by Amanda Scott
The bridge boasted neither parapet nor railing, and as Anne reached its center, her curiosity as to whether Fiona and Toby could cross side by side without mishap made it impossible to resist glancing over her shoulder.
With Sir Toby’s bulk, the undertaking clearly was not easy, but putting an arm around Fiona, he drew her close, and they managed it safely if not elegantly.
On the other side, as Anne walked along the petal-strewn path to the chapel porch, where Eustace waited with his best man and the parson by the makeshift altar, she searched the crowd for the face she had hoped to find.
Feeling mixed disappointment and frustration that Sir Christopher was nowhere in sight, she went up the shallow stone steps and took her place at the opposite end of the porch from Eustace. A light breeze stirred the pair of red and green Carmichael banners that flanked the altar.
From where Anne stood, she had a slightly better view of the crowd and realized that many had ignored the paths and stood in flowerbeds or knot gardens.
As if to accompany the minstrels’ lutes, birds chirped in the trees and shrubbery, and garden scents mixed with other odors that wafted from the murmuring sea of humanity.
Anne swiftly scanned the crowd again, seeking that one barely remembered face, but if he was there, she did not see him. Remembering how tall he was, she had been certain he would stand out easily and that her own instinct would draw her gaze straight to him, so her disappointment was sharp.
A sudden lull in the murmuring drew her attention to the bride.
Framed by her uncle’s huge body now behind her, Fiona had paused at the foot of the steps, clearly reluctant to proceed.
Evidently warned to expect some reluctance, and without losing a jot of his composure, Toby put his arm around her slender shoulders again and urged her forward until she stood in her place between Anne and Eustace, her head bowed.
“Look up,” Anne muttered for her cousin’s ears alone. “Whatever you decide to do, you cannot want all these people to see you behave like a sullen child.”
The crowd remained silent.
Anne glanced at Eustace and was not surprised to see him frown at Fiona. She was as certain as she could be without looking that Olivia was frowning too.
Fiona drew an audible breath, raised her head, and glanced back at the assembled crowd. Then she straightened and turned fully around to face them.
She had gathered her dignity, and she stood now with her head as high as any royal bride, the gold flowered circlet adding to the illusion of royalty. Her beauty had never been more arresting.
Chapter 9
Kit had been trying to decide if the elegant-looking young woman in green velvet who had preceded the bride to the altar was Lady Anne Ellyson. He suspected it was she, because his instincts cried out that it was, but the lass he remembered had had dark curls flying wildly around her face, and had been dressed much less fashionably.
The bride’s chief attendant stood calmly, hands folded at her waist, her eyes scanning the crowd until the bride reached her side. Since her hair was covered, it was that searching look more than anything else that made him think it must be Anne, because he believed she was searching for him.
He saw the bride pause at the bottom of the steps, and he saw, too, that the enormously fat man who accompanied her seemed to push her forward until she stood between Eustace and the young woman in green. When the latter murmured something to her, she straightened, visibly collecting herself, and turned.
Kit gasped, for her beauty was truly stunning. An air of fragile vulnerability surrounded her, making him feel as if he should exert himself to protect her, and he was certain that every other man in the place must feel the same way.
Before the woman in green velvet had approached the porch, he had watched his uncle, thinking Eustace looked more arrogant than he remembered. The older man gazed steadily at his young bride, and Kit found himself wondering if Eustace felt protective, too, or even really loved her, if only for her incredible beauty.
What he saw in his uncle’s eyes, however, was raw desire, not tenderness. The hungry look was startling, almost as if Kit had caught him in a private moment and ought to apologize for seeing what he had seen. It made him feel a little sick.
Realizing he had dropped his guard, he glanced again at Anne and saw with relief that she was watching the bride’s mammoth escort step down from the porch.
Her green eyes looked enormous, and her full, soft-looking lips reminded him of how she had tasted when he kissed her. Remembering how quickly she had smacked him for that impudence, he smiled.
