“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.
About Anna Harrington
Author photograph by D. Sarjant
Anna fell in love with historical romances—and all those dashing Regency heroes—while living in London, where she studied literature and theatre. She loves to travel, fly airplanes, and hike, and when she isn’t busy writing her next novel, she can usually be found in her garden, fussing over her roses. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at:
Webpage: www.AnnaHarringtonBooks.com
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these novels are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
A Match Made in Heather. Copyright © 2017 by St. Martin’s Press.
All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Cover photograph © Steve Gardner/PixelWorks
ISBN 978-1-250-15838-3 (ebook)
First Edition: December 2017
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