Now, suddenly, it was time for the wedding. Gwynne held still while Molly, the middle-aged maid she and Bethany shared, fussed with the hooks and eyes at the back of her bodice. The gown was new and fashionable, and Gwynne had not yet worn it, so the garment was a good choice for a day that would change her life.
She glanced across the room to inspect herself in the mirror. The bodice and overskirt were made of cream-colored silk delicately embroidered with blossoms and birds. The fabric shimmered over her hoops, set off by an underskirt of ice white satin and sleeves that ended in a foam of creamy lace. She had chosen the garment to be richly attractive but discreet, and it made an admirable wedding gown.
Bethany stepped back and viewed her critically. �You are lovely, my dear. I'm glad you decided to wear your hair loose and unpowdered. It makes you look young and eager for life, the way a bride should be.�
�Now for the flowers in your hair.� Molly placed a chaplet of pale blossoms on Gwynne's head, then blinked hard. �You have never looked better, my lady. I will miss you, I surely will.�
�Oh, Molly, I shall miss you, too.� Gwynne hugged the maid. �I wish I could take you with me, but you wouldn't go and Lady Bethany would never forgive me if I stole you away.�
�It will be better if you choose a local girl as a maid,� Bethany said practically. �She can help you learn Scottish ways.�
Athena, who had been sleeping on the bed, jumped down and strolled over to Gwynne, batting at the lace trailing from her right sleeve in passing. Ignoring the delicate fabric of the gown, Gwynne bent and swooped the cat into her arms. �I'm going to miss you, sweet puss.�
Athena rubbed her whiskered muzzle against her mistress's cheek while Gwynne fought tears. She did not want to go to her wedding with puffy eyes and a red nose.
�I shall take good care of Athena,� Bethany said. �You'll see her again when you visit London.�
�I know that she'll be perfectly happy here with you. I'm the one mourning.� Reluctantly Gwynne allowed Molly to take the cat from her arms. �No doubt there are cats in Scotland, but none will be such splendid library cats.�
�Never say never, my dear.� Bethany approached and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. �And now it's time for you to be wed.�
Gwynne nodded and followed the older woman from the room. Her formal gown was so wide she barely managed to get through the door without turning sideways. She was almost dizzy with nerves. This would be in all ways different from her first wedding. Though she had also been nervous when she married Emery, at least then she had stayed in her childhood home.
Though part of Gwynne still wanted to cling to her safe, familiar life, it was too late for that. Ever since the council had asked her to marry Duncan, she had felt a sense of rightness. That was why she had insisted they marry immediately: that same inner sense whispered that her influence was needed now, during the rebellion. If she delayed the wedding until peace returned, it would be too late.
Prayer book clenched in her hands, she left her home and climbed into the coach that would carry her to her destiny.
�
Duncan had hardly slept for two days as he and Simon and other senior mages had attempted to probe the future to learn what the rebellion would portend for Scotland and England. The answers had been frighteningly vague, with far too many possibilities.
The process had been disquieting because he had sensed that his own actions would be significant in unexpected ways. Perhaps that was why several of the older mages, particularly Lady Sterling, had seemed wary of him.
The thought was outrageous, and made him wonder if anti-Scottish prejudice could exist among a group that was supposedly enlightened. As a man whose home was in the center of Scotland, he was bound to be involved in the rebellion in some way, but he would never be disloyal. He had always honored his Guardian oath and supported King George, even though the Hanoverians were an unappetizing lot.
There were times when it was a nuisance to be a Guardian and be unable to avoid sensing what your peers were thinking about you.
But that was behind him. Today was his wedding day. The ceremony was being held in the Richmond parish church of St. Mary Magdalen, with a wedding breakfast at Lady Bethany's afterward. About thirty guests waited. He noted Gwynne's friends from New Spring Gardens as well as several Harlowes and half a dozen members of the Guardian Council. It was a good gathering for such short notice.
Surely it was past the time the bride should arrive. He shifted uneasily, not absolutely sure that she might not change her mind. As the minutes stretched, it was hard not to wonder.
