Alan grinned and combed a hand through his long waves, dislodging the frayed silk tie altogether. Honor never thought to see embarrassment and pride combined with such equality. “I’m hoping ye’ll not be asking for a head count there, Father. Guilty, wi’ damned little regret!”
The hall erupted into raucous laughter. Even Honor could not keep her face composed. She hid her mouth behind one hand and turned away. She was appalled, but God help her, wanting to giggle. What an outrageous scoundrel he was. Then her silent laughter faded to nothing. Tavish meant for her to marry this scoundrel. A killer, a thief and a womanizer. An unrepentant womanizer!
The priest waited until the hall quieted and then resumed. “Have you ever coveted another man’s wife or possessions?” he asked in a hushed monotone.
Alan of Strode answered in kind, looking directly at Honor with a troubled expression. “Aye, I have that.”
The admission and the man’s distress over it bothered Honor. He looked as though he meant he had coveted her. But the knight had never met her or, as far as she knew, seen Tavish’s lands or keep.
Father Dennis cleared his throat again and broke the spell. “Well, I should need a tally stick, mayhaps several of them, to tote up your penances. Will you repent for your sins?”
“Aye, certainly,” Strode answered. “Could we settle up later, d’ye think? I’m good for it.”
Father Dennis blew out an exasperated breath and shook his head. “Fine. Consider yourself absolved for the nonce. Go and sin no more.” Then he threw a surreptitious glance at the waiting tables. “Shall we get on with the ceremony?”
Honor stepped forward. She could see little point in postponing the inevitable—and what she now believed necessary—event. The more she thought on it, the more she appreciated Tavish’s idea. He could not have known the trouble she would encounter, but somehow had managed to send her a solution of sorts. She hoped.
While the priest’s words droned on, she let her gaze rest on Sir Alan’s hand, which supported her own. Rough calluses and broken blisters covered his broad, square palm. His nails looked recently pared, the fingertips scrubbed almost raw. He did not tremble as she did, Honor noticed. Strong, steadfast, supportive.
Hands told much about a person. She thought of Tavish’s hands, slender, well-groomed, agile, like the man himself. By comparison, this knight standing beside her looked a rough-and-tumble piece of work, the kind of man she dreaded. And needed.
“I will,” she responded when Father Dennis prompted her.
“You are man and wife together. Tate, the marriage lines, please,” the priest called to the tall young crofter he had selected to assist him. Spreading his brief document flat on the nearest table, he motioned Sir Alan forward and placed a slender finger on the bottom of the parchment. “Make your mark here, sir.”
Alan dipped the quill Tate provided and laboriously scrawled his name. Honor noted the pride with which he did so in spite of the awkward, all but illegible results. He then handed her the plume and she signed with a scratchy flourish.
“So, it is done. Felicitations, sir, my lady. May God bless and keep you both. The kiss of peace, if you please?”
Honor turned her face up to the knight, who blushed dark red. His wide-eyed gaze darted everywhere but at her. She smiled. Good lord, the man was shy? After all those women he had bragged of bedding? This seemed too much to hope for.
Honor reached for his face and pulled it down to hers, planting her closed lips squarely on his as was customary. Just as she relaxed her hold, she heard it; a soft, almost inaudible sound of yearning mixed with denial.
Their eyes locked at close quarter and she felt trapped in a green sea of anguish. Slowly, the lashes dropped over the emerald orbs and his lips descended again, this time open and probing. Here was a kiss, not of peace, but of raging need and dark promise. Her insides melted like butter on a hot scone.
Honor stumbled back, breathless, when he released her. At least he was not gloating. In fact, he looked as astonished as she felt. Her mouth throbbed, tingling with the taste of mint and something wild and uniquely him. Unsettling did not begin to describe how she felt.
Thoroughly disconcerted, Honor looked away, unable to face him longer. The crowd around them seemed stunned, or scared to death for her.
She was frightened for herself. What in the name of heaven had she done, wedding this wild Scotsman? She could as soon control the tides, or a tempest force wind as to order this knight about.
Honor jerked back instinctively as he lowered his mouth near her ear. He only meant to speak, she chided herself, gathering false calm like a cloak around her. “What is it, sir?” she whispered.
“Could we eat now, do ye think? I’m fair starved.”
She laughed a little, as much with relief as at his earnest inquiry. His kiss had shocked her, but perhaps he meant no harm by it.
Upon reflection, she realized Alan of Strode had done nothing underhanded, nothing sly at all since the moment he had arrived. So far as she could tell, he said what he thought, made clear his needs, and did what he felt was right even when it went against his own wishes. Could any man be that simple, she wondered?
Only time would reveal his true nature. At least she grasped a fighting chance to keep what Tavish had left her. More of a chance than she’d had yesterday.
Pushing aside her worries, Honor nodded toward the dais. “Our feast, such as may be, awaits. You must understand, rations are shortened with winter coming, and we had not expected a wedding. Roast hare is the best we can offer this night.”
“Tomorrow I’ll hunt,” he promised with a grin. “Have ye neeps?”
She rested her hand on his as they stepped up to the dais and took their seats in the carved chairs. “Turnips? We do, and in great supply. Also mutton for slaughter when the weather cools more. Our location was protected from the armies, thank God.” But not from the neighbors, she thought. Time enough later for him to realize that burden. Pray God he proved as fierce to her enemies as he had first looked to her.
The meal revealed that what few knightly virtues she had credited to Sir Alan of Strode did not extend to his eating habits. Honor fair lost her appetite watching him devour everything within reach.
His pleasure in the meal seemed almost wicked in its intensity. Little groaning noises of pleasure escaped his throat as it worked to swallow with gulps the steamed turnips. She looked away to hide her reaction.
Honor heard the slurping of ale go on as though he never meant to stop. The tankard thumped down on the table accompanied with a tremendous belch. “God, ’tis good brew, that!” he exclaimed.
She ventured a sidewise look and saw him rubbing his flat stomach with both hands. “Just how long since you last ate, sir?”
He grinned and pushed away from the table. “Like this? Oh, nigh on a year. Not since I left Malaig. Afore that, I canna say. On the march, we made do wi’ oats, most times dry when we couldna light fires to heat water. Some small game, half-cooked and wi’ no salt. Grubbed up wild tatties when we found ‘em. Picked a few greens here and there. Fish when we could tickle ’em out.
“Ahh,” he crooned, stretching one arm full
