by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick
She climbed into the barouche which had been waiting to carry her to the church and breathlessly ordered the surprised driver to take her into the village. But each passing minute was torture, the carriage’s wheels spinning agonizingly slowly—
“Stop!” she called out, unable to bear it.
Before the tiger could open the door and help her to the ground, she was already gone, her skirts hitched up and running as fast as she could. Villagers stared, but she didn’t care! She needed to find Garrick, needed to wrap her arms around him and make him understand how much she loved him.
She ran down High Street as she searched frantically for him, prepared to run all the way to England if—
She halted mid-stride, blinking to clear her eyes as she saw him standing in front of the parish church, staring up at the door with an expression of grim determination. He started up the steps.
“Garrick?”
Stopping with one foot on the step above, he faced her. Dressed in a black broadcloth jacket over a kilt made of the district tartan and black hose, the morning sunlight casting red highlights onto his mahogany hair, he took her breath away. He looked every inch the highlander he was born to be, right down to the dagger at his side. Surely, he was only a dream, the same fantasy she’d conjured in her mind countless times . . .
But when he smiled, her heart lurched into her throat, and she knew he was real.
And finally hers.
He glanced down at his clothes, then explained with a shrug, “I heard there was going to be a wedding this morning, and I wanted to be properly dressed.”
“You were coming to witness my wedding?” she whispered, confused. Her heart pounded dully in her hollow chest. Had she misread everything between them? In her joy over receiving Highburn, had she foolishly dared to hope too much?
“I was coming to stop it,” he corrected. “I’d planned to object and kidnap the bride.” His gaze locked with hers. “To keep her for myself.”
She blinked back tears. “You don’t have to.” A laugh bubbled from the happiness spreading through her. “Although I might let you kidnap me anyway.”
A questioning but hopeful expression softened his features, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t move. As if afraid to break whatever fragile spell was weaving itself around them.
“You were right.” She drew strength from the sprig she clasped in her hand. “I was letting my family control my life. But that’s changed. From now on, I’m doing what I want.” Even from so far away, she felt him tense. “I’m not marrying Ewan, and not because you gave me Highburn.” She paused as the importance of this moment settled upon them, this moment that could change the rest of their lives. “But because he isn’t you.”
Unable to hold himself back another second, he rushed down the steps. She ran forward and threw herself into his embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Garrick.” She rose up on tiptoes and kissed him, not caring that they stood in the middle of the village. “Forgive me for ever doubting you.”
His eyes glistened as he shook his head. “I’m the one who needs to be forgiven. I almost lost our future because I was still clinging to the past. But no longer. I need you, Arabel, to show me how to move on. And if you can find it in your heart—” His voice faltered. “Perhaps you can love me again.”
“I never stopped loving you. Not once in all the years we were apart, not once since you returned to me.” She rested her palm against his cheek. “You are the only man I’ve ever loved, the only one I ever will.”
He lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss filled with such tenderness yet such passion that her knees slacked beneath her, and she clung to him to keep from falling away. “Marry me, Arabel,” he enticed against her lips.
“Yes,” she breathed, her heart overflowing with love. “Oh yes!” With a teary laugh, she hugged him tightly. “Let’s elope before anything can come between us again.”
“Nothing is taking you away from me,” he promised, then glanced over her head at the church. He crooked a half-grin. “But coincidentally, we now have a church, soon to be filled with guests and a minister.”
Shaking her head adamantly, she fisted his lapels in her hands. “I won’t be married in there, not in a ceremony meant for another man.”
He tenderly tucked a curl behind her ear. “Fearing bad luck, are you?”
She smiled at the touch of brogue she heard in his voice. He was still all highlander, despite his English title. And he was still hers, now and forever. “Because you deserve better.”
Smiling, he lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I have an idea . . .”
* * *
Garrick’s heart pounded joyfully as Arabel walked toward him through the heather. The hem of her pale green gown swirled through the blossoms. Voices of the gathered guests rose together in a hymn, the lilting sound carrying across the field. Her eyes found his, and a faint smile curled at her lips as she shyly lowered her gaze. Answering with his own smile, he touched the sprig pinned to his lapel.
“They never would have allowed this in England, you know,” Reeves said quietly, standing up with him as his best man.
His smile blossomed into a grin. “Then thank God I’m a highlander.”
She arrived at his side, and the minister joined their hands. They didn’t need a church. All they needed was God’s presence, each other, and the highlands stretching around them.
“We give thanks to God for the gift of marriage,” the minister announced. “And we ask for God’s grace that their marriage be enriched . . .”
Garrick couldn’t concentrate on the ceremony. He was lost beneath the glowing happiness on Arabel’s face and the warmth of her fingers resting in his. He nearly laughed at himself when the minister had to prompt him to speak his vows.
“In the presence of God and before these witnesses I, Garrick, give myself to you, Arabel, to be your husband, and take you now to be my wife.” He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss to her palm that sent a flurry of whispers through the guests and a beautiful blush into her cheeks. “I promise to love you, to be faithful and loyal to you, for as long as we live.”
