“Ma parents' rings,” he said carefully as Gregory shaved his jaw, “they were left for me, were they nae?”
“Indeed, sir,” Gregory replied. “They're in the lockbox in yer father's study, as per his instruction.”
“I should like tae fetch them,” Gavin said.
“I'll be sure tae do so, sir.”
“And send someone tae the village tae bring word tae the priest.”
“Aye, sir, t'will be done.”
Gavin nodded and let Gregory finish shaving in peace. A sling was fashioned for him to support his arm before he left the room to find Reagan and her brother and fill his empty belly with bread. When he caught sight of the MacGregor siblings at the breakfast table he hesitated, his gaze scrutinizing Isaac for any sign of displeasure, but the hunter seemed relaxed and jolly. Gavin cleared his throat and took his seat, tucking his napkin into his collar with his good hand.
“I hear ye've got it into yer head tae marry ma sister,” Isaac said. Gavin nodded and the hunter grinned. “Good. It won't be exactly what we expected, but as long as there's a priest and a blessing, then I'll be in mighty fine spirits.”
“There will be,” Gavin said.
Isaac nodded his approval. Reagan reached for Gavin's hand and held it until their food was brought to them, only then releasing it with a squeeze. The three of them ate a slow, quiet breakfast, chatting about nothing of great import. The pain in Gavin's shoulder lessened, although not much, but by the time the messenger Gavin had had sent out returned, he could ignore all but the worst twinges. Gavin and the MacGregors’, along with Gregory, left shortly after, taking a coach down to the village church. Gavin supported his arm as best he could during the bumpy ride, but was thankful when it finally ended.
The father greeted the group on the kirk steps with a smile on his weathered face. He ushered them into the building. A handful of witnesses had gathered and sat at the pews, waiting. It wasn't exactly a traditional ceremony, but Gavin had never had a traditional upbringing, and Reagan wasn't a traditional woman. The short, quiet, private joining suited the both of them just fine.
The priest spoke in gentle Gaelic, one of his hands hovering over where Gavin and Reagan's were clasped. Gregory brought forward the rings, shiny from wear, and with a smile on his face Gavin slid the band that had once been his mother's onto Reagan's finger. Their first kiss as husband and wife was soft and sweet, shared with grins and easy laughter.
“I must admit,” Reagan said as they left the church to whistles and applause from those who had gathered, “I didnae expect ma wedding day tae be so uncomplicated.”
“We can do it again, if ye like,” Gavin replied.
“Once is enough, I think,” Reagan replied. She leaned gently into him, mindful of his arm. “All I want is tae be alone with ye.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” Gavin replied.
They were followed by the priest, who took separate transportation and followed them back to the manor to bless Gavin's bedroom and bed. Both he and Reagan were silent on the fact that they had already consummated their love for each other. It was no great secret, as Gavin was fairly sure the entirety of his staff had figured it out, but it was fun to have something innocent to hide.
“Will we be haein dinner first or will ye two lovebirds be straight off tae bed?” Isaac asked. Reagan scolded him as he laughed at the way Gavin's neck turned red.
“Of course we'll eat,” he said. “The priest deserves some bread and wine as payment for his services.”
“And a bit of coin,” Isaac said. “Let him bless the room and send him on his way. This evening is for family.” He patted Gavin's knee and grinned.
Gavin smiled. Food was tempting, but so was bed. His shoulder was starting to hurt again, and he couldn't think of anything in the world he wanted more than to just have a glass or two of whiskey and slip into bed with his new wife, to be properly, full joined together in God's eyes.
When they arrived back at the manor, Gavin and Reagan led Isaac and the father up to Gavin's chamber, and stood off to the side while the priest walked slowly about the room, reading from his bible and sprinkling holy water in the corners and at the windows and threshold, before finally moving to stand by the bed.
“In the name of our Holy Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen,” the father finished.
“Amen,” the three echoed, crossing themselves with bowed heads.
“Thank ye for yer service, Father,” Gavin said, “and on such short notice. Please, speak tae Gregory before ye leave. He will see that ye are compensated for yer time.”
“A good night tae ye, ma son,” the priest said, laying his hand on Gavin's good shoulder. “And may God bless ye and yer family as weel.”
“Good night, Father,” Gavin replied.
Gregory, who had been waiting in the hall, bowed briefly to the priest and led him away.
Isaac crossed his arms over his chest, observing the newly-weds. “I think I'll be haein dinner in ma room tonight,” he said, and left with a wink.
“That does sound tempting,” Reagan said after he left. “Just ye and I, alone, a small meal, and our own bed.”
“Aye,” Gavin said, “that it does.”
He rang the bell for a servant and passed along the order, and when he and Reagan were finally allowed some peace, he wrapped his good arm about her waist and pulled her against his chest. She tightly returned his embrace, pushing her nose under the collar of his shirt and into his neck. Gavin nuzzled her hair and closed his eyes. He said nothing else, content to simply stand there and hold the woman who possessed the other half of his soul, until the pain in his shoulder bid him to sit and warm himself by the fire, with Reagan at his side. She stroked her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his brow and behind his ears.
