Chapter Sixteen

Never, in all his life, had Lachlan felt complete.

There was always something… restless stirring inside of him. Something that never permitted him to fully settle. To halt whatever he was doing, take a breath, and find satisfaction in what he'd already done.

But as he laid beside Brynne, his arm draped securely around her waist and her wee little feet tucked between his legs, he knew nothing but contentment. Nothing but a sense of fulfillment that came not from a job well done or money earned, but from filling a space inside of himself that he hadn't even known was wanting.

Or maybe he had known, and that's why Brynne was always the one for him.

As a boy teetering on that sharp, uneven edge of manhood, he'd found solace in her company. She was a safe harbor to share his innermost thoughts and feelings. Someone who accepted him as he was when no one at Eton, with a few rare exceptions, wanted to accept him at all.

As a young man with no bloody idea of how to navigate the shark-infested waters of High Society, she'd provided another port in the storm. Their one dance, on that one night, had carried him through an entire Season of dullness and drudgery.

As a man full grown and filled with ambition and grueling purpose, she'd given him a reason to continue his uphill battle in resurrecting the abandoned dreams of his great-great-grandfather. The kiss by the brook, his first taste of genuine magic and all the power it contained, had led him to persist when everyone else told him to quit. And while the distillery was a dream still outstanding, this–finally having his arms around the woman he loved–was not.

Every step he'd taken, every decision he'd made (both the good and the bad), every road he'd gone down…it brought him here. To this night. To Brynne. For that he was grateful, and humbled, and more determined than ever to see the rest of his hopes realized. For himself. For his soon-to-be wife. For the children they'd make together. Raise together. Love together.

When morning dawned, he watched his bride get dressed, his heart filled to the brim with pride and possibility as she patiently ran a comb through all that thick, luscious hair before using the pins he'd dropped the night before to fashion it into a loose chignon at the top of her head with tendrils to frame her face. His gaze lingered unabashedly on her shapely calves as she donned her stockings, and a delightful blush, warm and pink, spread across her chest when she caught him staring at her breasts as she slipped into her chemise.

"It isn't fair," she said, slanting him a reproving glance. "All the layers of clothing women are required to wear as opposed to men. You've been ready for nearly an hour, and I've yet to even put on my corset."

He gave a dismissive shrug. "Go without it."

"Go without a corset ?" For all the incredulity in his tone, he might have suggested that she parade down the aisle naked.

"Aye. They're little more than devices of torture as it is, and I'd like tae meet the person who decided the female shape needed tae be changed from the way God designed it. Ye dinna alter perfection. Besides," he went on, a roguish glint shining in his eyes, "I'm just going tae be undressing ye later. Seems a waste of time tae wrap up a package that's soon to be opened."

"I suppose it would make for more comfortable travel on the train," she relented. Forgoing the corset–they really were accursed contraptions–she stepped into a pair of white drawers that tied at the waist, and then turned to the dress she'd carefully laid out on the back of a chair. "Would you…?"

It was the invitation Lachlan was waiting for. In an instant, he was off the bed and guiding the gown over her outstretched arms.

"This was my mother's," she said softly as he went behind her to assist with the round pearl buttons that ran between her shoulder blades. "Not what she wore to the cathedral, but after, at the reception. I found it several years ago while looking for an extra trunk to store my canvases."

Finishing with the top button, he pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. "Ye make a beautiful bride, Brynne Weston. Yer mother would be beaming with happiness tae see ye in her dress."

With flowing lines, an empire waist, and capped sleeves, the gown was a token of a bygone era before bustles and bows and corsets and crinoline. It was the spring green of a tulip, and the swath of beige ribbon beneath Brynne's breasts matched the delicate lacing along the bodice.

There was only one thing missing.

He went to a satchel he'd brought along with his valise and withdrew a long piece of woven wool dyed in a checkered pattern of red, black, green, and traces of silver. "This is my family's tartan, and it's a proud husband I'd be tae see my wife wear it on our wedding day." He glanced down at the cloth. Once, his ancestors had worn these colors into battle. Now, they hung on a tapestry in the great hall and were largely ceremonial, their significance lost to the unwritten pages of history. But they remained an important piece his ancestry. Of where he'd come from, and who he was. He cleared his throat, and in the emotion of the moment his brogue thickened. "If ye dinna want tae–"

"I would be honored," she said, cutting him off as she laid her hand on top of his. "You need only tell me how to place it."