She repeated the vows so softly that barely any sound came from her lips, but his heart heard every word, each one branding itself there forever.
The minister took the rings from Reeves and announced their significance, but neither of them needed that reminder. Not after ten years of searching to find each other again.
“Garrick,” she whispered, “I give you this ring as a symbol of all that we have promised, and all that we share.”
He repeated her words as he slipped his mother’s ring onto her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
The minister announced, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
As a cheer went up from the guests, Garrick helped Arabel kneel in the heather for the blessing on their marriage.
Arabel wove her fingers through his, holding his hand tightly in both of hers. She kept her face lowered, hiding the tears he knew glistened in her eyes.
“You, my love,” he whispered hoarsely as he lowered his mouth to her ear. “Everything I am is because of you.”
When she raised her head to look at him, her lips parting with love, he kissed her, not caring how scandalous it was. Not caring that the minister froze with surprise in the middle of the blessing and a new round of whispers went up from the guests. He’d waited ten years to kiss his wife.
He wouldn’t wait a moment longer.
A MIDSUMMER WEDDING
May McGoldrick
Chapter One
Stirling Castle, Scotland
Summer 1484
“It’s your wedding,” the young queen said. “So why do I feel as if I’m sending you to the gallows?”
Elizabeth Hay stood at the open window of the White Tower, looking across the busy courtyard toward the chapel. A hum of voices drifted up to her as worry tightened its grip on her throat. The brilliant morning sun was shining down on the castle’s Inne
r Close. Along the walls yellow flags with the red lion rampant alternated with the queen’s new flag of blue and white. The shadow of a bird drew Elizabeth’s eyes to the sky. A hawk soared high above the castle walls. Elizabeth wished she could grow wings and fly above it all, her senses so sharp that she could know who came, who left, who made promises, and who broke them.
Instead, the painful tightness grew into a knot, spreading into her chest until she could not take a full breath.
“Elizabeth,” the queen persisted. “I’m worried about you.”
The young woman turned to face Queen Margaret of Denmark, now the wife of James of Scotland. Known not only for her elegance and beauty, but for her kindness, Margaret’s concern showed plainly on her troubled face. Crossing the room, the queen took her hand, seated Elizabeth beside her on a bench by the window, and waved away the attending lady’s maids.
“You’re crying.”
“Am I?” Elizabeth managed to say, unaware of the tears slipping down her cheek.
“Perhaps we haven’t pursued every option. If you honestly don’t want to marry this Highlander, I will insist on a postponement.”
“Nay, that’s not it,” she began, faltering. How could she explain to the queen how she felt? Everyone assumed she was simply nervous about such a momentous step, worried over losing the life she was accustomed to, uncertain about the future. But there was so much more that Queen Margaret didn’t know, so much that had transpired these past few days.
The young queen produced a silk kerchief and patted away the dampness on Elizabeth’s cheeks.
The chapel bells began to toll. And now there wasn’t even a moment to explain.
The time had come for her to go. Elizabeth stood and motioned to the other women to help her with the veil.
“I can halt the ceremony,” Queen Margaret offered once again, putting a hand on her arm. “I can speak to my advisors right now.”
“Nay, Highness. You’re very kind. I know you’ve done all you can to help me. But the hands have been dealt, and fortunes decided. Come what may, I must go.”
* * *
The Highlander waited in the Inner Close by the door to the Chapel of St. Michael. A congregation of nobles already stood inside, talking in hushed tones. Above their heads blades of golden light from the slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense.
Clan chiefs and lairds across Scotland knew that this union had been two decades in the making. Many wondered if the marriage would ever be consummated. It was an old story. A lass of three, a lad of seven—pawns in a contract when a fleet of ships was transferred for extensive tracts of land. As the years passed, anyone familiar with the two had hoped the families would find other means of satisfying the old promises, for it had become obvious to all that the couple were completely ill-suited for each other.
And no one had hoped for it more than the two young people themselves.
Macpherson frowned and edged into the shade of the doorway. Everyone in Scotland knew how different they were. Elizabeth Hay had been educated and brought up in the courts of Italy and Denmark. Now a close companion of the queen, she was well traveled, fluent in several languages, and a talented musician. In addition to being a friend of the queen, she served as the indispensable right hand of her father, the well-known architect Ambrose Hay.
And he, himself? To the seagoing men of Scotland and England, he was Macpherson of Benmore Castle, the Black Cat of the Highlands, commander of a dozen ships that raided rich coastal towns and wreaked havoc on British, Dutch, and French traders. His chosen profession had made him a wealthy man. In seaside villages from Antwerp to Dublin, mothers evoked his name when they wanted to strike terror into their unruly whelps on dark nights. He was a Highlander. Wild, free, and dangerous. And for a wife, his closest allies believed, he would take a woman made of the same hardy stock. Not some delicate Lowland flower. Certainly not Elizabeth Hay.
And yet here he was, sweating as the bells tolled.
Macpherson glanced impatiently at the White Tower. Doubts ate away at him. She wasn’t coming. This marriage was not going to happen.
