She peered around the courtyard and, sure enough, spotted what looked to be a small, walled herb garden. As she approached, the scent of lavender grew stronger but mingled with other floral perfumes; heather, foxgloves, the dotted flowers lifting their tattered heads above the wall.
It looked like nobody had attended to this thing in months, the plants just left to roam free at their will. Small daisies sprouted from amongst the tangled weeds, the lavender clambering up the side of one wall as her soft purple blooms sagged towards the ground.
“You must be fighters,” she murmured as she reached out to pinch the bud between her fingertips, releasing a heady dose of the smell around her. “To bloom in a place like this, with nobody tending to you.”
She suddenly wished more than anything that she had her herb journal, the leather-bound book her brother had given her as a gift years before that she used to keep track of the flowers that bloomed around the Anderson Keep. She had always taken great interest in matters of the natural world, fascinated by the way the same flowers bloomed and cycled through the same process year in and year out. But the soil here at the Fraser Keep would surely be different from that which she had known at home, and maybe the flowers here would be entirely new to her.
Not that she would have much of a reason to keep track of them. She was sure that Lachlan would find some way to keep her in hand, performing the duties of a willing wife instead of wandering around taking notes on the local plant life.
She plucked a few of the lavender stalks, slipping them absentmindedly behind her ear and into the weave of her braid. The scent was comforting, and she deserved to have somethingto cling to in the day that was to come, something that served to remind her of her life before.
And besides, this was her wedding day. She knew that she was supposed to look beautiful. And she was sure that Lachlan would have plenty to say if he caught even a hint of the fact that she felt so utterly lost in this place; that she would never have taken him as a husband if she’d had the slightest bit of choice in the matter.
This might have been a matter of revenge for him, but that did not mean that she wished to make it so easy for people to compare her to Isobel. She was sure that many already had, and she had no doubt that she’d come up on the wrong side of such a comparison; Isobel’s charm, her grace, her beauty—they would far outdo anything Innes could lay claim to, not least the fact that her husband-to-be wanted Isobel over Innes in the first place.
But Isobel would never have thought to put flowers in her hair. And Innes needed to cling to anything she could to force Lachlan to see her as her own woman, not some extension of his revenge plot against her brother…
Or, perhaps, beneath it all, she just hoped that he would simplyseeher.
The small chapel was full to the brim. Lachlan, as he cast his eye across the gathered crowd, wondered just how many of them had turned out to see if what they had heard about the Laird’s betrothal was true.
Nobody dared gossip there in front of him, thinking better of such a thing when he was so close, but he could see steely, beady eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail, searchingfor something that might prove this was nothing more than a joke. But they should have known by now that nothing Lachlan did was a matter of play. When he got it into his mind to do something, he would do it.
And Innes, one way or another, was soon to be his.
There was a small flurry of activity at the entrance of the chapel, and everyone rose to their feet at once. The stormy grey light from outside seemed to ease into a light blue just in time to welcome Innes to the chapel.
And, as she rounded the corner, he felt the breath escape his lungs for a moment.
She was wearing a simple wedding gown, a white dress that grazed the floor, embroidered at the hem with the clan’s tartan. Her dark hair was drawn to one side, as it had been on the night of the feast, in a braid that seemed woven through with flashes of purple and light blue, matching her gray eyes perfectly. Flowers? As she made her way towards him, he could smell them on her skin, the scent of florals wafting from her like she had been plucked fresh from the garden for this very occasion.
His eyes must have given away more than he had intended them to, because he saw a small smile tug at her lips as she drew close. She must have been able to tell that he was thinking of their kiss the day before, his promise to make her his in all the ways that mattered. As much as he had wanted to claim control over her in that instant, he knew that he had ceded some ground to her, admitting that his desire was not entirely driven by a need for revenge.
“You may place yer hands upon the binding stone,” the priest began, as he gestured to the rock before them; it was an ancient thing, so well-used that the carvings that had once been easy to read around the base had all but worn away.
Many marriages had been confirmed there over the years, and, as his hand closed over the top of hers, he could almostfeel the weight of that responsibility, of all that he was about to commit to.
Her hand was small beneath his, almost delicate. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye to see if she had reacted at all to his touch, but she let nothing show on her face.
“Innes Anderson,” the priest continued, as he turned his attention to her. “Will you swear before me and all those gathered here today that you will take this man as yer husband? That you will serve him, honor him, and love him for as long as you shall live?”
“Aye,” she spoke clearly, almost calmly. “Aye, I swear to take this man as my husband.”
She did not falter for a moment, as though she had been tracing over these words inside her head since the moment she had woken that morning. She was the picture of a dutiful woman, willing to do whatever she could to make sure that she did not bring pain onto her family. Innes seemed so certain that this would be enough to save her brother, and, for a moment, Lachlan could have almost trusted it.
“And do you, Laird Fraser,” the priest went on, swiveling his eyes to Lachlan, “take this woman as yer wife? To do all in yer power to protect her and provide for her, to give her everything that she could ever ask for as yer lover, yer partner, yer spouse?”
“Aye,” he replied, refusing to let his tone falter for a second. “I take her as my wife. To do all in my power to protect her, as my…”
He caught her eye, and, all at once, the enormity of the words he was speaking out loud struck him like a blow to the head. The expression on her face was inscrutable, and he could not tell whether she was urging him to go on and get this over with or if there were a part of her that longed for him to throw his hands up and admit to this whole charade so that they could both put it behind them.
She traced her tongue over her bottom lip, drawing his eyes irresistibly to her mouth and reminding him of just how good it had felt when they had kissed before.
“As my lover,” he finished up, his voice filling the room. “My partner in all things.”
“Very well,” the priest nodded slightly, satisfied with his answer. “You may now seal yer union with a kiss.”
A kiss.
