of the word.
So now he was about to marry...another of Alan’s leavings?
Don’t think of Alan now. Don’t think of Celia. He said it savagely to himself but the memory was still sour and heavy. He’d never trusted since. His personal relationships were kept far apart from his business.
But here he was again—and he was doing what Celia had intended. Wedding for money?
This woman was different, he conceded. Very different. She was petite. Curvy. She wasn’t the slightest bit elegant.
She was Alan’s widow.
But right now she didn’t look like a woman who’d attract Alan. She was wearing a simple blue frock, neat, nice. Her shoes were kitten-heeled, silver. Her soft brown curls were just brushing her shoulders. She usually wore her hair tied back or up, so maybe this was a concession to being a bride—as must be the spray of bell heather on her lapel—but they were sparse concessions.
Celia would have been the perfect bride, he thought tangentially. That morning, when he’d walked in on them both, Celia’s bridal gown had been hanging for him to see. Even years later he still had a vision of how Celia would have looked in that dress.
She wouldn’t have looked like this. Where Celia would have floated down the aisle, an ethereal vision, Jeanie was looking straight ahead, her gaze on the worn kirk floorboards rather than on him. Her friend gave her a slight push. She nodded as if confirming something in her mind—and then she stumped forward. There was no other word for it. She stumped.
A romantic bride? Not so much.
Though she was...cute, he conceded as he watched her come, and then he saw the flush of colour on her cheeks and he thought suddenly she looked...mortified?
Mortified? As if she’d been pushed into this?
It was his grandmother who’d done the forcing, he told himself. If this woman had been expecting the castle to fall into her lap with no effort, it was Eileen who’d messed with those plans, not him. This forced marriage was merely the solution to the problem.
And mortified or not, Jeanie had got what she wanted. She’d inherit her castle.
He’d had to move mountains to arrange things so he could stay on the island. He’d created a new level of management and arranged audits to ensure he hadn’t missed anything; financial dealings would run smoothly without him. He’d arranged a satellite Internet connection so he could work here. He’d had a helipad built so he could organise the company chopper to get him here fast. So he could leave fast.
Not that he could leave for more than his designated number of nights, he thought grimly. He was stuck. With this woman.
She’d reached his side. She was still staring stolidly at the floor. Could he sense...fear? He must be mistaken.
But he couldn’t help himself reacting. He touched her chin and tilted her face so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
‘I’m not an ogre.’
‘No, but—’
‘And I’m not Alan. Business only.’
She bit her lip and his suspicion of fear deepened.
Enough. There were few people to see this. Eileen’s lawyer was here to see things were done properly. The minister and the organist were essential. Jeanie’s friend Maggie completed the party. ‘I need Maggie for support,’ Jeanie had told him and it did look as if she needed the support right now. His bride was looking like a deer trapped in headlights.
He took her hands and they were shaking.
‘Jeanie...’
‘Let’s...let’s...’
‘Not if you’re not sure of me,’ he told her, gentling now, knowing this was the truth. ‘No money in the world is worth a forced marriage. If you’re afraid, if you don’t want it, then neither do I. If you don’t trust me, then walk away now.’
What was he saying? He was out of his mind. But he’d had to say it. She was shaking. Acting or not, he had to react to what he saw.
But now her chin was tilting in a gesture he was starting to recognise. She tugged her hands away and she managed a nod of decision.
‘Eileen trusted you,’ she managed. ‘And this is business. For castle, for keeps.’ She took a deep breath and turned to the minister. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ she told him. ‘Let’s get us married.’
* * *
The vows they spoke were the vows that were spoken the world over from time immemorial, between man and woman, between lovers becoming man and wife.
‘I, Alasdair Duncan Edward McBride, take thee, Jeanie Margaret McBride... To have and to hold. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.’
He wished—fiercely—that his grandmother hadn’t insisted on a kirk. The minister was old and faded, wearing Wellingtons under his well-worn cassock. He was watching them with kindly eyes, encouraging them, treating them as fresh-faced lovers.
For as long as we both shall live...
In his head he corrected himself.
For twelve months and I’m out of here.
* * *
For as long as we both shall live...
The words were hard to say. She had to fight to get her tongue around them.
It should be getting easier to say the words she knew were just words.
The past two times, she’d meant them. She really had.
They were nonsense.
Stupidly she felt tears pricking at the backs of her eyelids and she blinked them back with a fierceness born of an iron determination. She would not show this man weakness. She would not be weak. This was nothing more than a sensible proposition forced on her by a crazy will.
You understand why I’m doing it, she demanded silently of the absent Eileen. You thought you’d force us to become family. Instead we’re doing what we must. You can’t force people to love.
She’d tried, oh, she’d tried, but suddenly she was remembering that last appalling night with Alan.
‘Do you think I’d have married you if my grandmother hadn’t paid through the nose?’
Eileen was doing the same thing now, she thought bleakly. She was paying through the nose.
But I’m doing it for the right reasons. Surely? She looked firmly ahead. Alasdair’s body was brushing hers. In his full highland regalia he looked...imposing. Magnificent. Frightening.
She would not be frightened of this man, she told herself. She would not. She’d marry, she’d get on with her life and then she’d walk away.
