The morning of the wedding bloomed as sweet and delicate as the apple blossoms in the May sunshine. An azure sky dotted with puffs of white clouds promised a day the inhabitants of Kinlochleven Castle would long remember—some with immense pleasure, others with deep resentment, depending on whether they were MacLeans or Macdonalds.
Lairds and ladies in costly velvets and taffetas paraded down the center aisle of the chapel and took their places in the pews, as though this were just another ordinary marriage ceremony.
Joanna slipped into her seat alongside Maude, apprehension slithering around in the pit of her belly like the evil serpent in the Garden of Eden. Ewen and Godfrey planned to wait until the last possible moment before announcing to the entire congregation that The MacLean’s intended bride was missing. His mistaken assumption that Lady Idoine was the Maid of Glencoe hadn’t been their doing. Ewen’s daughter had sworn to her true identity on a sacred relic, but the King’s Avenger had refused to believe her. There were several impartial witnesses present in the chapel who could verify their statement.
For the tenth time that morning, Joanna reminded herself that MacLean’s coming humiliation wouldn’t be her fault. God knew, she’d tried to warn him from this demented farce.
She clenched her hands in her lap and watched from the corner of her eye as Keir MacNeil, splendid in his green and blue plaid, escorted his lovely mother to the front pew. His straight black hair, tied with a thong, hung to the middle of his back. The MacNeils were descended from a long line of Celtic sea rovers, and his rugged features, swarthy complexion, scarred brow, and broken nose gave him the roguish air of a pirate. Attired in red and black tartan, Duncan Stewart, second earl of Appin, followed his sister and nephew.
Lady Emma had chosen the pearl-studded headdress to go with her green satin gown, after all. Ladies Beatrix and Idoine proudly displayed their finest ensembles as well. Loaded down with gold chains, brooches, and bracelets, with tasseled purses hanging from their girdles and elegant gloves on their hands, they took their places in the front pew of the chapel.
That morning, Idoine had completed her toilette with special care, tinting her round face with skin whitener and pink rouge. ’Twas a shame the sulky frown that creased her forehead ruined the sought-after effect of meek and mild virginal maid. Joanna knew that if MacLean actually tried to marry her cousin, Idoine would throw a fit, kicking and screaming and pointing out Joey Macdonald as the real bride.
Tugging her stocking cap snugly over her ears, Joanna glanced down at her threadbare apparel and edged closer to Maude’s large, reassuring frame. Her companion had been delayed with last-minute tasks and hadn’t been able to meet Joanna in the pantry at sunup as planned.
There hadn’t been enough time for Maude to weave Joanna’s unruly mane into a tight braid as she’d done every other morning since the Sea Dragon’s arrival. Together, they’d hastily scooped up Joanna’s long hair, piled it on top of her head, and anchored it loosely in place with two combs.
Joanna prayed the wayward locks would remain hidden throughout the lengthy High Mass. Afterward, she and Maude could slip into one of the small service rooms off the kitchen and braid her hair securely. She couldn’t chance having her hair tumble down past her shoulders in front of the entire Scottish court during the banquet to follow.
That would put every Macdonald at sword’s point and herself in the shadow of the hangman.
After MacLean’s explicit instructions the previous afternoon, she hadn’t dared to apply soot to her face and hands. She felt almost naked without the dirt to hide behind. Several Macdonalds had glanced at her that morning and grimaced, certain the deception was over. But the MacLean men-at-arms only smiled and waved a friendly hello to the worried-looking serving lad.
Good Lord! Clan MacLean was easier to dupe than a wagonload of country bumpkins at a fair.
The congregation rose when James Stewart, King of Scotland, entered, decked out in traditional Highland garb in honor of his trusted friend. His close advisers accompanied him, attired in tawny satin doublets and coats of blue velvet. Everyone waited in respectful silence as the dignified procession wended its way up the aisle and His Majesty, facing the gathering, settled himself in a large wooden chair on the altar’s dais beneath a blue and gold canopy.
Joanna’s breath caught when MacLean entered from the side of the chancel, accompanied by Father Thomas and his brother Lachlan.
Tall and resplendent, the bridegroom wore a fine linen shirt with lace at the collar and cuffs, and a green velvet jacket. A jeweled bodkin fastened the corner of his green and black belted plaid to his shoulder. A sealskin sporran, jewel-encrusted dress sword, silver mounted dirk, checkered short hose with rosette points, and black brogues with shiny gold buckles completed his costume.
There was no mistaking the power and wealth of this forceful Highland chief on his wedding day.
