Juliana’s blue eyes held trepidation. Under their scrutiny, Elliot felt his lassitude trying to descend once more, wanting him to lapse into a stupor again, to lean against the satin warmth of her and breathe her scent…
“Are you certain, Elliot?” Juliana’s voice brought him awake again.
Of course he was certain. Elliot needed her with him so he could be strong and well.
He shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “I told you, ’tis a grand idea. Everyone is wanting a wedding. You’re in the bridal clothes, and I’m not likely to stay in finery long.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean that you want to do this today?”
“Why not? Your guests are here, the minister is waiting.”
Juliana pursed her lips, the little gesture heating his blood. “It would be quite a scandal.”
“Let it be. While they talk, we’ll be at our estate, far away.”
Juliana hesitated, then her smile took on a hint of wildness. “All right. As you say, why not?”
Elliot’s heart thundered, elation rising to choke him. He needed to finish this, take her home, be with her.
Elliot pulled her to her feet and propelled her out of the pew. Juliana half tripped in her high-heeled slippers, but he steadied her with a strong hand. The nearness of her, the feel of her soft arm beneath his scarred fingers, urged him on. He needed to seal this bargain before the darkness returned, and he didn’t mean the darkness of the nighttime.
They were at the door. Elliot stopped her, his grip on her too tight, but he couldn’t make himself ease it. “Stay with my sister while I go explain to the minister that the groom will be a different man. Will ye be ready?”
“Yes.” Juliana wet her lips. “Indeed.”
“Good.”
She reached for the door handle, but Elliot drew her back. “Wait.”
He slid his arm behind her, as solid as a tree branch, and drew her closer. So close she saw the pattern of white scars on his cheek, the thin lines that ran across his cheekbones and ended under the line of his hair. A thin, jagged blade had made those cuts.
He was going to kiss her. Juliana’s breath caught as she waited for the cool touch of his lips, the press of his mouth. She’d dreamed of his kiss so many times, after the one he’d stolen from her so long ago.
It never came. Elliot drew her hand to his lips, turned it over, and pressed a long, burning kiss to her palm. Any disappointment dissolved in the heat that swept down her arm and the wicked fire that streaked through her body.
Elliot opened the chapel door, propelled Juliana out into the cool mist of the courtyard, and closed the door behind her. Juliana found herself facing the concerned Ainsley, the bulk of Lord Cameron, and her stepmother, Gemma, hurrying out to see what had become of them all.
That was how Juliana St. John came to be married an hour later to Elliot McBride, in the church in which she was to have married Mr. Barclay that same day.
The guests watched in either shock or great enjoyment as Elliot, in formal black coat and McBride kilt, stood ramrod straight at Juliana’s side and said his vows. When Juliana’s father put her hand into Elliot’s, Elliot closed his fingers over hers in a hard grip. It wasn’t letting go, that grip.
The service was brief and simple. Ainsley had retied the roses in Juliana’s hair, and Juliana’s wedding finery cascaded across the plain floor of the church. Her bouquet was still fresh, thanks to Ainsley and Gemma, with a sprig of heather tucked into it for luck.
Elliot continued to clamp down on Juliana’s hand as the vicar moved through the service, not releasing her even after he slid the wedding ring onto her finger. They’d had to borrow the rings from Elliot’s brother Patrick and his wife, Rona. Rona’s ring was a bit too big for Juliana, and she had to squeeze her fingers together to hold it in place.
Now the vicar was pronouncing them man and wife. Elliot turned Juliana to face him, tilted her head up, and kissed her.
It was possessive, that kiss. A Scottish laird of old might have kissed his won bride like this, and Elliot was not so many generations removed from those lairds of old.
He raised his head after the kiss and looked down at her, his hands firm on her arms, gray eyes filled with triumph. And Juliana was married.
Several hours later, during the wedding feast at the St. John town house—Gemma seeing no reason to let all the preparation go to waste—Juliana escaped the laughter-filled public rooms and the scrutiny of her friends with the excuse of having to use the necessary.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into an empty back hall. She was glad people were enjoying the banquet she and Gemma had meticulously organized, but the congratulations and the questions had begun to weigh on her. What she’d done would be a nine days’ wonder, and the first day of it was already wearying.
A strong hand landed on her shoulder, and Juliana bit back a startled cry. Elliot put his finger to his lips, leaned down, and kissed her cheek.
“Time to go,” he said.
She wanted to—restlessness gripped her like a fever—but Juliana mouthed the correct words. “That would be a bit rude, would it not? My stepmother has gone to all this trouble.”
Elliot ran his hand down her arm to lace his fingers with hers. “Do you want to go home, Juliana?”
Juliana closed her eyes, breathing in his warmth. “Yes.”
“Then we go.”
Without waiting for further argument, Elliot led her down the servants’ staircase and through the kitchen to the back door, where an Indian man in white clothes and turban waited with Juliana’s summer coat and two valises. The Indian man helped Juliana into her wraps without a word and just as silently opened the door and ushered them out of the house.
The ride to Juliana’s new home took a long time. They boarded a train that chugged slowly north and west, into the heart of the Highlands. In a private compartment, the wife of Elliot’s Indian servant helped Juliana change from her wedding gown into a traveling dress. Her valise proved to have been packed with sensible traveling clothes—Ainsley and Gemma looking after her to the end.
As they traveled, the day’s remaining clouds broke into tatters before a strong wind, the sun emerging to bathe the world in warmth and glittering raindrops. High summer was coming on, which meant, this far north, the sun would linger well into night.
At Stirling, they took another train toward the coast, heading north of Dundee toward Aberdeen, where they boarded yet another train on a smaller line. They finally disembarked at a tiny station in a village called Highforth, thirty miles north of Aberdeen, tucked between mountains and the sea. The late afternoon sun silhouetted hills to the west and reflected on the stretch of sea to the east and north.