A low uneasy rumbling filled the chapel. Neil became aware of it as his petite bride forcefully elbowed him in the ribs. “Your heart’s in mortal danger.”
“What?” For a moment, he wondered if she’d read his mind, but the sharp insistent jab of her elbow in his ribs convinced him otherwise.
Neil glared down at his bride. His ribs already ached from hours of bouncing against the side of a horse. He didn’t need the additional discomfort.
She glared back at him. “If you don’t answer Father Moray, you’ll be sporting a gaping hole in your chest where your cruel Sassenach heart used to be. Because if you shame me here in front of my clan after all the trouble they’ve gone to to arrange this wedding for us, I’ll cut it out myself.”
Shocked by the vehemence of her fierce whisper, Neil turned to the priest to see what Father Moray had done to upset the prickly highland beauty. He concentrated on the words the priest was saying and was astounded to make sense of them.
“Neil Edward James Louis Claremont, seventh earl of Derrowford, fourteenth Viscount Claremont, nineteenth Baron Ashford doest thou stand before God and this assemblage and take Lady Jessalyn Helen Rose MacInnes, rightful laird of Clan MacInnes, as thy lawfully wedded wife?”
Neil had never fancied himself a coward, but every instinct for self-preservation that he’d ever possessed was urging him to make a break for the chapel door. He could almost smell his own fear and feel the color leeching from his face as he fought to come up with some graceful way to make his exit. He was too young for marriage. Too rich. Too arrogant. Too bloody Sassenach. And much too jaded for an innocent highland maid like her. He took a deep breath, then opened his mouth to speak as he struggled to find the proper words to make these Scots understand that although he was a man of his word, he’d made a mistake when he’d put his signature on the bottom of that marriage contract. “Aye.”
Father Moray gave a nod of approval as the strong Scottish affirmative echoed through the chapel. “Lady Jessalyn Helen Rose MacInnes, laird of Clan MacInnes, doest thou stand before God and this assemblage of kin and take Neil Edward James Louis Claremont, seventh earl of Derrowford, fourteenth Viscount Claremont, nineteenth Baron Ashford as thy lawfully wedded husband?”
“I will,” she answered softly, in perfectly accented English.
Father Moray turned to Neil. “Now you exchange tokens. You must give her something, lad. Something to show that you honor the bonds of marriage.”
Neil stared at the priest. He’d already parted with his boots, his uniform and his freedom. What more could he give? He glanced down at the signet ring on the third finger of his left hand. It was emblazoned with the crest of the earl of Derrowford.
“No, my son,” the priest laid a hand on his arm. “This token must be something for your bride, something that willna’ have to be returned to your keeping.”
He had nothing of value, nothing that could be used as a marriage token except … Remembering the heavy fur pouch belted around his waist, Neil placed a hand on the sporran that held the contents of the purse he had relinquished along with his scarlet tunic. He leaned toward the priest and whispered, “Is coin an acceptable token?”
“Aye.” Father Moray grinned. “Most acceptable and most welcome. Give it to your bride,” he whispered back.
Neil bent his head and untied the pouch. He removed it from his belt and held it out to Jessalyn.
Father Moray shook his head. “Empty it, lad. Let the clan see what you’re giving her.”
Neil stuck the sporran in his belt as he took Jessalyn’s hands, turned them palm up and cupped her fingers. When he finished, he removed the pouch from his belt, opened it and poured the contents into her hands.
Jessalyn gasped as the heavy gold sovereigns and crowns, Scottish thistle dollars and silver guineas filled her hands to overflowing and clattered against the stone floor of the chapel. She had never seen so much English gold and silver in her life! And now her new husband was giving it to her. Presenting a small fortune in gold and silver coins to her to show that he accepted the terms of the marriage. Her eyes stung from the pressure of unshed tears as she raised her face to look at him.
Derrowford met her gaze. A half-smile shaped his lips and an emotion she couldn’t name flickered through the depths of his eyes. She stared at him, captivated by the sight. They were green, she realized. His eyes were the crisp verdant green of larch needles in the spring and Jessalyn marveled at the fact that she hadn’t noticed them before.
