Page 11 of The Laird's Bride
His bride.
"Dearly beloved."
They turned and faced the minister. It passed in a blur. Cameron heard himself making his vows. His bride spoke hers in a clear, soft voice.
"Time to sign the register," the minister said. He handed Cameron the pen. Cameron signed it and passed it to his bride.
She took it, but made no move to sign. Her thoughts seemed far away.
Of course, she wouldn't know how to read or write, he realized, and his stomach hollowed as he took in the implications of his rash act.
"Dip the end in the ink and make your mark," Cameron told her in a low voice. "A cross will do. Or a thumbprint if you prefer."
She gave him an odd look, then dipped the quill in the ink and swiftly wrote her name in a stylish copperplate hand.
Cameron blinked. How had a simple shepherdess learned to write like that?
He was still pondering that question while the minister recited some advice about marriage. And then the words, "You may kiss the bride."
Cameron lifted the veil back off her face. To his surprise, his hands were shaking. She turned her face up to him, her eyes shining, trustful, her lips rosy, slightly parted.
He stared down at her. This thing he'd done so carelessly, this marriage he'd made without consideration, thinking only of his inheritance: it had become something momentous. This girl had given herself into his care, forever. She was his.
He bent and touched his mouth to hers, intending to make it brief, but her lips softened under his and she sighed and leant into him, and before he knew it he was kissing her deeply, his senses swimming with the taste, the scent and the feel of her.
"That's enough for now, lad," the minister's voice cut in dryly. "Save the rest for the honeymoon."
Cameron released her, dazed, still hungry. He stared at her in shock. She blinked up at him, blushing, a little disheveled, her mouth soft and moist, her eyes dreamy.
His wife.
Afterward, they returned to the minister's house for tea. "It's not much of a wedding breakfast, I'm afraid," Mrs. Potts said, "but it's the best Morag and I can do at such short notice, and it'll keep you going until you get home."
"It’s very fine thank you, Mrs. Potts," Cameron assured her, and indeed the minister's wife had put on a feast. There was shortbread and egg-and-bacon tart and Selkirk bannock and warm, fresh-baked baps with butter and honey. And if Cameron and his cousins thought it a poor celebration to be washing such fine food down with tea instead of whisky, they knew better than to say so. Not in front of a minister.
Not that Cameron cared. He was watching his bride eat her way through every piece of food offered her with an expression of utter bliss.
Halfway through a slice of Selkirk bannock, she set it down with a huge, regretful sigh. "I'm sorry, but I canna eat a single mouthful more. It's the most delicious meal I've had in forever, Mrs. Potts, Morag." She laughed. "Grandad thinks porridge is all a body needs."
He recalled that her grandfather had claimed she ate too much. She was as slender as a reed.
Cameron stood. "We'd best get along home now. Thank you for all you've done, Reverend Potts, Mrs. Potts, Morag." He bowed to each. "You've turned this into a very special occasion."
At his words, Jeannie jumped up. "Oh, your dress," she said to Mrs. Potts. "I should change back into—"
The older woman shook her head. "Keep the dress my dear, with my blessing. And here's a wee wedding present for you." She gave Jeannie a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Open it tonight, before you go to bed."
For the sake of politeness Jeanie made a few half-hearted protests but she was glad to leave her old clothes—and her old life—behind. She hugged the motherly minister's wife and thanked her again.
Then it was time to mount up again, this time with Jeannie riding in front of Cameron, seated sideways across his saddle because the blue dress was too narrow-cut to allow for sitting astride—not without a scandalous amount of leg showing. Jeannie was made comfortable enough with a cushion borrowed from Mrs. Potts and in a short time they were off and heading toward her new home.
With her new husband. The thought took her breath away. It was like a dream. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her steady, warm and strong. Her husband.
Chapter Six
They breasted a hill and stopped to take in the view. A rocky promontory jutted deep into the sea where a castle loomed, gloomy and forbidding. A village nestled at its foot, a scattering of neat cottages—or largely neat. Quite a few had damaged roofs.
Jeannie eyed them eagerly. One of those cottages would be hers. She couldn't wait. "Which house is yours?"
