Page 2 of Ghost of the Ton

“Pray continue, Reverend Sutherland,” Hamish said.

The minister dipped his head until he was staring at Hamish over the top of his spectacles.

“Ye’re too kind. Laird MacLennan.”

The minister resumed his attention on the open book in his hands.

“I therefore charge every soul here today,” he said, “in full understanding of the dreadful day of judgment that comes upon us all when the truth shall be revealed, even that which we seek to hide in this mortal life, though such reckless concealment should result in a descent into the pits of hell…”

Holy ballocks—did the man have to sound as if he enjoyed threatening damnation upon his flock with such relish?

The minister licked his lips before continuing.

That’ll be an aye, then.

“…that if any of ye here today know of any just cause and impediment why the two souls before ye today should not be joined in holy matrimony, then ye must declare it here and now, or forever suffer the dreadful wrath of…”

The minister paused as the door rattled, followed by the metallic clink of the door handle and the creak of the hinges, as if the door groaned in protest at being opened at such a solemn moment.

Then footsteps—too light to be a man’s—clicked on the flagstones.

Hamish allowed himself a smile. In all likelihood it was Maisie. She’d promised to attend the wedding, to slip into a pew at the back once the ceremony had started and be gone long before the congregation departed for the wedding breakfast. As she had told him when he’d ridden her last week as a parting gift ahead of a lifetime of monogamy, it was not the done thing for the local whore to remind the company too rudely of her existence. Half the men sitting in the chapel had paid for Maisie’s services and would have to conceal their lust for fear of having their wives chew their ballocks off.

The footsteps came to a halt. The minister cleared his throat, then continued.

“I ask that if any of ye know of any impediment why—”

“I do,” a female voice said.

Hamish glanced at the veiled creature next to him. Was she that eager to wed him that she uttered her vows before being asked?

But it wasn’t the bride who’d spoken.

The minister lifted his chin and looked over Hamish’s shoulder.

“I beg pardon, Miss…?”

“I know of a…” The voice hesitated. “I mean…there is an impediment.”

Whispers threaded through the congregation and Hamish turned toward the owner of the voice.

Standing halfway along the aisle was a woman. She wore a veil, but there ended the resemblance to a bride. Instead of a white gown, she wore a coat the color of charcoal, beneath which peeked the hem of a dark-orange skirt, and she carried a valise rather than a bridal bouquet. Her veil was not the pure bone-white lace of the bride’s. It was dark blue, but fine enough in texture to discern a pair of eyes gleaming from behind the fabric.

“I beg pardon?” the minister said.

“I said there’s an impediment,” the woman replied. “This man is already married.”

The minister cleared his throat. “I’m afraid ye’re mistaken.”

The woman gestured toward Hamish. “You are Hamish MacLennan?” she said. “Hamish Alastair Jamie MacLennan?”

Holy fuck.

A cold knot of dread curled in Hamish’s gut.

“Aye,” he whispered.

“In which case, I’m not mistaken,” the woman said. “You are already married.”