There was no mistaking the confusion written across Father Thomas’s gaunt face either. The priest looked around the chapel at the assemblage, his dark, deep-set eyes betraying his bafflement.
“My dear friends,” he began after a minute’s painful hesitation, “earlier this morning, His Majesty, King James, as Lady Joanna’s guardian, signed the marriage contract, as did the chief of Clan MacLean. Laird Lachlan MacRath and Lady Emma MacNeil witnessed the signing. The banns having been duly read, there is no legal impediment to the marriage of Joanna Macdonald and Rory MacLean.”
The congregation shifted in their seats, looking at one another in wonderment. From where Joanna sat, she could see Ewen turn to his brother and son with a smirk and murmur something under his breath. Godfrey’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but Andrew’s chin jerked upward in an unconscious display of nervous tension.
“Laird MacLean had hoped,” Father Thomas continued in a stilted manner, “that Lady Joanna would choose to attend the wedding this morning, but to his disappointment, she has not come forward. So at the request of The MacLean, and by permission of His Gracious Majesty, the vows for the absent bride will be said by a proxy.”
A startled silence descended on the assembly for one long, incredulous moment, then the rustle of satins and silks and the whisperings of astounded men and women filled the chapel. Everyone looked around in astonishment, trying to discover which lass had been chosen to take the part of the missing bride.
In the front pew beside her mother, Idoine preened in her garish orange velvet, certain that as the Maid of Glencoe’s cousin, she’d be the obvious choice. Joanna sent a plea heavenward that this time the presumptuous damsel was correct.
Clasping his prayer book so tightly his knuckles turned white. Father Thomas cleared his throat, and the crowd gradually quieted. “His Majesty has left the selection of the substitute bride to the groom, who informed me this morning that he’ll chose another Macdonald to say the vows for Lady Joanna during the ceremony.” Hollow-eyed, the spare, grim-faced cleric turned to MacLean expectantly.
Joanna slouched down beside Maude, attempting to hide behind Davie, who was seated in front of her, so she couldn’t be seen from the altar. She peered cautiously around the nave, and the back of her neck prickled with fear. MacLean men-at-arms stood at every portal, their brawny shoulders filling the door frames. Even in the hallowed sanctuary of the church, they bristled with weapons.
Stealthily, she straightened her spine and peeked over Davie’s stooped shoulder.
A confident smile curved the corners of MacLean’s mouth as he stepped down from the altar’s dais. He moved through the open gates of the chancel railing and stood at the front of the center aisle.
The brideless groom gave no sign of the abject mortification he should have been feeling. Truth was, he appeared to be in complete control of the entire situation.
“For the person who will stand at the altar beside me and recite my bride’s vows,” he said in a clear, ringing tone, “I have chosen my wee friend, Joey Macdonald.”
Joanna gasped in dismay and slunk lower in her seat. She could feel her scalp tighten beneath the frayed cap, as the serpent in her belly sank its fangs into her vitals.
Rory moved to where Joanna sat cringing beside her former nursemaid. The deep violet-blue eyes grew wider with each step that brought him closer, till he stood beside her at the end of the pew.
Bowing her head, she closed her eyes, folded her hands, and started to pray in earnest. Had she bothered to look over at Maude, she’d have seen the glow of happiness shining on her companion’s face.
“Since you were so concerned for me yesterday,” Rory said to the crouching demoiselle, “I was certain you’d be willing to assist me this morning.” He extended his hand to her. “Help me out of this dilemma, lad. Come say the vows for Lady Joanna.”
“Surely not me, laird,” she mumbled, her head still bent. The long lashes fluttered like silken fans above her rosy cheeks. “You don’t want a poor orphan lad to take the place of your heiress bride.”
“Ah, but I do,” he quietly insisted.
She slumped farther down on the bench, refusing to meet his gaze. “I can’t, milord. ’Twouldn’t be right.”
This time his words carried an uncompromising conviction. “I insist.”
Joanna’s russet lashes flew up and she stared at him, speechless with horror. Her gaze locked with his, she slowly reached out her fine-boned hand, and their fingers touched. He drew her up, and she accompanied him past the congregation to the altar as though in a daze.
The Scottish courtiers gaped in disbelief, confusion apparent on their stunned faces. In his seat in the front pew, the haughty earl of Argyll frowned at the startling turn of events. Then he folded his arms and waited with calm indifference for the ceremony to proceed with a mere wisp of a lad taking the vows for the absent bride.
