Emerald Embrace (36 page)

His arms tightened and his voice hardened. “What do you mean? Father Martin would surely disagree.”

She rolled around to face him, her eyes suddenly old, and very wise. “I shall be marrying Bruce Creeghan.”

He fell silent, then told her lightly, “Nay, lady, don’t think that it shall be so easy, quickly promised, quickly over. You came here pretending to be a lady. Well, I shall make you one today in truth.”

He rose and returned to the bath, thinking that she would follow. She did not.

Bathed anew, he came back to his room, but she was not there. Puzzled, he looked about, and realized that she had taken one of his coats from a hook by the door.

He walked out to the balcony, but she had not left that way.

He stared out upon the cliffs of Creeghan and shuddered suddenly. Where was his conviction now? Once, it had seemed the only way, and it had certainly seemed like no less than she should deserve. Marriage had meant nothing to him, nor had any woman.

He had fought a foreign war and lost. And in the losing, he had betrayed the brother who had been his best friend all of his life. He had betrayed Creeghan itself.

He owed Creeghan everything. Most of all, he owed Creeghan honor, for that was what had been stripped away. No matter what his ancestors had been, his father and his grandfather had brought prosperity to the people.

He knew in his heart that Mary had been frightened to death. That, if her heart had not failed her, she would have died nonetheless. A fall to the cliffs below …

Fingers tightening around her throat.

And so it had seemed that to protect Martise, he had to be with her. To sleep with her. And she had come as a schemer, hard, boldly voicing her own lies. But the lies now seemed to crumble beneath him. He had taken her and used her, and now …

The marriage would be legal, he vowed. It was too late to send her away—she would not go. They were in it together, entangled, entwined.

And he loved her. Loved her with a greater passion than he could give to this house, or even, for that matter, than he could give to honor. Loved her with a rage like that of the wind, with a tenderness like the salt-breeze caress upon a gold and glorious dawn.

And tomorrow night was the full moon …

It would be over! he swore. It would be over. He would find the right passage this time, the right passage within the honeycomb mazes of the crypt that led to the sea.

He turned back into his room to dress for his wedding.

    She might not have had time to plan, but he was convinced later that no bride had ever been more beautiful. Elaina had helped her improvise. She wore a cream-colored gown, one with delicate lace and satin ribbons. It swept long behind her, and the bodice was low, trimmed with lace. The slimness of her body and the fullness of her breasts were emphasized, and still, no bride had ever appeared more innocent, more pure. Her eyes were blue and wide beneath the soft, sheer veil.

Her hair was a cascade. Gold and fire, swirling down her back, free and simple, and incredibly glorious.

Elaina attended her, and Peter walked her down the aisle, to hand her over to her bridegroom. Her eyes met Bryan’s with such honesty that he was stunned. He knew that she would not falter, nor did she. Words were spoken, songs were sung.

It seemed that all of Creeghan was there, crowded into the tiny chapel. Spilling out into the hallway. All these people, come to celebrate a ceremony of life.

The servants were there, Holly softly weeping, Hogarth grinning from ear to ear, Robert with his wry smile. And Jemie and Trey, and the young maids who came by day and left by night. And Freya, beaming proudly, as if her cooking had brought it all about.

And the villagers. The fishermen, the sheepherders, and the merchants. The Cunninghams were there, smiling, but Peggy was still wearing that pinched look of pain that had been with her daily since Clarissa’s disappearance. And MacTeague was there, somber as he watched the ceremony.

And the family …

Peter, so proud, having given away such a stunning bride. Ian with his ever-ready smile, Conar so grave. Elaina, tears in her eyes, tears of joy and tears of sorrow. Bryan could see in her face that she was remembering both Mary and her own Niall, and wondering if she would ever be a bride herself.

He had given Father Martin careful instructions. Perhaps some might have thought it curious that Martise gave her vows to “Laird Creeghan” rather than to a man with a given name. And yet, he was the laird of Creeghan, and it was true, few would ever question his desires.

