by Lauren Smith
“You sing beautifully,” she said at last.
Daphne’s throat constricted, and she looked at the small audience before her. Cameron was wide-eyed in admiration and perhaps a bit of shock, while Moira had a bittersweet smile upon her face. But Lachlan… His face was a storm of emotions.
Then, without a word, he stood and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Cameron exhaled a low, painful sigh before he rose and joined Daphne and Eliza.
“Eliza, why did you pick that song?” He brushed the back of his fingers over his wife’s cheek. “You know it was his favorite.”
“Whose favorite?” Daphne asked. “Lachlan’s?”
Cameron’s face turned to hers. His usual gaiety had vanished, replaced by deep grief.
“William. It was William’s favorite.”
“I’m sorry.” Eliza stood, crossed to Moira, and hugging her. The older woman wiped away stray tears. “I had forgotten. Please, forgive me.”
“No, it was beautiful. Thank you,” said Moira, then looked at the shut door. “But I fear the moment has affected poor Lachlan differently.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” Cameron said, but Daphne caught his arm.
“Let me. I want to.”
Cameron studied her. “Perhaps it would be best.”
Daphne rushed from the music room and caught sight of Lachlan farther down the corridor. She followed him and realized he was headed toward the terrace. The back door to the hothouse was located near the terrace.
Lachlan entered the hothouse. Daphne slipped in behind him. The interior of the glass structure was warm, its windows fogged with moisture. A few abandoned yet blooming plants interspersed those that had withered and now stretched helplessly over dusty pot edges, their decaying vegetation filling the air with a bittersweet scent of death. Empty watering cans littered the floor, and wind whistled eerily along the windows while pale moonlight illuminated the house in creamy patches of light and shadow. She had settled her bit of rose bush here earlier in the day, having filled its pot with fresh soil.
Lachlan stood in the back of the room with one hand braced against the glass, his head bowed like a dark lord over a magical garden that slowly died around him.
“Lachlan,” Daphne whispered. Her slipper trod on a dead leaf. The sharp crackle caused her to flinch. He did not move or speak.
She came up behind him, curled her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his back. He tensed but did not pull away.
“Tell me about him.”
After a long moment, he relaxed. The sigh that escaped him held a century of pain. “My brother was a good man,” Lachlan said, “but plagued with sorrow. All of his life, a shadow hung inside him. No matter how bright the day or how pretty the girl smiling at him, he never…” The words roughened in his voice and she held him tighter. “He never saw the good. You understand?”
“I do.” She rubbed his stomach with one hand. He reached up to take her hand and held it for a long moment. The simple connection seemed to root her, giving her hope that she could grow here beside him, two well-tended plants, twining their hearts together as plants would their roots.
“I never knew what to say to banish those clouds. I loved him fiercely, but my love was not enough.”
He thought his love wasn’t enough to save his brother? No wonder Lachlan and his mother suffered such pain. An accident was unexpected, but suicide… There was a helplessness to people who lost loved ones this way.
“What happened to him was not your fault,” she said. “Your love was enough, but sometimes sadness is too much to bear, and it comes from deep wells that are of no one’s making. It doesn’t mean they do not love, do not care.” She remembered all too clearly the young woman whose family had cared about her, but she too had taken her life by plunging into the Thames one night and perished. “Focus on his life, not his death. Times when he knew and felt your love for him. Those are the memories you must burn into your heart. Only light can banish shadows.”
Only love can banish sorrow... Daphne held him, willing Lachlan to feel her heart speaking to his, to feel her love. I want to love you. Let me. Let me help you heal.
He turned to face her, but she didn’t let go. When he looked into her eyes, she saw a glimmer on his cheeks where tears had run down his face.
“You’re not at all what I expected. Not what I wanted,” he murmured as he cradled her face in his hands.
“Not what you wanted?” The words hurt, but he suddenly smiled, though it was tinged with melancholy.
“No, you’re far better. I don’t believe I will ever deserve to have you as my wife.”
