“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, fighting back tears, “I was so afraid ye might have been hurt.”
“Och, lassie.” He eased his grip on her and gently grasped her shoulders. “Ye ken weel I have the gift for living. I will be about to bounce my grandchildren on my knee. Aye, and their children too.” He smiled and held out his hand as Hacon arrived. “At last we meet,” he murmured, looking Hacon over closely as they shook hands.
“I am glad ye survived Boroughbridge. Did someone there tell you where Jennet had gone?”
“No need. I saw you.”
“Ye saw us?” Jennet asked, stunned by her father’s apparently charmed life.
“Aye. I neared the army just as they began their attack. Once it grew quiet again, I slipped up to the prisoners and passed a few words with an old friend. I saw you and Hacon reunited and kenned ye would be safe. I am verra sorry ye were left to worry, not sure of my fate, but I ken ye have the wit to understand why I couldnae rejoin you then and there.”
“Oh, aye, Papa. It doesnae matter. Ye are here now, for my wedding. Come and enjoy the feast.”
Taking Jennet by the hand, Hacon reiterated the invitation, then led her into the great hall. He kept hold of her all through the various toasts and only released her when they sat down to eat. All the time that he watched Jennet’s father Hacon struggled to hide his feelings, yet he suspected he was not successful.
It took him a while to admit it to himself, but he was jealous of the man. Artair Graeme was stunningly handsome and inordinately charming. He was a rogue and a thief, yet people liked him. Despite it all, Artair’s word could be trusted, and if asked, he would do all he could to help someone in need. What really ate at Hacon was the knowledge that Jennet loved and respected the man, faults and all—loved him wholeheartedly. It was what he himself wanted from her.
Hacon also found himself wondering how he could live up to Artair. He himself was not so smooth of tongue. And while he knew he had an appearance women favored, he could not equal the near beauty with which Artair had been gifted. If Jennet was one of those women who weighed the worth of their husbands against their fathers, Hacon worried he would come up wanting. He was still worrying over it when his mother, Elizabeth, and Katherine escorted Jennet up to his chambers.
“I wouldnae hie away with the silver at my own daughter’s wedding feast.”
That smooth, rich voice startled Hacon out of his thoughts. As he looked at Artair, who had moved to sit next to him, Hacon felt color sting his cheeks. “I wasnae thinking that.”
“Nay? Ye must have been thinking something, for ye have kept a close watch on me since I arrived.”
“Do ye truly wish to ken what I was thinking?”
“Aye. I wouldnae ask you if I didnae.”
“I was thinking ye will be a difficult mon to live up to.”
Artair grinned. “Aye, I will be.”
Hacon was startled into a laugh. “I see ye dinnae suffer the fetters of modesty.”
“Nay, too troublesome. Laddie, ye dinnae truly believe my lass would judge your worth with me as her rule, do ye?”
“Women have been known to do such things.”
“Weel, my lass isnae so foolish. She sees my faults more clearly than I would like. I am a fortunate mon in that she loves me despite them. Nor does she weigh any mon or woman against another. I have ne’er known her to do so. She certainly wouldnae do so with her own husband.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Set aside your concerns, lad. She will trouble you more than enough through the years. There is no reason to take on needless worries. Save your strength. Ye will have need of it.”
Hacon grinned. “Such comforting words for a father to give his daughter’s new husband.”
“If ye dinnae ken the truth of my words now, after being her mon for so long, it willnae matter what I say. My Moira was a sweet lass, not puling or weak, but sweet. There is some of her within Jennet, but, I fear, there is a fair piece of me there as weel.” He lifted his goblet in a toast. “Ye will have an interesting life.”
“Oh, aye, I guessed that months ago.”
For a short while they discussed the truce that had been signed a month ago. Hacon had thought it a fine Christmas gift, signed as it was so soon before that holy day. He discovered, just before being dragged off to join his bride, that some of Jennet’s cynicism came from her father. Artair showed as little faith in the truce’s lasting the two years that had been agreed to as Jennet did. Hacon could only pray that they were both wrong. He now had all he could possibly want and ached for some peace in which to enjoy it.
After the rowdy group who had brought Hacon to their chambers was gone, Jennet watched her husband prepare to join her in their large bed. She felt nervous, almost shy, and thought it foolish. Although Serilda had insisted that they sleep apart until the wedding, she and Hacon had been lovers for a long time before then. It should not feel so new, so different to her. She had even had time to become accustomed to the idea of him as her husband, for they had been handfasted for months. Inwardly sighing, she decided that sometimes she simply suffered odd humors.
After shedding the last of his clothing and snuffing all the candles save the ones flanking the bed, Hacon slipped beneath the heavy coverlets and tugged Jennet into his arms. “Are ye pleased your father was able to attend your wedding?’
“Of course I am. Hacon,” she protested halfheartedly when he quickly removed her lacy nightdress, “that was meant to entice you.” She eyed the lovely gown longingly as he tossed it away.
“Lass, ye could entice me if ye were eyeball-deep in swine muck.”
“What a horrible thought,” she murmured, laughter making her voice unsteady.
