The Guardian

by Greyson, Maeve

  Music filled the air. A fiddle accompanied by the jaunty drumming of a bodhran. The lively tune of a pair of flageolets, the whistles played by a pair of young men hopping in time to the song. The wail of bagpipes filled the air, coupled with the clapping of the crowd as Mercy and Graham entered the room.

  Mercy pressed a hand to her throat, happiness overflowing as Graham helped her into her seat. She leaned forward, looking down the table at Alexander and Catriona. “I can’t begin to tell you how much all this means to me. Your acceptance has touched my heart.”

  Alexander lifted his glass. “Any woman brave enough to take on Graham has our admiration! Welcome to the family!”

  All in the great room lifted their tankards and cheered.

  Mercy scanned the crowd, her heart swelling as they smiled back at her. These people accepted her. So few had tolerated her back in London, yet every person in this room seemed to look upon her with genuine kindness.

  Graham leaned close, took her hand, and kissed it. “Ye’ve gone a bit pale, dear one. Are ye unwell?”

  “No.” Mercy squeezed his hand, cupping it between both of hers. “I’m overwhelmed by the open hearts of these people.” There was no way she could explain how it felt. It was like finally finding home after searching through a blinding storm.

  “Quaich!” The shout started from the back of the room, then grew in strength, rippling forward until all who were gathered, young and old, servants and clansmen, chanted the word.

  Father William emerged from the shadows of the gallery, the two-handled silver bowl in one hand, and a bottle in the other. He walked to the main table and took a stance in front of Mercy and Graham. With a ceremonious bow of his head over the silver bowl, eyes closed and lips moving, the hall fell silent. In a deep, resounding voice that Mercy never would have imagined coming from the priest, he said, “Blessed Three we bid thee protect them, guide them, and bless them.” He opened the bottle and poured some of the golden liquid into the quaich, then made the sign of the cross over it. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Lifting the quaich by the short handles on either side of the bowl, he passed it to Graham and nodded.

  Graham accepted it and turned to face Mercy, holding the quaich between them. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said while staring into her eyes, then took a sip and handed the bowl to her.

  Mercy wet her lips and repeated, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” She drank the golden whisky. The heat of the liquid warmed through her, bringing with it a sense of calm, a feeling of peace and well-being she hadn’t felt in a very long while.

  “Amen,” Graham whispered.

  “Amen,” Mercy said with a smile, still holding the bowl aloft.

  Father William took the quaich, lifted it high in the air, then turned toward the crowd. “And all God’s people said?”

  “Amen!” everyone responded.

  Father William turned to Alexander and nodded.

  “Feast!” Alexander proclaimed. Servants appeared bearing platters of meat, cheeses, vegetables, and breads. Glasses were filled with wine and plates were overloaded. The mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat, smoky and fresh from the spit, filled the air.

  Sitting to Graham’s left, Mercy stared down at her plate as servants filled it. Surely, they didn’t expect her to eat? Not after such a day. She stole a glance at Graham. And how could she eat when soon, she and her husband would retire to what would henceforth be known as their wedding chamber where they would consummate their vows? She nearly choked from a nervous swallow of wine. Picking at a crust of bread, she popped a small bite into her mouth. She should eat, she supposed. It wouldn’t do if she fainted due to lack of sustenance.

  Graham leaned close, nuzzling a kiss to her cheek as he whispered. “All will be well, lass. I promise ye.” He slid a finger beneath her chin and turned her to peer into her eyes. “We are one now.” He glanced out across the room, then returned his attention to her. “And our clan stands united with us.”

  She smiled and nodded, relieved when he turned to reply to something Duncan had said. While she still worried about how they could overcome both her father and the king without endangering anyone else, that wasn’t her immediate concern. She took another deep drink of her wine, smiling as a servant hurried to refill her glass as fast as she set it back to the table. Her present fear, the current worry knotting in the center of her chest, was what would happen when they got to the bedchamber? And while she felt all manner of delicious warm stirrings and aching desires, she wasn’t exactly sure what to do about them. She’d never been with a man before.

