The Maclean Groom (16 page)

Throughout the chapel, every man, woman, and child strained to hear, each anxious to know if an accusing voice would be raised in protest.

The muffled sound of a disturbance came from behind Joanna. Numb with dread, she turned her head to peek at the front pew. Andrew was attempting to rise, fury contorting his finely chiseled features. With Godfrey's help, Ewen held the struggling lad down, his hand clamped over his son's mouth.

For a moment, everything seemed frozen in time.

In the deafening silence that followed, Joanna swayed dizzily on her feet, and MacLean's hand slipped beneath her elbow to hold her up.

But no Macdonald dared to stand in front of the king and utter false reasons why Joanna and MacLean could not be legally joined in marriage.

Without another sound, the breathless urgency passed.

Triumph gleaming in his eyes, MacLean took both her hands and enclosed them in his much larger ones.

Through a haze of wildly conflicting emotions, Joanna heard the fearsome warrior repeat Father Thomas's words calmly and distinctly.

“I, Rory Niall MacLean, take thee, Joanna Màiri Macdonald, to my wedded wife…”

The ardency in his rich baritone made her tremble. He spoke as though to his bride, and Joanna listened in mesmerized wonder.

“…to have and to hold…for fairer, for fouler…for better, for worse…”

His golden head bent, he towered above her, a figure of awesome strength and undeniable charisma. Yet as she looked up at MacLean, the hard-edged angles of his face softened with an emotion she couldn't comprehend.

“…for richer, for poorer…in sickness and in health…from this time forward…till death us depart…and if holy church it will ordain…hereto I pledge thee my troth.”

Though MacLean couldn't know he'd spoken those words to the bride herself, for some strange, incomprehensible reason, it seemed as if he'd intended her—in spite of the boy's disguise—to be the recipient of that vow.

Unconsciously, she leaned toward MacLean, forgetting for the moment that she stood before the altar on her wedding day dressed in a lad's ragged shirt and plaid. The tangy scent of the forest drifted around him. His thick blond hair framed his proud features. The emeralds on the pin that fastened his plaid caught the May sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows and seemed to wink at her enticingly.

“Joey…” Father Thomas prodded. “Joey…”

Dragging her gaze from MacLean, she looked at the anxious clan chaplain and belatedly realized that he'd been trying to lead her in the bride's vows and she'd failed to respond.

MacLean tightened his grip on her hands, and Joanna gave him a tiny, tremulous smile. He needn't worry that she'd try to run away; her knees were knocking too hard beneath her plaid. God's truth, 'twas a miracle she hadn't collapsed to the floor.

Somehow, she managed to repeat the words after Father Thomas, though her heart thudded like a Celtic drum and the blood pounded in her ears.

“I, Joanna Màiri Macdonald, take thee, Rory Niall MacLean, to my wedded husband…to have and to hold…for fairer, for fouler…for better, for worse…for richer, for poorer…in sickness and in health…to be meek and obedient in bed and at board…”

As she spoke the words in a faint, quavering voice, a heart-stopping smile lit MacLean's face. His possessive gaze seemed to devour her, and it took all of her quickly fading willpower to continue.

“…from this time forward…till death us depart…and if holy church it will ordain…hereto I pledge thee my troth.”

At a gesture from Father Thomas, Lachlan stepped forward and offered a ring. The priest blessed it and gave it to MacLean.

Joanna's bridegroom calmly held her shaking hand in his strong, sure one. Unable to meet his searing gaze, she lowered her lids. He held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, and it looked surprisingly small in his big hand.

Slipping the circlet of gold on her finger, MacLean spoke in a voice filled with unqualified assurance. “With this ring, Joanna, I thee wed, and this gold and silver, I thee give, and with my body, I thee worship—”

Her cheeks aflame, Joanna's gaze flew to meet his eyes. Sparks of delight seemed to dance in their emerald depths.

Rory lifted his bride's dainty hand to his lips as he continued with a smile of immense satisfaction, “…and with all my worldly cattle, I thee honor.”

He drew her slender figure into his arms, and with a flick of his wrist snatched the striped stocking cap off her head
and sent it sailing across the chancel. Freed of its bondage, her hair tumbled to her waist in a mass of glorious curls, the tortoiseshell combs that had secured it falling to her feet.

