His wife, Pippa Bennett, the Duchess of St. Clara. Dear God, he couldn’t believe that Pippa was finally his. He had dreamed about marrying her since he was a boy climbing a tree to save her kittens.
The immediate friendship they had formed connected them in a way his younger self had never comprehended. Now, as they exited the blacksmith shop, he knew they were always meant to be together. A pang in his chest whispered one word to his fragilemind—love—but surely he would never find happiness after the treatment of his mother and sister.
A small crowd waited for them. Campbell and his family followed them out of the shop with Mrs. Campbell and Bonnie throwing rose petals at him and Pippa.
It was a jovial atmosphere that swept St. Clara away. True happiness coursed through his veins and filled his lungs with joy for the first time in years. He bounced up and down, unable to stand still. The entire wedding ceremony gave him a sense of utter completeness. He finally felt joy and peace after years of loneliness and despair. Years of being who his father wanted and not who he really was.
Although he hadn’t spent the last nine years of his life entirely miserable, he’d squandered his time drowned in liquor, gambling, and women. But a part of him was always missing. Pippa.
Before St. Clara and his wife turned onto the main road back to the inn where the carriage was waiting to start their journey to London, Mrs. Campbell took hold of Pippa’s free hand. The matron had been vocal during the ceremony, and now, her motherly face shined with tears as if Pippa was her own daughter.
“You’ll stay bound to midnight.” Mrs. Campbell engulfed Pippa in a warm hug, which had positioned St. Clara oddly as she was attached to him by the thin yellow ribbon.
She whispered something in Pippa’s ear, and his new wife smiled as a fresh set of tears slid down her high cheekbones.
He wanted to know what the older woman said, but he did not wish to pry. There was no doubt that Pippa was missing both her aunt and her mother. Guilt ate at him for whisking her away with nothing but her beast of a cat for comfort.
Walking back to the small inn, the yellow ribbon binding their hands felt more potent to St. Clara than anything had inyears. The weight of it was heavy, and the meaning branded in his soul. He was bound to her, and he wanted it to remain that way for the rest of his life. His new objective, was to convince his wife to never leave him. The past was of no consequence. Whatever he did, he would amend for it. The only thing that mattered to him now was their future, and he would ensure that they would have one together.
A small crowd walked behind them, cheering and throwing wildflowers as they made their way back. It was still early in the day, and St. Clara wanted to return to London as soon as possible to pay Reaper. However, when he turned to gaze at Pippa, who had stopped to accept a white rose from a little girl, he wanted to stay in that moment celebrating their union.
London and Reaper could wait one more day.
Pippa bent to retrieve something on the ground, forcing St. Clara to kneel with her so that she wouldn’t have to strain herself. “What is it? Did you drop something?” he asked, wondering how they would maneuver an entire day tied together.
Pippa stood, finding it difficult to keep her balance. “No, look.” She held up a rock for him to inspect. “You should start collecting again. This would be perfect.”
He took it from her with trembling fingers, feeling like he was a boy in Hyde Park. It was smooth and oval shaped, the perfect color gray with flecks of white. They had often collected rocks together when she first moved to London, but that seemed like an eternity ago.
“Thank you. I’ll add it when we’ve returned home.” He tried to move forward with her bound to him but could not as she stood still, staring at him.
“Home?” The word was a breathy whisper. A longing in her hazel eyes had St. Clara praying that she would change her mind abut their marriage ending in a year.
Pulling her gently toward him, he chuckled easily. “Yes, home.” He kissed her forehead. Her body shifted closer to him. “Now come along, wife.”
Slipping the rock into his pocket, he tried to hide his exuberance, but he wanted the world to know how happy he was.
As they entered the little inn, cheers erupted all around them as the friendly owner shouted out his well wishes to them. “Will ye be needing a room, Yer Grace?”
“We will!” St. Clara replied.
“A-are we not returning to London right away?” she asked, her eyebrows drawn together in a delightful sort of way.
“No, I want to celebrate.” He pulled her to him, bending down slightly to stare into the pools of gray, green, and blue.
“What are we celebrating?” Her free hand played with the lapel of his jacket.
The inn was filling with every resident of the small village and others who, like them, had fled to Scotland to marry.
“Kiss her!”
“Kiss yer bonnie lass, Yer Grace!”
The cheers grew louder around them, strangers urging him to kiss the beautiful woman who was now bound to him for eternity.
“Us, we’re celebrating us, Kitten,” he whispered before his lips claimed his wife’s in a passionate kiss in a room full of strangers.
The deafening cheers that erupted around them urged St. Clara to relish the moment of kissing his bride.