  Mama had never told her much other than Mercy would know what to do when the time came—especially if she was fortunate enough to love the man secured for her in marriage. Catriona had assured her of the same. Mercy took another long drink. She did love Graham. Studying him over the rim of the glass, she reasoned with herself. Not only did she love him, but his kisses, his embrace, his touch, thrilled her. Filled her with an aching need for…more.

  Nibbling at a bite of cheese, her gaze lit upon Alexander and Catriona. While fitting her with her dress, Catriona had told her more of how she and Alexander had met. How they had married in a cave. How all she had feared had been resolved and then they’d been blessed with twins, Willa and William.

  Children. She’d held Catriona’s babies, wondering the entire time how wondrous it would be to hold a child of her own. A child fathered by Graham. She looked up at him, heart pounding as she hitched in a shallow breath. When he came to her tonight, when he taught her the ways a man and wife shared their love, would a child result? Would she soon hold her own sweet baby in her arms? Could it happen that quickly? Oh, how she wished Mama had told her more.

  Graham rose from his seat and held his hand out to her. “Come, m’love.”

  Mercy stared at his hand, took in a deep breath, then slid her fingers into his grasp and stood beside him.

  The time had come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  If anyone had told him he’d be leading his Sassenach wife to their bedchamber on this fine summer evening, Graham would have called them daft. He’d never planned to marry but then again, as he’d learned years ago, life didn’t always go as planned.

  He held tight to Mercy’s hand and kept his right arm around her as they climbed the steep, spiral staircase. She’d had a fair bit of wine and very little food. She seemed well enough but looks could be deceiving. When she’d risen from her chair at the main table, she’d weaved a bit from side to side and stumbled more than once.

  The lass remained silent as they made their way up the steps and that worried him. Did she fear him? Did she fear what was about to happen? He’d heard tell of some wedding nights that had gone very wrong, and the women hated their husbands forever after that.

  Graham halted. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. Mercy must realize how much he cherished her and would never do her harm. The torchlight from the iron sconces embedded in the walls set a glow to Mercy’s fair skin, mesmerizing him as he gazed down at her and struggled to find the right words. He swallowed hard. Lord, how he wanted her, but he had to put her at ease first. He had to be gentle. Patient.

  “Are ye afraid, lass?” he asked in a halting whisper. “If ye’re no’ prepared to take me to your bed, I shall abide by your wishes until ye’re ready. I swear it.”

  Mercy stared up at him, her brow slowly drawing into a scowl as she muddled over his words. “Do you not wish to share our marriage bed?” She pressed a hand to the bruise along her high cheekbone. “Am I so repulsive because of my bruises?”

  “Lord no, woman!” Graham slipped his arms around her and gathered her close. Tilting her face up to his, he pressed tender kisses along the lines of scrapes and bruises marring her face. “I want ye more than ye could ever imagine, love, but I want ye to treasure tonight as much as I do.”

  Mercy gave him a tremulous smile as she cast a glance up
the staircase. “Then let us be on with it, shall we?”

  Graham scooped her up into his arms and cradled her close.

  “You must not!” she said with a light swat of her hand atop his shoulder. “You risk tearing your stitches!”

  Welcoming the return of the righteous fire in her eyes, Graham ignored her scolding and held her tighter as he made his way up the stairs, strode down the hallway, and shouldered open the door to their chambers. Once inside, he lowered her to the floor.

  “If you’ve set your wound to bleeding again, I’ve half a mind to thrash you!” She glared at him, arms crossed in a tight fold across her middle and skirts shifting with the frustrated tapping of her foot.

  “I swear to ye, I’m fine, love.” Graham held his hands aloft and turned as he looked about the room, the opulence of the chamber catching his eye. “And just look at all they’ve done for us.” He didn’t add that judging by the looks of the room, they could survive in here for days without wanting for a thing.

