.
“You’re sounding too much like Mrs. Parker.”
She looked up at him wide-eyed. “Truly? That is an incentive, if nothing else.”