Page 9 of Ghost of the Ton

The shape moved closer, the masculine aroma intensifying, and Mia shrank back.

“Please…” she whispered. “No.”

“Is the lass unwilling?” the bridegroom said. “Or perhaps changed her mind now she’s to wed a Scot?”

Mia shook her head and let out a groan of pain. “I-infection,” she whispered. “I-I have no wish…”

“Devil’s ballocks!” the bridegroom muttered, stepping back.

“The risk is negligible providing you don’t touch her, Lord MacLennan,” Staines said, an edge to his voice.

“Aye, I understand that,” came the reply, and Mia’s eyes filled with tears once more at the kindness in his voice. “Miss Lucas”—he hesitated—“or I should say ‘Euphramia,’ seeing as we’re to be wed. I cannae thank ye enough for yer kind offer, and for yer consideration in wanting to protect me from the pox. If ye’re still willing to wed this blundering oaf who stands before ye, then I’m willing to wed the lass whose selflessness surpasses that of any other living soul.”

He dipped into a bow, and Mia caught a flash of two emerald eyes twinkling in the afternoon light.

“Hamish MacLennan of Glenblath, at yer service,” he said. “It would fill my heart with joy to have ye as my wife.”

“Then I suggest we proceed with all haste, so that Miss Lucas might take her rest,” Dr. McIver said. “Reverend Staines, when ye’re ready.”

The vicar cleared his throat, then the ceremony began. Mia gripped Gertie’s hand, taking comfort from the older woman’s solidity, while the world drifted in and out of focus as Lord Staines delivered the words.

“I therefore charge ye both, as ye shall stand before the Almighty on the day of judgment, that if either of ye know of any just cause why ye shall not be legally wed, then ye must declare it.”

The pause seemed to extend into forever, the silence punctuated only by the ticking of the longcase clock in the hallway outside and the steady breathing of the groom. Would he retreat at the brink?

No. He remained, steadfast, voicing his vows in that rich voice—a voice that any woman with half a soul would fall in love with. Mia herself might have fallen under its spell had she lived.

When the ceremony came to the exchanging of the rings, Mia closed her eyes and turned her head away. But a large hand took hers and, ignoring her protests, the groom slipped a cool metal band onto her third finger.

“Sir, I beg you not to—”

“Hush, lass,” he said. “What sort of a man would I be if I didnae give my bride a ring on our wedding day? I can risk a little infection to do right by ye.”

Oh, heaven! Would that he were a profligate, or some spendthrift stranger she could care nothing for! But this man—this kind, brave man—had nothing to gain from giving her a ring.

What might her life have been like had she survived? But the question was futile, for she’d only offered marriage—and he’d only accepted—on the basis that she had no chance of survival.

The ceremony concluded, Lord Staines closed his Bible with a snap.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

The groom leaned close and caught Mia’s veil. Then he began to lift it and she cried out.

“Can I not kiss my bride?”

Mia shook her head.

“I’m not afraid of infection, lass. Ye’re my wife, and I wish to kiss ye.”

“P-please, you cannot look at me.”

“Och, lass, do ye think I fear a few pockmarks? To me, ye’ll always be beautiful. Not for yer appearance, but for yer selfless act of kindness. Now…may I kiss ye?”

Mia’s heart ached at his gentle plea. There was nothing in the world that she wanted more than to be kissed by him. But, fine though his words were, she was not so naïve as to believe that he wouldn’t shrink away from her. The sight of her pockmarked face—so hideous that Gertie refused to let Mia look at it in the mirror—would disgust him, no matter how valiantly he tried to disguise it.

Tears again stung her eyes as he lifted the bottom of her veil to his lips, then let it fall.

“Thank ye, lass,” he said. “I’ll not forget yer kindness. And I’ll ensure that yer name will live on in the hearts and souls of the people of my home.”