�Stop worrying,� Simon murmured. �It isn't that late, and she will come.�
Duncan managed a smile. His friend had always been something of a mind reader, and today Duncan's feelings must be blindingly obvious.
He tried not to fidget with his cuffs. If they were marrying in Scotland, he would have worn a belted plaid, but here in England he had donned the elaborate costume that he'd worn to the French court at Versailles. A Parisian tailor had cut the deep violet silk coat embroidered in silver, the brocade waistcoat, the silk breeches. He was so grand he hardly recognized himself.
Simon said quietly, �The bride is here.�
Duncan turned to the doorway, and almost stopped breathing as the bride's party entered. As Gwynne stepped inside the church, sunlight touched her hair into a blaze of brilliant color, all red and gold like sunrise in the Hebrides. She glowed like a lit candle.
He watched, enraptured, as she approached the altar. Her hair swooped upward before cascading over her shoulders in molten waves. Her flowered wreath made her look like a pagan goddess of life and love, yet there was an innocence in her expression and in the pale shining silk of her gown.
�Be careful your eyes don't fall out,� Simon whispered with a hint of laughter.
Gwynne's stepson, the present Earl of Brecon, was giving her away as a signal of his approval. There would be no hint that this wedding was anything less than welcomed by her first husband's family.
She gave Duncan a shaky smile when she reached the altar, looking very young and vulnerable. Her waist was so tiny that surely he could span it with his hands.
His emotions flooded so powerfully that it was almost painful. Silently he pledged that she would never regret accepting him. Aloud, he said softly, �You are as magnificent as the dawn.� He took her hand, and distant thunder sounded.
�And you are the storm that carries all before it,� she said in a voice so low even the vicar couldn't hear.
As they turned to face the altar, he knew with absolute certainty that this marriage was the most wondrous thing that had ever happened to him.
�
As rose petals showered over them, Gwynne accepted Duncan's hand and climbed into the waiting carriage. He followed and settled beside her as the door was closed, and they set off from Lady Bethany's house followed by a chorus of good wishes.
The wedding breakfast had been lively with toasts and laughter. She had deliberately kept herself busy chatting with guests and had hardly spoken a word to her new husband. Her nerves were on edge as she wondered whether he would be able to read her mind once they were truly wed. Everyone needed privacy in their own minds.
Finally they were alone. She was acutely aware of his tall, masculine body, and how small and private the travel coach was. She took a deep, slow breath. She was now Lady Ballister, not Lady Brecon, and they were heading to Scotland. This was a great adventure. . . .
A strong, hard hand came to rest over her locked fingers. �You look ready to jump from the carriage and head for the hedges. Is marriage to me that frightening, Gwynne?� Duncan's deep voice was warm with teasing.
Praying that she had the ability to shield her deepest thoughts from her new husband, she smiled back, enjoying the unruly dark curls that escaped the riband at the back of his neck. The more she saw of his craggy face, the more hand
some he seemed. �I am accustoming myself to the idea of having a new lord and master.�
�As if any Guardian woman would tamely submit to a man!� He laughed. �Certainly no woman with red hair like yours has ever been docile.�
She glanced away. �I warned you that it was not good hair. I should have powdered it for the wedding.�
�No!� He brushed her hair gently, his fingers lingering. �It's the most beautiful hair I've ever seen. To see it revealed today was a very special wedding gift.� He leaned forward and kissed her throat through the silky strands.
She caught her breath, transfixed by the feel of his lips. There had been attraction from the beginning, and now desire was sanctified by God and man. Raising her hand, she stroked his thick hair. It was all the encouragement he needed.
�You are the most beautiful woman in the world,� he breathed before claiming her mouth. His kiss melted her reserve. She felt like molten wax, flowing and yearning to mold herself to him. He cupped her breast, and she almost cried out at the exquisite sensation. How could she ever balance him when he had such power over her?
As if reading her mind, he said huskily, �Don't ever fear me, Gwynne. Don't you know that I would do anything for you?�
This magnificent, powerful man wanted her. Her wedding-ceremony tension melting away, she touched her tongue to his.
