His mouth lowered onto hers—and he kissed her.
* * *
If only she hadn’t chuckled. Up until then it had been fine. Business only. He could do this. He could marry her, he could keep his distance, he could fulfil the letter of the deal and he could walk away at the end of twelve months feeling nothing. He intended to feel nothing.
But that meant he had to stay impervious to what she was; to who she was. He couldn’t think of her as his wife at all.
But then she chuckled and something happened.
The old kirk. The beaming minister. The sense of history in this place.
This woman standing beside him.
She was in this for profit, he told himself. She was sure of what she wanted and how she was going to get it. She was Alan’s ex-wife and he’d seen how much the pair of them had cost Eileen. He wanted nothing to do with her.
But she was standing before him and he’d felt her fear. He’d felt the effort it had cost her to turn to the minister and say those vows out loud.
And now she’d chuckled.
She was small and curvy and dressed in a simple yet very pretty frock, with white lace collar, tiny lace shoulder puffs and a wide, flouncy skirt cinched in at her tiny waist. She was wearing bell heather on her lapel.
She was chuckling.
And he thought, She’s enchanting. And then the thought flooded from nowhere.
She’s my wife.
It hit him just as his mouth touched hers. The knowledge was as if a floodgate had opened. This woman...
His wife...
He kissed her.
* * *
She’d been expecting...what? A cursory brushing of lips against lips? Or less. He could have done this without actually touching her. That would have been better, she thought. An air kiss. No one here expected any more.
She didn’t get an air kiss. He’d released her hands. He put his hands on her waist and he lifted her so her mouth was level with his.
He kissed her.
It was a true wedding kiss, a lordly kiss, the kiss of the Lord of Duncairn claiming his bride. It was a kiss with strength and heat and passion. It was a kiss that blew her fragile defences to smithereens.
She shouldn’t respond. She shouldn’t! They were in a kirk, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t seemly. This was a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience, and he had no right...
And then her mind shut down, just like that.
She’d never been kissed like this. She’d never felt like this.
Fire...
His mouth was plundering hers. She was raised right off her feet. She was totally out of control and there was nothing she could do but submit.
And respond? Maybe she had no choice. Maybe that was the only option because that was what her body was doing. It was responding and responding and responding.
How could it not? This was like an electric charge, a high-voltage jolt that had her locked to him and there was no escape. Not that she wanted to escape. The fire coursing through her body had her feeling...
Here was her home? Here was her heart?
This was nonsense. Crazy. Their tiny audience was laughing and cheering and she fought to bring them into focus. She fought desperately to gather herself, regain some decorum, and maybe Alasdair felt it because finally, finally he set her on her feet. But his dark eyes gleamed at her, and behind that smile was a promise.
This man was her husband. The knowledge was terrifying but suddenly it was also exhilarating. Where were smelling salts when a girl needed them? she thought wildly, and she took a deep, steadying breath and turned resolutely back to the minister. Get this over with, she pleaded silently, and let me get out of here.
But the Reverend Angus McConachie was not finished. He was beaming at her as a father might beam at a favourite daughter. In fact, the Reverend Angus had baptised her, had buried her mother, had caught her and her friends stealing strawberries from his vegetable patch, had been there for all her life. She’d tried to explain to him what this wedding was about but she doubted he’d listened. He saw what he wanted to see, the Reverend Angus, and his next words confirmed it.
‘Before I let you go...’ he was beaming as if he’d personally played matchmaker, and happy families was just beginning ‘...I wish to say a few words. I’ve known our Jeanie since the time she turned from a twinkle in her father’s eye into a pretty wee bairn. I’ve watched her grow into the fine young woman she is today. I know the Lady Eileen felt the same pleasure and pride in her that I do, and I feel the Lady Eileen is looking down right now, giving these two her blessing.’
Okay, Jeanie thought. That’ll do. Stop now. But this was the Reverend Angus and she knew he wouldn’t.
‘But it’s been my sorrow to see the tragedies that have befallen our Jeanie,’ the minister continued, his beam dipping for a moment. ‘She was devoted to her Rory from the time she was a wee lass, she was a fine wife and when the marriage ended in tragedy we were all heartbroken for her. That she was brave enough to try again with her Alan was a testament to her courage—and, dare I say, it was also a testament to the Lady Eileen’s encouragement? I dare say there’s not an islander on Duncairn whose heart didn’t break with her when she came home after such trouble.’
‘Angus...’ Jeanie hissed, appalled, but Angus’s beam was back on high and there was no stopping him.
‘And now it’s three,’ he said happily. ‘Third-time lucky. I hear the Lady Eileen has her fingers in the pie this time, too, but she assured me before she died that this one would be a happy ever after.’
‘She told you?’ Alasdair asked, sounding incredulous.
‘She was a conniving lass, your grandmother.’ Angus beamed some more. ‘And here it is, the results of that conniving, and the islanders couldn’t be happier for you. Jeanie, lass, may third time be more than lucky. May your third time be forever.’
