Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (30 page)

“I do, lass.” He was sure in that scrupulous, granite sure way of his. “Wee Quince Winthrop, I must have you.”

There was nothing she could do in the face of such conviction but give in as gracefully as possible. “Then you shall, God help you.”

The relief that washed across Strathcairn’s face was so sweet it was heartening. “I’ll call the vicar.”

Mama, Plum, and Reverent Talent appeared with such alacrity that they must have been all but listening at the keyhole. At least Plum probably was. She burst through the door first. “Thank God for that. It took you long enough. Let’s get you two married before one of you changes their mind.”

Now that the moment was upon her, Quince felt impossibly unready—dirty and disheveled in person as well as in her mind. “If you’ll give me a moment or two to make myself ready.”

She gestured to her bloodstained, ruined shirt, and raised her eyebrows to remind him she was hiding the fact that she was wearing gentleman’s breeks and boots under the cover of the bedclothes.
 

Strathcairn’s voice returned to its crisp, public tones, but bless his enthusiasm, he managed to gaze at her as if she were still in fresh muslin. “You’ll do quite nicely as you are, as well as where you are. The Reverend Talent says you are not to do anything strenuous, so it’s best we keep the strain only to the saying of vows.”

“Must we vow, when a handfast will do?” Handfasting would give them something of a trial marriage, which meant that there would still be a way out—a way to escape should she find that her ambivalence to marriage in general outpaced her lust and attraction to Strathcairn. Because while was she was not without affection for Strathcairn—she liked him plenty when they were dancing and flirting and kissing in the moonlight—binding herself to him for life did not seem like a very smart idea, even if he had promised not to shoot her again.

“Nay.” Strathcairn’s tone was adamant. “Handfasting will not do. It must at least be a civil union, by ‘habit and repute’ as it were. But it were better if the vicar married us both legally and religiously.” He softened his tone, abandoning for the moment his Member of Parliament legalese. “It will all be fine, Quince. We’ll start as we mean to go on.” He took her hand within his own and interlaced their fingers. Meshing them together, so they were equal, and none was superior over the others. Holding them steady.

It was as close to a sign as she was like to get.

“Let us proceed before I faint from all the joy. Or the blood loss.”

Strathcairn did not object to her sarcasm. Nor did he let go of her hand. In fact, he held it as if he never meant to let it go. “Reverend Talent?”
 

For a long moment, the vicar looked as if he might object. Or refuse outright. But finally, he fished a small, worn prayer book out of his medical bag and began his solemn invocation. “I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts all be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, you do now confess it.”

How fitting. Today
was
her awful day of judgment, it seemed. Because the awful secrets of her heart had already been revealed. At least to Strathcairn. Quince could not but feel all the awful solemnity of the moment.
 

“Wilt thou—” He looked to Strathcairn to provide his name.

“Alasdair James MacNeal Colquhon, Marquess of Cairn.”

Alasdair. She had never called him by his Christian name. To her he was Strathcairn, so much more and certainly no less. But he was to be Alasdair to her now.

“Do you, Alasdair James MacNeal Colquohon have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Strathcairn’s voice was calm and strong. “I will.” Not Strathcairn—Alasdair.

It was…frightening and strange. But also lovely. She couldn’t keep calling him Strathcairn in her usual nearly sarcastic matter if they were to be married. She had to act at least a little like a wife. And it might be nice, being able to call him Alasdair.

“Pay attention, brat.”

The word snapped her out of her trance. And he could call her Quince. Or perhaps still, brat. But it almost sounded endearing when he said it now. “Would you repeat that, please?”

“And wilt thou, Quince Louise Alice Winthrop have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“Honor certainly.” She shrugged at the gaping vicar before she swung her gaze back to the man standing beside her. “But obey? Not likely. Not even probably. It's not in my nature."

Quince thought the vein in the poor vicar’s temple was going to burst and kill him before their eyes, until Strathcairn spoke in much the same vein.
 

“Well, loving you is probably not in my nature either, but you don't see me quibbling.” His eyes were full of laughter—he was trying to be kind, and smooth it all over. And amuse her.

No one else in the world would—or ever had—put up with her so.

Quince had to swallow over the sudden lump in her throat to make her voice more than the barest whisper. “I will.”

Strathcairn beamed at her as if she had done something wonderful instead of getting them both into the most awful mess.

“God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favor look upon you, and fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace; that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”

And so it was done.
 

Almost. “I don’t have a register to sign,” the vicar apologized. “But it’s a legal civil union until that can be done. If you’ll come on the morrow, or as soon as Lady Quince is better able to endure the carriage ride—”

“I suppose it is up to my lord and master.” She looked at her new husband, to whom she was now bound more surely than she was even bound to her own blood family. “Wither thou goest,” she quipped, not entirely willing to stop twitting him, even if they were married.