It was like setting a spark to tinder. His kiss deepened, dizzying her, and the rocking of the coach moved their bodies together. �Gwynne, Gwynne,� he groaned. �I wonder if there is enough space in this carriage to consummate our marriage? That would make an exciting memory for when we are old and gray.�
His words were like a splash of icy water. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. �I don't think that's a good idea, Duncan.� She drew a deep breathing, knowing she must speak up. �Though I am a widow, I . . . I am also a virgin.�
The change in Duncan's expression was so abrupt it was almost laughable. Gwynne gave him credit for how quickly he assimilated her announcement.
�I see.� He sat back in the seat, putting space between them, though awareness thrummed. �Of course, Lord Brecon wed you when his years were much advanced.�
She began to pleat the lace falling from her sleeves. �I do not believe that he was unfit. Rather, he . . . he chose not to.�
She had been a willing bride. More than willing, for she had always adored the lord of Harlowe and she wanted to please him. She had been bitterly disappointed when he entered her bedchamber on their wedding night and gave her only a kiss. There had been desire in his eyes, she was sure of it. But not enough. �He . . . he said I had a destiny, and he should not interfere with that.� And perhaps he wished no more children.
Duncan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. �I would give much to know what Lord Brecon saw. But I agree that you are my destiny, as I am yours.�
He accepted the idea of destiny so easily, but of course, he was a mage. In the heady excitement of his embrace, she was tempted to tell him that her decision to marry had been almost a command from the Guardian Council, not merely a suggestion from Lady Bethany. He was her husband and she wanted to be truthful.
Instinct said to hold her tongue. If she told him too much, it might alter his behavior in the future. Unless that was what she should be doing? She suppressed an unladylike curse. Being told to be herself wasn't very useful as a guideline to her new life, much less to her �destiny.�
The wheels hit a hole and the vehicle rocked. He sat back in the seat and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. �A carriage is a poor choice for being initiated into passion.�
She blushed, remembering how willing his kisses had made her. She'd been scarcely aware of their location. �Tonight I would prefer a proper bed. Will we be spending the night at some coaching inn you know?�
�Sorry, it's been so hectic that I didn't have a chance to tell you that Falconer has loaned us one of his estates for the night. It's only a few hours north and very close to the turnpike, so it will be convenient, and more private than a coaching inn. He's notified his servants to expect us. There will be a bedchamber and a supper waiting for us.�
�Bless Simon.� She smiled, glad that her wedding night wouldn't take place in a common inn. �Perhaps we might try the carriage at . . . some future time.�
Laughing, he raised her hand and pressed a lingering kiss on her knuckles. �We shall find great pleasure in each other, Lady Ballister. I know it.�
TEN
T hough it was still light when they reached Buckland Abbey, Gwynne was grateful to arrive. Getting married was a tiring business.
The sprawling Tudor house was well proportioned and immaculately maintained. Much, much nicer than a coaching inn. �The ruins of the original abbey are behind the house,� Duncan said as he helped Gwynne from the carriage. �They're very Gothic and mysterious. Perhaps we can walk through them in the morning before we leave.�
She lifted her skirts to climb the front steps. �I thought you were in a mad rush to reach Scotland?�
He made a face. �I am, but Lady Beth informed me in no uncertain terms that there was no harm in spending some time enjoying the company of my bride on the journey home. So I will, since she's always right.�
Gwynne laughed. �I've noticed that.�
As Duncan raised his hand to the massive knocker, the front door swung open and an elderly butler bowed them into the house. �My lord and lady, welcome to Buckland Manor. May I escort you to your rooms so you may refresh yourselves?�
�Please do.� Duncan glanced at Gwynne. �And have our supper served immediately after we've freshened up.�
Gwynne nodded agreement. �I spent so much time talking at the wedding breakfast that I ate very little, and now I'm ravenous.�
A light sparked in Duncan's eyes, which were now the clear gray of early dawn. �An appetite is a fine thing in a bride,� he said softly.
Once more, Gwynne blushed. Amazing how many comments were suggestive when one was in the mood. Though they had talked of unimportant things on the carriage ride, and she had even dozed a little with her head on Duncan's shoulder, a delicious tension had pulsed between them. Despite her uncertainties about this marriage, she was eager to be initiated into the mysteries of the marriage bed by a man who aroused her so thoroughly�and kissed so well.
