Page 75 of The Scot's Perfect Match
24
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A bride must rise with a serene countenance, for a smile at the altar is worth more than a dowry of gold. She must remember that her beauty today belongs not to herself, but to her husband and the family she joins. Above all, she must carry herself as though she were already a wife, and no longer her own mistress.
Gavan Douglas had faced his share of battles, tense negotiations over land, the carefully veiled hostility of high society drawing rooms, even the sharp edge of Ava Woodmoor’s tongue when she was determined to put him in his place.
None of it had prepared him for this.
He stood in Strathcael’s kirk, his cravat too tight, his palms slick with nerves, feeling more like a green lad than the man who had managed a massive estate and stared down half the Highland gentry. The morning sunlight streamed through the leaded windows, casting fractured patterns across the stone floor, and he wondered if the pounding of his heart was echoing off the walls for everyone to hear.
“Relax,” Dougal MacKay said from his place just behind him, his voice pitched low. “Ye look like ye’re about to be sent to the gallows.”
Gavan chuckled. “Is that how ye felt on your wedding day?”
Dougal clapped him on the shoulder. “We all get a bit of that. Ye’re marrying the woman ye’ve been in love with since ye could barely ride a horse. If this is no’ the best day of your life, ye’re doing it wrong.”
Gavan didn’t answer because Dougal wasn’t wrong. He’d woken before dawn, staring at the ceiling of his chamber with the sudden, sharp knowledge that nothing, no fight, no loss, no victory, had ever mattered as much as marrying Ava.
The kirk filled slowly, the quiet hum of conversation a low backdrop to his churning thoughts. Moira, radiant with excitement, had already adjusted his cravat for the tenth time and reminded him to breathe. Asher stood near the front, looking smugly pleased with himself for securing Moira’s hand and now witnessing Gavan following in his footsteps. Poppy, Freya, and half the women Ava had collected as friends over the years were here, colorful as spring blossoms in their gowns.
But Gavan barely saw them as his gaze scanned the empty aisle until the doors opened, and there she was.
He’d thought he knew what to expect, had told himself that no gown, no veil, could change what she was to him. But the sight of her in ivory silk, her dark hair swept back to reveal the delicate line of her neck, stole the air from his lungs.
Ava wasn’t just beautiful. She was ethereal. The woman who’d once raced him through the heather, who’d matched his every barb with a sharper one of her own, who’d kissed him like he was both a ruin and a salvation. And now she was walking toward him, steady and sure, every step a promise that she would be his, and he hers.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away as she glided down the aisle on the arm of her father with all the confidence of a reigning queen.
When she reached him, he offered his hand. It was the first time all morning that it didn’t shake.
“Ye’re pale,” she murmured as they turned toward the altar, her lips curving in the faintest, teasing smile.
“Ye’re late,” he whispered back, grateful for the jest, for the grounding pull of her voice.
She squeezed his fingers, just once, quick and sure, and the knot in his chest loosened.
The ceremony passed in a blur of vows and scripture, of the minister’s voice echoing words that had been spoken for centuries. Gavan hardly heard them. His focus narrowed to the warmth of her hand in his, the quiet strength in her gaze when she met his eyes. When it was time to speak his vows, he said them with a voice steadier than he expected, meaning every word like they had been carved into him.
And when the minister pronounced them husband and wife, he didn’t hesitate to sweep her into his arms, audience be damned.
Gavan kissed Ava like his life depended on it.
It wasn’t the chaste, perfunctory kiss of ceremony, but a promise and a claiming all at once. She kissed him back with equal conviction, and the room erupted in applause, Poppy cheering loudest, Moira crying, Dougal elbowing Asher with a grin.
When they finally parted, she was laughing softly, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“My, my, we might have just given a few of the gossips fodder for their next tea,” she teased, voice low enough for only him to hear.
“Shall I kiss ye again, so they have plenty to say?” he murmured back.
Ava’s head fell back, the length of her swan-like neck exposed, as she laughed.
They walked out of the kirk hand in hand, the weight of every watchful eye a distant concern compared to the thrill of knowing that for the first time, she was his wife.
And as they stepped into the sunlight, with the bells ringing overhead and the scent of heather on the breeze, Gavan thought that maybe Dougal had been right.
This wasn’t just the best day of his life.