Willie Armstrong stood beside him on tiptoe, watching as avidly as everyone else. His recalling a kinsman certain to be invited to the wedding had resolved Kit’s problem of how to arrange his own attendance. The kinsman, a chieftain of the fractious Armstrong tribe, took a large entourage wherever he went—what the Highlanders called a tail—and although Kit had doubted that he would allow them to join him, after Willie spoke to him, Armstrong told his men simply that they were coming, and that had been that.
They stood near the rear of the crowd amidst a scattering of Carmichaels, to whom the Armstrongs were more closely akin than to the Chisholms, and for that Kit gave thanks. As he had expected, Anne paid more heed to a group of Chisholms near the porch, evidently believing he would mingle with his own. In truth, though, he saw few kinsmen and wondered if Eustace had offended other members of the family with his dubious actions.
It did not matter, of course, because Kit was just as glad not to have to run a gantlet of Chisholms, lest he meet one who would recognize him.
The music stopped, and the parson began the ceremony with a brief prayer. When he commended Mistress Carmichael and the Laird of Ashkirk and Torness to God’s keeping, Kit was tempted to shout out that he was grateful for the thought but that the parson erred if he believed the man in front of him was that laird.
He held his peace, however, still undecided as to his course. The bride looked so small next to Eustace, and it was not necessary to recall Anne’s words to see that Mistress Carmichael was reluctant if not afraid to marry him. That she was doing so because her mother believed falsely that Eustace was Laird of Ashkirk made matters worse, for only a scoundrel could allow such a fraud to continue.
That awareness did not make his choice easier, however. Wresting control from Eustace, if he was indeed entrenched at Hawks Rig, could prove very difficult. He was certainly not the first man to usurp a title and estate, nor could Kit believe he would back down simply because the rightful man had returned to claim them.
Other Chisholms might help him, but he needed first to learn who sided with Eustace and who did not. In the meantime, embroiling himself in Mistress Carmichael’s problems, even for the sake of getting to know Anne Ellyson better, would only fetter him and make maneuvering more difficult.
In any case, if he remembered correctly, a good bit more of the ceremony remained before the point where he must speak or stay silent.
Catriona saw Maggie and Fergus and waved at them to join her on her branch not far from Kit, where she had perched to keep watch over him.
“As you see, he is here,” she said. “But he cannot decide. Do you think I—”
“Nay,” Maggie said. “If he be the man ye say he be, he’ll do right by the lass. If he does summat else, ye’ll ken ye were mistaken in him. But keep an eye on them others, too. I feel Claud’s presence gey strong here today.”
Catriona pouted at the refusal, but as Maggie’s last comment sank in, she perked up and obediently turned her attention to the wedding guests.
Catriona was so near he could almost touch her, almost taste her lips and feel her soft breasts and silken skin. His body ached for her, and his frustration grew stronger with each passing moment.
He had been floating in dense grayness, and then suddenly he had seen them again, the three of them together, and heard his mother say she felt his presence. He could feel hers, too, and another one, stronger and
far more malevolent.
Clearly, his father was nearby, and he wondered if Jonah merely taunted him by letting him occasionally glimpse what he had lost. That thought stirred an anger greater than any he had ever known.
“Dearly beloved,” Parson Allardice began, “we are gathered together under the sight of God and before this company to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate instituted of God in the time of Man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union…”
Certain words in the text shouted at Anne, specifically “honorable” and “innocency.” Although Fiona certainly qualified as innocent, Eustace was wicked, and the whole business was less than honorable, including Anne’s own part in it.
She had to stop it. No matter what happened to her or even to Fiona as a result, knowing what she knew, it was simply wrong to let the ceremony proceed. Sir Christopher might think his reasons for holding his tongue were good ones, but she could not hold hers any longer. In truth, she did not even know that he was who he said he was, but she believed him, and Fiona did not deserve to be shoved into marriage with a wholly despicable man who had presented himself falsely to her.
