Page 16 of Stealing Sophie
The old man did not waver from infirmity, as Connor had at first thought, but from a temporary influence that Connor could smell from several feet away.
“The man can barely stand,” he muttered to Neill.
“Roderick and Padraig gave him a flask of Mary’s best whisky while they were waiting. It put him under quick,” Neill whispered. “He would not do this without payment immediately, and the drink was all we had. I did not know he was amisgear.”
“A drunkard? Perhaps. Though a flask of yourwife’s whisky could put anyone under damn quick,” Connor said.
“He was the only priest we could find,” Andrew explained. “You insisted on a Catholic ceremony and wanted it held here. We did what we could, Conn.”
The bride was breathing in great steaming gulps, glaring at all of them, priest included. Andrew sidled away from her.
Connor swore under his breath. The old priest smiled, wobbled, waved.
“Good evening, Father,” Connor said.
“Father Henderson of the Small Glen parish, this is the groom. And the bride.” Neill smiled pleasantly.
The priest grinned. “What a bonny bride it is.”
The bonny bride tried to writhe free, but Connor held tight. He motioned for Andrew to buttress her on the other side.
“Here, lass.” Andrew held out his hand. A small bunch of flowers drooped in his large fist.
“Oh! They are beautiful.” She took the posy. “Bluebells, cowslips, and violets too.” She sniffed the untidy bunch of flowers and smiled at Andrew, who blushed to the roots of his fair hair.
Connor felt thunderstruck. Lovely and impish with a hint of a dimple, her smile was like a candle flaring. But it was not meant for him. When she glanced at him, the light vanished.
“I do not see why you smile at Andrew.” He felt petulant. “He helped snatch you away too.”
“He brought me flowers.” She buried her nose in the petals. “I love flowers.”
Connor scowled. “I did not notice any flowers near here.”
“You would not have picked them if you had.”
That was probably true. Nodding to Andrew, Connor wished he could have earned that enchanting smile himself. All it needed was a few limp wildflowers. He was the recipient of lightning glares and sharp retorts. Well, he deserved those.
Still frowning, he turned his bride’s shoulders gently so that she faced the priest.
Father Henderson wavered. Neill propped him up with a hand on his back.
“What is wrong with him?” the bride asked. “Is he drunk? I will not be married by a sodden priest!”
“Aye, you will, and so will I.” He put an arm tightly around her.
She leaned toward the priest. “I am so pleased to meet you, Father Henderson,” she said in a sweet tone. “But I am sorry, there will be no wedding tonight. These men are mistaken. Someone will take you home now.” She shot Connor a searing glance.
Andrew edged backward, coward that he was. Connor grabbed him firmly. “No one is going anywhere.”
“No wedding? But I was promised a keg,” the priest said.
“What?” Connor looked at Neill.
“A keg and a cow,” Neill said. “For his parish.”
“You will not pay for my wedding with stolen cattle and whisky!” The girl had followed that much Gaelic, Connor noted. Then she leaned back in that damnable way she had, digging in her heels like a donkey on a drover’s track.
“At least we are paying for your wedding,” Connor said. “Being outlaws and all.”