Lachlan was not embarrassed that his fingers shook as he folded the tartan in half, and then folded it again before laying the wool diagonally across Brynne's chest like a sash and securing it over her right hip with a sterling silver kilt pin that would hold the heavy fabric in place. Unlike the English, who were taught to shield their emotions behind a stiff upper lip, he'd been encouraged at an early age to show what he was feeling. Whether it be with his fists, his words…or his lips.

"The next time we do that," he murmured after he'd finished a kiss that left them both a bit breathless, "ye shall be my wife and I yer husband."

She straightened his collar. "I can hardly believe it's time."

In addition to a black jacket and waistcoat, neither of which would have appeared out of place in a London ballroom, Lachlan wore a kilt in the same colors as the tartan and a traditional Kilmarnock bonnet that sat at a rakish angle over his right eye. His socks itched, and his shoes pinched, but he'd have gladly cut off both legs at the knee if that was what it took to marry the bonny lass standing in front of him. "Aye, and we'd best go now, before a line forms. Are ye ready?"

It was the question he'd asked before he took her maidenhood.

To his relief, her answer was the same.

The ceremony, once they got to it, was short and strikingly poignant.

Brynne and Lachlan held hands in front of a vicar who, oddly enough, reminded her of Mr. Treadwell, the gardener. A fitting comparison, as it was Mr. Treadwell's words that had helped her commit to this path. A path that ended with an anvil in front of her, a Scot beside her, and a wooden bench filled with two witnesses behind her.

Sunlight trickled in through stained glass windows, catching on spiraling swirls of dust that rose from a leather tome that the vicar procured from the folds of his brown robes and dropped onto the pulpit which was really nothing more than a large slab of stone. He slid thin wire spectacles onto a long, hookish nose, cleared his throat in an official manner, and then peered straight at them, his first direct acknowledgement since they'd entered the blacksmith shop.

"And who might ye be?" he asked as he laid the tome open.

Lachlan squeezed Brynne's hand before he spoke. "Lord Lachlan Campbell, sir, and me bride-tae-be is Lady Brynne Weston."

"Weston…Campbell…" the vicar muttered, running a bony finger up and down the page in front of him. "My we've a busy day today, havena we? Everyone's looking tae wed before the snow sets in, I suppose. Old Vanna McDougal says it's tae be a fierce winter, and she's not been wrong yet. Except for the year 1837, and then she can hardly be blamed for that, as she was riddled with triplets and nursing twins besides. A prolific husband, Old Vanna had. May ye be blessed with the same, me lady. Let's see here." Squinting, the vicar slowly turned to the next page. "I've a Herron and a Greenwood. Ah, and Lord Beckwith is here tae try again. Had his lass whisked right out from under his nose last time. Angry father, ye understand." The vicar lifted his head. "Campbell, did ye say?"

"Aye," Lachlan replied, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Brynne bit back her own smile.

They were certainly a far cry from the pomp and circumstance of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, but there was warmth here. Charm as well. And love , she thought, stealing a glance at Lachlan. So much love that it was a wonder the little building with its dirt floor and stone walls was capable of containing it all.

And if there was also a whisper of something else, a sense of…unease, well, what bride wasn't nervous on her wedding day? She was making the right decision. She had made the right decision. For short of spinning around and racing out the door, she was marrying Lachlan today.

If the vicar ever got around to it, that is.

"Ah!" he said at last, dipping an old-fashioned quill in ink and dashing a neat line through their names. "Here we are. Lord Campbell of Glenavon and Lady Weston of Yorkshire. Yer names have been in my register for some time, havena they?"

Brynne flicked a startled glance at Lachlan. She'd assumed their visit here was unplanned, as he'd only asked her to marry him three days ago. But it appeared that he had been confident as to what her reply would be. Or maybe he'd simply hedged his bets, and had wanted to be prepared regardless of whether they ended up here or not.

Clever, her Scot.

Very clever.

Arrogant as well, but wasn't that what she liked about him? His confidence. His unwavering assurance that things would happen as he wanted them to, for no other reason than he refused to accept the alternative. In that way, Lachlan was like the tide coming in, letting nothing–not sand, or rock or steep embankment–stand in his way. And when he went back out, he pulled whatever was closest along with him...no matter their own intentions to remain on the shore.

"Aye." He gave her hand another squeeze. "I've always known I was going tae marry this one. It was just a matter of timing."

"Never a good time or a bad time tae commit yerself to wedlock, in my humble opinion. Ye're not marrying a clock. But some seem tae think that if they marry in June instead of October, they'll have a better go if it." The vicar removed his spectacles, polished the lenses on the sleeve of his robe, and then slid them back into place. "I've yet tae find that tae be the case, but what do I know? Only been married tae me Mae for forty-seven years and performed more ceremonies than this old book can contain." He raised his arm, coughed into his elbow, then peered straight at Brynne over the rounded edge of his spectacles. "Did ye have yer own vows prepared, or should I read the standard? The fee is the same, either way."

