“Of course,” she said. “The arrangements are mostly my doing. Isabail has provided great support, but the costs are mine to bear.”
“Are you mad?” he whispered, as Aiden took the floor.
“Kith and kin, I welcome you. We have gathered here today to bear witness to a wedding that shall take place before the door of the chapel shortly after we feast. I offer my most sincere congratulations to Lady Caitrina de Montfort and her husband, Sir Bran MacLean. Sir Bran was knighted a few short weeks before, in absentia, by the queen, for services above and beyond the call of duty.”
There was a round of raucous applause.
Bran simply stared. Knighted? By the queen?
Surely this was some sort of cruel jest.
“What does he speak of?” he whispered to Caitrina. “I refuse to live a lie.”
“’Tis not a lie,” she said. “Queen Yolande did indeed knight you. Unfortunately, the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of her son made it impossible for her to inform you.”
“That’s preposterous. I was impersonating a nobleman. Why would she knight me?”
Caitrina took his hand in hers. “Several prominent people stood in your defense. Myself, Laird MacCurran, and Lord James Stewart. The royal steward credits you with saving the life of the queen. It was he who spearheaded the call to knight you.”
Bran endured the rest of the speeches, and a rather lengthy wedding ceremony that made him thankful he had eaten beforehand. He was silent through much of it, even the dancing and drinking after the wedding. But when the pipes and lutes were finally put away, and the guests were dispersing, he sent a warning glare to the three MacCurran warriors and then swung Caitrina into his arms. He’d had no say in the making of this wedding, but he’d be damned if another man would have a say in how he bedded his wife.
He mounted the stairs two at a time, his steps sure and determined.
Only when he was alone with Caitrina in a room that had been decorated with candles and flower petals did he tug her into his arms and kiss her soundly. “You, madam, are quite incorrigible,” he said.
“Are you unhappy?”
He shook his head. “Far from it.” He untied the ribbons in her hair and slid his fingers through her long, glorious tresses. “I am utterly content.”
She encircled his neck with her arms and pulled his head down for a passionate kiss. “Laird MacCurran says he is looking for good men to take up the sword in defense of Dunstoras. Do you think we could make a life for ourselves here?”
He cupped her rump and hauled her up his body. He’d forgotten how sweet she felt in his arms. “The wretch would be lucky to have me.”
“You would need to give up the thieving,” she said, tilting her head back to give him access to her neck. “He was quite adamant about that.”
Bran rained tiny kisses up her neck and along her jaw. “Was he?”
“Will that be a challenge?”
“Nay,” he said, burying his face against her perfumed flesh. “It seems you’ve managed to get everything your heart desires.”
She smiled.
“Aye. What else could a lass possibly want?”
Favoring her with a wolfish grin, he scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bed. “Ah, sweetling, I think I might imagine a thing or two. Shall I see if I can make the rest of your dreams come true?”
He put his skilled fingers to good use, and her answer was lost to a squeal of delight.
