The Laird’s Vow #5
She had no idea what marriage to Cameron Fraser would be like, but she would do her best to make it work. And Mrs Potts was giving her a head start.
Producing a brush, Mrs Potts brushed out Jeannie’s long hair till it shone, then produced a veil of creamy, precious lace, which she placed carefully over Jeannie’s head. “’Twas my own bridal veil, and both my daughters wore it at their weddings, too.”
She stood back and smiled. “There, a bonny bride you are indeed, is she not Morag? Right now, I’ll just—” She broke off, hesitated, then said, “Child, do you have no kith or kin to stand up with you?”
Jeannie shook her head. “There’s only Uncle Ewen, and he wouldna come. He doesna like people.”
Mrs Potts and Morag exchanged glances. “Would that be Ewen Leith, the one they call ‘the hermit’?”
Jeannie nodded. “My mother’s brother.”
“I never realized he had a young girl living with him. I’m sorry lass, if I’d known you were alone up there in the hills, I would have visited.”
Jeannie shrugged awkwardly. “It doesna matter.”
The older lady hugged her. “Well, you’ll not be lonely any longer with young Cameron Fraser for a husband.
I’m amazed you two ever met, let alone had time to court.
Right then, I’ll away and see if the men are ready.
Take her to the church door, Morag, and when you hear the music send her down the aisle. ” The minister’s wife bustled away.
Jeannie and Morag looked at each other. “Could I maybe—” Jeannie began. “Is there a looking glass somewhere, so that I could see …”
“Och, of course, lass.” Morag looked out into the hallway, then beckoned.
Jeannie stood in front of the looking glass in the hall and stared. Other than in a pool of water, she hadn’t seen her reflection in four years. Uncle Ewen didn’t believe in wasting money on such things.
She’d changed in four years. Grown up. “I … I look like my mother,” she whispered.
“I look …” Pretty, she thought. She couldn’t say it aloud.
Vanity was a sin. But she thought it and the thought gave her a warm glow.
She was still a bit freckled and skinny and her cheeks were red from the cold and her mouth too wide and she still had that crooked tooth but she looked …
nice. Like a proper bride. A real bride.
She adjusted the beautiful lace veil. If not for Mrs Potts’s kindness …
Emotion surged up in her and her eyes filled with tears.
“Now stop that, lassie, or you’ll start me off as well.” Morag said briskly. “Time enough for tears later. Let’s get ye to the kirk.”
Four
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 colour 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 at 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? This lissom young woman walking towards 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 honour on this day, the old man 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 Macleay’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 dishevelled, her mouth soft and moist, her eyes dreamy.
His wife.
Afterwards, 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.”
“Your best is very fine thank you, Mrs Potts,” Cameron assured her.
There was shortbread and egg-and-bacon tart and Selkirk bannock and 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. “Uncle Ewan thinks porridge is all a body needs.”
He recalled what her uncle had said about her eating too much. She was as slender as a reed.