Rory had spent nights trying to imagine what shade of red Joanna concealed beneath that detested cap. Never in his most fantastic dreams had he envisioned the vivid, coppery sheen that glistened and beckoned before him. Strands of cinnamon and vermilion picked up the scarlet and crimson of the stained glass above them, creating a translucent halo of shimmering light around her head.

Of their own accord, his fingers delved into those silken locks, and his gut tightened in a need of jolting, primal intensity.

Bracing her hands against his shoulders, Joanna stiffened and leaned away from him, unable to follow the lightning turn of events. Her wary eyes revealed her complete confusion.

“I know who you are, Joanna,” he murmured as he lifted her up for the bridal kiss. Grazing her smooth cheek with his open mouth, he sought and found her lips, parted slightly in amazement.

The carnal desire Rory had held in check with such determination during the past seemingly endless days burst forth like an unbridled stallion through an opened gate. He slipped his fingers into the lustrous curls at the nape of her neck. Cupping the back of her head in his palm, he covered her mouth with his.

Stunned into compliance, Joanna allowed MacLean to kiss her, feeling with shock the warmth of his tongue stroking hers.

Godsakes, this was no benedictional kiss; this kiss conveyed all the passion a man can feel for a woman.

MacLean knew who she was
.

He knew Joey was really Joanna Macdonald!

With a whispering sigh of submission, she wrapped her arms around MacLean's neck, giving back his kiss and the
passion, as she thrilled to the feel of his hard body supporting hers with such effortless ease.

In front of them, Father Thomas coughed. Joanna made a soft, plaintive sound at this gentle reminder that they were the focus of a dumfounded congregation's attention and slid her fingertips across MacLean's cheek to gain his concurrence.

Reluctantly, Rory broke the kiss and set his wife on her feet. With his hand about her slim waist, he turned to face the stupefied assemblage, grinning at them like a besotted fool.

“There was no need for a proxy,” he explained to the confused Scottish court. “The Maid of Glencoe has just said her own vows for all to hear. Your Majesty, family and friends, may I present my wife, Lady Rory MacLean.”

Joanna's bewildered gaze flickered over the watching faces.

Most of the courtiers had risen to their feet, clapping at the splendid development, though the seated Argyll remained impassive. The MacLean men-at-arms burst into laughter and shouted huzzahs. Rory's family beamed in satisfaction.

Joanna's loyal servants, including Ethel and her daughter, Peg, and Mary, the winsome, rosy-cheeked dairymaid, smiled sheepishly, as they realized the clever ruse had never really worked at all. Seumas, Davie, and Jock glanced at one another in growing apprehension, wondering if they'd be punished. Jacob and his burly son, Lothar; Abby; and Sarah, with little Teddy on her lap, all watched in pleased acceptance.

But the Macdonald soldiers scowled in thunderous disapproval. Ewen, Godfrey, and Andrew glowered in hatred, their rage transparent, though they remained still and silent in their pew.

There was nothing anyone could do.

MacLean had outfoxed them all.

In the confusion, Lady Emma left her place between Duncan and Keir and approached the bride and groom.
“Before the nuptial Mass begins, my dear,” she said to Joanna, “we have a surprise for you. Come with me.”

Joanna turned to MacLean in bafflement, and he nodded his assent. “Go with my mother,” he said tenderly.

 

Lady Emma led Joanna into the vestry, where Maude stood waiting. A wide smile lit her ruddy face, and her gray eyes sparkled joyously.

Beside a tall cupboard, an exquisite gown of white satin lay draped over an armchair. Joanna walked slowly across the room and touched the fine material in amazement.

“But how…?” She looked at her childhood nurse and shook her head in wonderment. “You knew about this?” she asked with a quavery smile.

“Only since this morning, my wee chick,” she replied. She waved her hands to shoo Joanna along. “Now hurry! Everyone's waiting. Let's get you dressed for your wedding Mass.”

Joanna, still dazed, allowed Lady Emma and Maude to peel off her shirt and plaid. A chemise of exquisite fragility quickly replaced the plain, shortened smock underneath.

Blue satin garters held up the long, delicate stockings she slipped over her legs. And the heels of her white satin shoes were encrusted with diamonds.

Over all this feminine finery came the long, embroidered petticoat, followed by the silk kirtle trimmed lavishly with lace.

