Chapter Five
They waited in the vestibule of the small stone kirk until they heard the full chord of an organ sound. Jeannie took a deep breath. One step and she was on her way to wed Cameron Fraser, a man she'd known but a few hours. And once married there was no going back.
She couldn't move.
"Go on, lass," Morag whispered and gave her a hefty shove that sent her stumbling into the aisle.
And there he was, waiting. Cameron Fraser, solemn as a judge and as fine a man as she'd ever seen. To her surprise he wore the kilt, the Fraser dress kilt, a splash of bright color in the austere little whitewashed kirk.
Jeannie's heart fluttered. She'd always been partial to the sight of a man wearing the kilt. And Cameron Fraser looked as braw and bonny as any man she'd seen. The man had a set of legs on him that fair took her breath away.
The music continued and Jeannie walked slowly down the aisle, drinking in the sight of her groom.
He wore a white shirt with a lace jabot at his throat, the foam of the lace in stark contrast to the hard line of his jaw and square, firm chin.
Over it he wore a black velvet coat with silver buttons.
He looked like a hero out of a painting of old.
His expression hadn't changed. He looked . . . No, she couldn't read his face at all. He ran a finger between his throat and his jabot, as if it was tied too tight.
Was he having second thoughts?
She hoped not because she wanted him, wanted him with a fierceness that burned bright and deep within her. She quickened her step.
Cameron Fraser had made her want him. He'd caused all her long buried dreams to surface, had tantalized her with possibilities she knew were foolish and impossible, but now she wanted him, wanted the house he'd promised her, the place, the home. Her home. And him. She wanted it all.
He was not going to back out now. She hurried the last few steps to where he waited at the altar and when he presented his arm, she grabbed it. And held on tight.
He stared down at her, looking faintly stunned.
Cameron couldn't believe his eyes. This was his muddy little bog sprite? This lissom young woman walking toward him with shining eyes and a look of hope so transparent it went straight to his heart.
Behind him, one of his cousins said something but Cameron wasn't listening. His attention was entirely on his bride as she made the interminable walk down the aisle, light and graceful in a pretty blue dress.
He straightened, glad now he'd stuffed his kilt and jacket into his saddlebag when he left, glad the minister had insisted it wouldn't do for the laird to be wed in his breeks, even if nobody except a couple of young wastrels were there to witness it.
His bride would remember he'd done her honor on this day, the old man had said.
Cameron ran a finger around his neck. He hadn't wanted the fussy lace jabot. The minister had pressed it on him at the last moment, completing the full formal dress.
Cameron was glad of it now. His bride was .
. . He took a deep breath and faced it: his bride, his little bog sprite, was beautiful.
Not the perfect, polished beauty in the portraits of his mother, nor the ripe, sensual beauty of Ailine, the widow who'd first taught a brash boy how to please a woman.
Jeannie McLeay's beauty was something quite different.
She was the scent of heather on the wind, the softness of mist in the glen, and the clean, fresh air of the mountains. It was a subtle beauty, like that of his homeland, not delicate and whimsical and demanding as his mother had been, but strong and free and bonny.
She wore a softly draped veil of lace over long, glossy chestnut hair that fell clear to her waist. Where had she hidden that hair?
His fingers itched to run through the silken length of it.
Her skin was smooth and fresh with a dozen or so small freckles, like brown breadcrumbs sprinkled over cream, her cheeks a wild rose blush echoed in her soft, full lips.
Cameron straightened under his bride's clear gaze. She liked how he looked too, he could tell by the feminine approval in her wide blue eyes. He drew himself up, glad now he'd worn the kilt and even the stupid, fussy jabot.
She gazed up at him, clinging tightly to his arm, and gave him a hesitant, shy, faintly anxious smile that pierced his heart.
His bride.
"Dearly beloved."
They turned and faced the minister. It passed in a blur. Cameron heard himself making his vows. His bride spoke hers in a clear, soft voice.
"Time to sign the register," the minister said. He handed Cameron the pen. Cameron signed it and passed it to his bride.
She took it, but made no move to sign. Her thoughts seemed far away.
Of course, she wouldn't know how to read or write, he realized, and his stomach hollowed as he took in the implications of his rash act.
"Dip the end in the ink and make your mark," Cameron told her in a low voice. "A cross will do. Or a thumbprint if you prefer."
She gave him an odd look, then dipped the quill in the ink and swiftly wrote her name in a stylish copperplate hand.
Cameron blinked. How had a simple shepherdess learned to write like that?
He was still pondering that question while the minister recited some advice about marriage. And then the words, "You may kiss the bride."
Cameron lifted the veil back off her face. To his surprise, his hands were shaking. She turned her face up to him, her eyes shining, trustful, her lips rosy, slightly parted.
He stared down at her. This thing he'd done so carelessly, this marriage he'd made without consideration, thinking only of his inheritance: it had become something momentous. This girl had given herself into his care, forever. She was his.
He bent and touched his mouth to hers, intending to make it brief, but her lips softened under his and she sighed and leant into him, and before he knew it he was kissing her deeply, his senses swimming with the taste, the scent and the feel of her.
"That's enough for now, lad," the minister's voice cut in dryly. "Save the rest for the honeymoon."
Cameron released her, dazed, still hungry. He stared at her in shock. She blinked up at him, blushing, a little disheveled, her mouth soft and moist, her eyes dreamy.
His wife.
Afterward, they returned to the minister's house for tea. "It's not much of a wedding breakfast, I'm afraid," Mrs. Potts said, "but it's the best Morag and I can do at such short notice, and it'll keep you going until you get home."
"It’s very fine thank you, Mrs. Potts," Cameron assured her, and indeed the minister's wife had put on a feast. There was shortbread and egg-and-bacon tart and Selkirk bannock and warm, fresh-baked baps with butter and honey.
And if Cameron and his cousins thought it a poor celebration to be washing such fine food down with tea instead of whisky, they knew better than to say so. Not in front of a minister.
Not that Cameron cared. He was watching his bride eat her way through every piece of food offered her with an expression of utter bliss.
Halfway through a slice of Selkirk bannock, she set it down with a huge, regretful sigh. "I'm sorry, but I canna eat a single mouthful more. It's the most delicious meal I've had in forever, Mrs. Potts, Morag." She laughed. "Grandad thinks porridge is all a body needs."
He recalled that her grandfather had claimed she ate too much. She was as slender as a reed.
Cameron stood. "We'd best get along home now. Thank you for all you've done, Reverend Potts, Mrs. Potts, Morag." He bowed to each. "You've turned this into a very special occasion."
At his words, Jeannie jumped up. "Oh, your dress," she said to Mrs. Potts. "I should change back into—"
The older woman shook her head. "Keep the dress my dear, with my blessing. And here's a wee wedding present for you." She gave Jeannie a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Open it tonight, before you go to bed."
For the sake of politeness Jeanie made a few half-hearted protests but she was glad to leave her old clothes—and her old life—behind. She hugged the motherly minister's wife and thanked her again.
Then it was time to mount up again, this time with Jeannie riding in front of Cameron, seated sideways across his saddle because the blue dress was too narrow-cut to allow for sitting astride—not without a scandalous amount of leg showing.
Jeannie was made comfortable enough with a cushion borrowed from Mrs. Potts and in a short time they were off and heading toward her new home.
With her new husband. The thought took her breath away. It was like a dream. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her steady, warm and strong. Her husband.