Ewen and Godfrey glared at Rory, the creases deepening on their foreheads. Beside his father, Andrew followed Joanna’s slight form with worried, questioning eyes. But the trio did nothing to give the secret of her identity away—exactly as Rory had predicted.
As he and Joanna made their way to the front of the chapel, the Macdonald men-at-arms stirred restlessly on the hard benches. Short of open rebellion against the king, there was nothing they or anyone else could do. To draw arms in a church would be just cause for excommunication.
Rory was well aware that his own men, stationed before every exit, were grinning broadly at the wee bride attired in boy’s clothing. From the moment they’d learned of her disguise, they’d been mesmerized by the indomitable lassie. The ferocious MacLeans considered her attempt to deceive them a hilarious jest. Their chief’s new lady was a plucky Scots lass with more spunk than any Sassenach maid had ever shown.
Side by side, Rory, in full Highland splendor, and Joanna, in a serving lad’s shabby garments, stood before the priest at the altar, and the chapel grew eerily silent.
Joanna’s muddled mind could scarcely comprehend what Father Thomas was saying as he opened his prayer book and made the sign of the cross over them.
Great Lord above!
What an incredible stroke of bad fortune to have MacLean choose Joey Macdonald to be his bride’s proxy!
She could almost feel Ewen’s infuriated glare boring into her back. If her clan’s commander thought she’d bravely refuse to speak the vows and risk hanging as a traitor, he was woefully mistaken. Jeanne d’Arc couldn’t help her now. Not all the angels and saints in heaven could deliver her from this debacle.
Joanna’s body trembled from shock and a burgeoning awareness of what was about to transpire.
Godsakes, this wasn’t the wedding she’d always dreamed of!
Blindly, Joanna looked up at the rose window above the altar and blinked back tears of disappointment and chagrin. Dressed like a lowly servant in boy’s garb, with a hideous stocking cap covering her long hair, she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment.
Exasperation at MacLean’s obtuseness, resentment at Ewen’s selfish scheming, but most of all, anger at herself burned inside Joanna. The ruse had been her own idea; she now had only herself to blame. Certainly not MacLean, who believed her the lad she pretended to be.
Why did he have to be so blasted trusting?
Gathering her scattered wits about her, she realized that MacLean had taken her shaky hand in his firm, warm grasp and drawn her close beside him. The sheer size of her bridegroom took her breath away. His broad shoulders blocked out the sight of her disgruntled kinsmen. All she could see was the magnificent Highland laird she was about to marry.
Timidly, Joanna looked up to find his gaze upon her, and though she wanted to look away, she could not. He held her enthralled with his dragon-green eyes.
At the sight of the tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes, he drew her even nearer. A tender smile flickered across his mouth, and he rubbed his callused thumb across her knuckles in a reassuring gesture.
Though she’d carried her deceitful guise through to the end, Joanna was going to marry the chief of Clan MacLean, after all. She would soon be his wife. A sudden, inexplicable tingle of excitement coursed through her at the thought, making it hard to breathe. A fragile yet undeniable thread of longing tightened around her heart.
The truth, so long denied, sprang forth like the tender shoots of the snowdrop through the late-winter snow.
She wanted to be his wife.
Father Thomas had been speaking for some time, though she hadn’t heard a syllable he’d uttered. But now the priest raised his voice, slicing through Joanna’s dreamlike trance as he addressed the entire assembly. “If anyone knows of any just cause or impediment as to why this wedding should not go forward, speak now, or forever hold thy peace.”
Throughout the chapel, every man, woman, and child strained to hear, each anxious to know if an accusing voice would be raised in protest.
The muffled sound of a disturbance came from behind Joanna. Numb with dread, she turned her head to peek at the front pew. Andrew was attempting to rise, fury contorting his finely chiseled features. With Godfrey’s help, Ewen held the struggling lad down, his hand clamped over his son’s mouth.
For a moment, everything seemed frozen in time.
In the deafening silence that followed, Joanna swayed dizzily on her feet, and MacLean’s hand slipped beneath her elbow to hold her up.
But no Macdonald dared to stand in front of the king and utter false reasons why Joanna and MacLean could not be legally joined in marriage.
Without another sound, the breathless urgency passed.
Triumph gleaming in his eyes, MacLean took both her hands and enclosed them in his much larger ones.
Through a haze of wildly conflicting emotions, Joanna heard the fearsome warrior repeat Father Thomas’s words calmly and distinctly.
“I, Rory Niall MacLean, take thee, Joanna Màiri Macdonald, to my wedded wife…”
The ardency in his rich baritone made her tremble. He spoke as though to his bride, and Joanna listened in mesmerized wonder.