  A large table had been set in the corner beside the wide window taking up one end of the room. Candles flickered in twin candelabras, and replacement candles were piled in a narrow wooden box on the windowsill above the padded and pillowed window seat. Plates of cheese, bread, and dried fruits filled the table. Decanters of whisky. Bottles of wine. Jugs of water. Cups and tankards stood at the ready. In the opposite corner, placed on a long dressing table, were two ceramic washing bowls, four pitchers that probably held more water, and a pile of drying linens. He’d have to remember to thank his dear sister-in-law. Catriona had forgotten nothing when it came to the comforts of his new bride.

  Mercy moved to the hearth, a welcoming fire already burning. Bundles of lavender cascaded across the wooden mantel, the sweetness of their scent filling the room. She peeped inside the jars and crocks on the dressing table, sniffing the contents and smiling. “Roses. Lavender. Scented soaps and lotions.” She looked inside the narrow drawers, patting her fingers across more linens, oils, and balms. She hugged herself. “I feel like a queen,” she said with a shy glance back at Graham.

  “Ye are a queen to me.” Graham poured from one of the bottles, pausing to sniff the contents. Fruity. Potent. “Port. Do ye fancy a glass? ’Tis stronger than the wine of our feast.” ’Twas only fair to warn her. He’d not approach her until he was certain she wished him to do so, and neither would he attempt to ply her with alcohol to lower her defenses. He needed her to want him as much as he wanted her.

  “Perhaps one.” Mercy accepted a glass and hurried to take a sip. She hitched in a nervous breath, wet her lips, and took a step toward the window. She stopped and looked back at him. “Might we open the window?”

  “Of course.” Graham set his glass on the table, then moved past Mercy to unlatch the multiple casings of the wide windows and push them open. He turned and smiled, holding out a hand. “’Tis a lovely night. Come and see. We’re in the tower that looks out across the mountainside.”

  To his profound relief, Mercy took his hand and stood close beside him. The cool night breeze greeted them, wafting in and riffling through Mercy’s dark tresses. Entranced by the silkiness dancing in the wind, he slid his hand close to her neck and allowed her hair to pour across his fingers. “I love your hair loose,” he whispered.

  Mercy glanced down at her hands for less than a moment, set her glass upon the windowsill, and lifted her gaze to his. “Might I have a kiss, husband?”

  Graham’s heart thrilled, and the fiery ache burning within him raged all the stronger. Without a word, he slid his arms around her, pulled her close, and ever so tenderly covered her mouth with his. Mercy’s hands smoothed up his back as she opened and took him in, matching the flicks and touches of his tongue. She tasted of wine, and to his relief, a growing urgency that matched his own. Graham drew back from the softness of her lips, nuzzled along her jawline, then paused and looked into her eyes. “Ye’re a rare gem, Mercy, and I’m thankful to have found ye.”

  Peering up at him, worry shadowed her eyes as she trailed her fingertips along his cheek as though memorizing every detail of his features. “I almost fear loving you,” she whispered, then shook her head before he could speak. “Not just because of the dangers.” A sad smile curved her lovely mouth as her focus dropped to his chest where she’d taken to tucking and twisting the ends of his neckcloth. “I fear if I allow myself to love you—then fail you…” She shrugged a shoulder and knotted her fists against him. “If I’m a disappointing wife, you shall be forced to set me aside, and I’ll be alone again.” Lifting her gaze to his, she stared at him, turmoil churning in her eyes. “And this time, alone will be much worse, because I shall be without you.”

  Cupping her face between his hands, Graham silenced her with a long, deep kiss, then drew back and pressed a lighter kiss to her forehead before gathering her to his chest and holding her tight. “Ye willna be a disappointing wife. How could ye disappoint me? I’m the one who should be worried, lass, but I’m so smitten with ye, I’m too selfish to let ye go.”

