Page 2 of The Lady's Guide to a Highlander’s Heart
Yet, Ragnall could not ignore his growing unease.
Something within Dunrannoch was amiss.
The bride who stood before him with eyes downcast was neither child nor woman. The perfect age most men would say. An age at which a female could be moulded to a man’s liking, and this one seemed meek enough, though she was thinner than he’d have liked, and bore a pained look.
’Twas a relief her father deemed her too young for bedding—for Ragnall had not the appetite for such a bland morsel. Another year might bring more flesh on her bones, but as to whether she’d become a worthy chatelaine for his household, that would remain to be seen. The woman who held the keys to every door needed more strength than was apparent in this wee mouse.
As the monk bid them face one another, he made the sign of the cross over the length of Dalreagh tartan, then tied their wrists close. “Like this knot, ye shall be bound—from this moment forward and as long as ye shall live. May the vows ne’er grow bitter in yer mouths.”
Ragnall clenched his jaw. The marriage ’twas a contract, pure and simple, to bring him Dunrannoch on Malcolm’s death.
All would call him chieftain—every Dalreagh who’d whispered that he’d left his brother to die on the moor after falling from his horse; every man who’d jeered at his mother’s fate, and who’d questioned the legitimacy of his blood.
If he were Broderick’s own, only God knew, but his dark mane and blue eyes had been enough to sway his father to keep him under his roof. Fortune had dictated that his mother’s lover bore the same flame-bright hues in his hair as Vanora herself.
The monk motioned for them to kneel and Ragnall cast his eyes again over his bride. Though her plaits were bound about her crown and covered in a fine veil, it was plain she was of the same colouring.
A stray lock, bracken-red, curled to touch thearisaidpinned at her shoulder. Her hair looked well against the russet tartan threaded with green, the length of fabric falling down her back and belted about her girlish waist.
Mayhaps ’twas that alone—that vividness in her colouring—which stirred his disquiet. Had his mother looked so on her wedding day?
He wondered what Malcolm saw when he beheld his daughter: the wife he’d wed twenty years ago, or the woman whom it was said he’d truly loved—Ragnall’s mother, Vanora.
Better that she’d wed Malcolm in her sister’s stead, but there was no merit in dwelling on such thoughts. The past was done.
“With these vows, yer lives are bound as one.”
The girl’s eyes fluttered to look at the monk as he uttered the words of betrothal.
“With these hands, ye shall embrace one another as man and wife. With these hands, ye shall hold the sons and daughters God blesses ye with.”
The ever-present knot in Ragnall's stomach tightened.
Aye, may God bless me with the sons this clan needs.
`His own father had been a tyrant, barely showing love for Alasdair, let alone the son whose birth remained forever in question. Ragnall had long vowed that it would be different when he had his own family. He'd do all in his power to ensure his wife's comfort, and she'd give him what he needed in return.
She seemed meek enough—disposed to obey, to do her duty. He'd want more than that, of course, but all things were achievable in time. Her affection would come, when she saw how important their marriage was to him. His own happiness depended upon it, and the legacy of the clan. He wouldn't repeat his father's mistakes.
The girl's gaze had lowered at the mention of children and she bit at her lip but as the holy man urged her in her own response, she raised her eyes to meet Ragnall’s and he recognized more than coyness. A flicker of defiance perhaps, though tempered by fear.
Certainly, the blush in her cheek was becoming; she might grow to be a beauty.
“Ragnall, Laird of Balmore, do ye take this woman tae be yer own? Do ye promise tae protect her, tae meet her physical needs, and tae beget upon her the children ordained by the Lord?”
“Aye.” Ragnall addressed all who witnessed the betrothal—the girl’s father and the others alongside. “I give all that a husband gives a wife, until ma dying breath.”
Returning his glance to his bride, he was surprised to see her staring intently up at him with lips half-parted. For all her modesty, she was affected by the words.
By God, if he kissed her now, he’d swear she’d open to him. Deep in his baws came a heated ache and he let his imagination linger upon her mouth.
From across the room came a gruff cough from her father, pulling him from his reverie.
He’d a promise to keep, and a full year before he’d find out just how willing the wench was.
’Twas nae a marriage for love, but he would see right by the woman who was to be his wife—and perhaps there would be more pleasure in it than he dared hope.
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