Page 39 of Lyon of Scotland
“To the church?” Linhope asked as Dare settled on the leather bench beside him and the carriage driver guided them away from Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the nearest street.
“A couple of errands first. I asked the driver to stop at Drummond’s bank and then at a shop on Ludgate Hill recommended by the hotel concierge. One last stop after that, then to the church.”
“There is just enough time if we hurry. The others will meet us at the church. All is well.”
They said little as the carriage rumbled through the streets. Anxious but loath to admit it, Dare was grateful for his friend’s understanding. He was not usually so impulsive, and this morning, he especially appreciated Linhope’s easy silence.
As the carriage rolled along, bells rang out, horse hooves clopped, chimney smoke curled upward, steam rose from vendor carts. The smell of roasted chestnuts was nutty and sweet as Dare watched the streets through the carriage windows. Throngs of Londoners walked, ran, and rode along, some in fine clothing, others in plain or even ragged garments, each with somewhere to go, something to do.
Meanwhile, he hurtled toward marriage, thinking of it as a miracle, and hoping his bride did not see it as a mistake.
“With luck, you can get passage on the steamer leaving at eleven,” Linhope said.
“I am glad the lady agreed to this. I could never have left her to fend for herself in this dreadful awful situation.”
“You are a good man. She sees that.”
Inside Drummond’s, Dare had a cheque drawn up for Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then withdrew cash notes to cover a donation to the church, steamship passage and expenses for two, and some for his additional errand. Soon the carriage turned onto Ludgate Hill.
“Rundell and Bridge, Jewelers.” Linhope peered out the window. “Well done, sir!”
“Wish me luck.” Dare slipped outside.
Luck was with him. Mr. Rundell, elderly and spry, knew his inventory well. Upon learning that the kilted Scottish gentleman needed a special piece immediately, he produced a tiny wooden box with a brass latch. Inside was a slim golden ring set with four small colorful gemstones.
“A lovely hoop ring, sir, delicate and simple. We had it made as a sample, and now it awaits someone special. The stones arediamond, emerald, amethyst, and ruby, spelling out D–E–A–R. Your lady will treasure it.”
“Perfect, thank you.” Dare paid, took the box, and returned to the carriage. “One last errand,” he told Linhope. “College of Arms, then the church. I need to leave a note for Naylor, but I hope to find a messenger on the street to deliver it.”
“Toss me a coin, my friend. I’ll do it.”
Laughing, Dare threw Linhope a shilling left from his purchase.
Chapter Seven
She could nothave imagined a lovelier wedding. The Scottish church had an elegant simplicity: whitewashed walls trimmed in polished wood; rows of gleaming wooden pews; and leaded glass windows that let in beams of golden morning light. That serenity infused her spirit, reassuring her and renewing her resolve. Joining Strathburn at the altar before the Scottish minister, with a few witnesses in the pews behind them, she told herself she was embarking on the perfect new direction in life.
Yet when the minister spoke, she quailed, and the flowers that Sir Walter had given her trembled in her grasp. What if this impulsive wedding, her cherished dream, ended poorly?
She breathed slowly, deliberately, and met Strathburn’s steady gaze. He gave a slight smile, but something anxious flickered in his eyes. She was not alone in her nervousness.
You will not regret this, I promise, he had said. She wanted to trust that.
“I do,” she whispered in reply to the minister.
Then Dare pressed her gloved fingers in his and repeated his vows. He was earth, anchor, rock, to her; he was rescuer and risk, all in one.
“I do,” he said. His grip was steady, hers shaky. The fortitude that emanated so naturally from him stirred new resolve in her. She straightened her shoulders. This was meant to be, she told herself. This was what she had always wanted.
Strathburn turned as Lord Linhope stepped forward to hand him something. A ring, she realized.
“Your glove,” her groom whispered.
Surprised, she drew off her left-hand glove and extended her fingers. He slipped the ring on her finger. Delicate stones, colorful and faceted, glittered on a gold band.
Tears pooled in her eyes. She glanced at him under the brim of her bonnet, blue wool and ribbons shielding her expression from everyone but him.
He smiled. The minister pronounced them man and wife, but she hardly heard, lost in those beautiful, dark, deep-set eyes.
