“I needed to have orange blossoms and it was the fastest I could have them readied in London for Charlie to fetch.”
“You delayed your wedding for a flower?” Gwen laughed. It was just like her sister to push back her own party for the fine details.
Flora stood and began to shake out her skirts, sending the tulle and lace flying about her legs. “It’s considered good luck in England to have orange blossoms. We’re already being wed in the highlands in our family’s chapel, but I wanted to be a British bride for Andrew.”
“He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”
“Of course he does, you little nitwit,” Flora shot back with a grin.
“There are my two favorite wee lasses!” Conner bellowed as he opened the door to the small room attached to the chapel.
Gwen glowered up at him. “Conner, Flora could have been getting dressed!”
“Do no’ fret, she’s already in her gown! There’s naught to fuss over. Besides, shouldn’t ye go find a husband in the crowd? Lord knows one o’ my lasses, or my men if ye count Drum, gets partnered off at each weddin’.” Conner leaned over and kissed Flora on the cheek. “Ye look lovely, Flora.”
Gwen was about to respond with something impudent, but then she thought that it was true. Everyone in the past two years had met their future spouses at weddings. Call it superstition, but Gwen peered back at her reflection and stuck a few orange blossoms into her loose curls for luck. She wasn’t one to swoon at romance like the other women and assumed she’d arrange a fair match with an even-keeled man. But if love were to strike her, she wouldn’t fight it.
Her mother had seen heartbreak after her father’s untimely passing and Gwen would hate to become the ghost she had after his death. Of course her brother and sisters all had love marriages, but Gwen didn’t feel the stirring need for companionship that they had. No young men caught her eye in the hall, no one she danced with showered her in sparks. She couldn’t imagine how it would feel to accept that kind of heart-racing passion into her orderly life.
“Thank you, Conner,” Flora took one last look in the dressing mirror, adjusting the sheer sleeves that covered her arms.
“Stop fussin’, lass. Ye look like a right English rose in that dress,” Conner said, holding out his arm for her to take.
Gwen thought to say something to Flora, for she looked like an absolute angel, but worried she might cry when she opened her mouth. With Flora gone, she would be the last girl left at MacLeod castle. Of course Charlotte would be there, and Gwen loved her dearly, but she and Flora had always been so close. It was going to pain her when Flora moved to London for good. So she fought to bottle up those negative emotions, deciding instead to do a final examination of the wedding venue to ensure perfection.
She walked along the edge of the full church, looking at the pews and inspecting the ribbons of ivy and white flowers that had been strung between them. Her seat at the front, closest to the altar, already had Charlie sitting in it. He was making faces at Andrew, who watched the doors with rapt attention.
“Charlie, you’re in my place,” she told him, tapping him upon the shoulder.
He looked up at her, doe-eyed. “Darling Gwendolyn, I simply must have a good seat. I brought this pair together! If I hadn’t told Flora she should shag that Jasper, then she and Andrew would have never fallen in love. I’m practically Cupid!”
“Remind me to not allow you to give a wedding speech.” Gwen sighed. “Move over, then.”
Charlie slid to the left, his hip bumping against a MacLeod great aunt, who peered at him in elderly confusion. Gwen sat down, and just in time, because the church doors opened and the organist struck up a jaunty bridal march. She couldn’t decide who radiated more affection, her stunning sister or the awestruck groom.
The priest cleared his throat as Flora held her future husband’s hands. Gwen’s heart started racing. While she wasn’t the traditional romantic, she loved a family wedding, particularly ones born of true affection. Once the guests had stopped all whispers of good wishes and compliments, the ceremony began.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the priest began in heavily accented English. “We come here this day to join together Andrew Thomas Philips and Flora Fiona MacLeod in the bonds of holy matrimony. At the bequest of the couple, I have been asked to make the vows as short as their courtship, but as meaningful as their love.”
Gwen shifted in her seat, curious as to what vows they chose to take.