Martise spoke the words softly but well, and faltered only once: when she swore to love him forever.

His own vows were steady and strong. He could not falter. Not, he thought wryly, as the laird of Creeghan.

When they signed the license, he was careful to write ‘B. MacKenzie Creeghan, Laird of Creeghan.’

None could ever deny that it was he.

Martise’s fingers shook as she wrote down her name.

There was cheering anew, and Peter called out that Laird Creeghan must kiss his new lady.

Her eyes met his and he pulled her into his arms. And he murmured, “Lady?” before kissing her with all of the audience before them.

They cheered and applauded as his kiss went on. Friends, loved ones, a close community, they applauded, with smiles and with tears. They welcomed a new bride to Creeghan. And yet among their number, there was at least one who might very well try to slay her.

Their kiss parted at last, and again her eyes met his. Grave and blue, naked and beautiful. It was done, this thing between them. Born of fear and lies and deceit.

And taken this day in dangerous passion.

She turned away from him, managing to smile. He had lost her, he thought. In taking her as his wife, he had lost her completely. There was a coldness about her again, a distance, and his kiss could not erase it.

And yet, as she moved away, he smiled.

There came from her a soft and beautiful scent. Subtle, sweet, alluring.

The scent of fresh roses.

Aye, the scent of roses.

T
he feasting went on throughout the day.

Elaina kissed Martise’s cheek and hugged her warmly as they stood in the great hall above. It had been cleared for dancing, with the large oak dinner table pulled close to the fire, and delicacies of all kinds heaped heavily upon it. There was smoked and pickled eel, pheasant, potent-smelling fish stew, and the ever-present mutton. Ices had been formed in elegant shapes, a bride and a groom, rearing horses, the Creeghan dragon, and hounds and kittens. As the day wore on, the ices slowly melted and the children broke off pieces to suck upon.

Martise stood with Bryan near the fire. She felt as though she had married into royalty, as all the people came before them, bearing best wishes and gifts. Then they moved onto the dance floor where the men had set up with fiddles and flutes and the inevitable bagpipes, and even a stray harmonica or two. The music was loud, the guests were gay, the mood was festive.

Elaina paused beside them, smiling, watching the dancers on the floor. She turned to Martise and hugged her impulsively again. “I’m so glad you’re my sister in truth now, Martise. Like Mary.”

“But I am not Mary,” Martise reminded her softly, suddenly feeling uneasy.

“Look at them,” Ian murmured from behind her. “All in their best plaids and laces, welcoming a new bride to Castle Creeghan.” His eyes were shimmering; perhaps, Martise thought, from the aged Scotch whisky brought out for the occasion. “Think of it—tomorrow they’ll be laid out on their fields or in the bows of their little fishing vessels, scarce able to open their eyes.”

“’Tis the laird’s wedding day,” Bryan reminded him. “’Tis not something they do often.”

Ian laughed. “Well, ’tis becoming something that they do oft enough!”

Bryan’s jaw twisted and held. He reached out a hand to Martise. “Lady Creeghan, come dance with your laird,” he invited, and they moved past his family.

The guests stepped aside as Bryan swept Martise into his arms and began to twirl her around the room. Martise cast back her head, smiling up at him. “What are we trying to prove?” she inquired sweetly.

“Prove?”

“Why this grand affair?”

He arched a brow. “How else does one watch people?” he asked her quietly.

How else, indeed? He, the laird, had eschewed his Highland dress for his nuptials, and was striking in the black she had come to associate with him. Aye, black, the color of the night, the color of his hair. The color of a lord of darkness.

She had married him and had to trust him now. She had cast herself into his keeping and agreed to play this game. Nor could she regret it now, whirling about within his arms as if she danced on air, meeting the wildfire of his gaze. His black frock coat and slim silk tie were elegant over the fine ribbed lace of his shirt, but beneath the texture of the fabric, the heat and pulse of the man were filled with an electric tension. If she were to cast all, including life, into this charade, then so be it, she thought, for she could never turn back now.