A doorway opened across the Inner Close, and Queen Margaret glided over the stones of the courtyard, attended by her entourage. But he had no eyes for her. His gaze was fixed on the veiled bride at her side.
The young laird muttered another curse under his breath and scowled at the woman drawing near. The hell he’d gone through to be here at this moment. Had she suffered, at all? The embroidered veil hid any view of her face.
He did not speak until the queen and the rest of the bride’s escorts filed past them into the chapel.
“M’lady,” he growled.
“Highlander,” she replied, coming to stand before him.
“Blast me,” he cursed, taking hold of the veil and tossing it back away from her face. “You lied.”
Chapter Two
Seven days earlier
Stirling Castle
Elizabeth Hay shivered involuntarily as she stared at the deer brought to bay in the colorful forest on the large tapestry adorning an entire wall of the queen’s chamber.
“That is not you.”
“Nay,” Elizabeth agreed. “My tale is captured on an entirely different tapestry. I’m in the one depicting the harried old sow, chased down and speared by a drunken pack of dirty Highlanders for my future husband’s amusement.”
Elizabeth turned and faced Queen Margaret, sitting with Clare Seton, one of the ladies-in-waiting.
The queen smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that one.”
She nodded. “I’m not surprised. They only bring it out on special occasions. Don’t want to frighten any of the maidens unnecessarily.”
Elizabeth strode to the window, breathing in the damp air. Below, rain-soaked cotters from the nearby farms were already carting in food for the upcoming wedding feast.
“You may be allowing your imagination to run a little wild, my friend,” the queen observed. “This is a rather dark vision of the future.”
“A future that I’m desperate to avoid.”
“Elizabeth, we’ve been through this.”
“I know.”
“Macpherson is a Highlander, as you say, but the man is acting quite honorably.”
“An honorable act that I have no wish to be any part of,” Elizabeth said flatly, trying to keep her temper in check.
Five years ago, she’d been ready. But where was he then? At eighteen, she was fresh-faced and eager, dreaming of the man she’d been promised to all her life. Innocent, believing in the power of love, she’d expected him to arrive and they’d wed and he’d take her to his castle in the Highlands. Trusting in life and the man who was to be her future husband, she had no fears, no insecurities. The future was an oyster with a precious pearl, ready for her to pluck.
But Elizabeth had dreamed of a man who never came for her. Year after year, her hopes faded. Doubt took root. Rumors reached her about her intended’s legendary exploits . . . and a lass or two in every port. Sailing the seas, raiding rich towns, living the life of adventure. He was the Black Cat of Benmore. Terror of the German Sea.
Somewhere along those years, she stopped waiting and locked her foolish dreams deep within her. Time passed and Elizabeth traveled with her father, helping him with his work and learning his art of building. As a widower and a well-known and respected architect, Ambrose Hay made his home wherever his current building project took him. Together, they’d lived and worked in the courts of Europe. For Elizabeth, knowledge became a passion. Free of the burden of a future that depended on a husband, she developed a new life. A life that was hers.
In the end, Elizabeth learned not to want him. She wouldn’t have him. She couldn’t imagine giving up her life to be a mere laird’s wife in a pile of stones in the Highlands. Without this marriage, she’d continue to travel with her father across the world. This was the future she wanted now.
But suddenly the Highlander had decided it was ti
me. He’d come to Stirling, expecting her to be that naïve eighteen-year-old. Ready for him. Grateful for him. Ha!
Earlier that morning, she’d had a long and exhausting discussion with her father on this same topic. A month ago, the two of them had a future in place. He was commissioned to start a palace in France next June and he was taking her with him. This week, Ambrose Hay wouldn’t hear of calling off the wedding. A contract needed to be honored. The family’s name was at stake. Time didn’t negate their responsibility.
Frustrated, she’d left her father with his plans and models piled high around him, and turned to her friend for solace. During their year here in Stirling, residing in the castle while her father worked on the renovations, Elizabeth had become a companion and confidante to the queen.
“Stop your pacing and come sit with us.”
Elizabeth wished she could take the queen’s suggestion, but she was too agitated.
Clare Seton looked up from her sewing. “You can’t deny that Macpherson has made an effort.”
Elizabeth glared at her. Whose friend was she? They all seemed in awe of the late-comer. Traitors.
“What do you mean?” the queen asked.
“The Highlander’s squire came to the castle asking for Elizabeth again this morning,”
“Again?” Margaret asked. “What did he want?”
“The messages, twice yesterday and once this morning, were the same. The laird wishes to meet with her. But she won’t even send back an answer.”
“Why won’t you meet with him?” the queen asked, turning to Elizabeth.
“Because I know what he wants.”
Margaret raised one eyebrow inquiringly. “And that is?”
Elizabeth had already explained the difference the years had wrought in her, but her friend’s romantic nature would not budge. A chance at love transcended time and disappointment.
Queen Margaret had been a pawn herself in an arranged marriage, and she now lived in permanent estrangement from her husband. The queen knew firsthand the cold reality of the marriage business. If anyone should be able to understand Elizabeth’s dilemma, Margaret should. But she didn’t because she lived on the possibility of romance.