She relaxed and smiled back. “Lucky for you, I’m bought and paid for. I’m all yours.”
His hoarse chuckle tickled her ears as he leaned down and placed a soft, lingering kiss upon her lips. With that kiss, she was pulled deeper into him, this beautiful wild Scotsman with his broken heart that called to her own. He kissed her slowly, wrapping her in his strength and warmth until every worry and every fear she had faded away. There was only this moment.
Tomorrow, this wonderful man will be my husband. Tomorrow...
Chapter Eight
Lachlan stood at the entrance to the church, his black breeches and black waistcoat accented with gold embroidery. A red and green tartan sash was pinned at his chest with his father’s brooch, which bore the Huntley seal. Beside him, Cameron stood unusually silent. A faint breeze rustled the dead leaves that were covered in frost, making the leaves look like shards of ice dancing between the tombstones when morning light illuminated them.
The castle’s coach arrived and stopped at the end of the cobblestone path that led to him and the church behind him. He held his breath as the coach door opened. Eliza and his mother emerged, both smiling broadly before they stepped aside.
From the darkness of the coach, a slender hand appeared on the frame of the door. Then a dainty foot in an elegant white shoe took its first step outside. His breath caught and his chest tightened. Daphne exited the coach, the fullness of her gown now filling the doorway. He swallowed hard as she stepped to the ground. The pale crème lace netting over the white skirts was old-fashioned, but the silver threading in the shape of swans on her pale blue bodice was exquisite.
His mother caught his eye and smiled again. He recognized the gown as his mother’s wedding dress.
Daphne looked like a fairy queen. Her dark hair, bronzed by the light, flashed with hints of auburn and gold. How had he not noticed that her hair was more than simply dark? Daphne lifted her head and their gazes locked. She reached up, her fingertips touching the pearls around her neck. Emotion flooded him, blinding him with an intense inner light and heat that stole his breath and stopped his heart.
The vulnerability in her gaze was overshadowed by a trust so deep he knew he could never hurt this woman, never betray her. Whatever his reasons for bidding on her that night at the marriage auction no longer mattered. She was to be his wife, his partner in life. He would seek her counsel, seek her love and support. It was what he always longed for, even as a foolish young lad. Love had always been his dream.
Now I have it, at a terrible cost. Indeed, had he not lost his brother, had he not been driven by vengeance, he never would have met her—and she, in turn, never would have saved him. I have been rewarded with a priceless prize.
Daphne lifted her skirt and started down the gravel path. The sun lit glints of silver on her gown so she glowed and sparkled like a gemstone. He’d never been one for angels and God, at least, in the literal sense, but in that moment, as he watched her approach, he believed in something better, something wondrous and endless. It made him feel small, yet connected to everything around him—the wind in the trees, the stones collecting moss by the road, even the chatter of the larks in the heather. For two long months, he’d barely lived, his grief so strong, it threatened to drown him. But seeing Daphne coming toward him, hope shining her eyes, he breathed again for the first time in ages.
His gratitude, his affection for her, was overpowering.
When his bride reached him, he raised her hand to his lips and knelt on the ground on one knee, then bowed his head, sending a silent prayer to the heavens that he would never lose her, his precious pearl. All his anger, all his sorrow had been banished by her light.
“Lachlan, what are you doing?” Daphne asked in a confused whisper. He pressed her hand to his cheek before he finally let go and stood.
“I…” He had no words, no way to tell her what lay in his heart at this moment.
“Forgive him, Miss Westfall,” Cameron chuckled. “He seems to have swallowed his tongue.”
“Aye, I have,” he agreed with a smile and held out his arm to her. They entered the church together, the stained glass lighting up the pews with brilliant splashes of color.
