by Sam Crescent
“Clear the tables for the last time.”
The sound of Natalie’s chuckle went with Jasmine as she dashed through the kitchen. She’d have to get used to lying because she’d be living a lie from now on. That thought left a bitter taste in her mouth and wrapped a weight around her heart.
But what choice did she have?
****
Wednesday arrived. Jasmine glanced at her small bedside clock. In ten minutes, she’d be walking down the aisle in the ballroom as many brides before her had. Only she’d be different, she wasn’t marrying for love.
She’d only seen Stuart once since Wednesday, and if he hadn’t been in the ballroom barking orders at Benson about the wedding, she could have fooled herself into believing their marriage conversation was all a dream.
But no, it was real. And here she was wearing a simple white gown that showed off the rise of her breasts, nipped in at her waist, and trailed behind her on the floor. Beneath it, she wore lace underwear with pale-blue silk details and white satin heels.
“Stunning,” Natalie said, handing Jasmine a bouquet of cream roses. “Absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you.” She peered into the mirror, checking her makeup. She’d done it herself and kept it simple. There was no real need to fuss despite Natalie and all the staff running around like headless chickens since the wedding announcement on Monday morning.
“Just this … needs…” Natalie tweaked her plain lace veil.
“Thank you.”
“And we really should get going while the sun is out,” Natalie said. “The weather is set to change again later. Another storm is on the way.”
Jasmine tipped her chin. This was it. The moment had come to say I do. And much as she’d wracked her brain for another way out of her situation over the last few days, she really hadn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t see her either destitute in the UK or shipped back to America to face goodness-knew-what grim demise.
Marrying Stuart McKeith was her only viable option.
“Yes, come on. Let’s get this over with.” She steeled her resolve.
Natalie laughed. “Wow, you really are in a rush to get your new husband naked. Will you even make it to the reception before you drag him up to your new four-poster bed?”
“Four-poster bed.” Jasmine gulped. “I guess…” Words and emotions fuddled her mind, but one thing she did know for sure was the sooner she got on with this wedding, the better.
She headed for the door with Natalie close behind.
After passing a Bentley, a Ferrari, and two Austin Martins, she climbed the steps to the hotel.
Benson was at the doorway, dressed smartly in a black tuxedo jacket and kilt. “Miss Berry,” he said, his voice taking on a formality he usually reserved for guests. “You look beautiful.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “A true vision.”
“Thank you, Benson.”
“Shall we?” He held out his arm. “Your groom awaits.”
Jasmine slipped her hand through the crook, glad of the support. She hoped her legs wouldn’t give out.
They walked around a huge display of pink and white flowers dripping with greenery and then toward the entrance of the ballroom. The soft murmur of conversation filtered her way, and then the wedding march began to play, Jeremy working his usual piano magic.
But she had no time to appreciate his skill because before her was a sea of faces, staff she recognized and a handful of couples she didn’t.
Her heart rate rocketed and her skin prickled, but she kept putting one foot in front of the other.
At the end of the aisle, in front of a huge window lit bright by the midday sun, stood Stuart McKeith.
Her husband-to-be.
Her new lover.
A weird twist in her fate.
Fingers of light fell over his broad outline, piercing the red carpet. His wide shoulders were set back and his chin was tilted. Radiating confidence and authority, he could easily have graced the cover of GQ magazine, the perfect Scotsman, regal in his clan tartan, strong and masculine.
A shiver of feminine appreciation added tension to her already stiff belly and limbs. Instantly, she forced it away. This man had backed her into a corner and left her with no choice but to become his wife.
What kind of man did that?
Desperate, that was what he was. Desperate to keep his business and his money. A man who valued material and wealth more than anything else, her very least favorite type of person. Was he even any better than Devon?
The aisle was short, and within seconds, she was standing beside him in the puddle of sunlight.
Natalie took her bouquet and fussed with the base of Jasmine’s dress before sitting.
“Jasmine,” Stuart said quietly but curtly.
“Mr. McKeith.”
A tendon flexed in his cheek, and she wasn’t sure if her cordiality had amused or irked him.
“We are gathered here today,” the local village pastor said, “to join in Holy Matrimony…”
The vows went by in a blur. She repeated the words like a parrot, not really taking them in and barely hearing Stuart’s voice.
“You may kiss the bride.”
She stared up at her new husband. The sun glowed around his head like a halo. Except he was no angel, in fact, he was the opposite. A devil of a man who had married for all the wrong reasons.
But how could she blame him? Her reason of self-preservation had hardly been upstanding.
He cupped her cheeks, his hands large and warm on her face, then lowered his head.
She sucked in a breath. Instinct told her to step back, to turn away, but how would that look to their guests? Guests who had been duped into believing their clandestine whirlwind romance.
He placed his lips on hers. Not hard, but not soft either. With a firm possessiveness that caught her breath. And then he pulled back. As quickly as he’d kissed her, it was over.
She swayed slightly, dizzy, and regretted not eating breakfast.
His arm snapped around her waist, pulling her close to his long, hard body.
