‘Twas done. He was now married to Blair Hamilton Gordon. A beautiful widow and presumed spy.
God save him.
The wedding was overbefore her mind registered it. Blair remembered walking between the MacDonalds to the stone church, too afraid to make eye contact with any of them, wearing a borrowed dress and a mended Hamilton tartan. She remembered looking up at the kirk and seeing the powerful Highlander standing by the priest, his kilt and plaid as fresh and magnificent as the waves of his hair that curled against his shoulders. Then seeing his hard eyes full of hate stare down at her.
And then he was kissing her. His lips were warm, caressing her lips with tender expertise, and God save her, she was kissing him back.
Her mouth parted not of her own will but of something deep in her wame that called out to him, and his tongue, sweetened with honeyed mead, invaded her with that same tenderness.
Suddenly he was gone, staring at her with the same hardness she had seen as she had approached. ‘Twas done. They were wed.
She was now Blair Hamilton Gordon MacDonald.MacDonald.
She’d never be welcome home after this. Her clan, and their allies, the Campbells, would label her a traitor as the MacDonalds had.
Well, not all MacDonalds, but definitely this one. Reade MacDonald.
Her husband.
As she tried to wrap her mind around that prospect, that she was actually wed to a MacDonald, the man himself grasped her bent elbow and escorted her down the steps.
It wasn’t over yet.
Now Blair had to endure the celebration, aceilidhof sorts, where she must sit next to this burly stranger she called husband, suffering his affections as he fed her grouse and Scotch pie and plied her with spice wine or heather mead, which she would readily accept given what needed to happen after the feast.
She shuddered.
“Are ye cold?” he asked. His voice startled her from her reverie.
“Nay.”
“Hmm,” he grumbled as he picked up his pace. Blair scrambled to keep up with his long strides.
She studied him from the corner of her eye. Reade MacDonald was God’s image of a Highland son, flashing eyes and barrel-chested, skilled, and capable – the pinnacle of what a proud Highlander should be.
And she wanted nothing to do with him. His arms and hands were much larger than her cousin’s or her dead husband’s. That alone was enough to give her pause with every word she spoke or look she gave him. She had tired of tip-toeing around men who had providence over her. Her time as a widow had been like a breath of relief, where she breathed freely and moved without thought.
Now here she was again, tip-toeing.
Reade,my new husband, Blair reminded herself, led her up the foreboding stone steps at the front of the keep and into the main hall which had been scrubbed and readied for a feast. For early spring, the choices, while limited, were plentiful. Platters of small roasted fowl sat in the centers of the tables, fat and golden-skinned grouse and pigeon, with dried haddock, eel soup and black pudding filling wooden bowls surrounding the platters. Rounds of oatcakes had been artfully stacked on wooden boards, surrounded by small pots of honey, preserved fruit, and dried apples.
The rich and savory aromas made her mouth water and her stomach grumble. In the hustle of getting ready this morn, Blair hadn’t had the chance to eat. Not that she wasn’t offered food. Surprisingly, Reade’s mother and sister had been more than welcoming. In fact, from her first day to the dress gifted the night before, they had made her feel more like family than a treasonous Campbell-aligned outsider. Earlier, Sorcha had instructed a maid to bring up a tray of food, which sat untouched in her chambers. Blair hadn’t the stomach to eat before this travesty of an event for fear she might lose it on the walk to the church, or worse, on Reade’s feet as they spoke the vows in front of everyone.
Even now, as Reade guided her to the head table where the largest birds and thickest soups covered the tabletop, she wasn’t certain her stomach was calm enough to eat, hungry or not.
Then again, Blair considered she should force some nourishment down her throat. Mayhap Reade wouldn’t want to touch her if she vomited on his shoes before they made it back to his chambers.
Her new husband pulled out her chair and gestured for her to sit, and Blair perched on the edge. He hadn’t spoken much other than his vows, but then, what was there to say? Neither of them had come willingly into this marriage, and though the arrangement suited Blair as it provided her with a modicum of security, any benefit to Reade appeared weak. He was giving up any hope for love or children in marrying her. ‘Twas no wonder he didn’t wish to speak to her.
Unlike her stiff countenance in her seat, Reade reclined in his chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and she watched him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. He lounged in his chair, a hard, bored look on the sharp lines of his ruddy cheeks and jaw. His deep-set, verdant eyes scanned the offering before them, assessing his options. Both bulky forearms rested on the smooth arms of the chair. With his broad chest (impossibly broad!Blair thought wildly) that served as a flattering canvas to his loose tunic and plaid draped over his shoulder, he fit the role of the laird’s son well.
He was the consummate groom that any bride should pine for.
‘Twas another benefit for Blair. Her previous husband had been sickly thin, with sallow, sagging skin and watery eyes. Coupled with his sour, heavy-handed disposition, Mungo had repulsed her. Even if she had gone into that marriage of her own free will, she certainly hadn’t found any attraction to Mungo.
Reade, conversely, was everything that Mungo wasn’t. And while she might not be coming into this wedding willingly, at least the man she was wed to was attractive to her eyes. A slight boon, but better than none at all.
At least for her. Blair glanced down at her hands clenched together in her lap. Did he think the same of her? Was she pleasing enough to the eye for him? Or was her appearance another hindrance to their irregular union?