“You must give him something in return, child,” Father Moray reminded her. “Something to show your intent to honor the marriage contract.”
Jessalyn pulled her gaze away from Derrowford’s and turned to the priest. She chewed her bottom lip as the good father repeated his request. She had already given Derrowford her tartan and her clan. She had nothing else to give. Certainly nothing to match the wondrous gift of life-saving gold and silver coin he had given to her. She had none of the things a bride traditionally brought to her groom. All she had was a crumbling castle, the clothes on her back and her kinsmen. Her father had sold all of her family’s fine fabrics and household furnishings, the paintings, tapestries and silver and pewter plate that they’d hidden from the English invaders to buy food last winter. There had been no crops or cattle after the summer Uprising. She’d pawned everything else and sent what jewelry she had to Edinburgh to be sold in order to buy her father a final resting place in the Presbyterian kirkyard. There was nothing left except the brass seal that belonged to the laird of the clan and the silver keys to the Laird’s Trysting Room—the keys she wore on silver chains that hung around her neck. The keys. She would give him the silver key her father had worn. But she couldn’t give him anything while she held the gold cupped in her hands. She glanced around, seeking a solution, and Auld Tam came to her aid.
“I’ll keep it safe for ye.” Tam smiled broadly and held out his bonnet so Jessalyn could deposit the money inside it.
She dropped the coins into Tam’s woolen cap, then reached up and freed the two silver chains from their resting place beneath her shift. A small silver key hung on each chain. Turning to Derrowford, Jessalyn pulled the thicker of the necklaces over her head. She closed her eyes and gripped the chain tightly in her fist for a moment. He caught a tiny glimpse of the sorrow that crossed her face as she opened her fist and held the necklace out to him. He made no effort to take it out of her hand. Instead, he bent his knees and leaned forward so that she could put in around his neck.
He thought she might refuse. But she surprised him by slipping the necklace over his head and by carefully dropping it beneath his garments, so that it rested against his heart instead of his shirt. He felt the soft featherlike brush of her fingers against the hair of his chest, then the warmth of the silver as the key settled into place. Neil allowed himself to smile at the thought of its previous resting place—lying nestled between her breasts, absorbing the scent of her perfume and the heat from her body. He had the urge to touch her—to lift her chin and look her in the eye and repeat all the promises he’d just repeated to the priest and to her clan. But this time, he wanted to mean them.
“Thank you for giving this to me,” he said, softly, too softly for the rest of the clan to hear. “I can see how much you treasure it.”
She looked at him and Neil was struck by the unexpectedly hopeful expression in her dark blue eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, to assure her that her trust in him wouldn’t be misplaced, but Father Moray interrupted.
“You’ve exchanged vows and tokens,” the priest announced, “before God and kin and by the laws of the Holy Church in Rome and the laws of Scotland, I declare you to be husband and wife. Congratulations, lad, and welcome to the family!” Father Moray clapped him on the back. “My stomach is rumbling and the marriage feast awaits!”
To call the breakfast following the ceremony a marriage feast was a gross exaggeration. It barely qualified as a meal and as far as Neil could tell, nobody except a
clan of starving Scottish highlanders would dare term it a feast. Although the members of clan MacInnes greeted the boiled oat porridge sweetened with wild honey and fresh milk and cream with oohs and aahs and great sighs of pleasure, Neil didn’t share their excitement. Porridge was the only dish served. There were no hen’s eggs or sausages, no rabbit, no venison, no mutton or fish. Only porridge, and even the honey and cream couldn’t disguise the slightly burnt flavor of the oats. But the clan didn’t seem to notice. Everyone ate with gusto, hunched over their bowls, with their arms curved around their dishes as if to protect them from marauders. Everyone, that is, except his bride—the laird of the clan.