�Let me take you both up now,� the butler said. When they had ascended the stairs and walked to the west wing, the servant indicated the end of the corridor. �These three rooms have connecting doors. Lady Ballister, your chamber is in the middle, my lord's is to the right, and your private supper shall be served in the sitting room to the left. Ring if you have any special request. Your wishes are our commands.�
�Lord Falconer has provided well for us,� Duncan observed. He kissed Gwynne's hand. �Knock on my door when you are ready for me to join you for supper, my dear.�
She nodded, then entered the center room. The chamber was beautifully appointed and clearly intended for a lady, with striking views of the sun starting to set over the rolling countryside. She had just finished washing up when a pretty young maid came in and bobbed a curtsey. �I'm Elsie, Lady Ballister. How may I serve you?�
Falconer's orders had definitely inspired the staff to exceptional efforts. Gwynne turned her back to the girl. �Thank you, Elsie. Will you unlace me, please? I've had quite enough of this corset for one day.�
Deftly Elsie began unfastening her garments. �A nightgown and overrobe were sent here by a Lady Bethany Fox. Would you care to put them on now?�
Gwynne smiled a little mistily. Bethany had spared no efforts to make this wedding special despite the haste. And since she and Duncan would be dining quietly, why not don her nightwear now? It wouldn't be long until they were in bed, she was sure. �I would like that.�
The maid opened the wardrobe and brought out the most amazing negligee set Gwynne had ever seen. The robe was many layers of sheer gauzy silk, with the outermost a pa
le leaf green and each underlying layer a darker shade. Tiny sparkles of gold thread floated like stars on the delicate fabric. The nightgown itself was a sumptuous emerald satin that shimmered a subtle blue where light struck the fibers. �How lovely! I shall look like a water nymph.�
�You will be even more beautiful than you are now,� Elsie promised.
The robe slid easily over Gwynne's head and clung to her figure with wanton sensuality, while the robe tied in front with a ribbon and drifted around her like sea foam. She regarded the low neckline warily. If it weren't summer, she would risk lung fever. But Duncan wouldn't mind, she was sure.
�Let me brush out your hair,� Elsie said. �Don't look in a mirror until I'm done.�
Gwynne obediently sat still while the maid brushed her hair into a shining mass, then tied it back loosely with an emerald velvet ribbon, leaving a few strands to curl around her face.
�Now you may look, my lady.�
Gwynne turned to face the long mirror, then gasped. Proper Lady Brecon had been replaced by a creature of fire and water, all glowing color and voluptuous female curves. Was this how Duncan saw her? But this image was an illusion born of garish hair and expensive silks. She hoped he wouldn't be disappointed with the mundane reality of her bookish self. �Thank you, Elsie. I look better than I dreamed possible.�
The maid beamed. �Now you must find a proper lady for Lord Falconer to marry. The household needs a mistress.�
Gwynne felt one of her flashes of certainty. �In a year or two, he will bring you his lady. You will like her.�
�Is he courting someone now?� the girl asked with interest.
�Mere female intuition on my part,� Gwynne said lightly. �A man who has no urgent need to marry must ripen to the point of readiness to become a husband. I think Lord Falconer is approaching that state.�
Elsie nodded thoughtfully. �I know just what you mean, ma'am. My Ned, the head groom, kept coming to me for months with no word about marriage, yet when he decided it was time, he rushed me to the altar as soon as the banns were read.�
The women exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Duncan had been even quicker than Elsie's Ned. Had he been entranced by her in particular, or was he merely very ready to settle down after years of traveling? Well, whatever the reasons, he was her husband now. �Thank you, Elsie. I won't need you again tonight.�
The girl curtsied, then left the room. Gwynne found the glass vial that held her favorite perfume. It had been made by the current Countess of Brecon, who was a noted perfumer, and it combined delicate floral notes with a deeper, more provocative scent. After dabbing a bit behind one ear and, self-consciously, between her breasts, she returned the perfume to her cosmetics case.
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