The vicar, Mr. McKenzie, waited for them at the altar. Eliza and Cameron flanked them as the priest began his speech. Lachlan spoke his vows and stared at Daphne, smiling as they swore to love, honor and cherish each other until the day death parted them. The priest then pressed her right wrist against Lachlan’s, and wound a plain white cloth around their hands. It was an old handfasting custom. Lachlan saw Daphne’s puzzlement and fought off a chuckle. Then the priest spoke in Gaelic, and, in quiet whispers, Lachlan translated for her, “Two souls made one, two hearts made one. Let none tear asunder what the heavens have brought together.”
Daphne’s eyes widened as she looked up at him, but he saw only excitement with a hint of nervousness within her eyes, no fear.
“All right, lass?” he asked.
“Yes.” As she spoke, a loose curl from her coiffure brushed her collarbone. He was arrested by the contrast of that lock against her pale skin, and the gleaming pearls that hung around her neck like frozen dewdrops along a delicate spider’s web.
My lady in pearls.
“You may kiss your bride,” Mr. McKenzie announced.
Lachlan leaned down, his free hand still curled in hers, their other hands bound fast, and kissed her. Tonight, he would see her in his bed, wearing nothing but those pearls, and he would make her smile, make her laugh, make her as happy as she was making him in that moment. When their lips broke apart, he heard her breathless sigh and reached up to brush her chin with his fingertips.
“You finally belong to me.”
She caught his wrist and stroked his skin beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “And you to me.”
“Indeed.” I will not let the past destroy us. The pain of William’s death was finally muted, like a painting left in a sunny room, the colors bleached white, leaving barely a hint of what had once been so vivid. Daphne would paint new memories for him, ones of joy, not sorrow.
His throat tightened as the priest removed the hand bindings.
“I present Lord and Lady Huntley.”
Cameron clapped loudly along with Eliza and Moira, who both wiped their eyes. For some glorious, ridiculous reason, Lachlan laughed, unable to contain the joy in his heart.
“I suppose you have a feast ready at home, Mother?”
Moira smiled despite her tears. “Of course. It’s not every day my wee bairn takes a wife.”
“Wee bairn?” Cameron laughed harder than Lachlan. “He’s not been wee in over twenty years!”
“Mother, you mustn’t embarrass me in front of my wife,” he teased. “No man wishes to be thought of as wee on his wedding day.”
Cameron laughed. “Indeed! Or Daphne will worry what else is wee on you tonight when you—Oomph!” Cameron doubled over as Eliza elbowed him hard in the chest.
Daphne giggled and Lachlan curled an arm around her waist.
“I promise, lass, there’s nothing wee about me.” He laughed again as she blushed scarlet.
The small wedding party exited the church and for the first time in two months, Lachlan embraced the warmth of the sun on his face. Daphne was his wife and tonight he would show her a world of pleasure. Perhaps Stirling had been right after all.
She will heal me. She’s already begun to.
***
Married. I am married.
Daphne couldn’t stop smiling as she waited in Lachlan’s bed chambers. It was close to midnight, but she wasn’t tired. They’d spent the remainder of the day feasting and playing games in the drawing room with Cameron and Eliza. It had been the most fun she’d had in such a long time.
She plucked nervously now at the nightgown she’d changed into. The only thing she wore aside from it was her mother’s pearls. Lachlan had stopped her in the corridor just before she’d left to change for bed. He caught her by the waist and leaned close to whisper, “Wear the pearls, and nothing else.”
She couldn’t very well wait in his chambers completely naked, but she assumed he would insist upon her removing her nightgown once he arrived.
The sound of footfalls outside the door made her tense. She curled her fingers into the fabric of her nightgown.
Lachlan entered. He carried a delicate decanter of wine and a pair of glasses. He froze when he saw her standing there by his bed, barefoot, her hair unbound, wearing nothing but her nightclothes. He blinked and then gave his head a little shake.
“I thought you might wish for a drink.” He gave the decanter a slight whirl and she nodded. A drink would help calm her nerves.
“Yes, that would be nice.” She fidgeted for a moment before sitting down in the chair next to his desk. He poured two glasses and, after slipping one glass into her hand, drank his in two long gulps. He refilled his glass and brought it to his lips.