“…to have and to hold…for fairer, for fouler…for better, for worse…”
His golden head bent, he towered above her, a figure of awesome strength and undeniable charisma. Yet as she looked up at MacLean, the hard-edged angles of his face softened with an emotion she couldn’t comprehend.
“…for richer, for poorer…in sickness and in health…from this time forward…till death us depart…and if holy church it will ordain…hereto I pledge thee my troth.”
Though MacLean couldn’t know he’d spoken those words to the bride herself, for some strange, incomprehensible reason, it seemed as if he’d intended her—in spite of the boy’s disguise—to be the recipient of that vow.
Unconsciously, she leaned toward MacLean, forgetting for the moment that she stood before the altar on her wedding day dressed in a lad’s ragged shirt and plaid. The tangy scent of the forest drifted around him. His thick blond hair framed his proud features. The emeralds on the pin that fastened his plaid caught the May sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows and seemed to wink at her enticingly.
“Joey…” Father Thomas prodded. “Joey…”
Dragging her gaze from MacLean, she looked at the anxious clan chaplain and belatedly realized that he’d been trying to lead her in the bride’s vows and she’d failed to respond.
MacLean tightened his grip on her hands, and Joanna gave him a tiny, tremulous smile. He needn’t worry that she’d try to run away; her knees were knocking too hard beneath her plaid. God’s truth, ’twas a miracle she hadn’t collapsed to the floor.
Somehow, she managed to repeat the words after Father Thomas, though her heart thudded like a Celtic drum and the blood pounded in her ears.
“I, Joanna Màiri Macdonald, take thee, Rory Niall MacLean, to my wedded husband…to have and to hold…for fairer, for fouler…for better, for worse…for richer, for poorer…in sickness and in health…to be meek and obedient in bed and at board…”
As she spoke the words in a faint, quavering voice, a heart-stopping smile lit MacLean’s face. His possessive gaze seemed to devour her, and it took all of her quickly fading willpower to continue.
“…from this time forward…till death us depart…and if holy church it will ordain…hereto I pledge thee my troth.”
At a gesture from Father Thomas, Lachlan stepped forward and offered a ring. The priest blessed it and gave it to MacLean.
Joanna’s bridegroom calmly held her shaking hand in his strong, sure one. Unable to meet his searing gaze, she lowered her lids. He held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, and it looked surprisingly small in his big hand.
Slipping the circlet of gold on her finger, MacLean spoke in a voice filled with unqualified assurance. “With this ring, Joanna, I thee wed, and this gold and silver, I thee give, and with my body, I thee worship—”
Her cheeks aflame, Joanna’s gaze flew to meet his eyes. Sparks of delight seemed to dance in their emerald depths.
Rory lifted his bride’s dainty hand to his lips as he continued with a smile of immense satisfaction, “…and with all my worldly cattle, I thee honor.”
He drew her slender figure into his arms, and with a flick of his wrist snatched the striped stocking cap off her head and sent it sailing across the chancel. Freed of its bondage, her hair tumbled to her waist in a mass of glorious curls, the tortoiseshell combs that had secured it falling to her feet.
Rory had spent nights trying to imagine what shade of red Joanna concealed beneath that detested cap. Never in his most fantastic dreams had he envisioned the vivid, coppery sheen that glistened and beckoned before him. Strands of cinnamon and vermilion picked up the scarlet and crimson of the stained glass above them, creating a translucent halo of shimmering light around her head.
Of their own accord, his fingers delved into those silken locks, and his gut tightened in a need of jolting, primal intensity.
Bracing her hands against his shoulders, Joanna stiffened and leaned away from him, unable to follow the lightning turn of events. Her wary eyes revealed her complete confusion.
“I know who you are, Joanna,” he murmured as he lifted her up for the bridal kiss. Grazing her smooth cheek with his open mouth, he sought and found her lips, parted slightly in amazement.
The carnal desire Rory had held in check with such determination during the past seemingly endless days burst forth like an unbridled stallion through an opened gate. He slipped his fingers into the lustrous curls at the nape of her neck. Cupping the back of her head in his palm, he covered her mouth with his.
Stunned into compliance, Joanna allowed MacLean to kiss her, feeling with shock the warmth of his tongue stroking hers.
Godsakes, this was no benedictional kiss; this kiss conveyed all the passion a man can feel for a woman.
MacLean knew who she was.
He knew Joey was really Joanna Macdonald!