The parson paused and looked out at the assembly as he said, “If any o’ ye here present ken cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined lawfully in holy matrimony, speak now or forever after hold thy peace.”
Heavy, dramatic silence greeted his invitation.
Drawing breath, hoping she had courage enough and that Eustace or Olivia would not order her dragged off and locked up while the ceremony proceeded, Anne turned to face the priest. “Wait,” she said, but her voice emerged as a croak.
“Therefore,” the priest said, “do I require—”
“Wait!” shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. “I will speak. I must!”
“Thank heaven,” Anne said, turning to see who had spoken just as Fiona gasped and fainted away at her feet.
A path opened before Kit as he strode to the front of the crowd. He had seen Anne drop to her knees beside the fallen bride, but his attention was fixed on Eustace, who glowered fiercely at him.
He could not be certain Eustace recognized him, but it did not matter, because he would see the matter through now, wherever it led. Willie had melted into the crowd, so Kit was alone, and every eye but Anne’s was on him as he neared the steps to the porch. Then she looked up, and as their eyes met, he felt himself relax. Whether he was doing the right thing or not, she clearly believed he was.
“Who are ye?” the priest demanded. “State your name and business.”
Meeting the angry cleric’s gaze, Kit told himself it was time to strike the fierce, as the Chisholm motto commanded. “I am Christopher Chisholm,” he said in a clear, carrying voice, “the true Laird of Ashkirk and Torness.”
Behind him, the chorus of gasps and murmurs sounded like the stirrings of a windstorm.
The priest frowned. “Are ye, indeed?”
“I am.”
“And the cause or just impediment ye believe exists would be what, then?”
“I should think that must be plain to everyone here,” Kit said. “You have named my uncle incorrectly as Laird of Ashkirk and Torness, and thus he stands ready to claim Mistress Carmichael as his bride under false pretenses.”
“I do not know you,” Eustace declared loudly. “I doubt that any Chisholm here will recognize you as a kinsman. At least,” he added sarcastically, “I doubt that any would claim you as my brother’s legitimate son. With your height and that chin, I don’t doubt that you could be one of another ilk, however.”
Kit’s temper could be ferocious when aroused, but he had learned to control it through bitter experience. He met Eustace’s scowl steadily but said to the priest, “I am indeed Sir Christopher, as I can easily prove, given sufficient time.”
The priest nodded, taking in the prostrate Mistress Carmichael and Anne’s anxious attempts to arouse her. He turned toward the bride’s mother and erstwhile buffoonish escort. Clearly dismissing both, he gestured to a young man in the front row and said, “Prithee, step forward, sir, and help Lady Anne take Mistress Fiona into the chapel where she may more easily recover her composure.”
Anne looked up at that moment, and he nearly smiled at her, but something in the way she regarded him warned him against it. It would do neither of them any good to let others know yet that they had met before. Casually, he returned his attention to the parson but kept a wary eye on Eustace.
When the man who had served as his uncle’s best man took a step toward him, Eustace put a hand out to stop him but otherwise remained where he was without moving or speaking.
Having seen Mistress Carmichael safely inside the chapel, the parson turned to Kit and said, “I will not ask why ye didna speak up afore, lad, on any o’ the several occasions when I published the banns for this union.”
“I will tell you nonetheless, sir, that I heard about this wedding only two days ago. My intention then was not to intervene, but I came to realize where my duty lay, and so I came here today.”
The parson’s gaze shifted to a point behind Kit as a feminine voice said curiously, “Are you really Sir Christopher Chisholm?”
Turning, he found himself facing the bride’s mother. Despite her obvious state of mourning and a certain limpness of manner, she was a woman nearly as beautiful as her daughter, and one to whom he knew his father would have been strongly attracted.
Politely he said, “I am indeed Christopher Chisholm, my lady. I am sorry to interrupt these proceedings, but I hope you can manage to forgive me.”
