The sunshine streamed down on her, as if causing her to glow. Her soft pink gown made her look delicate and feminine—almost too fragile, as if she might break if handled incorrectly.
Suddenly, he was overcome with uncertainty. Not about his love for her—but his right to make her his wife. Of all the men in the world, how and why had she chosen him? What could he offer her? His old fears returned, and he remembered why he had suggested to William West that he marry her and take her away from all of this. She didn’t belong in the wilderness. She was made for finer things.
But then she smiled at him and every rational thought fled from his addled brain.
He couldn’t have stopped himself from marrying her, even if he had been forced. He longed for her, heart, body, and soul, and despite all his misgivings—and her apparent lack of wisdom in choosing him—he loved Lady Eleanor Brooke with every fiber of his being. Whatever he was made of, it all belonged to her.
In that moment, no one and nothing else existed in all the world but Eleanor. Her brown curls were piled on her head, with soft tendrils playing in the wind at her cheeks. The dress she wore exquisitely accentuated the soft swell of her bosom, and displayed her milky white arms. She did not hold flowers, nor come to him on the arm of her father, but there was no mistaking this maiden was a bride today.
Arran moved to meet her at the gate and offered her his arm, speechless at her beauty.
Her smile was shy as he wrapped her hand around his elbow and drew her close to his side. She smelled of lavender and felt like rose petals.
The scars on his hands looked rough and unworthy next to her smooth skin. He looked down at them now, praying to God that he would never fail Eleanor again. There was so much at stake taking her as his bride, and Miriam as his daughter. Theresponsibility of their lives weighed heavily on his shoulders, but it was a weight he would gladly bear all the days of his life—and, if God saw fit to bless them with more bairns, then he would welcome them with all his heart.
The thought of bringing more children into the world made Arran’s pulse rise and he could not help but lift Eleanor’s hand to his lips.
Her cheeks blushed and she lowered her eyelashes in a way that completely beguiled Arran.
“Are you ready, lass?” he whispered.
She lifted her gaze to his again, her brown eyes shining with love and devotion. “More than ever.”
The entire fort showed for the wedding—everyone except Chait Fraser. Arran had glimpsed him while in the fur post, but the man had made himself scarce. If Chait showed himself to Arran—or Eleanor for that matter—Arran would make him regret how he’d treated his bride.
“Dearly beloved,” the priest said in French. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
James stood to one side of Arran and Fiona stood on the other side of Eleanor. Nicolette held Miriam and Isla minded the Ferguson children. Mr. Barlas was there, as were the other members of his fort. A part of Arran wished Archie, Heden, Pritchard, and the others were there to celebrate his union, but his impatience had won the day. Nothing could have kept him from marrying Eleanor in this moment. Not even the sad news of Old John’s passing. In due time, Arran would mourn the loss of his friend, and welcome the others who would probably arrive within the day.
But, for now, all he thought or cared about was his bride.
She caressed his face with her gaze, a gentle smile on her soft lips. He wondered if she was as oblivious to what the priest wassaying as he was. He understood French, but even if it had been in his native tongue, he wouldn’t have been able to focus or retain the words that the man spoke.
“Take her right hand into yours,” the priest said to Arran, “and repeat after me, I, Arran, take thee Eleanor to be my wedded wife.”
Arran turned to face Eleanor and took her right hand into his. She did not wear gloves and the heat from her fingers soaked into his. He repeated the words, adding in his thick Scottish brogue, “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance. And thereto I pledge thee my troth.”
Eleanor watched him, love and admiration glowing in her eyes. Could he ever live up to the way she was looking at him now? As if he could do no wrong? As if he was capable of anything?
He would try, with every breath he took.
“I, Eleanor, take thee Arran to be my wedded husband,” she repeated after the priest. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance. And thereto I pledge thee my troth.”
It was done. She had consented to be his wife, no matter what life brought their way. For better or worse. It was a gift—her life—and he didn’t deserve it.
The priest lifted a ring off his Bible. It was the ring he’d given to the priest before the ceremony. It was Arran’s mother’s ring, which his faither had given to him the last time he’d been in Nova Scotia. It was a simple band of gold, but it was full of memories of her soft hands nurturing Arran in his childhood.
“Bless, O Lord, this ring,” the priest said, “that he who gives it and she who wears it may abide in thy peace, and continue in thy favor, unto their life’s end. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
He handed the ring to Arran.
Arran’s hands trembled slightly as he took the small band of gold, repeating what the priest had told him to say before the ceremony. He slipped it on the fourth finger of Eleanor’s left hand. It fit perfectly. “With this ring I thee wed in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Eleanor looked down at the ring, a question in her eyes.
“’Twas my maither’s,” he whispered.
“I’m honored to wear it,” she said back to him.