The priest turned to Andrew. “Andrew, do you take this woman, Flora, to be your lawful wedded wife in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer? Do you swear to be true to her every day of her life, to pray for her, to worship your marriage, and to hold true these vows which you take today?”
“Always,” replied Andrew.
“It’s I do, lad,” the priest informed him in a loud whisper.
Andrew grinned. “I do.”
“Better.” The priest nodded and turned his attention to Flora. “Flora, do you take this man, Andrew, to be your lawful wedded husband in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer? Do you swear to be true to him every day of his life, to pray for him, to worship your marriage, and to hold true these vows which you take today?”
“Always,” Flora stated with a smile.
“The rings?” The priest motioned and Gwen half-rose from her seat and passed Flora a ring of gold while Andrew took the delicate counterpart from his own pocket. “Now, repeat after me: With this ring, I thee wed.”
“With this ring, I thee wed,” they mimicked, each ignoring the new additions upon their hands in order to gaze at one another adoringly.
The priest then closed his bible. “Then by the power invested in me by our Lord, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Gwen stifled a sniff of emotion as Flora and Andrew shared a brisk kiss, then whispered in each other’s ears. She was happy that her sister had found such a kind and gentle man. Andrew was a perfect fit for Flora. He was the cool winter breeze to her endless flame of passion. He kept her from burning out of control while she kept him ablaze.
When the newlyweds fled the chapel, she took Charlie’s hand and squeezed it, savoring his closeness.
“All choked up, are we?” he asked quietly as they stood to leave the church for the reception.
She released his hand and took his arm instead, clutching her white fox fur tighter around her as they stepped outside. A light flurry of snow had begun to fall, adding some of Flora’s favorite Scottish treasure to her wedding day. Gwen was glad of it. It was as if the land was saying goodbye to its wild daughter.
Gwen and Charlie half ran into the castle, shaking the snow from their clothes. When a footman had taken his jacket and her fur, Charlie pulled her into the feasting hall, sidestepping several guests. The space had been decorated with bushels of orange flowers and leafy ferns and bunches of candles in silver holders. She was pleased with the work all the maids had accomplished.
“Finally, a drink!” Charlie exclaimed, beckoning a waiter. He plucked two glasses off the tray and passed one to Flora before taking a long swallow of his. “Champagne! Well, aren’t we fancy?”
Gwen peered into her crystal goblet, feeling quite confused. “Champagne? We don’t have any champagne.”
“Well, it’s good quality stuff. Quite tasty.” He took her cup and drained it.
“Pardon me, I need to go see what’s happened,” she muttered, crossing the rapidly filling hall and going down to the kitchens, where the clambering of pots and pans assailed her.
“Evenin’,” the red faced cook greeted as she shooed away a maid with a fresh tray of sweetmeats.
“Cook, there’s champagne being sent about upstairs and I was wondering where it came from. I don’t recall ordering any in the past few months, nor did I see any in the wine cellar yesterday when I was there.”
She frowned and tapped her round chin. “Some Portuguese fellows brought them in not too long ago. I assumed the
y were a part of your order for the weddin’ and sent them up. Did I misstep?”
Gwen shook her head and picked up one of the bottles on the worn, wooden counter. The label was French. “There was a slight complication with their delivery. I assume it’s their way of apologizing.”
“Ye can ask them yourself.” The cook pointed toward the back of the kitchen with her wooden spoon. “I took them in for a bite. I hope ye don’t mind?”
She looked through the crowded space to where Captain Florencio was sitting in the corner with a brawny man. They were talking, their heads together, over a plate of wedding food. She thought she had seen the last of the captain and his ship. She gritted her teeth and stormed over to them, ready to give them a piece of her mind.
“Senhorita,” Captain Florencio crooned warmly as she stopped before them. “Did you like my gift? A wedding is not so without drink!”
