Page 10 of The Laird's Bride
The older lady hugged her. "Well, you'll not be lonely any longer with young Cameron Fraser for a husband. I'm amazed you two ever met, let alone had time to court. Right then, I'll away and see if the men are ready. Take her to the church door, Morag, and when you hear the music send her down the aisle." The minister's wife bustled away.
Jeannie and Morag looked at each other. "Could I maybe. . . " Jeannie began. "Is there a looking glass somewhere, so that I could see. . ."
"Och, of course, lass." Morag looked out into the hallway, then beckoned.
Jeannie stood in front of the looking glass in the hall and stared. Other than in a pool of water, she hadn't seen her reflection in six years. Grandad didn't believe in wasting money on vanity.
She'd changed in that time. Grown up. "I . . . I look like my mother," she whispered. "I look . . ." Pretty, she thought. She couldn't say it aloud. Vanity was a sin. But she thought it and the thought gave her a warm glow. She was still a bit freckled and skinny, and her cheeks were red from the cold, and her mouth too wide and she still had that crooked tooth but she looked . . . nice. Like a proper bride. A real bride. She adjusted the beautiful lace veil. If not for Mrs. Potts's kindness . . .
Emotion surged up in her and her eyes filled with tears.
"Now stop that, lassie, or you'll start me off as well," Morag said briskly. "Time enough for tears later. Let's get ye to the kirk."
Chapter Five
They waited in the vestibule of the small stone kirk until they heard the full chord of an organ sound. Jeannie took a deep breath. One step and she was on her way to wed Cameron Fraser, a man she'd known but a few hours. And once married there was no going back.
She couldn't move.
"Go on, lass," Morag whispered and gave her a hefty shove that sent her stumbling into the aisle.
And there he was, waiting. Cameron Fraser, solemn as a judge and as fine a man as she'd ever seen. To her surprise he wore the kilt, the Fraser dress kilt, a splash of bright color in the austere little whitewashed kirk.
Jeannie's heart fluttered. She'd always been partial to the sight of a man wearing the kilt. And Cameron Fraser looked as braw and bonny as any man she'd seen. The man had a set of legs on him that fair took her breath away.
The music continued and Jeannie walked slowly down the aisle, drinking in the sight of her groom. He wore a white shirt with a lace jabot at his throat, the foam of the lace in stark contrast to the hard line of his jaw and square, firm chin. Over it he wore a black velvet coat with silver buttons. He looked like a hero out of a painting of old.
His expression hadn't changed. He looked . . . No, she couldn't read his face at all. He ran a finger between his throat and his jabot, as if it was tied too tight.
Was he having second thoughts?
She hoped not because she wanted him, wanted him with a fierceness that burned bright and deep within her. She quickened her step.
Cameron Fraser had made her want him. He'd caused all her long buried dreams to surface, had tantalized her with possibilities she knew were foolish and impossible, but now she wanted him, wanted the house he'd promised her, the place, the home. Her home. And him. She wanted it all.
He was not going to back out now. She hurried the last few steps to where he waited at the altar and when he presented his arm, she grabbed it. And held on tight.
He stared down at her, looking faintly stunned.
Cameron couldn't believe his eyes. This was his muddy little bog sprite? This lissom young woman walking toward him with shining eyes and a look of hope so transparent it went straight to his heart.
Behind him, one of his cousins said something but Cameron wasn't listening. His attention was entirely on his bride as she made the interminable walk down the aisle, light and graceful in a pretty blue dress.
He straightened, glad now he'd stuffed his kilt and jacket into his saddlebag when he left, glad the minister had insisted it wouldn't do for the laird to be wed in his breeks, even if nobody except a couple of young wastrels were there to witness it. His bride would remember he'd done her honor on this day, the old man had said.
Cameron ran a finger around his neck. He hadn't wanted the fussy lace jabot. The minister had pressed it on him at the last moment, completing the full formal dress.
Cameron was glad of it now. His bride was . . . He took a deep breath and faced it: his bride, his little bog sprite, was beautiful. Not the perfect, polished beauty in the portraits of his mother, nor the ripe, sensual beauty of Ailine, the widow who'd first taught a brash boy how to please a woman.
Jeannie McLeay's beauty was something quite different.
She was the scent of heather on the wind, the softness of mist in the glen, and the clean, fresh air of the mountains. It was a subtle beauty, like that of his homeland, not delicate and whimsical and demanding as his mother had been, but strong and free and bonny.
She wore a softly draped veil of lace over long, glossy chestnut hair that fell clear to her waist. Where had she hidden that hair? His fingers itched to run through the silken length of it. Her skin was smooth and fresh with a dozen or so small freckles, like brown breadcrumbs sprinkled over cream, her cheeks a wild rose blush echoed in her soft, full lips.
Cameron straightened under his bride's clear gaze. She liked how he looked too, he could tell by the feminine approval in her wide blue eyes. He drew himself up, glad now he'd worn the kilt and even the stupid, fussy jabot.
She gazed up at him, clinging tightly to his arm, and gave him a hesitant, shy, faintly anxious smile that pierced his heart.
