The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,89
me for breaking your rules, but when I receive a summons from the woman I love, it is not in my nature to ignore her.”
Grant paced toward the brazier, clasping his hands behind his back. “My sister can be quite determined when she sets her mind on something.”
It wasn’t difficult to agree. “Perhaps that’s why she’s such a brilliant harpist.”
“And lock picker.”
“And dog trainer.”
Grant crossed the floor and clapped him on the back. “She’s quite accomplished at knitting as well.”
Ciar threw back his head and laughed. “Good God, ’tis nice to see your sense of humor return.”
Pulling a flask from his sporran, Robert handed it over. “You truly love her, do you not?”
“More than anything on this earth. I think I always have,” Ciar said before he took a swig and gave the flask back to his friend. “What changed your mind?”
“Aside from a wallop up the side of the head from my wife, I overheard some of your conversation.”
Thank God the pair of them hadn’t gone down to the pool and tried to prove Great Grandmama’s magic. “Some?”
“Most.” Grant’s shoulder ticked up. “I told Betty not to make my presence known.”
“Did she inform you about the meeting?”
“Nay, my guardsmen saw you slip into the wood—not long before Emma rushed through her nooning and practically ran out of the house. It didn’t take a bloodhound to figure out what the pair of you were up to.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Janet took Emma’s hands. “Oh, my! You are the most radiant bride I’ve ever seen in all my days.”
“You’re not just saying so to whisk away my jitters?”
Betty pushed in a hairpin. “Och, you were right about choosing yellow.”
“Allow me to paint a picture.” Janet smoothed the taffeta over Emma’s palm. “First of all, your gown looks as warm as sunshine on a summer’s day. The snug-fitting silk bodice topped by lace is lovelier than a daffodil. And I would be remiss if I didn’t say the swells of creamy skin peeking above are enough to bring any rugged Highlander to his knees.”
Emma clapped a hand atop her breasts. “Is it too much?”
“Just enough,” said Betty. “And mind you, the corn marigolds and daisies I’ve woven into your hair make you look bonnier than a fairy.”
Tapping her fingers about her tresses, Emma inclined her ear to her lady’s maid. “You’ve seen many fairies, have you?”
“I’ve heard enough stories about them to ken what they look like.”
On a sigh, Emma pressed her hands against her nervous stomach. “You are both very kind, but all I care about is whether Ciar likes it.”
Janet hummed. “If I know men, he’ll be so enraptured with you, he’ll hardly notice the gown.”
“After all our work?” asked Betty. “He’d best notice it.”
“He will, especially the flowers.” The posy was still in a vase on the mantle. “Ciar loves corn marigolds and daisies.”
Janet laughed. “And foxglove, I hear.”
“Ahem.” Robert cleared his throat as he opened the door. “Your trunks are loaded and will be waiting. Dunollie has sent a coach as promised.”
The hummingbirds in Emma’s stomach multiplied by three. “Already?”
“Would you like more time?” he asked.
“Nay.” She took Betty’s hand and stood. “And you’ve packed my harps?”
“Just as you asked.” Her brother’s pocket watch clicked. “’Tis time.”
“I only wish you were staying for a few days. I would have liked to have a grand feast,” said Janet.
Robert’s heels clicked the floor. “Aye, but Dunollie has something grander planned.”
Janet had invited Ciar for the evening meal a few nights ago, where he’d announced that they must leave directly after the ceremony with haste. Emma had been brimming with excitement to find out what he had devised, but he would not reveal it even to her.
Once they were in the coach, Emma’s nerves didn’t ease. She was very familiar with the ride to the church, but today every bump in the road made it feel as if soap bubbles were levitating and popping inside her.
As the coach rolled to a stop, she gripped the bouquet of wildflowers she’d picked with Betty yesterday. “Is this really happening?”
From across the coach, Robert patted her hand. “Aye, lass. Are you anxious?”
“A little, but I shouldn’t be.”
Janet tweaked one of Emma’s curls. “Every bride is nervous on her wedding day. But not to worry, I’ve known Ciar MacDougall all my life and, though he may be a bull of a man, he’ll always be gentle with you.”
“And if he’s not, I’ll bury him,” Robert growled. It always took so little to rile him.