“It was lovely,” she replied shortly, annoyed by the mere sight of his chipper face. “What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying all the charms of the MacLeod kitchens. It has been some time since we’ve had the pleasure of eating such fine foods. I might need to offer your cook new employment on my ship.”
“Well, if you need help finding your boat once you’re finished eating, please take advantage of my staff to escort you.”
“Your hospitality overwhelms me,” he told her softly, placing his hand over his heart. The shirt was unbuttoned, showing a sliver of tanned skin and a gold chain that disappeared into the fabric. “As do you in that magnificent gown. The shade suits you, Senhorita.” He motioned toward the fine pale pink velvet of her dress.
Gwen felt her cheeks flash hotly at his compliment and hoped the shade didn’t mirror her dress. “Thank you. I hope you find the seas agreeable to your travels. Goodbye.”
He laughed, a deep sound. “Oh, no, Senhorita. We cannot leave yet. I need to wait for the rest of my fleet. They are coming from the north and it will be some time until they arrive.”
“Does my brother know of your plans?”
“Sim. I asked his permission when we arrived. He sent back a note agreeing to us mooring in the inlet among the cliffs.”
“Lovely.”
“Very. His generosity overwhelms me and my crew. We look forward to immersing ourselves in everything Scotland has to offer.”
Gwen attempted a smile. She could already tell that he was going to be more trouble than he was worth. Of course he was all talk, just as men usually were, but most would be silenced upon being ordered to do so by the MacLeod’s sister. She made a mental note to discuss everything with Conner.
“Well, I must get back upstairs.”
“Senhorita,” he sang with a devious grin.
Gwen turned on her heel and stalked back through the kitchens and upstairs. She had met many merchants and interacted with people from many lands, but none were as only cheeky as the captain. His gaze burned her skin and his smart mouth both infuriated and intrigued her in a most distasteful way. She hoped he would be on his way sooner rather than later.
Shaking her head to clear her mind, she reentered the party. She greeted several people as she passed, finally bumping into Charlie, who had obviously been partaking in his fair share of champagne while she had been gone.
“Darling Gwendolyn, can you believe our babes are wed?” he simpered, looking over at Flora and Andrew, who were seated at the head table.
“I can’t believe that bloody man made me miss their grand entrance,” Gwen growled.
“Who?”
“Gaspar Florencio,” she spat, watching Flora pat at her mussed hair. “He’s the captain of the Portuguese ship and the one who sent the champagne.”
“Well, tell that foreign bastard he has wonderful taste in drink.” He looked around at the guests. “I must say, the gentlemen guests are lacking today. Most are very much older or are towing a wife around. Useless, the lot of them.”
“Not every event is held just to hook you up with a new…man-friend.”
“It should be.” Charlie tipped his glass over with a sigh. “All out.”
Gwen laughed a bit to herself as he sauntered away in search of more champagne. She took the opportunity of him being occupied to find another familiar face. She scanned the hall, her gaze settling on Big Angus, who was sitting near to his own future bride, a young, red-haired woman named Grace who lived down in the village. Grace was pouring Big Angus wine and Gwen thought it almost comical their difference in size. Where Big Angus was brawny and, well, big, Grace was delicate and thin-boned like a dove.
Not wanting to intrude on the new lovers, she set her sights on one of her more favorite castle visitors. Penelope sat near the front of the hall, Drum trying to ply her with bits of food. She was pale faced with dark bags beneath her eyes. The usually impeccable lady was looking rather worse for wear.
“Not feeling well?” Gwen asked as she sat beside her.
Penelope shook her head, her cheeks tinted green. “This child doesn’t let me eat much of anything.” She patted her rounded stomach with a thin hand.
“She’s wastin’ away,” Drum murmured, kissing his wife’s shoulder.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Penelope chastised. “It’s all for a good cause and I only have a few months left.”
“Are ye sure you will no’ eat somethin’?” Drum prompted quietly.
“What about some soup?” Flora suggested. “Something light?”
“Perhaps,” Penelope replied, leaning back in her seat.