“So goest I,” he finished. “I am glad to hear that, because as soon as you’ve had a few hours to recover and pack, we’re leaving Edinburgh. We goeth north, to the mountains. We’ll go directly to Cairn.”

Chapter Nineteen

Dawn came far too early—the summer sun slanted through the window well before the clock over the mantel had struck five o’clock in the morning. Not that she had slept much anyway. The teaspoon of laudanum that she had consented to take—and by jimble what vile, bitter stuff it was—had already worn off by the time the cock in the kitchen garden added his clamorous voice to the morning.

Though she was not exactly happy with what she viewed as her devil’s bargain, Quince was at least curious as to what life with Strathcairn was going to be like. It had certainly been a curious thing to spend her wedding night—if the three brief hours between saying the vows and preparing to leave her father’s house could even be called a night—alone.

And things were bound to get more curious still. Because Strathcairn was already below, waiting to take her away. Mama and Plum were in a flurry of packing of her trunks, as they found the general state of her wardrobe to be so inferior to what might be expected of a marchioness that all manner of loans and alterations had to be rapidly made.
 

Quince judged it best to let them have their way, and even went so far toward graciousness to let them dress her in one of Plum’s more ladylike gowns—a redingote-style traveling gown in creamy lemony silk, with the bodice and skirts embroidered all over in colorful flowers. The gown was everything Quince was not at five o’clock in the morning—cheerful, elegant and refined.

Despite her newfound elegant refinement, it was a subdued leave-taking, but no more than she deserved for having got herself into such a tangle.

“Take care of our lass,” was her father’s only instruction to Strathcairn after he had kissed her on the head, and stepped back, content to let his new son-in-law hand his youngest daughter into the carriage.

“Get better,” Plum whispered. “And then give him all kinds of hell.”

“Plum!” Quince was nearly overcome by sisterly affection. “In nineteen years, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.”

“A wedding present.” Plum kissed her on both cheeks. “Write me. Every day. And tell me
all
.”

Quince could feel heat suffuse her cheeks. “Not all,” she whispered back. “But very near.”

“Quince, my darling.” A quick, fierce hug from Mama. “Be well,” she instructed. “And do please
try
to be good. Write me if there is anything—”

And then Strathcairn was scooping her up, as if she were unable to walk the two steps into the carriage. And no sooner had the door snapped shut behind them than they were wheeling away, out the gravel drive, and west into the cool of the morning. Her married life had begun.

Strathcairn took his place close next to her on the forward facing seat, and immediately she moved to the opposite bench. He was too big, and too near, and too…everything.
 

If he asked, she would give him the excuse that she wanted to see her family until the last possible moment. But he did not ask, and before she knew it, the gates at the end of the drive had whipped past the window, and the only home she had known was left behind.
 

And she was alone with her husband.
 

Who crossed his very long legs—which seemed to span the whole of the carriage—propped them on the seat next to her, and regarded her from under his brows.
 

Quince turned her gaze resolutely out the carriage window, nearly pressing her nose close to the pane—if she had her way she’d put her head out the window like a dog trying to scent the breezes. She had seen too little of the world, and would take advantage of this opportunity to see it before she was shut away behind the gates of his estate in the countryside.

“How is your arm?”

Quince flicked a glance at Strathcairn. Who appeared all husbandly concern, with a line of query etched between his bright brows. “Aching.”

“I regret the need for such a hasty departure, but I thought it best to remove ourselves from town to avoid any gossip.”

“You have a strange notion of gossip if you think it can be avoided merely by leaving town. You yourself said rumor is like stink. Our hasty marriage will set tongues wagging whether we are present or not.”

“I am aware.” And now that she looked—really looked—he did look supremely aware. All well-fed tomcat, in an exquisitely fitted suit of dark bottle green that contrasted brilliantly with his russet hair. “Gossip can best be managed without participating directly.”

Quince was instantly back on her guard. What she had left of her guard, anyway, which was severely worn down by the circumstances. “What have you said?”

 
His smile was almost too knowing. “It’s to be a love match, naturally.”

Something uncomfortable landed in the vicinity of her stomach, like cold porridge. But it was too early in the morning to examine one’s feelings—one was so exhausted one might end up in tears. But sarcasm was a great fender-offer of tears. “Why Strathcairn, who knew? You’re taking to lying very well for an amateur.”

If anything, his smile widened. “I am a politician, Quince, and not in the least an amateur. Nothing I say is without a purpose.”

Oh, aye. Plum had warned her to mind that aspect of his character, hadn’t she? But Quince had blithely thought she knew better. And now she was married to the inconveniently perceptive man.
 

“Why don’t you lean against me,” he suggested. “It’s bound to be more comfortable.”

“I’m injured, but not an invalid, Strathcairn. You needn’t coddle me.”

“Perhaps I want to coddle you.”

Quince didn’t dare examine that sentiment—she was already too close to tears for her comfort. “Don’t. It doesn’t suit you. Or me.”