She drank, sank back against her pillow. “Wh-what happened? Did they listen?”
He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “Aye. Most are on their way back home. Ben met with their leaders this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to help. I wanted—”
“You did help, Bethie. I don’t know if we could have stopped them without you. What you did was incredibly brave. But it doesn’t change the fact that you defied me again, and this time you were almost killed.” The tone of his voice told her he was still angry with her.
“Do you forgi’ me?”
“It’s not a matter of forgiving you, love. Do you know the dread I felt when I realized he had fired at you instead of me? Do you know how afraid I was when I saw you fall? My God, Bethie, in that moment I thought I’d lost what matters most to me! I don’t ever want to feel that way again!”
She saw the anguish in his eyes, raised her right hand to touch the whisker-rough skin of his face. Then she remembered. “I’ve ruined the wedding, have I no’?”
He chuckled. “You’re not getting out of it that easily.”
***
The wedding was delayed for two weeks to allow Bethie to heal. They sought to bring Nicholas’s mother northward from Virginia, but she had fallen ill with a fever and could not attend. When the grand day arrived, Bethie was scarcely ready for it. As the carriage turned onto Second Street and Christ Church loomed into view, she felt close to tears.
So much had happened these past few days. As her shoulder had healed, Jamie had journeyed to Paxton to fetch her mother from the wretched cabin—or, if she proved unwilling to leave, to at least tell her of Malcolm’s death. But when Jamie had arrived, he’d found her already dead and buried. When Jamie looked into the matter, no one seemed to know how or when she had died.
Bethie knew Malcolm had killed her mother in a rage over Richard’s death. The guilt of having carried that news weighed heavily upon her, though Nicholas tried hard to persuade her that any guilt belonged solely to her stepfather.
“You did all you could, Bethie.” He’d held her as she’d wept. “You asked her to come away with you, and she chose to stay with him instead.”
Bad blood will out.
’Twas another mark against her family, another source of shame. But it hadn’t deterred Nicholas or his father from bringing her into their family.
She fingered the lace of her bodice, barely able to believe this was real. Any moment now she expected Nicholas to tell her that it was all a mistake. Or perhaps his father would think it through, change his mind, and demand that his son marry a woman of breeding.
She felt Alec take her hand, give it a reassuring squeeze. “Everything will be fine, Bethie.”
Across from her, Jamie dandled Belle on his knee. Dressed in a gown of white satin, the baby looked like a tiny angel, her short, golden hair a halo.
Nicholas had ridden ahead of them to the church with Master Franklin, who had agreed to act as a witness. They were there, inside the church, waiting for her now.
The last time she’d been married, Bethie had been dragged to the church, bruised and battered and in deepest shame. This time she’d been treated like a princess. She nervously smoothed the expanse of ivory silk brocade that was her wedding gown. Embroidered with tiny golden roses and shot through with threads of real gold, it was a gown fit for a queen. It had been Alec’s wedding gift to her. Around her throat hung a cross of real gold, a gift from Jamie and the symbol of Saint Bride, or Saint Bríghid as she was known in Ireland—the homeland of both Jamie’s wife and of Bethie’s transplanted Scottish ancestors.
“’Tis identical to the cross my wife wears,” Jamie had explained when she’d looked at him in surprise. “Wear it as a reminder that you need never be ashamed of who you are or where you come from.”
Bethie had been so deeply touched she’d scarce been able to speak.
The carriage drew to a halt, and a hired footman opened the door.
Alec lifted her to the ground. “Watch your skirts.”
Jamie alighted behind them, a giggling baby in his arms, strode up the walk ahead of them and through the church’s doors.
Her pulse tripping, Bethie let Alec guide her up the walkway, through the doors, then froze. Ahead of her before the altar, with Master Franklin and Jamie beside him, stood Nicholas. He wore a velvet jacket and breeches of deepest midnight blue. His waistcoat and stockings were of ivory silk, and the brass buckles on his shoes gleamed gold. He was clean-shaven, his long hair brushed back and bound at his nape. But what she noticed was the look on his face—a combination of intoxicating male desire and unbridled love that left her breathless.
Her knees nearly gave way.
“He’s waiting for you, Bethie.”
She nodded, forced herself to speak. “W-would you walk with me down the aisle? I have no father to give me away, and I fear my legs will no’ carry me.”
Alec smiled gently down at her, his blue eyes warm. “Why do you think I’m standing here with you, my sweet? From now on, I’m your father. You have a family, Bethie. You’ll never be alone again.”
