Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(52)

“I will keep the ceremony short, as no doubt you are in a hurry.” The bishop gave Alec a knowing smile. “Now, my lord—Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife? … Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her … forsaking all others … So long as ye both shall live?” The bishop finished and looked at Alec expectantly.

Alec’s gaze was on Celia. “I will.” The words filled the room, and Celia flushed with sudden warmth.

“And you, my lady? Wilt thou have this man—”

“I will,” Celia broke in quickly. No need for the bishop to say the words again. She’d made her decision.

The bishop lifted his brows but looked pleased. “Very well. We’ll move on to the next bit. You must repeat after me, my lord—after I have finished, please. I—erm—what is your full name, my lord?”

Alec’s gaze went to Celia’s in the mirror.

“Alec William Mackenzie,” he said in a ringing voice.





Chapter 17





Mackenzie.

Celia gaped at him. She knew that name, and not because half the clan had risen to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Her mother had her finger on every title and family tree of every peerage in England, Scotland, and Ireland. One never knew when such a person might be useful to her.

There was a Mackenzie that had long ago been awarded the title of Duke of Kilmorgan. The current duke had been one of the handful of Scots selected to attend Parliament in England, after the Act of Union thirty years ago had dissolved the Scots’ own parliament.

That duke had been killed, and all his sons with him at Culloden. Served them right, her mother had declared with a sniff. Fools, the whole lot of them.

The bishop called Alec my lord. Not because he was confused about Scottish titles but because Alec, as the son of a duke, would be Lord Alec Mackenzie.

Alec gazed down at her, his tawny eyes glittering. He waited, as though expecting her to shriek, flee the room, or perhaps fall over in a dead swoon.

Celia swallowed hard. The bishop, his eyes on his book, serenely continued, “I, Alec William Mackenzie, take thee …”

Alec’s voice filled the room. “ … Take thee, Celia, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse … according to God’s holy ordinance. And therefore I plight thee my troth.”

Troth, the old word for truth. It stood for loyalty and honor, binding them with its simple power.

“Now, my lady—erm.” The bishop patted his pocket as though ready to consult the license for her name. Would her correct one be there? She’d never told it to Alec.

“Celia Margaret Elizabeth.” Her voice was scratched and cracking, nowhere near Alec’s firm tones.

“I, Celia Margaret Elizabeth,” the bishop went on. “Take thee, Alec, to have and to hold …”

The bishop carried on, but Celia barely heard him. She was seeing Alec for the first time, every arrogant line of him, the son of a Highland duke, emerging from the shell of the man he’d pretended to be.

But no, he’d never fit as Mr. Finn, poor but talented artist. He was as wrong for that part as he would have been in the costume of Pierrot Lady Flora had expected him to wear tonight. This was what Alec was, a Highlander of ancient lineage, the same sort of man as those who’d launched themselves at the British lines at Prestonpans and sent English soldiers fleeing in terror.

Celia realized the bishop had ceased speaking and was looking at her expectantly.

Alec’s lips twitched, the hard arrogance softening. He was also the man she’d found protectively holding his child as he slept, his bare and vulnerable foot protruding from his nightshirt.

Celia gulped. “I, Celia Margaret Elizabeth, take thee, Alec …” Her voice grew stronger as the words tumbled out. “And therefore I plight thee my troth.”

“And now the ring.” The bishop, laid Alec’s ring on his book to say the blessing over it, quietly continuing the ceremony he must have read dozens of times in his life.

The band was large and gold, with a square-cut diamond in its center. Celia had never seen Alec wear it before. Her fingers trembled as he lifted it then took her hand, his fingertips brushing the inside of her wrist.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” Alec’s voice went soft, a bare touch of sound. “With my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”

He eased the ring onto her middle finger, the only one it would fit. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” Alec finished. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Celia murmured, and heard the final word echoed by the footman’s whisper and Padruig’s growl.

Amen. So be it.

Celia was married.



Alec wondered what it would be like to wed in the usual way, with church and family, a large meal afterward, and then days alone with his bride. He reasoned he would never find out, because this was the last time he intended to be married.

The carriage he’d hired waited outside, the coachman hunkered near the horses for warmth. He drank brandy for even more warmth, which didn’t reassure Alec, but they weren’t going far.

“All done?” he asked Padruig.

“Aye.” Padruig said nothing more, only climbed to the back of the coach.