“My dear sir, of course we forgive you, but you did not mention the primary impediment.” Turning to the parson, she said, “We all thought he was dead, you see, or my daughter could never have been betrothed to Sir Eustace, because she was already betrothed to Sir Christopher.”
Kit grimaced. He had purposely not mentioned the betrothal, hoping to learn more about it first.
The parson looked from Lady Carmichael to him and back again, still frowning. “Clearly, we must talk at length before this ceremony can go forward, if ever it can,” he said. “I fear ye must send your guests home for today, my lady.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” the bride’s erstwhile escort said cheerfully, stepping forward and extending his hand to Kit. “Toby Bell at your service, sir. Sir Tobias Bell, if we must be formal, and since this is—or was—a wedding, formality does seem appropriate to the day.”
Lady Carmichael said faintly, “Uncle Toby, please, not now!”
“Sakes, lass, when if not now? Think of all that food!”
She stared at him.
“Just so,” Sir Toby said, grinning. “I’ll see to everything, so you’ve no need for you to bother your head about it. Matters like this soon sort themselves out.” So saying, he turned to face the still-murmuring crowd, raised his hands, and shouted, “Hear me, all o’ ye! The wedding feast will take place, wedding or no wedding. Someone’s got to eat that food, and whilst I may look as if I can manage it all alone, I assure you there is far too much even for me!”
Laughter greeted his words, but the guests willingly let him shepherd them toward the house, leaving Kit and the parson alone with Lady Carmichael, Eustace, and the best man.
“Sir Eustace,” Lady Carmichael said, “is it not wonderful that your nephew is not dead after all?”
When Eustace did not reply, clearly not sharing her sentiments, Kit decided to make the first move. Extending his right hand to the older man, he said, “Come now, sir, surely you remember me well enough to recognize me if you will but take a moment to do so. Although I’ve thickened and grown a bit, I’m only five years older than the last time we met.”
“I do not know you,” Eustace insisted. “I think your behavior in pretending to be my nephew is unconscionable. He is dead, as everyone here knows well. My dear Lady Carmichael, surely you do not believe this scoundrel!”
She opened her mouth as
if to debate the matter, but when he scowled at her, she quickly submitted, lowering her lashes and saying weakly, “You surely must know better than I, sir, whether he is or is not a member of your family.”
But the priest was having none of it. “Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, “but if an agreement cannot be settled between these gentlemen, a court of law must decide that point. However, if this young man is indeed Sir Christopher—”
“He is not!” Eustace snapped.
“… and if a betrothal exists between him and your daughter and—”
“It does not!”
“Please, Sir Eustace,” the cleric begged.
“But I do not please,” Eustace snapped. “There was no betrothal, only the beginnings of one. My brother had written to his son, but his son never replied, so the appropriate papers concluding the arrangement were never drawn up or signed.”
“Nevertheless, if the old laird, as head of his family, made the agreement with Lady Carmichael, and the lass thus believed herself betrothed—”
“She did, I’m afraid,” Lady Carmichael said with a sigh. “So did I, for the late laird assured us that no more than a proxy exchange of vows was necessary.”
The priest nodded. “That is true. You see, sir, it is as I feared, and Sir Christopher’s arrival stirs many questions that we must answer before your union with Mistress Carmichael can go forward, if it ever can. I was not aware that a former betrothal of any sort existed, but if they exchanged vows, even by proxy, it was more than the barest beginning. If such is the case, she was betrothed to your nephew according to the laws of the Kirk and thus of Scotland, as well.”
“This is nonsense,” Eustace said angrily. “I command you to continue.”
The parson shook his head. “Even if your nephew were truly dead, as you say, you must realize that your close kinship with him places you within a forbidden degree of consanguinity and thus precludes your being allowed to marry her without papal dispensation or, at the very least, a special license granted by a bishop.”
