Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(47)
Chapter 11
They were married on Sunday four days later—two days after Alasdair MacGregor and his men, accompanied by Jamie and her uncle, surrendered to the Earl of Argyll at Dunoon.
As a condition of her acceptance, Caitrina was spared the presence of the earl and Jamie’s brother at their wedding. The Campbell contingent consisted only of the score of guardsmen who accompanied him. The ceremony was held in the small chapel of Toward Castle located opposite the keep beside the new hall. The pews were filled by all that remained of her family—her aunt, uncle, cousins, Mor, and, even though it was unusual for them to be present for such an event, the handful of clansmen who’d accompanied them from Ascog.
Ignoring the protestations of her aunt, Caitrina refused the elaborate velvets and brocades and chose instead a simple dark blue woolen kirtle and a plain sark. The simple clothing seemed more in keeping with the somber occasion.
There was no joy in this marriage—only duty.
Caitrina steeled herself against the unwelcome twinges of awareness that preceded the event, reminding herself that this was a marriage of necessity only.
Still, when she entered the dark stone chapel and gazed down the narrow aisle to the sight of Jamie standing beside the minister, she felt a hard flutter in her chest.
It’s only nerves. It was her wedding day, after all, no matter how unwanted.
But that did not explain the way her heart seemed to stop beating when their eyes met. She felt the intensity of his gaze all the way to her toes. It was as if he’d reached out across the room to claim her with his arms, so thoroughly did he possess her with that one long, penetrating look. For one instant it felt right—as if this were meant to be. Until she remembered how he’d compelled her to this.
She could not deny, however, that he looked magnificent. His hair was swept over his brow and shone burnished brown in the soft candlelight. The square jaw and hard lines of his handsome face appeared golden in the flickering shadows. Damp tendrils of his silky dark hair curled at his neck.
He stood tall and proud, towering over the minister and her uncle, who waited beside him. Although he was resplendent in his fine doublet and Venetians, the soft black leather could not tame the harsh masculinity of his wide shoulders, muscular chest, and powerful legs.
Slowly, she made her way toward him until she stood before him, close enough to smell the hint of soap that lingered on his skin.
He held out his hand to her. For a moment, the world stilled. In his open palm, she confronted her future. Callused from his sword, his hand was peppered with white lines of battle, giving unmitigated proof of his occupation. He might have the refined manners of a courtier, but there was no doubt that Jamie Campbell lived by the sword. He was a hard, ruthless warrior—Argyll’s Henchman—and if she placed her hand in his, she would be his wife.
Her heart pounded in her chest. Trying not to tremble, she lifted her hand from her side and laid her palm atop his, feeling a shock of warmth that flooded her when he enfolded it in his.
He must have sensed her unease because he leaned down
and whispered, “Breathe.” The warmth of his breath tickled her ear, sending a shiver running through her. “It will be all right.”
There was something in his voice that touched inside her, that made her want to believe him. Nodding, she let out her breath and turned to face the minister, repeating the vows that would bind her to Jamie Campbell forever—or until death parted them.
And then, before she could change her mind, his fingers cupped her chin and he placed a chaste kiss on her lips, sealing their vows. The kiss jolted her from the daze that had surrounded her throughout the ceremony.
It was done, and she was his wife—a Campbell. She’d become her own enemy.
Jamie sat at the dais beside his new bride, watching the raucous clansmen deteriorate into drunken revelry and bawdiness as the feast, hours long already, progressed into the evening. Any wedding, even an unwanted one, was an excuse for celebration and was expected as a matter of course by the clansmen. Looking around, he found it hard to believe this was anything other than a happy occasion.
Motioning to a passing serving girl, Jamie indicated for her to pour him another glass of wine. It was utterly unlike him, but there was no question: He was stalling. He turned to his bride on his right. “More wine?”
Caitrina shook her head no, which was about the sum total of their communication throughout the evening.
He could feel her growing tension as the night progressed and the time for their wedding night drew closer. Awareness hummed between them, so thick it was nearly palpable. Hell, he didn’t blame her. He’d waited so long for her to be his wife, it felt strange to have it be so in truth. And as the time drew near for him to make her fully his, Jamie felt his anticipation tempered by a burgeoning trepidation. He wanted tonight to be perfect, but he knew his bride would be reluctant . . . to put it mildly.
The entire day, he’d felt as if he were leading her to the executioner. He hadn’t quite known what to expect from her, but this stoic lass bravely doing her duty stung.
He’d hoped that she might feel something for him. That after consideration she might view marriage to him with some contentment, if not pleasure.
Obviously, he’d hoped for too much. For such a normally pragmatic man, it was an uncharacteristic display of idealism. She was marrying him to see her home restored to her clan, and that was it.
He was getting what he wanted, but he wondered at what cost. Would she ever forgive him? Was he doing the right thing?