"Oh." Flustered, she shook her head. "I didn't realize–"

"We've our own vows," Lachlan interrupted.

"But I don't–"

"Just repeat after me if ye can." He briefly rested his forehead on hers. "And if ye find the words tae difficult tae remember, then all ye need tae do is promise tae love me and tae remain loyal tae me. A man canna ask for more than that."

When he put it that way, it didn't seem too difficult.

"All right," she said, and he gave her a wink.

"That's me lass."

"Are ye ready?" the vicar asked. "I've a line nearly out the door, ye know."

"Aye." Lachlan's chest lifted as he took a breath, and then took her other hand. Fingers entwined, they faced each other, and everything else…the vicar, the pedestal, the witnesses…faded away, blurred into obscurity by the fiercely possessive glow in Lachlan's gaze. "This is a Celtic blessing that me father spoke when he married me mother. It's been used tae bind kings and queens, warriors and maidens, farmers and milkmaids. I use it now, tae bind ye tae me, in the hopes that nothing from within or without will ever tear us asunder.

"Brynne Weston, ye are the star of each night. Ye are the brightness of every morning. Ye are the story of each guest. Ye are the report of every land. No evil shall befall ye, on hill nor bank, in a field, valley, on a mountain, or in a glen. Ye are mine, and I am yers, from this moment forward until death comes tae part us asunder."

A single tear ran down her cheek.

Lachlan caught it on his thumb before it could fall, and pressed his thumb to his lips. "This is my solemn promise tae ye," he said quietly. "As a man, a husband, and a lover."

Then it was her turn, and her voice trembled with emotion as she repeated the vows that would bind them together for the rest of this life and the next. "Lachlan Campbell, you…you are the star of each night. You are the brightness of every morning. You are the story of…of…"

"Each guest," he provided helpfully.

She was crying in earnest now; her face as wet as if she'd stepped out into an early morning mist. But they were silent sobs born of joy, not sadness, and she smiled through them at the man that she loved as all of her misgivings and doubts were washed away by the cleansing rain of her tears. "You are the report of every land, and no evil shall ever befall you on hill nor bank, in a field or in a glen. You are mine, and I am yours, from this moment forward until death comes to part us asunder. This is my solemn promise to you as a woman, and a wife, and…"–sneaking a peek at the vicar, she discreetly lowered her voice–"a lover."

"Well done," the vicar said with an approving nod and what might have been a tear of his own, although it was hard to tell with the spectacles. "With the power invested in me by the Church of Scotland, I hereby pronounce ye as husband and wife. Ye may…yes, ye may do that."

He obligingly looked the other way as Lachlan yanked Brynne against him and gave her a kiss that would have surely burned St. Paul's Cathedral to the ground and earned them a lifetime of repentance besides.

Clinging to his shoulders as he lifted her off the floor in his exuberance, she laughingly wrenched her mouth free. "Lachlan, people are staring ."

And so they were. The vicar, and the witnesses, and even the other couples waiting to be wed, peering in through the doors and the windows with varying expressions of shock and amusement and disgruntlement.

"Let them stare," he growled. "It's me wife they're looking at, after all. And I'm pleased tae show her off."

She slid down his body a few inches. Gasped when her thigh encountered something quite unmistakable in both its size and shape. " Lachlan. "

"Aye," he said with a grin that bordered on the sheepish. "Maybe we'd best take this someplace private."

Evidently spying his opportunity to move them along, the vicar seized upon it. "If ye'll sign here and here," he said, all but throwing his quill at Lachlan, "ye may be on yer way tae a more… discreet location tae celebrate yer matrimonial bliss."

They wrote their names; Lachlan's penmanship rough and hurried, Brynne's elegant and perfectly spaced. A fitting juxtaposition that went far beyond a signature.

"Lady Campbell," said Lachlan, gesturing towards the door with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.

"Lord Campbell," she replied, sinking into a curtsy before she preceded him out of the shop with all the feigned aplomb of Queen Victoria exiting the throne room at Buckingham Palace.

Her husband–how strange and delightful it was to describe him that way!–followed right on her heels, and like the children they'd been during that wild, reckless two weeks nearly ten years prior, they raced across the village square, giggling all the while.

This , she thought dazedly as he pulled her into an alley, pressed her up against the brick side of a milliner's store, and began to kiss his way down her neck. This is what heaven must be like.

And for a while, it was.