“I’ll go tell the kitchens.” Drum squeezed her arm and disappeared into the crowd.
Penelope sighed and smiled lightly. “Finally, a moment of peace.”
“Drum tiring you out?”
“Almost as much as the child. He’s always following me about, treating me like I could be broken.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
“It is…but it’s also exhausting.”
Gwen could see where Penelope’s thoughts lied, but still felt her cousin was doing the best he knew how. “And you’re sure you will have to leave in the morning? Stay on for a week or two.”
“If there wasn’t a snowstorm beginning, I might have. I want to have the baby at home and soon I won’t be able to travel without harming it.”
“I wish I could be there.”
Penelope reached down and took her hand. “I’ll send for you when it’s time. You can be there in less than a day.”
Drum hurried back over to them and crouched down beside Penelope, adjusting his kilt. “Are ye tired?”
“A bit,” Penelope told him. “But I’m all right.”
“I’ve already told them to send ye some soup in our chambers.”
“We’ll retire now,” Penelope said, planting a kiss on Gwen’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a few weeks when the baby comes.”
Drum smiled warmly at her, and then turned to his wife. He held out a hand and they rose up together, as they had been since the beginning, perfectly in sync.
After Gwen watched them leave, she wondered if Conner was right…if her future husband was one of the guests…and whether or not she would find her perfect match one day.
Chapter Two
Gwen moped about the castle the next day, the silent halls assaulting her with their stillness. Most of the wedding guests—it was a small affair—had left early that morning at first light. The quick bustle of carriages and horses departed as quickly as they had arrived, leaving the keep quiet. She hated the quiet. She needed the loud activities that came with castle life. Now that she was the last unmarried MacLeod, the noise had left along with the brides.
She sat in Conner’s study in the library; it had become her study, in a way, as she had taken over the bulk of his work. She flipped through the papers, ledgers, and contracts, all haphazardly placed there by Conner’s steward. Several unopened letters were stacked at the bottom. It was quite the array and she found it quite obvious that Conner had been neglecting his mail. Again. She had t
aken over most of the correspondence, but until recently he had at least been reading his personal messages.
“Men are so useless sometimes,” she muttered, sifting through one of the desk drawers to find a letter opener.
Then she sat back in the seat and picked up an envelope at random. She inspected it then slid open the wax seal from the Duke of Wellvard with the blade of the opener. Dated two weeks before, it began asking about Conner’s health, the state of his lands, the—her name popped out at her. She kept reading and was surprised to find that Wellvard was very interested in Gwen’s marital state.
On a hunch, she began opening some of the other letters. They were from grand and moneyed men—a Spanish prince, the Duke of Teller, a trade ambassador to France, an English Baronet. The list went on. Each one offered an alliance with their sons or brothers in exchange for Gwen’s hand, and her more than sizable dowry.
After the Scottish finally fell against the English in the early days of her grandfather’s time and the clans broke in the highlands, the MacLeods stood strong. While many lairds sold off their lands and allowed the diaspora of their people, her grandfather had kept the farms together and now the family had the means to sell off and give the rich lands when they married. It was no secret that she would come into two manor homes and fifty thousand pounds per year, as well as a nice swatch of farmland in the south.
But the thought of these men, who had never laid eyes upon her, clambering for her hand seemed quite ridiculous. Gwen let out a little laugh. Yes, she was the last unmarried MacLeod girl, but she could be a complete brat with a great, big hump, that never bathed! Besides being amused and a tad flattered, she was almost curious how someone could offer marriage without ever having seen her. After all, no one bought a finely bred horse without at least looking at the state of its teeth.
More laughter fell from her lips. Her shoulders shook with mirth and she felt tears accumulate in the corners of her eyes at the gall of those men. It took her several moments to compose herself, and when she did, she looked to the door to see Charlotte standing there, a strange smile on her face. She set aside the last few unopened letters.
Sapphire Sea Page 2
