The wedding took place immediately, with only Father Luggan presiding and Bertha as a witness. Cecily had asked the woman to bring the nicest, cleanest dress she could find, and she was presented with a mundane gown of Strachan plaid in green and gold.
When she had not managed to hide her disappointment, Bertha had chided, ‘You are to be his wife and his lady. ‘Tis time to throw off your childish vanity and stand proudly by your man.’
‘Wife.’ It had an old and serious ring to it.
And her marriage seemed rather grubby and furtive, for they could tell no one for the time being. While Cecily understood the reason, she still did not like it and had the sneaking suspicion that Peyton might be a little ashamed that he had wed a penniless MacCreadie. If he had any love for her, he would have shouted it from the rooftops. But that was too much to ask. Peyton was burdened with her. He had not wooed her or sought her out as a suitor should.
‘Edmund wooed you, and then he hit you to the ground,’said a spiteful voice in her head. Cecily tried hard to banish it.
Peyton took her hands in a tight grip and looked into her eyes. His face was as serious as death. He did not look happy. He had not declared much affection for her. It was all lust. He had just tossed her into his bed and had his way with her.
‘Because you let him, you fool, and now look at you!’said the spiteful voice.
Cecily bit her lip to stem the tears that threatened to flow. Was she throwing her life away on this man? It made no difference. There was no way out. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself and be strong. She looked away from Peyton and up at Father Luggan as he completed the vows. They spoke solemnly of duty and subservience to her husband’s will. There were no flowers in her hair or a lavish wedding feast with ale and speeches for the couple’s health and happiness.
When the time came, Cecily forced out her words of consent to the union. Peyton leant in and kissed her quickly on the mouth and let go of her hands, and they both stood awkwardly in silence. She was married. She was to spend a lifetime with the big, hulking darkness standing before her, staring at her with a vexed look.
Father Luggan clapped his hands together. ‘Well, that is done, so let us find something to imbibe in celebration, shall we?’
‘Aye, why not?’ said Peyton, staring at her unblinkingly.
‘Well, I cannot tarry over this foolishness,’ said Bertha. ‘I have work to do.’ With a sour look at Peyton, she swept out. The woman clearly disapproved of him marrying her.
Father Luggan smiled benignly into the cavernous silence, and on Peyton’s face hung a kind of hopeful expectation. Did he intend to crawl into her bed that night and force her to consummate their union? How could she endure him taking her without affection or kindness?
Cecily turned and fled from them both.
Peyton watched his bride run from him with a twist of shame. ‘I should go to her,’ said Peyton to Father Luggan, but the priest pulled him up.
‘Best leave the lass be. She is overwhelmed by the turn her life has taken. Keep your distance for a few days, and she will reconcile herself to it. If you chase after her, the lass will feel hunted.’
Peyton’s heart sank to his boots. Cecily looked lovely in her dress of Strachan plaid. He wanted her so badly, it hurt. He was drunk on the sight of her. But she did not want him. He had scoured her face for a sign that she was willing, wanting him, that she was not repulsed. But her expression held only blank submission – no light in her eyes, no smile on her face, no glow to her cheeks.
He had made Cecily MacCreadie his slave and possession, and he hated himself for it.
Chapter Nineteen
Many hours later, Peyton and Father Luggan were deep in a whisky fog before the hearth when Bertha hurried in. Her nose and cheeks were red.
‘Well, aren’t you a picture of frustrated ardour, Laird?’ she sneered at Peyton, holding her hands out to the fire.
‘Woman, how is it that you continually disrespect your laird?’ he said, waving a whisky bottle around.
‘Because I remember when you were nought but a wee lad, filling his braies and wiping snot from his nose. And I always speak my mind.’
‘Aye, you do, and to my detriment,’ he grumbled.
‘Someone has to take you to task. It was wrong what you two did today, forcing that lass into marriage.’
‘There was no forcing,’ said Father Luggan.
‘Nor will there be, on any matter,’ said Peyton, meeting Bertha’s eye.
‘Good. A small mercy for that poor lass. And much good marriage will do you. I just came from Fallstairs.’
Peyton stood in a fury. ‘You should not have gone there alone. Father Luggan had no right to send you.’
‘A woman can find out much more than a man when it comes to servants’ gossip,’ the priest slurred.