“Smile,” he said under his breath. “We are the happy couple.”
She stretched her mouth wide.
Jeremy banged out “Ode to Joy” and the small congregation stood. The staff were all dressed smartly, pretty hats for the ladies and flowers in pinholes for the men.
Jasmine kept smiling as Stuart led her from the ballroom.
As she stepped out into the foyer, she rubbed her thumb over her new white-gold wedding ring. This was it, she was now Mrs. Jasmine McKeith.
Chapter Four
“You should eat,” Stuart said, turning to her when they were out of sight of the crowd. “You look a wee bit pale.”
“I’m fine.” She wriggled her hand from his grip and stepped away.
He frowned. “You will do as you are told,” he said. “I do not wish for my wife to faint during our wedding breakfast.”
“You’re not my boss anymore,” she said quietly. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Jasmine.” He cupped her elbow. “I’m now your husband, which gives me even more right to tell you what to do.”
“Shit, you didn’t tell me we were going to be living in the dark ages.”
“This isn’t the dark ages. This is me knowing what’s best for you.”
“How can you possibly know what is best for me?”
“I think I’ve proven that already by marrying you.”
She was about to reply that he had done no such thing, but the wedding photographer rushed up to them, camera poised. “If I can just have you in front of the flowers,” he said, “we’ll go from there.”
Jasmine found her fake smile and positioned it on her face. For the next thirty minutes, she was posed for more shots than could possibly be necessary. Then she was hugged and introduced to a medley of Stuart’s university friends as champagne and canopies were passed around.
“I’m going to freshen up,” she said
to Stuart. “Before we all sit to eat.”
He nodded, his expression stern. Perhaps his cheeks also ached from fake smiling.
She stepped toward the door, planning on making her way to the staff quarters.
He blocked her exit. “No, you are living with me now.”
“But my stuff. It’s—”
“I’ve had it moved to the west wing. You will find your belongings in our rooms there.”
Her shoulders tensed at the thought of someone moving her things without permission, but in all honesty, she had other, bigger problems. She dragged in a deep breath to keep her temper in check. “Very well.”
His eyelids drooped, his attention lowering to her cleavage. Her breasts were pushing against the low neckline of her dress with each of her deep, rapid breaths.
Quickly, she spun around, making her way to the locked door. She was thankful Benson was behind her and unlocked it.
Gathering her dress, she climbed the stone staircase. When she reached the cross window, she noticed the sun had been replaced with fat-bellied clouds and the trees were dancing once more in the wind.
The storm was on its way.
This time, at the top, instead of going toward Stuart’s office, she opened one of the doors on her right.
She paused, taking in the sight. This room wasn’t circular. It was huge and square, clearly not part of the turret at all. For a moment, it was like stepping back in time. The four-poster bed was bigger than she could have imagined, decorated in lavish ruby-red and gold swags. The furniture was dark and polished, several thickly framed landscape and wildlife paintings graced the paneled walls, and a window faced the loch and the snow-topped Cairngorms beyond.
She walked to the window, mesmerized by the view. It was magical, and the brewing storm made it more so.
“Do you like it?”
Stuart’s voice broke the spell. She stiffened. “The view is beautiful.”
“As are you.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I can’t speak the truth?”
“No, it seems you can’t.” She turned. “All those people, your friends, your staff, have been lied to.
“Not just by me,” he said, stepping farther into the room. “You are as much part of the deception.”
“A deception of your making.”
“Ah, I told you already, I am a problem-solver. This marriage is the solution for both of us.”
Her husband stood directly before her—tall, handsome, maddening.
“Contrary to what you imagine, I’m not a bad person, Jasmine.”
“Neither am I.”
“Do you honestly believe I would have taken you as my wife if I’d thought you were?”
She was silent.
“And do you think I would take you to my bed if I believed you to be rotten to the core?”
“I am not rotten to the core.” She flicked her attention to the bed. “And as for sharing a bed, I’d rather not.”
“Ah, no, no. That wasn’t the deal.” He slid his thick arm around her waist. “You knew what you were getting yourself into. We will live as man and wife. You will take me into your body and allow me to give you pleasure as I take mine.”
“No.” She stiffened and shook her head. “We hardly know each other, I can’t…”
“What better way to get to know one another”—his grip tightened—“than in bed, skin-on-skin, hot, panting, you beneath me as I show you what it is like to be with a real man, a Scotsman.”
Her breath lodged in her lungs. Her pulse thudded in her ears. His body was so big and hard against hers, his cologne expensive and intoxicating.
“Like I said, sweet Jasmine, you don’t know what is good for you or what you really need. Look who you ended up with in Philadelphia when left to your own devices.”
“I do know.” Her words came out on a huff of breath. The image he’d conjured of them together had her belly tensing and heat swarming between her legs. Her body was traitorous, perhaps because it had been so long since she’d last had sex. “I do know what is good for me.”
“The first sensible thing you did in your adult live was come to Scotland, the second was to marry me,” he said, his breath warm on her face. “From now on, your life will be very different.”