“Are ye happy?” she asked.
“The happiest man alive, for I hae found ma greatest treasure and lived tae enjoy it.”
“And ye are mine as weel,” Reagan said, and then turned to answer the knock at the door and bring in their supper.
THE END
Bonus Story 34 of 50
In the League of His Own
Samantha Banks stood impatiently in line, waiting with her poster nervously rolled up in her hand and a blue marker. She’d been standing in the line for almost an hour since the football players had come out of the locker rooms after the last game of the season. Her team had lost, but it didn’t matter. Blake Stemmons was less than ten feet away. It wouldn’t be long before she was standing in front of him; close enough to smell his shampoo and look into his ice blue eyes.
She was trembling with anticipation. He looked up at the line, grimaced and looked back down at the sports magazine he was signing for another fan. Samantha watched him look at his phone, scowling again and sending a quick text between fans. He smiled and talked to each person, but his actions were forced.
More than once, she caught him looking up at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She smiled, feeling like a million bucks but also feeling a little self-conscious. The room was full of blonde haired, blue eyed bombshells in high heels and plunging necklines.
The woman at the autograph table was one such woman. Her mini skirt rode up, revealing the bottom curve of her ass cheeks as she bent all the way over so Blake could hear whatever she had said over the crowd of people gathered in the large breezeway.
Whatever she’d said, Blake winked at her, handing her back her magazine before looking to the next person waiting for his autograph.
Samantha was getting excited. Only four people ahead of her and it would be her turn to be in the presence of greatness. To get a chance to shake his hand before he signed her poster. Maybe even a hug, though she doubted it.
The next woman sauntered up and once again, Samantha felt out of place. She was wearing her most flattering jeans and dark brown, mock-riding boots that came up over her jeans and stopped just below her knees. A sleeveless, bright yellow blouse that ruffled slig
htly in the front and made her eyes appear an even darker green than they were. Her chocolate hair fell in its normal loose ringlets around her face, framing her pert little nose and its smattering of freckles perfectly.
Or so she’d been told. She’d spent most of her teenage years trying to cover up them up, but had given up long ago. It had been a pointless waste of money and no foundation she’d found had come close to concealing them entirely. She had a glowing, even complexion, and she’d tossed most of her makeup, sticking to a swipe of mascara and a tinted lip moisturizer.
Her look was best described as minimalist, but in this sea of princesses, she felt decidedly frog-like.
There was only person between her and Blake. Samantha rubbed her hands down her pants one at a time, making sure they weren’t sweaty. She was so nervous. She’d never been this close to Blake Stemmons and she was feeling especially nervous.
The leggy blonde sauntered up to Blake, casually pulling her shirt to the side, offering her breast for his autograph. Blake smiled and Samantha saw him mouth “no thank you”. He pulled a headshot from the stack to his left and signed it, handing it to her before quickly picking his phone up and scowling at the latest message.
Samantha smiled at him when he made eye contact, and she took a step towards the table, trying to walk carefully so she didn’t trip over her own feet.
Blake looked at her, looked at his phone again and bolted. He stood so quickly that the chair behind him fell down and he shot out a side door. Another player took his spot, waving Samantha forward so he could sign memorabilia for her.
“What’s your name, Sweetheart?” he asked, pulling a headshot of his own out and signing his name with a flourish.
“Samantha.”
“Well, sweet Samantha, I hope you have a wonderful rest of the weekend and thanks for supporting our team.”
“Oh, uh, yes. Thank you for playing so well.”
She walked away quickly, mentally kicking herself. Thank you for playing so well? Why had she even said that? What a ridiculous response.
Samantha looked down at the headshot. She had to admit, the man was handsome, but he was no Blake Stemmons. She hung around for a few minutes, hoping that Blake would reappear and she could take her spot in line again. But the minutes passed and the lines dwindled.
When twenty minutes had passed, Samantha approached a man in a tight white shirt that read “Security” and jeans standing against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Do you know when Blake Stemmons might return?”
“Look lady. Whoever is here, is here. That’s how the autograph signing works. He probably went to a party or something. That’s what these guys do when they’re not playing.”
He didn’t budge and he didn’t smile. Samantha thanked him for his time and he harrumphed at her.
“What a jerk,” she mumbled under her breath. “Guess I’m not going to get his signature after all.”
Who was she even talking to?
Dejected and a little peeved that whatever was on his phone couldn’t wait, Samantha walked down the empty hall and headed for the nearly empty parking lot. So much for getting the signature of her football hero.
So much for thinking that Blake Stemmons was a standup guy who cared about his fans. She’d learned a lot about him tonight, and all without him saying a single word to her.
For weeks, she’d been looking forward to this game and the chance to get his signature, and now, she’d wasted a perfectly good Friday night waiting in a line for nothing.
She dumped the signed picture and the poster in the trash on her way out of the stadium.
“Sorry, first-year rookie,” she said as she let the picture slip out of her fingers.
She wanted to forget this night, and a picture signed by someone else wasn’t going to help anything.
