Heart of Gold (46 page)

The priest’s voice rose and fell in the measured cadences of the mixed Latin and Gaelic. From behind the grate of iron bands to the right of the altar, the sound of women’s voices—the nuns of the Priory—could be heard responding to the prayers.

The priest raised up his hands in offering, and then turned and preceded his acolytes down from the altar. It was time, and the young laird turned to face his bride. Her black eyes shone with excitement. They were misty, reflecting her joy in their imminent union. Malcolm took her hands in his.

The priest paused for a moment, and the congregation seemed to hold its breath. The chapel’s silence was profound, so silent in fact that Malcolm’s eye was drawn upward at the crackling hiss of a candle on the far wall. The incense curled upward in a lazy spiral, and the young laird’s mind raced at the thought of the step he was taking. An important step, and one he knew was long overdue. Nay, he thought. For every purpose, there is a season. He looked back into the beautiful face of his bride.

The candle on the far wall flickered again, and Malcolm became aware of a sound at the entrance to the chapel. Turning his head, he could see the great oak door had swung partially open, but he could not see who was entering—only that the folk by the door were backing away with looks that changed rapidly from mere surprise to shock.

And then he saw a young woman step uncertainly into the chapel, her wedding gown glittering in the light of the thousand lit candles. Like everyone else, the young laird stood, immobile, stunned by the sight of the beautiful woman whose face now grew bloodless, nearly matching the whiteness of her elegant garment.

She couldn’t stop her body from quaking. Clasping her hands tightly at her waist, Jaime rested her weary frame against the door. Her legs now seemed to function of their own accord, for she couldn’t manage to make them either hold her weight or propel her back out the door. Every eye in the hall had turned, and she felt them burning into her. Painfully, she swallowed her tears, fighting back the anguish that threatened to burst her heart into a million pieces. Once again her eyes followed the open path from where she stood to the altar, where he stood hand in hand with another.

“I hate you, Malcolm MacLeod,” she whispered. “To the day I die, I will.”

Finding her legs at last, Jaime yanked at the door and lurched out of the chapel.