Chapter Thirteen
A good while later, perhaps an hour or more, Lucian watched as Melissa again dipped her spoon into the pewter bowl that held her Atholl Brose. If ever he was proud to be Scottish, her delight in the traditional dessert underscored his pride in his homeland.
She hadn’t said a word since telling him how good it was, and her bowl was now almost empty.
“Would you like more?” He smiled at her. “I am sure Dod will be more than pleased to see you enjoy a second portion.”
She blinked, her spoon poised halfway to her mouth. “Am I so obvious?”
“Aye, delightfully so.” He chuckled. “Shall I signal for the serving lass?”
“No.” She shook her head, looking embarrassed. “I have eaten more than ever in my life.”
“But you enjoyed every bite?”
“I did.” She glanced again at the peat fire and this time a crease appeared in her brow. “You didn’t say how weddings are done here. Have you arranged for a parson to marry us?” she asked, looking back at him. “I know at Gretna Green-”
“Dod Swanney was an anvil-priest there for years,” he told her. “When his father passed and he came back home to run the inn, he decided to offer the same service, only he calls the marriages a ‘Scottish Night.’”
“Because he includes such a feast and a special bedchamber?”
“Aye, among other reasons as you’ll soon see.”
Pushing back his chair, he stood and came around to help her from hers. He also glanced at the nearest open window, glad to see that the night’s fierce wind would make their wedding a fine and gloriously Scottish one, indeed.
Leaving that surprise for her to discover, he offered her his arm.
“I saw Dod nip out from behind the bar a short while ago,” he said. “He’ll be waiting for us with the two required witnesses. If you’re ready, we’ll join them.”
She glanced about the taproom, her gaze also lighting over the small, dark-paneled nook-and-cranny rooms nearest their table. “Is there a chapel somewhere?”
“Of sorts, aye.” Lucian smiled. “Leastways, the one here is surely as sacred a place as any kirk we could have visited.”
“So there isn’t a chapel?”
“Dinnae ask so many questions.”
“I am to be surprised.” She tugged on his arm. “Is that it?”
“Are you complaining?” He glanced at her, then at a nearby table. “No’ even wed and she’s fussing at me.”
The men sitting there grinned. “A right beauty, though!” one declared.
“So she is,” Lucian agreed, leading her past the other tables, the long length of the bar, and then all the way back to the rear of the taproom where a half-hidden door claimed pride of place beside the stairs up to the inn’s guest rooms.
He set his hand on the door latch, but rather than opening the door, he caught her gaze, again wondering for perhaps the thousandth time since meeting her, how he had ever managed without her? And what he’d done to have such a prize come into his life. He didn’t know, but he made a silent vow to make her as happy – and to keep her that way for all her days.
“See here, lass,” he said, knowing he could never let her go, but also unable not to give her the chance. “Here in Scotland, we need only to declare ourselves to before two witnesses to be wed. Dod’s presence isn’t even needed. No’ really.
“But once the words are spoken, they are set in stone.” He cupped her chin, looked deep into her eyes. “We will be legally bound, man and wife.”
To his relief, she smiled. “You think I do not want that? After all we’ve been through?”
“I would have you aware that you will always be safe, and welcome, at Lyongate. I have vowed to protect you, and that stands whether you leave this inn as my bride or as a lovely young woman about to journey to my home and spend time there.
“See you, some of the honor that often thwarted the Highlanders of old, still runs in my veins,” he added, releasing her chin and again reaching for the latch. “I must be sure that when you step out this door, you do so no’ just of your own free will, but because you want to be my wife. The choice is yours.”
“I chose in London. I would not be here otherwise.”
