The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(72)

But that didn’t mean he was going to bind himself to one woman for eternity. He would have laughed if he didn’t feel so much like frowning. Mary of Mar had certainly occupied his thoughts—hell, his dreams—for five months more than any woman before, but it wasn’t likely to continue much longer.

Still, he wasn’t a completely unfeeling arse—most of the time. He would take care not to flaunt his liaisons. “I will.”

Kenneth could see that his answer hadn’t pleased Sir Adam. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but at that moment Mary entered the priory and all eyes turned to her.

He forgot to breathe. The burning that had made his chest feel so tight a few moments ago intensified. She looked … beautiful. A fey creature. Something not of this world. A ray of sunlight caught her hair in its golden glow, casting a shimmering light around her. Her gown was of such pale, iridescent blue silk it almost seemed to be silver. It, too, shimmered with each step she took as she made her way down the wide aisle toward him.

He barely noticed David walking beside her. All he could see were big blue eyes gazing at him with wariness, and the paleness of her translucent milky-white skin. She loomed so large in his mind, he forgot how small she was. But in the massive church with its high cathedral-worthy ceilings, she looked very tiny and very vulnerable.

She was scared, damn it. And no matter how angry he was with her, it didn’t sit well with him. He strode down the aisle, crossing the distance in a few long steps. He held out his hand, offering for hers. “My lady.”

Her eyes widened a little more at his gallantry, but after a few moments of hesitation she placed her tiny fingers in his. Christ, they were soft—and cold. Tucking them firmly in the crook of his arm, he escorted her the rest of the way down the aisle to where Sir Adam and the bishop waited for them.

Wooing his bride, he suspected, wasn’t going to be as much of a hardship as it should be.

Mary had been more anxious than she could have imagined for word of a marriage that had been forced upon her. Would King Edward be angry? Would he agree? It wasn’t that she was worried about him.

At least that’s what she told herself. But when the note came last night for her to meet Sir Kenneth at the priory, and then when she’d seen him across the church, standing there …

The tug in her chest told a different story.

He looked so big and strong. So handsome. It didn’t seem possible that in a few minutes he would be her husband.

What was she going to do? How would she harden her heart against this surge of emotion every time she saw him?

No matter how open her eyes were, she feared her heart would always be blind.

His consideration only made it worse. When he came forward to offer her his hand—to offer her reassurance—she almost wished for Atholl’s indifference. It was far easier to fight against than kindness.

But she had to admit that the strength of the arm under her hand throughout the short ceremony was like a lifeline. Something solid to hold onto in the daze that threatened to overwhelm her. She might be going into this with her eyes opened, but it seemed to make no difference in the bundle of nerves twisting inside her.

She was doing it again. Putting her life in the hands of a man. Every instinct seemed to clamor not to go through with it. But what could she do?

It seemed to happen so fast. One moment they were discussing the terms of the agreement that had been worked out with the King—Edward had agreed to return some of her dower properties in Kent, which had been forfeit upon Atholl’s treason—the next they were outside the church door, going through the formality of reciting their vows in public (though no one but monks were around to object), and then he was sealing those vows with a chaste kiss.

At least it was supposed to be a chaste kiss. But the moment his lips brushed hers, a surge of desire sent a hot rush through her blood that was distinctly unchaste. One might even call it carnal. He must have felt it, too. His fingers lingered for a moment, softly brushing the curve of her chin.

When he finally lifted his head, their eyes met in the soft haze of morning sunlight. They might have been the only two people in the world. Everything around her seemed to slip away. She couldn’t put a name on what passed between them, except that it felt significant.

Still dazed—this time from the kiss—Mary was surprised to realize the wedding was over. Since she was a widow, there would be no blessing and mass by the priest in the church after the recitation of vows. Nor, given the circumstances, would there be a feast to celebrate.

Just like that, she was a wife, and their child was legitimate, no matter how “early” the birth.

She accepted the subdued congratulations of Sir Adam and the far more enthusiastic ones from the bishop, before turning to her son. If anyone was more stunned by the haste of this wedding than her, it was Davey. She was too embarrassed to tell him the truth. She would. She bit her lip. At some point.

“I know this has come as a surprise to you” she said. “I hope you are not disappointed.”

She knew Davey had thought—hoped—she might marry Sir John. But her son’s expression was impossible to read. His unusual ability to hide his thoughts made her chest squeeze with the reminder of how he’d learned such a skill. She cursed Atholl, the war, and the fates for her son’s stolen childhood.

“It’s your life, Mother. I hope Sir Kenneth will make you happy.”