“Lachlan…” she began, noticing his hands shaking a little. Was he nervous? The thought was laughable. The worldly Scotsman, nervous on his wedding night?
“I…” He chuckled and set his glass down. “I am a wee bit…” He didn’t finish, but his cheeks darkened to a ruddy shade beneath the candlelight.
“You’re not the virgin, I am,” she blurted out, and then covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a nervous laugh. Lachlan approached and played with the strands of her hair with his fingers, making her shiver with a secret thrill.
“I’ve not been with a lass that I cared about the way I do you.” He brushed her long dark hair away from her neck. She reached up and touched the pearls at the same moment he did. Heat flared between them when their hands met.
“You care about me?” the words that escaped her were barely above a whisper.
His short nod was followed with a smile so faint she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
Daphne held her breath a long moment before she replied, “I feel the same about you.”
His look of boyish wonder as he cupped her face and gazed into her eyes melted away every concern she’d had about marrying him.
“I doona deserve you, lass. But I swear on my bones that I will strive every day, with every breath, to care for you and make you happy.” There was an almost violent flash of pain in his eyes. She threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him. She slipped off the chair and they tumbled onto the floor, Lachlan holding her in his lap as he leaned against the bed’s frame.
Daphne breathed in his comforting, enticing masculine scent and pressed her lips to his neck. His hands tightened around her waist as he held her very still. She examined his face, the hard jaw with a hint of stubble, his blue eyes now as dark and endless as the surface of a lake.
She trailed her fingertips down his nose to his lips, memorizing every curve, every faint line, even the barest hint of freckles on the bridge of his nose, which she hadn’t noticed before. He was beautiful physically, but there was something else, a nobility in his face that seem to come from within. It had nothing to do with bloodlines or titles, but a nobility of the soul. She realized she trusted him more than she had ever trusted anyone except her mother. Her father’s crimes had cost her much, including her trust in others, but now, for the first time, she felt like she could trust another person. She could trust in Lachlan.
I want to give him everything, all
that I am.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” she asked, stroking his lips. He moved one hand up and down her back, the way a man would calm an untamed horse.
“Aye. Are you?” he asked. Worry marred his face until she nodded.
She slid off his lap and they stood, smiling hesitantly, both embarrassed.
“Why don’t I take off my shirt?” He stepped back and reached over his head to pull off the white garment. Once exposed to view, his bare chest made her mouth run dry. He tossed the shirt away and lifted one of her hands to his chest, placing her palm over his heart.
“I am yours, lass, look your fill. Touch.” He stroked the back of her hand. “As you will.”
Daphne explored him, marveling at the muscled plains of his abdomen and the corded steel of his arms, awed that something so beautiful could be hers. Then he unfastened his trousers and removed his shoes. She stepped back with wide eyes when she saw his fully bared body. He was unashamed and waved her closer with a coaxing hand. He stepped back and leaned on the edge of the bed, inviting her near.
“I doona bite,” he chuckled when she drew close enough. She placed one hand on the top of his hard thigh, a secret delight surging through her when his muscles leapt beneath her fingers.
“Now for you.” He reached for the front of her nightgown, unfastened the buttons at her breasts and then lifted the gown over her head.
When she stood naked before him, she stiffened, her nipples pebbling in the cool air. He parted his knees and gently pulled her to stand between his thighs so he could touch her. He cupped one breast, and his rough, calloused palms sent delightful tingles through her. She clenched her thighs as wetness grew between them.
Lachlan plucked one nipple, the gentle tug making her hiss out a soft moan. She arched her back, clutching his shoulders as she offered him her other breast. He bent his head and fastened his mouth to it, kissing, sucking, nibbling until she couldn’t stop from trembling. Everything he did was thrilling, even frightening, but exquisitely wonderful. She reached for his erect shaft, needing to touch him as intimately as he was touching her, but he caught her wrist.