“Whom are we watching?” she inquired.

“All of them, my love,” he answered, expertly turning her. “All of them. Ian who is drinking, Conar who is surly. Peter who is playing his pipes, Robert McCloud, the man you find so suspicious. And there—we have the Cunninghams and their proud sons. And Katie and Micky Douglas. And young Cassie and her sailor husband, Richard. They’re all here. The boys, Trey and Jemie. The villagers, all of them, watching you, Lady Creeghan.”

She swirled beneath his arm again. “How can you be so cynical and cruel! Clarissa Cunningham is still missing, and you would cast such a slur upon her family!”

He smiled and pulled her close and his whispered words brushed over her temple. “But I am the one who has supposedly buried Clarissa within a wall. That is what you suspected, is it not?”

She pulled back. “I never thought—”

“You most certainly did,” he said, and his eyes sparkled their dangerous fire. “But now, my dear and charming bride, we have sworn our trust in one another, have we not? And now, you are a lady in truth, Martise. My wife.”

His soft taunt sent chills sweeping along her spine, and she did not know if they were shimmers of fear or desire.

“We’ve spoken words,” she said uneasily. “We’ve agreed upon a dangerous game. We play at charades. We have joined together for that game, and for no other reason.”

He stared down at her, his gaze seeming to blaze. Then he said softly, “Ah, but the playing of the game, milady! ’Tis most enjoyable. I do say—let the play continue.”

She met his gaze. But she said nothing more, for a hand fell upon her shoulder, and Peter spoke at her ear.

“Nephew, will ye let an old man take on a beautiful young lady?”

“Aye, Uncle Peter, my lady is yours,” he agreed pleasantly, and stepped aside.

Peter was an able dancer with a willing energy, and they were soon halfway across the floor. His eyes were bright, and his smile was wolfish as he teased.

“Ye’re one of us now, lass.”

“Aye, Peter.”

“And welcome ye are.”

“Thank you.”

“Remember to take care.”

“Will the ghosts of Creeghan harm me?” she asked him.

“Nay, lass. They will protect their own, when they may. I’m an old man, lady, but trust in me.”

She laughed. “Old! Why, Peter, you put the lot of us to shame with your wit and style and grace.”

“Charming and bright as well as beautiful.” Peter laughed. “Och, and here comes that son of mine, set to steal you away. Well, and then, ’tis your wedding. I must give in.” He paused and kissed her hand. “Conar, the lady is yours!” Peter said gallantly, and she was suddenly in his son’s arms, and Conar was smiling, and seeming as pleased with the events of the day as any man there.

“So, Lady Creeghan,” he said. “Now ye’re the bride of Creeghan. No regrets, I hope?”

“None, Conar. No regrets.”

He was very serious when he spoke next. “Martise, we are all glad to have you. You are beautiful, intelligent, kind, and determined. Aye, we’re glad to have ye. But take care in this house. Let us solve the problems here.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she told him innocently. But her heart was beating hard, and her fingers closed more tightly upon his arms as they danced. “What problems?”

He shook his head and laughed, his seriousness vanishing. “Things that go bump in the night, milady. Truly, I shouldn’t have spoken. There’s nothing to worry about. Bruce will care for you.”

Bruce will not, she thought, for Bruce is dead. And Bryan now is laird, and everywhere I turn, it seems that I must be afraid.

“I must let you go, so it seems,” Conar murmured. “Henry Cunningham comes this way, and ’twill make his entire lifetime, I believe, if you will dance with him.”

He turned her over to Peggy’s aging husband, bowed, and left her. She smiled radiantly at Henry, and set forth into the music once again.

Over her shoulder she saw Bryan. The beautiful young Cassie was in his arms. Her head was thrown back, and her laughter was long and low and husky. Where was her sailor husband? Martise wondered, and was surprised at the depth of the jealousy that tugged upon her heart.