She sat upon the bench with her back as straight as an arrow and with one hand resting in her lap. She made no effort to protect her meal. In fact, she’d started out with a full bowl, but had divided it among her kinswomen, giving them the lion’s share of her breakfast, leaving only a small portion for herself. Neil watched in amazement as his bride discreetly scraped the side of her bowl, spooning a tiny bit of gruel into her mouth before closing her eyes and sighing in pleasure. He cast a guilty glance down at his own bowl. It was full. With the exception of one spoonful, the hearty helping of oats and the dripping piece of honeycomb the serving woman had placed in his bowl remained where she’d left it. He’d despised porridge as a child and the spoonful he’d just consumed to quell the empty rumbling in his belly hadn’t changed his opinion of the mush. He found it every bit as disgusting as an adult as he had as a child, perhaps more so. But he appeared to be the only one who did. The rapturous expression on his bride’s face told him that she savored her dish of boiled oats the way he savored expensive brandy and leisurely explorations of the female body. He clamped his lips together as she scraped her bowl clean, reluctantly pushed it aside, then licked a minuscule pearl of honey from her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Plunging his spoon in his bowl, Neil crushed the honeycomb, and stirred the sweet liquid into the oatmeal. He waited until his bride was deep in conversation with the child seated on her left before he carefully bumped her elbow and slid his dish in front of her.
Jessalyn turned and looked at him in surprise. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Neil ignored her question. “I don’t know how things are done in Scotland,” he told her, “but this is supposed to be our wedding breakfast and in England I believe it’s customary for the bride and groom to share the meal by dining from the same dish.”
Jessalyn cast a mortified glance at her empty dish as a rush of color stained her cheeks bright pink. “I didn’t realize …”
“How could you?” He favored her with a devastating smile that showed his even white teeth and two perfectly matched dimples. “Unless you’ve another husband in England you’ve failed to mention.”
He was teasing her. Jessalyn stared at him for a moment as the realization sank in. A small smile played about the corner of her mouth as she answered him, “That’s entirely possible. I’ve been betrothed to you for the past four months and everyone I know failed to mention it. Since my father apparently wanted a wealthy son-in-law enough to secure an English one, I may well be betrothed to a score of rich Englishmen. Tell me, Lord Derrowford, how many men in England are wealthier and more powerful than you?”
“Two. My grandfather is wealthier and more powerful than I am. And so is the king.” He tilted his head to one side and studied her. “But they’re both married.” He pushed his bowl in front of her and handed her his spoon. “After you, Countess.”
Jessalyn glanced at the bowl of porridge. “But what about you? You’ve barely touched your food and I know you must be hungry.”
Neil recognized the concerned expression on her face. She was his wife now—for better or for worse—and although he hated to lie, he would not trample her pride once again by revealing his revulsion for oat porridge. “Not at all. I enjoyed a delightful dinner before being confined to quarters and before your friend over there—” He nodded across the table at Auld Tam. “—arrived to escort me to our wedding.”
She hesitated a moment longer before she dipped the spoon into the oatmeal. “If you’re certain.”
He grinned at her. “I’m quite certain. In truth, I doubt I can eat another bite.”
Jessalyn’s crestfallen expression resulted in a sudden tightening in his chest. Neil bit back a grimace and sucked in a deep, resigned breath. “I suppose I could manage one more.”
The pleasure that seemed to light her face from within was his reward for swallowing the charcoal and honey-flavored mush she spooned into his mouth. He took her spoon from her and dipped it into the bowl. “Your turn,” he reminded her.
“Aye.” She glanced at him from beneath the cover of her eyelashes and smiled a shy hesitant smile that showed her unfamiliarity with the intimate gesture as they ate from the same bowl and touched their lips and tongues with the same spoon. Neil watched her luscious pink mouth curve upward and felt the warmth of her smile down to his bare toes. Before he quite knew how it had happened he had eaten half of the detested porridge in the bowl and she had eaten the other half.
“It may be a Sass—an English tradition, but sharing the wedding breakfast like this is a fine way to start a marriage,” Jessalyn announced when they had scraped the bowl clean.
