Love, Come to Me(41)

“I’ve . . . never married a Southerner before,” came the apologetic answer, which suddenly infuriated Lucy. For heaven’s sake, why did everyone keep saying Southerner as if she were marrying some different species of man?

“That’s all right,” Lucy said acidly. “I assume they use the same vows as we do, Reverend, even if they don’t pronounce the words right.”

It took all of Heath’s concentration to smother a grin. For a spoiled and pampered New England girl, Lucy Caldwell had done pretty well at raising her back up and showing signs of a fine temper. He was more than a little relieved to see that she hadn’t let them all humble her spirit, for he couldn’t stand the thought of a meek and submissive wife. On the other hand, it amused him to a certain extent to know how it galled her to marry him instead of her fine Northern beau from a well-respected family. She was a little hypocrite, he thought with a grim smile. If he had been from an old Boston family with an established name, she would have dropped Daniel Collier and leapt on him in a minute. The attraction between them had been there from the first moment they had met, though it would take some doing to get her to admit it.

Now Lucy was looking up at him, challenging him to say something about her shrewish manner, but he merely smiled and shrugged, as if he had already resigned himself to the odd ways of Yankees.

Lucy clung to her irritation for the next several minutes, finding that it helped to take her mind off what was happening. Just as her grand wedding dress had been reduced to a far simpler and more modest garment, her grand wedding had been reduced to a short and businesslike ceremony. The vows were taken; then, the rings were exchanged during an enthusiastic bout of organ music provided by the reverend’s wife. Lucy barely had time to register the rich gold band around her finger before she felt Heath’s fingers under her chin, tilting her face upwards. He kissed her lightly.

There. It was done. Her dreams of Daniel were forever gone. Her pledge was given to another man, and her hand was placed in a stranger’s keeping. While Heath accepted the reverend’s congratulations, Lucas Caldwell left the church to bring round the carriage. Lucy bent to the little Reynolds girl to give her the bouquet, and her fingers brushed against the tiny, warm hands that clutched the flower stems. Then she straightened and looked at Mrs. Reynolds, whose round face was touched with gentle pity as she saw what was written in Lucy’s eyes. “A bride shouldn’t wear such a frown, dear,” she whispered kindly. “He seems like a fine man who’ll do well by you.”

Lucy nodded mutely, a lump of misery rising in her throat as the woman continued.

“Life isn’t always what we expect it to—”

“I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” Lucy interrupted more harshly than she had intended, her rudeness freezing the other woman into silence. Suddenly she felt the warning bite of Heath’s hand, closing like a vise on her upper arm. Wincing slightly, she glanced up at him in protest, but he was directing a charming smile to Mrs. Reynolds. “We both appreciate your kindness to us this afternoon, ma’am,” he said in that beguiling drawl, smoothing down the older woman’s ruffled feathers. Lucy didn’t understand why he took the trouble—it didn’t really matter to him what Mrs. Reynolds thought, did it? “We’ll never forget what you’ve done to make this occasion a beautiful memory that we’ll always cherish.”

“Why, Mr. Rayne,” fluttered the reverend’s wife, her expression self-preening and pleased, “all I did was play a hymn and witness the ceremony—”

“And bless us with your presence.” Heath gave her a slow, appreciative smile, which no doubt established a storehouse of good will in Mrs. Reynolds’ ample bosom. Then he turned Lucy with a twist of his wrist and steered her down the aisle.

“You’re going to bruise my arm,” she hissed under her breath, prying at his fingers until they loosened. He did not miss a stride, continuing to pull her out of the church.

“If you’ve got a crow to pluck with me, Daniel, or your father, that’s one thing, but you don’t have to spite some nice old woman who was trying to coax you into a better mood—”

“Crow to pluck?” she repeated disdainfully. “You mean bone to pick.”

“You Yankees might pick bones, but south of the Mason-Dixon we pluck crows.”

“At the moment we’re not south of the Mason-Dixon!”

They paused in front of the carriage, and blue eyes met brown in one nerve-jarring moment. Gradually Lucy’s gaze dropped. “Are we going home now?” she asked in a low voice.

“I thought it would be best to go to the Wayside Inn for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Heath sighed, his patience worn thin. He raked a hand through his golden hair, causing it to fall over his forehead in attractive disarray. “Cinda . . . since this is the only wedding day that either of us is likely to have, let’s try to make the best of it. We’ll go to the Wayside, have a relaxing dinner with a glass or two of wine, and by the time we come back to Concord everything will be unpacked—”

“By who?”

“A woman named Colleen Flannery and her daughter Molly—I pay them to do the washing and cooking a few times a week. They’ll come by tomorrow to meet you.”

She nodded slowly and let him help her into the carriage. Now that the ceremony was over, Lucy was tired, strung out, and even more tense than she had been this morning. She tried to do her best to carry on a conversation, but after a while they both lapsed into wordlessness. The next part of the evening went by in a blur while the silence between them lasted all through dinner, broken only by the necessities of ordering from the menu and passing the salt. After a second glass of wine, however, Lucy’s tongue was loosened sufficiently for her to ask some questions that had been bothering her.