* * *
Somehow they made it outside, to the steps of the kirk. The church sat on the headland looking over Duncairn Bay. The sun was shining. The fishing fleet was out, but a few smaller boats were tied on swing moorings. Gulls were wheeling overhead, the church grounds were a mass of wild honeysuckle and roses, and the photographer for the island’s monthly newsletter was asking them to look their way.
‘Smile for the camera... You look so handsome, the pair of you.’
This would make the front cover of the Duncairn Chronicle, she knew—Local Lass Weds Heir to Duncairn.
Her father would be down in the pub now, she thought, already drinking in anticipation of profits he’d think he could wheedle from her.
‘This is the third time?’ Alasdair sounded incredulous.
‘So?’ Her smile was rigidly determined. Alasdair’s arm was around her waist, as befitted the standard newlywed couple, but his arm felt like steel. There was not a trace of warmth in it.
‘I assumed Alan was the only—’
‘You didn’t ask,’ she snapped. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Hell, of course it matters. Did you make money from the first one, too?’
Enough. She put her hand behind her and hauled his arm away from her waist. She was still rigidly smiling but she was having trouble...it could so easily turn to rictus.
‘Thanks, Susan,’ she called to the photographer. ‘We’re done. Thanks, everyone, for coming. We need to get back to the castle. We have guests arriving.’
‘No honeymoon?’ Susan, the photographer, demanded. ‘Why don’t you go somewhere beautiful?’
‘Duncairn is beautiful.’
‘She won’t even close the castle to guests for a few days,’ Maggie said and Jeanie gritted her teeth and pushed the smile a bit harder.
‘It’s business as usual,’ she told them. ‘After all, this is the third time I’ve mar
ried. I’m thinking the romance has worn off by now. It’s time to get back to work.’
* * *
Alasdair drove them back to the castle. He’d bought an expensive SUV—brand-new. It had been delivered via the ferry, last week before Alasdair had arrived. Alasdair himself had arrived by helicopter this morning, a fact that made Jeanie feel as if things were happening far too fast—as if things were out of her control. She’d been circling the SUV all week, feeling more and more nervous.
She wasn’t a ‘luxury-car type’. She wasn’t the type to marry a man who arrived by helicopter. But she had to get used to it, she told herself, and she’d driven the thing down to the kirk feeling...absurd.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Maggie had declared. ‘And he’s said you can drive it? Fabulous. You can share.’
‘This marriage isn’t about sharing, and my little banger is twenty years old. She’s done me proud and she’ll keep doing me proud.’
‘Och, but I can see you sitting up beside your husband in this, looking every inch the lady.’ Maggie had laughed and she’d almost got a swipe to the back of her head for her pains.
But now... She was doing exactly that, Jeanie thought. She was sitting primly in the front passenger seat with her hands folded on her lap. She was staring straight ahead and beside her was...her husband.
‘Third time...’
It was the first time he’d spoken to her out of the hearing of their guests. As an opening to a marriage it was hardly encouraging.
‘Um...’ Jeanie wasn’t too sure where to go.
‘You’ve been married three times.’ His mind was obviously in a repetitive loop, one that he didn’t like a bit. His hands were clenched white on the steering wheel. He was going too fast for this road.
‘Cattle and sheep have the right of way here,’ she reminded him. ‘And the cattle are tough wee beasties. You round a bend too fast and you’ll have a horn through your windscreen.’
‘We’re not talking about cattle.’
‘Right,’ she said and subsided. His car. His problem.
‘Three...’ he said again and she risked a glance at his face. Grim as death. As if she’d conned him?
‘Okay, as of today, I’ve been married three times.’
He was keeping his temper under control but she could feel the pressure building.
‘Did my grandmother know?’ His incredulity was like a flame held to a wick of an already ticking bomb.
But if he thought he had sole rights to anger, he had another thought coming. As if she’d deceive Eileen...
‘Of course she knew. Eileen knew everything about me. I...loved her.’
And the look he threw her was so filled with scorn she flinched and clenched her hands in her lap and looked the other way.
Silence. Silence, silence and more silence. Maybe that’s what this marriage will be all about, she thought bleakly. One roof, but strangers. Silence, with undercurrents of...hatred? That was what it felt like. As if the man beside her hated her.
‘Was he rich, too?’ Alasdair asked and enough was enough.
‘Stop.’
‘What...?’
‘Stop the car this instant.’
‘Why should I?’
But they were rounding a tight bend, where even Alasdair had to slow. She unclipped her seat belt and pushed her door wide. ‘Stop now because I’m getting out, whether you’ve stopped or not. Three, two...’
He jammed on the brakes and she was out of the door before they were completely still.
He climbed out after her. ‘What the...?’
‘I’m walking,’ she told him. ‘I don’t do dinner for guests but seeing you live at the castle now you can have the run of the kitchen. Make yourself what you like. Have a happy marriage, Alasdair McBride. Your dislike of me means we need to be as far apart as we can, so we might as well start now.’
And she turned and started stomping down the road.