“I believe it’s supposed to symbolize the sharing a man and a woman experience during the course of their marriage,” Neil explained.
“For better, or worse. For richer, for poorer.” Jessalyn grimaced as she stared down at the wooden bowl. “It’s a fine tradition, my lord, but I’m afraid there isn’t much to share. We’re a very poor clan.”
Neil nodded toward his wedding gift to his bride. The gold crowns and sovereigns and the silver guineas were scattered across the table top for all the members of Clan MacInnes to see. “Not so poor anymore, my lady. The earldom of Derrowford is very lucrative. I’m a very rich man, and now that you are the countess of Derrowford, you’re a very rich woman.”
“I’m the laird of Clan MacInnes, my lord Derrowford, and now that you’ve become my husband, your allegiance is to this clan. I’m afraid you’ll find that an English title doesn’t mean much to Jacobite highlanders.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but my coin seems to have made almost as big an impression as our wedding feast.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Aye, my lord, that it did.”
He stared at her lips. “Neil.”
“Pardon?”
“My given name is Neil,” he told her. “As the countess of Derrowford, you’re entitled and—” He lowered his voice, then glanced at the members of the clan seated around the table. “—indeed, encouraged to use it. Especially when we’re alone.”
“We’re in Scotland, my lord, not London. Here I’m the MacInnes and you’re the MacInnes’s husband,” she reminded him.
“Neil,” he persisted. “The MacInnes’s purchased husband, Neil Claremont, earl of Derrowford.” He stared at her, forcing her to meet his gaze, refusing to back down.
“Neil,” she said, at last.
“And you are?” he asked, as if he hadn’t just heard her name when they exchanged vows.
“The MacInnes of Clan MacInnes,” she answered. “As my husband, you’re entitled to call me that.”
He leaned closer to her and whispered, “And …”
“Encouraged to remember that my people expect me to fill my father’s footsteps and that I must be the MacInnes.”
“Naturally,” Neil allowed. “When we’re in the midst of your clan, you must be the MacInnes. I understand that. But who will you be when we’re alone?”
“Myself,” she answered.
“Yourself,” Neil replied in a flat tone of voice. So they were back to that. While he’d struggled to control his simmering resentment and his anger at his grandfather and himself for a few minutes, she had decided to resume her prickly show of power designed to trample his pride in the dust. “That narrows it down to my enemy, the laird of Clan
MacInnes or my enemy, the countess of Derrowford. What the devil do I call you? Countess? Laird?”
“As long as we’re in Scotland,” she said. “And as long as we’re alone, you may call me Jessalyn.”
“And if we should leave Scotland?” He asked more out of curiosity than anything else.
She stared at him as if the thought that he might take her away from Scotland had never entered her mind. “Scottish soil or not, I’ll still be the MacInnes, though I’ll make an effort to play the part of the English countess of Derrowford.”
Which meant he’d be lucky if he survived his stay in Scotland or his marriage to the laird of Clan MacInnes.
He’d be lucky if he didn’t wake up to find a Scottish dirk at his throat or buried in his flesh. And should he prove foolhardy enough to take his bride home to meet his family in England, he would have to constantly watch his back and guard his every move. He’d been married less than an hour and the limitless possibilities for further deceit and betrayal stretched endlessly ahead of him. The grandfather who professed his fondness for him had deceived him, betrayed his trust and tricked him into a betrothal and marriage to a highland beauty who hadn’t wanted marriage any more than he did, who had reason to hate him and everything he represented and would undoubtedly stop at nothing to be rid of him. He couldn’t expect more than that. In truth, he couldn’t expect anything. “I doubt you’ll have to worry about being the countess of Derrowford for very long,” Neil replied sharply. “Unless it’s as the widowed countess of Derrowford.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper meant for her ears alone, but his words were laced with sarcasm. “Surely, you realize that should we decide to return to England, I will most likely be arrested on the spot and charged with treason for deserting my post at Fort Augustus. And should Spotty Oliver and his soldiers discover me here married to you, I’m sure to be arrested and returned to England and hanged.”