“I know that,” she said. “Why do you think I’m so angry?”
“Anger is an over-rated emotion. It will get you nowhere.”
“Right now, I’d rather be anywhere than here.”
“Yet here you are.” He stroked the back of her thumb down her cheek. “Here with me.”
There was something smug in the way he’d spoken. He’d gotten what he’d wanted. He was the victor, or rather the predator who’d captured his prey.
“I have something for you.” He stepped away, his body heat leaving her, and opened the top drawer of a dresser. He withdrew a black velvet box. “This was my mother’s, and I want you to have it.”
He opened the lid. Sat on plush velvet was a dramatic diamond necklace. Even in the dimming light, it sparkled, radiating light.
“I can’t … I…” Its beauty stole her words.
“Of course, you can. You are a McKeith now, and the family heirlooms are for you to enjoy.” He took it from the case and stepped behind her.
Very gently, he set the cool necklace just below her throat, then fiddled for a moment with the clasp.
She set her palm over it and looked at her hazy reflection in the window. She didn’t dare imagine the jewelry’s worth. Nothing Stuart McKeith did was cheap. He went all-out extravagant on everything.
“It suits you,” he said from behind her, his large hands covering the rounds of her bare shoulders. “Diamonds suit you,” he said as his voice quieted, “though they’ll never shine as bright as you do, Jasmine.”
Her attention went to his reflection. He was nearly a head taller than her, his strength palpable. And he wanted her naked, beneath him, showing her what it was like to be with a real man.
I can’t do this.
Being in the bedroom with him was suffocating her.
She turned. “We shouldn’t neglect the wedding guests.”
“You’re quite right.” He smiled. “Come, let us go downstairs and gather our energy for later.”
A huge crash of thunder boomed overhead and a rush of hailstones pelleted the window.
Jasmine jumped and stared outside. Day had turned to night.
“You are warm and safe in here,” he said. “Come, this way.”
She allowed him to take her hand and lead her from the room. The weather matched her mood—fractious, volatile, and dark.
But walking into the beautifully dressed dining hall, she spread her smile and hoped the lack of a happy twinkle in her eye went unnoticed.
The guests clapped and smiled, a cheer going up when Benson formally welcomed Mr. and Mrs. Stuart McKeith to the top table.
Jasmine caught Natalie’s eye but quickly looked away.
Natalie would think they’d rushed upstairs to fuck each other stupid after waiting for months. Nothing could be further from the truth.
She picked at the smoked salmon, then pushed perfectly cooked lamb around her plate.
“My wife,” Stuart said, leaning close. “Is this how you normally eat?”
“No.”
He used his knife and fork to cut her a sliver of the lamb. “Please, savor this. It is from the estate, grown and tended with care then prepared with exceptional skill.” He popped the morsel into her mouth.
“Aww, you two are so cute,” Mark, one of Stuart’s friends who now sat on Stuart’s right, said. “Never thought I’d see the great McKeith getting soppy.”
“She is my bride,” Stuart said, focusing on his own meal once more.
“Are you going on honeymoon?” Mark asked.
Jasmine stopped chewing.
Honeymoon. What the hell?
“Aye, of course,” Stuart said. “Just as soon as I can take a few clear we
eks away from the business.”
“Which will be when?”
“Soon.” Beneath the table, Stuart set his hand on her thigh and squeezed.
Jasmine tensed, put her hand on his, and shoved it away. She took a sip of her water.
He scowled at her, briefly, the tiniest expression.
“And where are you going?” Mark asked.
“Wherever my bride wishes to go. Maldives, New Zealand, Timbuktu, if she so desires. It doesn’t matter to me, because as long as we’re together, it will be perfect. Don’t you agree, Jasmine?”
“Perfect,” she managed, her teeth gritted. Truth be told, she’d barely thought further than getting through today. But now that she was, her head was spinning even more.
A trip. With Stuart McKeith. What a horrendous notion.
With the meal cleared away, Benson tapped a glass and the speeches began. Mercifully, they were brief with only Stuart and Mark saying a few words. After that, the guests had their glasses refilled and were ushered back to the ballroom where a live band had been set up.
“We will take the first dance now,” Stuart said, sliding his arm around her waist and clasping her to his side the way she’d now discovered he was fond of doing.
The first dance.
As each part of the traditional wedding day was ticked off, she got closer and closer to the wedding night. A night when she’d have sex with a man she barely knew. A man who had now claimed her for this own.
Rain hammered on the ceiling, but when Stuart led her to the dance floor and pulled her close, the band struck up the first bars of “Every Breath You Take” and drowned the storm.
She curled her fingers into his lapels.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re so tense.”
“I didn’t choose this song.”
“No, but ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ wasn’t very appropriate.”
“And this is? It’s damn creepy. Stalker alert.”
His eyes sparkled, and for a moment, he looked amused. “You have just become a very rich woman, Jasmine. Some people would call that a cause for celebration. Most people wouldn’t complain about the choice of a song.”
“I’m not rich. It isn’t my money.”