*****
Samantha’s boots hit the damp pavement and she groaned. The lot was almost empty and she could see the bus stop, way out on the other side. She hoped the buses ran this late. If not, she would have to call her dad for a ride. She didn’t want to drag him out of bed at such a late hour if she could help it.
When she’d walked to the stadium from the bus stop, it hadn’t seemed that far. But now that she was walking alone, and half the lights between her and the bus stop were out, she felt uneasy. This part of Atlanta wasn’t the safest this late at night. She’d left her purse at home so she didn’t have to carry too much, shoving her phone into her back pocket and her house keys and a thin wallet in her front pocket.
Her pepper spray was in the purse, locked safely in her home.
She heard footsteps behind her, but she quickly admonished herself for being spooked.
“No one is there. You’re just imagining things,” she whispered to herself.
Except she wasn’t imagining things, and she could hear the person behind her getting closer.
She pulled her keys out of her pocket, trying to get her house key in between her fingers so she could use it to jab the man in the eyes if he got too close. It worked on television, so it should work in real life. Right?
Her hands were trembling, and she dropped her keys on the ground. She bent to pick them up and the footfalls came more rapidly.
Samantha turned and caught a glimpse of the man moments before he was on her, trying to yank the keys out of her hands.
“Get off me!” She screamed the words as loud as she could, dismayed when they echoed pitifully off the empty buildings surrounding the parking lot.
The stranger slammed her to the ground roughly, scraping her elbow and knocking the wind out of her.
“Give me the keys lady,” he grunted. Samantha tried to pull her leg up to kick him in the groin, but he had her pinned.
She heard a click and felt a cold blade against her neck. She froze. The sound of the switch-blade was unmistakable.
“Is your shitty car worth dying over, lady?”
“No” she croaked, fear constricting her throat and making it hard to believe. She didn’t bother telling him she didn’t have a car. She didn’t think the revelation would get her anywhere with the man, anyway.
“That’s what I thought.” He snatched the keys out of her hand. “Damn you smell good. Maybe I’ll take you with me.”
Samantha’s blood ran cold. Surely this thug was just trying to frighten her. Petty thieves didn’t usually branch out into kidnapping.
A dark figure appeared from the shadows behind her attacker, and he was suddenly yanked off his feet and into the air. Samantha only saw his hands for a brief second before they gathered up her attacker’s clothing and sent him flying several feet to the right.
The attacker hit the ground with a loud crack, grunting in pain.
“You made me stab myself you asshole!” His voice was choked, as if he was fighting back tears.
“You brought this on yourself. Get out of here before I call the cops.”
The voice floated out of the shadows, but Samantha was more focused on her attacker, and the breath he’d knocked out of her.
“I’m trying, man. But I can’t. The knife is in my leg. Oh God, it’s in my leg, help me.”
Samantha heard a loud sigh, and saw the light from a cellphone as her rescuer pulled out his phone and dialed 9-1-1. When he pulled the phone to his face and the light caught it, Samantha gasped.
Was it possible, or had she hit her head on the pavement when she fell?
But she knew she hadn’t. Her hero was none other than Blake Stemmons. A man too into his cellphone to sign her poster, but apparently willing to take a moment to throw a street thug around like a rag doll.
“Hello? Yes, I’m at the Peachtree stadium, in the parking lot. There’s a man here who stabbed himself in the leg with a knife.”
“I didn’t stab myself, man. You threw me.”
The mugger’s voice was high-pitched now, just short of a childish whine. Blake stepped a little further away, ignoring the man while he continued his conversation with the 9-
1-1 operator.
“No, he’s not mortally injured,” he covered the phone with his hand and looked at Samantha. “Miss, are you injured?”
“I don’t think so,” she managed, wishing she could crawl into a hole and hide from this night. Could it get any worse?
“I think you should probably send someone to look at the woman he attacked as well.”
He hung up with the operator and knelt beside Samantha. She let him help her sit up, wincing when he placed his hand on her elbow and waving him off when he offered to help her stand.
Apparently she had hit her head because it was throbbing inside her skull.
“Are you alright?”
His voice was soft, and he sounded genuinely concerned.
“I am, no thanks to you,” she spat out.
He was taken aback and Samantha instantly felt badly.
“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault the guy attacked me. Though, if I hadn’t waited so long for you to not sign my poster, I would have been home and safe in my own bed long before now.”
Blake reached out, gently cupping her chin and tilting her head so that the dim light of a distant lamp illuminated it.
“I remember you. You’re the one that was in line behind the crazy woman who wanted me to sign her chest.”
“Yes. I was the woman who foolishly waited over an hour for you so I could watch you text on your phone and then walk out when it was finally my turn. This has turned into to the worse night of my life, and I wish you’d just go away.”
*****
Blake took his jacket off, wrapping it around Samantha’s tiny frame while the mugger writhed on the ground, moaning in pain. They could hear the sirens in the distance, but it was a Friday night in Atlanta; those sirens could be for anyone.
When Blake looked away to see if the ambulances were headed for the entrance to the parking lot, Samantha took a long whiff of his jacket. It smelled exactly as she’d envisioned it. Fresh and clean, with just a hint Aqua da Gio cologne.
Pregnant to an Alien King Box Set Page 137