CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gillian’s wedding gown was lovely, chosen by Laire, a confection of sea-green satin lined with cream silk. She’d wear it with white roses in her hair.
Gillian couldn’t bring herself to put it on.
“You have to get dressed, Gilly,” Laire insisted. Gillian was sitting by the window, still hopeful that Sir Douglas would arrive.Or John. . . “Come now—it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding,” Laire coaxed. “After today, you’ll have your whole life together.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Gillian pleaded, looking out at the empty square below.
“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” Laire asked, taking Gillian’s cold hand in hers.
“I don’t wish to marry Sir Douglas.”
Laire tilted her head and smiled fondly. “Och, is this about the wedding night? Are you nervous? Of course you are. You’re so timid.”
Gillian’s face filled with hot blood. “No, I—”
But the clock on the mantel chimed, and Laire gave a little gasp of surprise at the lateness of the hour. She tugged Gillian to her feet. “Don’t worry—many brides feel anxious. Come and dress. I’ll ring for some tea to soothe you.”
“Were you anxious?” Gillian asked.
Laire smiled. “Nay. I mean Iwasanxious, but I was anxioustomarry Iain. I was wildly in love with him.” She sighed. “I still am, of course. But you don’t know Sir Douglas well. He seems a kind gentleman, and I’m sure you’ll be happy.”
Laire hugged her, and Gillian felt tears in her eyes.
“There’s someone el—” she began. But Morag entered with two maids, and the room erupted in chatter and giggling as the women descended on Gillian and began the process of dressing her, willing or not.
The housekeeper grinned as she relieved Gillian of her dressing gown, leaving her wearing nothing but her silken shift. “Ye’ll make a beautiful bride.”
“I don’t—” Gillian tried, but the first petticoat was dropped over her head, and she was drowned in a froth of rustling lace and silk.
Stays followed, wrapped tight around her and laced behind, cutting off her breath.
“I don’t want—” she started again, but a second petticoat followed the first. Then the maids whisked the sea-green gown off the bed and held it for her to step into. When she did, they pulled it up and began the process of lacing it up the back.
Laire grinned as they stepped back at last, done.
“Och, the lass is as red as a plum,” Morag gushed. “Nae doubt she’s thinking of the wedding night, hoping—” She held her hands out before her, her palms a foot apart. The other lasses giggled wickedly, and Laire bit her lip.
“You know it isn’t . . . well, it isn’t like that,” she whispered. “Not usually. Sir Douglas will know what to do, and . . .”
Gillian lowered her eyes, thought of John, of the soft fir bed, of his hands on her skin, his mouth, his body moving over hers. She knew the pleasures the maids referred to. She’d experienced them. Would they be shocked to know that? She didn’t care. She didn’t want any man but John. She blushed again, with longing and frustration, but not maidenly anxiety.
The maids propelled her to a chair before the dressing table and set to work on her hair. They coiled it high on her head and wove flowers into it. She looked—beautiful.
Would John think she was beautiful? She pictured him meeting her at the door of the church, taking her arm and leading her up the aisle to Sir Douglas, his face impassive, his emotions masked as he gave her away.
She also pictured him grasping her hand and running from the kirk, lifting her onto his horse and galloping away with her.
She sighed. She had no idea which it would be—she only knew she would not, could not, marry Sir Douglas MacKinnon.
There was a knock at the door. “Laird Iain is waiting downstairs,” another maid said. “He’s wanting to know how much longer it will take and says if ye don’t leave in the next ten minutes, the bride will be late.”
“Tell my husband we’re on our way down,” Laire said. She picked up the MacLeod plaid and draped it over Gillian’s shoulder, and fastened it at her waist with a pearl and emerald brooch.
She stepped back to admire her sister, her smile soft. “You look beautiful, Gilly. He’ll treasure you, today and always.”
No, he wouldn’t. “Laire—”
