“This was my mother’s,” she said softly as he went behind her to assist with the round pearl buttons that ran between her shoulder blades. “Not what she wore to the cathedral, but after, at the reception. I found it several years ago while looking for an extra trunk to store my canvases.”
Finishing with the top button, he pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. “Ye make a beautiful bride, Brynne Weston. Yer mother would be beaming with happiness tae see ye in her dress.”
With flowing lines, an empire waist, and capped sleeves, the gown was a token of a bygone era before bustles and bows and corsets and crinoline. It was the spring green of a tulip, and the swath of beige ribbon beneath Brynne’s breasts matched the delicate lacing along the bodice.
There was only one thing missing.
He went to a satchel he’d brought along with his valise and withdrew a long piece of woven wool dyed in a checkered pattern of red, black, green, and traces of silver. “This is my family’s tartan, and it’s a proud husband I’d be tae see my wife wear it on our wedding day.” He glanced down at the cloth. Once, his ancestors had worn these colors into battle. Now, they hung on a tapestry in the great hall and were largely ceremonial, their significance lost to the unwritten pages of history. But they remained an important piece his ancestry. Of where he’d come from, and who he was. He cleared his throat, and in the emotion of the moment his brogue thickened. “If ye dinna want tae–”
“I would be honored,” she said, cutting him off as she laid her hand on top of his. “You need only tell me how to place it.”
Lachlan was not embarrassed that his fingers shook as he folded the tartan in half, and then folded it again before laying the wool diagonally across Brynne’s chest like a sash and securing it over her right hip with a sterling silver kilt pin that would hold the heavy fabric in place. Unlike the English, who were taught to shield their emotions behind a stiff upper lip, he’d been encouraged at an early age to show what he was feeling. Whether it be with his fists, his words…or his lips.
“The next time we do that,” he murmured after he’d finished a kiss that left them both a bit breathless, “ye shall be my wife and I yer husband.”
She straightened his collar. “I can hardly believe it’s time.”
In addition to a black jacket and waistcoat, neither of which would have appeared out of place in a London ballroom, Lachlan wore a kilt in the same colors as the tartan and a traditional Kilmarnock bonnet that sat at a rakish angle over his right eye. His socks itched, and his shoes pinched, but he’d have gladly cut off both legs at the knee if that was what it took to marry the bonny lass standing in front of him. “Aye, and we’d best go now, before a line forms. Are ye ready?”
It was the question he’d asked before he took her maidenhood.
To his relief, her answer was the same.
The ceremony, oncethey got to it, was short and strikingly poignant.
Brynne and Lachlan held hands in front of a vicar who, oddly enough, reminded her of Mr. Treadwell, the gardener. A fitting comparison, as it was Mr. Treadwell’s words that had helped her commit to this path. A path that ended with an anvil in front of her, a Scot beside her, and a wooden bench filled with two witnesses behind her.
Sunlight trickled in through stained glass windows, catching on spiraling swirls of dust that rose from a leather tome that the vicar procured from the folds of his brown robes and dropped onto the pulpit which was really nothing more than a large slab of stone. He slid thin wire spectacles onto a long, hookish nose, cleared his throat in an official manner, and then peered straight at them, his first direct acknowledgement since they’d entered the blacksmith shop.
“And who might ye be?” he asked as he laid the tome open.
Lachlan squeezed Brynne’s hand before he spoke. “Lord Lachlan Campbell, sir, and me bride-tae-be is Lady Brynne Weston.”
“Weston…Campbell…” the vicar muttered, running a bony finger up and down the page in front of him. “My we’ve a busy day today, havena we? Everyone’s looking tae wed before the snow sets in, I suppose. Old Vanna McDougal says it’s tae be a fierce winter, and she’s not been wrong yet. Except for the year 1837, and then she can hardly be blamed for that, as she was riddled with triplets and nursing twins besides. A prolific husband, Old Vanna had. May ye be blessed with the same, me lady. Let’s see here.” Squinting, the vicar slowly turned to the next page. “I’ve a Herron and a Greenwood. Ah, and Lord Beckwith is here tae try again. Had his lass whisked right out from under his nose last time. Angry father, ye understand.” The vicar lifted his head. “Campbell, did ye say?”
“Aye,” Lachlan replied, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Brynne bit back her own smile.
They were certainly a far cry from the pomp and circumstance of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, but there was warmth here. Charm as well.And love, she thought, stealing a glance at Lachlan. So much love that it was a wonder the little building with its dirt floor and stone walls was capable of containing it all.
And if there was also a whisper of something else, a sense of…unease, well, what bride wasn’t nervous on her wedding day? She was making the right decision. Shehadmade the right decision. For short of spinning around and racing out the door, she was marrying Lachlan today.
If the vicar ever got around to it, that is.
“Ah!” he said at last, dipping an old-fashioned quill in ink and dashing a neat line through their names. “Here we are. Lord Campbell of Glenavon and Lady Weston of Yorkshire. Yer names have been in my register for some time, havena they?”
Brynne flicked a startled glance at Lachlan. She’d assumed their visit here was unplanned, as he’d only asked her to marry him three days ago. But it appeared that he had been confident as to what her reply would be. Or maybe he’d simply hedged his bets, and had wanted to be prepared regardless of whether they ended up here or not.
Clever, her Scot.
Very clever.
Arrogant as well, but wasn’t that what she liked about him? His confidence. His unwaveringassurancethat things would happen as he wanted them to, for no other reason than he refused to accept the alternative. In that way, Lachlan was like the tide coming in, letting nothing–not sand, or rock or steep embankment–stand in his way. And when he went back out, he pulled whatever was closest along with him…no matter their own intentions to remain on the shore.
“Aye.” He gave her hand another squeeze. “I’ve always known I was going tae marry this one. It was just a matter of timing.”
“Never a good time or a bad time tae commit yerself to wedlock, in my humble opinion. Ye’re not marrying a clock. But some seem tae think that if they marry in June instead of October, they’ll have a better go if it.” The vicar removed his spectacles, polished the lenses on the sleeve of his robe, and then slid them back into place. “I’ve yet tae find that tae be the case, but what do I know? Only been married tae me Mae for forty-seven years and performed more ceremonies than this old book can contain.” He raised his arm, coughed into his elbow, then peered straight at Brynne over the rounded edge of his spectacles. “Did ye have yer own vows prepared, or should I read the standard? The fee is the same, either way.”
