Page 79 of The Scot Beds His Wife
In a room full of people, the knowledge was unbelievably erotic.
Mena preceded Alison into the study where a motley assortment of folks had gathered for the occasion.
Gavin stood to the right of his brother, in a sort of intimation of what an actual wedding would look like. Callum and Eammon in shabby, if clean, Irish colors gathered at his left elbow as witnesses.
His mother was down with a migraine, though he knew Liam’s presence to be the true reason for her absence. Ravencroft had inherited the baritone growl of HamishMackenzie, and the sound of it gave her heart dangerous palpitations.
“Ye were supposed to send for me to fetch my bride,” Gavin scowled at Lady Ravencroft.
“We managed.” Mena opened the door wider. “A woman is owed an entrance on her wedding day.”
Gavin had always been rather derisive of any romantic clichés, but the sudden burn in his chest for lack of oxygen had him reassessing his position. For if his breath had been stolen, his bride was undoubtedly the reluctant thief.
The dress was simple, though the woman inside was anything but. A high-necked silk blouse the color of the velvet Highland mists was tucked into an indigo skirt adorned with so many layers, it resembled a waterfall. A wide belt accentuated her impossibly narrow waist, the pewter buckle adorned in the front with the emblem of the Scottish thistle. She wore no other jewelry, though Mena had worked some sort of magic with her luxuriant dark hair, pinning it beneath a simple triangle of long white lace that trailed down her back in place of a veil.
She needed no jewels, for her eyes shone more luminous than any sapphires. Her lips would have shamed rubies. A fresh, unfettered glow seemed to illuminate her sun-kissed skin from beneath.
She wasn’t the most classically beautiful woman Gavin had ever seen. Nor was she the most elegant, seductive, nor flawless. She’d a cane instead of a bouquet. Calluses on her fingers instead of diamonds. More challenge in her eyes than seduction. And more sass than honey on her tongue.
But gods, he’d never wanted anyone more.
When she entered the study, her features lit with a brilliance he’d not expected, and for an incandescent moment, his entire being glowed with the pleasure of it.
Until he realized shewasn’tlooking at him.
“Calybrid!” she exclaimed, limping over to the left to where Locryn stood behind the wheelchair they’d once used for Gavin’s mother. “You’re not well enough to be out of bed.”
Calybrid’s pallid face split into an unrepentant grimace thatcouldhave passed for a grin. “If ye’re well enough to be married, then I’m well enough to watch Locryn give ye away. Besides, I taught these two bog trotters to throw knives when they were wee lads, so that entitles me to a wedding invitation.” He motioned to Gavin and Callum.
“Of course it does!” Her hand went to her mouth in a girlish gesture. “Really, Locryn? You’ll give me away?”
“Only if ye keep hold on yer tears, lass,” Locryn allowed gruffly, stabbing a commanding finger at her. “I’ll not have ye blubbering all over me like some simpering waif. Ye keep yer chin up andhaud yer wheesht,ye ken?”
“I promise.”
“Well, then.” Locryn adjusted his tam-o’-shanter cap and patted the little fluffy ball above it before taking her arm. “Let’s get this done before Calybrid gives up the ghost and ruins the whole day.”
“I’d not give ye the satisfaction of life without me, ye nanny goat,” Calybrid wheezed, and then clutched his side for an alarming moment before finding a more comfortable position. “Ye’re dying first and that’s the end of it.”
“We’ll just see about that.” Despite his blustery disposition, Locryn was surprisingly patient, allowing Alison to lean heavily upon him as he conducted her the few painstaking paces to the desk, whereupon he offered her to the Demon Highlander. “Well, Laird, here she be,” he said by way of presentation. “I give her to this ne’er-do-well under protest.”
“Canna say I blame ye,” answered Liam from where he reluctantly towered over the bizarre congregation.
Gavin watched Alison intently as she noticed Laird Liam Mackenzie for the first time. His elder brother had always stood just a bit taller than him. A bit wider. His features more barbaric and blunt than the sharp blades of Gavin’s own construction. His build bulkier and less elegant. His muscles larger, but less defined. His hair and eyes a midnight black.
Just like their father’s.
Gavin hated to look at him, and was glad his mother didn’t have to for she’d have lost what little composure she’d scraped together.
He wondered what his bride thought as she studied the Laird with unanticipated stoicism. This was the heir to the man who’d killed her father, after all, and she stood assessing him as though she felt nothing more than mild curiosity.
“’Tis a pleasure to finally be acquainted with ye, Miss Ross,” the Demon Highlander said.
“And you,” she replied shortly, inclining her head as Mena joined her husband. She darted a nervous glance at Gavin, though her gaze bounced away the moment she found him.
“Are ye… of sound mind and body, lass?” the Laird queried.
At this her head snapped up. “Are you?”
