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The festive mood from the previous day did not extend to this particular feast.
While some seemed quite content with the arrangements—Sara, Emma, and, oddly enough, Gillian’s mother—Gillian herself could not relax. Not when her father and her new husband looked apt to kill each other. Not when she couldn’t forget what her change in circumstances might cost her family.
Worse, her father’s men and Graeme’s men were staring at one another with open distrust, or worse.
Sara had insisted they stay for the midday meal—a wedding feast, she’d said. And while the remaining guests enjoyed Cook’s cherry tarts and custard, Gillian had spent the past few hours trying to reconcile the vast changes in her future.
She had barely even spoken to her parents or Allie alone. Her mother had helped her into her wedding gown earlier, the same one she’d worn for the May Day celebration, but she’d said precious little.
When the maids finally left them alone together, there was but a moment for Gillian to question her mother’s odd behavior. To which her mother replied, “God is a mystery to us.” And then promptly kissed her on the cheek and left. Her sister was acting just as unusual and seemed to be avoiding her.
The wedding itself had gone by in a blur. Sara’s excitement had infected her briefly, especially since her husband looked handsome when they wed, but the scowls exchanged between him and her father had quickly dampened her mood. This was no way to begin a new life, albeit one with a man who made her forget how to walk straight. And yet, after Kenshire’s priest announced them as husband and wife—imagine!—and he leaned down to kiss her, Gillian was reminded of their exchange in the garden. Of the passion she’d felt for him.
That push-pull between excitement and devastation had tugged at her all day.
“You’ve hardly eaten anything.”
They sat, as honored guests, on the raised dais next to the lord and lady of Kenshire. Gillian had tried to remember that fact each time she looked out at the crowd. She’d not have her wedding day remembered as the one where the wife and groom appeared as if they wanted to kill each other.
“I’m not hungry, my lord.”
“Graeme . . . if it pleases you, my queen.”
“The last time you called me that, we were strangers.”
He picked a cherry out of the tart in front of them and popped it into his mouth.
“And we’re strangers still,” he said with a grin.
“Indeed, we are. After we go back for my belongings, I—”
“Go back?” He appeared genuinely confused. “Lady Gillian, we will be leaving for Highgate End immediately after the meal.”
“Leaving for . . . but my belongings? Surely you cannot believe—”
“I do apologize,” he said. “But urgent matters require that we return immediately. Your parents have assured me your belongings will be sent to you. And Highgate End is but a few miles north of the border. We can visit as often as you’d like. But we must—”
What had made her think she’d have any choice in the matter? From father to husband. Perhaps she’d merely exchanged one man’s rule for another.
“I believe you will like it there.”
She looked at the clan chief who had been nothing but kind to her. How was it possible that they were now married? How could she help her family?
“I’m sure I will . . . Graeme.” She finally put a cherry from the dessert into her own mouth, sucking in the sweet, tart taste.
Though he’d given her leave to call him by his given name, it sounded much too intimate to her own ears.
Intimate. They would share the intimacies of husband and wife. Tonight.
Several things happened at once. Her heart beat faster, a wave of heat washed over her, and she began to choke on the cherry.
“Are you unwell, my lady?”
“Gillian,” she said, waving off his concern.
“Are you unwell, Lady Gillian?”