Then the two older women lifted up the heavy gown, made of yards and yards of satin, and helped her slip it on. The narrow sleeves were fitted and came over the backs of her hands in a point.

Joanna looked down at herself in surprise. The décolleté bodice, cut square and low to reveal the kirtle's shirred under-bodice, also revealed the tops of her breasts. “Perhaps 'tis a wee bit—”

“Tch, tch,” Maude warned, clicking her tongue in admonishment. “Don't say another word. Your groom asked his mother to bring a beautiful dress for you to wear on
your wedding day. 'Twas Lady Emma's women who fashioned your gown.”

Tying the satin girdle snugly around Joanna's waist, MacLean's mother laughed, reading the unspoken question in her eyes. “I chose white for a virginal maid,” she explained. “But also because I knew it would look exceptionally fine with red hair.”

“How did you know the color of my hair?” Joanna asked in astonishment.

Lady Emma lifted a lock and let slide it between her fingers. The green eyes grew thoughtful as they gazed into hers. “Rory wrote that you favored your grandfather's coloring.”

Before Joanna could utter a word, the widow gently patted her cheek. “I pray you find it within yourself to forgive my son, child. For only through forgiveness will you both find your heart's ease.”

Tears stung Joanna's eyes, and she looked down, unable to respond.

Over the magnificent gown, they slipped a sleeveless robe of white velvet, its immense train trimmed with ermine.

Next, Lady Emma and Maude arranged Joanna's hair, letting it fall loosely past her shoulders and down to her waist. They carefully pinned a crown of white roses on her head.

Maude stepped back to eye their handiwork, and nodded approvingly. “Stunning,” she said with a satisfied nod.

Joanna turned to face the tall mirror on the cupboard door and gasped in delight. The effect of her red hair against the white roses and white satin proved stunning indeed. The image reflected in the glass fulfilled all her girlish dreams.

Stepping behind her, Lady Emma fastened a rope of pearls around Joanna's neck. “Rory told me that you weren't particularly pleased with his sapphire necklace,” she said with a wink to Joanna in the mirror. “I informed
him that these are a much better choice for a young bride. This is my wedding gift to you, child.”

Joanna touched the pearls in awe. “Milady,” she said, “how can you be so kind to me, when I've played such a despicable trick on your son?”

Lady Emma turned her around and cupped Joanna's face in her hands. “My darling daughter, had I the entire world to chose from, I could not have found a better wife for Rory. Not if I'd invoked a hundred magic spells, or searched for a thousand years.” With a tender smile, she leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

 

Together, the two women took Joanna out a side entrance of the vestry and around to the front of the church, where Lady Emma handed her a bouquet of white roses.

Maude swung the door wide for her. “Go away in, chickie,” she urged. “We'll hurry ahead and tell Father Thomas you're ready.”

When Joanna entered the vestibule, James IV, King of Scotland stood waiting for her, along with a small entourage of courtiers. Tall and handsome, the king had a broad forehead, large eyes, and high cheekbones, complemented by a shock of straight reddish hair and a finely trimmed beard. He frequently adopted the Highlander's colorful attire while visiting them, and today he was splendid in red and black tartan.

She halted, suddenly terrified he was there to accuse her of treason. As her king and guardian, he'd ordered her to marry The MacLean, and she'd purposely attempted to defy his royal command.

Joanna's throat tightened as she took a tiny step back. Her mouth went dry, and her eyes blurred with sudden tears.

The entire purpose of His Majesty's sojourn through the Western Highlands was to secure the sworn fealty of the most powerful lairds in the area. What would he think of a maid who'd dared to defy him?

“Since you were our ward before you became Lady
MacLean,” James Stewart said with a pleasant smile, “we have the honor of escorting you up the aisle.”

Joanna released a shaky breath as she dipped in a low curtsy. “Thank you, Your Majesty. 'Tis my great honor, indeed, to be escorted by my sovereign.”

He was the only Scots king who'd acquired the Gaelic. Though he wasn't letter-perfect, he could converse with those of his subjects who knew nothing of Scots-English. But James IV had a gift for more than just languages and the proper arrangement of the belted plaid. His liaisons were legendary. At the age of twenty-nine, he'd fathered several royal bastards by a long string of mistresses.