  “What should you be worried about?” Mercy sniffed and nuzzled closer, the heat of her breath warming the center of his chest where she’d buried her face. “You’ve been nothing but kind and understanding.”

  “Maybe so,” Graham countered with unabashed pride as he gently swayed back and forth with her in his arms. He so relished the feel of her against him. At least, she thought well of him. “I don’t have home or land to offer ye. We’re dependent on the generosity of my brother and thankfully, Alexander wants family around him. We dinna have a home of our own. I dinna ken where we might settle and claim our own place.”

  “That doesn’t matter to me,” Mercy whispered. “But I have a confession.”

  Graham braced himself, after all Mercy and her family had endured, whatever else she was about to confess had to be horrid. He swallowed hard, then kissed the top of her head. It didn’t matter what it was—he’d love her all the same. “What is your confession, lass? Tell me. I swear ye’ve nothing to fear.”

  She shifted against him, burying her face into his chest. Her gentle mumbling into his shirt alerted him she’d said something. Although, for the life of him, he hadn’t heard what.

  He eased her back and looked her in the eyes. “Again. Tell me so I can hear ye.”

  For a short, uneasy pause, Mercy caught her lip between her teeth and chewed it. “I have never seen a man.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Without clothing,” she whispered. “Except for your shoulders and chest that day at the river,” she hurried to add.

  Graham clenched his teeth to keep from laughing aloud. This was his dear love’s confession? It was a boon to know his bride to be so pure and untouched. If possible, it made him love her even more. She would truly and utterly be his.

  “I can remedy that easy enough.” He slid his hands to his jacket to strip it off, but Mercy stopped him.

  “Wait!” She snatched up her glass of port, emptied it, and held it out. “Don’t think me a coward, but could I please have another drink first. I am certain these feelings I’m having right now are most unseemly.”

  Not trusting himself to speak, Graham gave his beloved wife a polite bow. He took her glass, refilled it, then handed it back to her. What unseemly feelings was she having? Such words sounded most promising. Hopefully, the brazenness he’d witnessed at the river with her was about to return.

  Mercy held the glass between her hands as she circled him, her gaze skimming up and down, flitting across his clothing, and having the same effect as if she touched him in the intimate ways a woman could touch a man. If he didn’t get relief soon, his ballocks would surely explode. The sobering thought made him pull in a deep breath. It had been a long while since he’d had a woman, he’d best get control, or tonight would end before it even started.

  “Should I…” Mercy started as she stared down at her dress. “Should I don my nightrail first?”

  Graham wished to tell her not to bother, because if he had h
is way about it, both of them would soon be naked as the day they were born and remain that way for what he hoped would be a very long while. But judging by Mercy’s expression, he thought better of it before the words slipped out.

  He nodded toward the intricately embroidered privacy screen, framed in wood, and consisting of three panels. Thank God for Catriona. His sister-in-law had seen fit to place the thing in the corner of the room beside the wardrobe, knowing Mercy might need a bit of privacy over the course of their first nights together as man and wife. “It appears the maids hung your night dress there. Shall I help ye with your ties before ye slip behind the screen?”

  Mercy’s hand went to the back of her neck, recollection alighting her features. She turned and gave her back to him, sweeping her hair to the side in the process. “That would be most kind,” she said in a tremulous whisper.

  Graham’s fingers shook as he took hold of the ribbons and set to their undoing. With every pull of the tie through the loop, the dress opened wider, exposing Mercy’s silky back. Graham swallowed hard and shifted in place, widening his stance. At last, the loving of Mercy had begun.

  *

  Thank heavens for the cool breeze from the open window brushing her nape. Mercy closed her eyes as she held her hair out of Graham’s way while he undid the ties of her gown. The gentle tugging started at the top of her shoulders, traveled down her back, then finished at her waist, the snug bodice of the gown relaxing away from her body as Graham moved downward. Before the gown fell completely away, Mercy caught it up to her bosom and held it in place, pressing both hands against the hammering of her heart in the process.