looked closer to one hundred and fifty. Judging by his grayish pallor and the consumptive hiccup marring each of his breaths, he might not even survive their wedding night. As a fetid blast of that breath wafted to her nostrils, Emma swayed on her feet, fearing she might not survive it either.
Almost as if she had read Emma’s grim thoughts, one of the women sitting on the front pew whispered primly, “One thing you can say about our laird—he ought to have ample experience in pleasin’ a woman.”
Her companion failed to smother a rather porcine snort. “Indeed he should. Especially since he’s already outlived three wives and all the bairns they produced, not to mention a gaggle o’ mistresses.”
The image of her elderly bridegroom gumming her lips in a fumbling parody of passion sent a fresh shudder coursing down Emma’s spine. She still hadn’t quite recovered from having to sit through her mother’s painfully earnest instructions on what would be expected of her on the wedding night. As if the act described hadn’t been horrid or humiliating enough, her mother had also informed her that if she turned her face away and wriggled a bit beneath him, the earl’s exertions would be over that much more quickly. If his attentions became too arduous, she was to close her eyes and think of something pleasant—like a particularly lovely sunrise or a tin of fresh sugar biscuits. Once he was finished with her, she would be free to tug down the hem of her nightdress and go to sleep.
Free, Emma’s heart echoed with a throb of despair. After this day she would never be free again.
She averted her eyes from her groom’s hopeful face to find the earl’s great-nephew glowering at her. Ian Hepburn was the only person in the abbey who looked as unhappy as she felt. With his high Roman brow, dimpled chin and sleek dark hair gathered at the nape in a satin queue, he should have been a handsome man. But on this day the classical beauty of his features was tainted by an emotion dangerously close to hatred. He did not approve of this match, no doubt fearing her nubile young body would produce a new Hepburn heir and deprive him of his inheritance.
As the minister droned on, reading from the Book of Common Order, Emma looked over her shoulder again to see her mother turn her face into her papa’s coat as if she could no longer bear to watch the proceedings. Her sisters were beginning to sniffle more loudly by the minute. Ernestine’s sharp little nose was as pink as a rabbit’s and judging by the violent quiver of Edwina’s plump bottom lip, it was only a matter of time before she broke into full-fledged sobs.
Soon the minister’s ramblings would draw to a close, leaving Emma with no choice but to pledge her devotion and her body to this shriveled stranger.
She cast a wild-eyed glance behind her, wondering what they would all do if she lifted the lace-trimmed hem of her silk wedding dress and made a mad dash for the door. She’d heard numerous cautionary tales of careless travelers disappearing into the Highland wilderness, never to be seen or heard from again. At the moment, it sounded like a wonderfully tempting prospect. After all, it wasn’t as if her decrepit groom could chase her down, toss her over his shoulder and haul her back to the altar.
As if to underscore that fact, the earl began to croak out his vows. Too soon, he was done and the minister was looking expectantly at her.
As was everyone else in the abbey.
As her silence dragged on, one of the women murmured, “Och, the puir lass is overcome with emotion.”
“If she swoons, he’ll naught be able to catch her without breakin’ his back,” her companion whispered.
Emma opened her mouth, then closed it again. It had gone as dry as cotton, forcing her to wet her lips with the tip of her tongue before she made another attempt at speech. The minister blinked at her from behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, the compassion in his kind brown eyes bringing her dangerously near to tears.
Emma glanced over her shoulder again but this time it wasn’t her mother or her sisters who captured her gaze but her papa.
There was no mistaking the pleading look in his eyes. Eyes the exact same dusky blue shade as hers. Eyes that had for too long looked both haunted and hunted. She would almost swear the