* * *
She could do this. It was only three miles, and if there was one thing Jeanie had learned to do over the years, it was walk. She loved this country. She loved the wildness of it, the sheer natural beauty. She knew every nook and cranny of the island. She knew the wild creatures. The sheep hardly startled at her coming and she knew each of the highland cattle by name.
But she was currently wearing a floaty dress and heels. Not stilettos, she conceded, thanking her lucky stars, but they were kitten heels and she wasn’t accustomed to kitten heels.
Maybe when Alasdair was out of sight she’d slip them off and walk barefoot.
Ouch.
Nevertheless, a girl had some pride. She’d made her bed and she needed to lie on it. Or walk.
She walked. There was no sound of an engine behind her but she wasn’t looking back.
And then a hand landed on her shoulder and she almost yelped. Almost. A girl had some pride.
‘Don’t,’ she managed and pulled away to keep stomping. And then she asked, because she couldn’t help herself, ‘Where did you learn to walk like a cat?’
‘Deerstalking. As a kid. My grandpa gave me a camera for my eighth birthday.’
‘You mean you don’t have fifty sets of antlers on your sitting-room walls back in Edinburgh?’ She was still stomping.
‘Nary an antler. Jeanie—’
‘Mrs McBride to you.’
‘Lady Jean,’ he said and she stopped dead and closed her eyes. Lady Jean...
Her dad would be cock-a-hoop. He’d be drunk by now, she thought, boasting to all and sundry that his girl was now lady of the island.
His girl.
Rory... She’d never been her father’s girl, but Rory used to call her that.
‘My lass. My sweet island lassie, my good luck charm, the love of my life...’
That this man could possibly infer she’d married for money...
‘Go away,’ she breathed. ‘Leave me be and take your title and your stupid, cruel misconceptions with you.’
And she started walking again.
To her fury he fell in beside her.
‘Go away.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Your car’s on a blind bend.’
‘This is my land.’
‘Your land?’
There was a moment’s loaded pause. She didn’t stop walking.
‘Okay, your land,’ he conceded at last. ‘The access road’s on the castle title. As of marrying, as of today, it’s yours.’
‘You get the entire Duncairn company. Does that mean you’re a bigger fortune hunter than me?’
‘I guess it does,’ he said. ‘But at least my motive is pure. How much of Alan’s money do you have left?’
And there was another statement to take her breath away. She was finding it hard to breathe. Really hard.
Time for some home truths? More than time. She didn’t want sympathy, but this...
‘You’d think,’ she managed, slowly, because each word was costing an almost superhuman effort, ‘that you’d have done some homework on your intended bride. This is a business deal. If you’re buying, Alasdair McBride, surely you should have checked out the goods before purchase.’
‘It seems I should.’ He was striding beside her. What did he think he was doing? Abandoning the SUV and hiking all the way to the castle?
‘I have guests booked in at four this afternoon,’ she hissed. ‘They’ll be coming round that bend. Your car is blocking the way.’
‘You mean it’s blocking your profits?’
Profits. She stopped mid-stride and closed her eyes. She counted to ten and then another ten. She tried to do a bit of deep breathing. Her fingers clenched and re-clenched.
Nothing was working. She opened her eyes and he was still looking at
her as if she was tainted goods, a bad smell. He’d married someone he loathed.
Someone who married for profit... Of all the things she’d ever been accused of...
She smacked him.
* * *
She’d never smacked a man in her life. She’d never smacked anyone. She was a woman who used Kindly Mousers and carried the captured mice half a mile to release them. She swore they beat her back to the castle but still she kept trying. She caught spiders and put them outside. She put up with dogs under her bed because they looked so sad when she put them in the wet room.
But she had indeed smacked him.
She’d left a mark. No!
Her hands went to her own face. She wanted to sink into the ground. She wanted to run. Of all the stupid, senseless things she’d done in her life, this was the worst. She’d married a man who made her so mad she’d hit him.
She’d mopped up after Rory’s fish for years. She’d watched his telly. She’d coped with the meagre amount he’d allowed her for housekeeping—and she’d never once complained.
And Alan... She thought of the way he’d treated her and still... She’d never once even considered hitting.
But now... What was she thinking? Of all the stupid, dumb mistakes, to put herself in a situation where she’d ended up violent...
Well, then...
Well, then what? A lesser woman might have burst into tears but not Jeanie. She wasn’t about to show this man tears, no matter how desperate things were.
Move on, she told herself, forcing herself to think past the surge of white-hot anger. Get a grip, woman. Get yourself out of this mess, the fastest way you can. But first...
She’d smacked him and the action was indefensible. Do what comes next, she told herself. Apologise.
‘I’m sorry.’ Somehow she got it out. He was staring at her as if she’d grown two heads, and who could blame him? How many times had the Lord of Castle Duncairn been slapped?
Not often enough, a tiny voice whispered, but she wasn’t going there. No violence, not ever. Had she learned nothing?
‘I’m very sorry,’ she made herself repeat. ‘That was inexcusable. No matter what you said, I should never, ever have hit you. I hope... I hope it doesn’t hurt.’
The Earl's Convenient Wife (Harlequin Romance) Page 5