With a whispering sigh of submission, she wrapped her arms around MacLean’s neck, giving back his kiss and the passion, as she thrilled to the feel of his hard body supporting hers with such effortless ease.
In front of them, Father Thomas coughed. Joanna made a soft, plaintive sound at this gentle reminder that they were the focus of a dumfounded congregation’s attention and slid her fingertips across MacLean’s cheek to gain his concurrence.
Reluctantly, Rory broke the kiss and set his wife on her feet. With his hand about her slim waist, he turned to face the stupefied assemblage, grinning at them like a besotted fool.
“There was no need for a proxy,” he explained to the confused Scottish court. “The Maid of Glencoe has just said her own vows for all to hear. Your Majesty, family and friends, may I present my wife, Lady Rory MacLean.”
Joanna’s bewildered gaze flickered over the watching faces.
Most of the courtiers had risen to their feet, clapping at the splendid development, though the seated Argyll remained impassive. The MacLean men-at-arms burst into laughter and shouted huzzahs. Rory’s family beamed in satisfaction.
Joanna’s loyal servants, including Ethel and her daughter, Peg, and Mary, the winsome, rosy-cheeked dairymaid, smiled sheepishly, as they realized the clever ruse had never really worked at all. Seumas, Davie, and Jock glanced at one another in growing apprehension, wondering if they’d be punished. Jacob and his burly son, Lothar; Abby; and Sarah, with little Teddy on her lap, all watched in pleased acceptance.
But the Macdonald soldiers scowled in thunderous disapproval. Ewen, Godfrey, and Andrew glowered in hatred, their rage transparent, though they remained still and silent in their pew.
There was nothing anyone could do.
MacLean had outfoxed them all.
In the confusion, Lady Emma left her place between Duncan and Keir and approached the bride and groom. “Before the nuptial Mass begins, my dear,” she said to Joanna, “we have a surprise for you. Come with me.”
Joanna turned to MacLean in bafflement, and he nodded his assent. “Go with my mother,” he said tenderly.
Lady Emma led Joanna into the vestry, where Maude stood waiting. A wide smile lit her ruddy face, and her gray eyes sparkled joyously.
Beside a tall cupboard, an exquisite gown of white satin lay draped over an armchair. Joanna walked slowly across the room and touched the fine material in amazement.
“But how…?” She looked at her childhood nurse and shook her head in wonderment. “You knew about this?” she asked with a quavery smile.
“Only since this morning, my wee chick,” she replied. She waved her hands to shoo Joanna along. “Now hurry! Everyone’s waiting. Let’s get you dressed for your wedding Mass.”
Joanna, still dazed, allowed Lady Emma and Maude to peel off her shirt and plaid. A chemise of exquisite fragility quickly replaced the plain, shortened smock underneath.
Blue satin garters held up the long, delicate stockings she slipped over her legs. And the heels of her white satin shoes were encrusted with diamonds.
Over all this feminine finery came the long, embroidered petticoat, followed by the silk kirtle trimmed lavishly with lace.
Then the two older women lifted up the heavy gown, made of yards and yards of satin, and helped her slip it on. The narrow sleeves were fitted and came over the backs of her hands in a point.
Joanna looked down at herself in surprise. The décolleté bodice, cut square and low to reveal the kirtle’s shirred under-bodice, also revealed the tops of her breasts. “Perhaps ’tis a wee bit—”
“Tch, tch,” Maude warned, clicking her tongue in admonishment. “Don’t say another word. Your groom asked his mother to bring a beautiful dress for you to wear on your wedding day. ’Twas Lady Emma’s women who fashioned your gown.”
Tying the satin girdle snugly around Joanna’s waist, MacLean’s mother laughed, reading the unspoken question in her eyes. “I chose white for a virginal maid,” she explained. “But also because I knew it would look exceptionally fine with red hair.”
“How did you know the color of my hair?” Joanna asked in astonishment.
Lady Emma lifted a lock and let slide it between her fingers. The green eyes grew thoughtful as they gazed into hers. “Rory wrote that you favored your grandfather’s coloring.”
Before Joanna could utter a word, the widow gently patted her cheek. “I pray you find it within yourself to forgive my son, child. For only through forgiveness will you both find your heart’s ease.”
Tears stung Joanna’s eyes, and she looked down, unable to respond.
Over the magnificent gown, they slipped a sleeveless robe of white velvet, its immense train trimmed with ermine.
Next, Lady Emma and Maude arranged Joanna’s hair, letting it fall loosely past her shoulders and down to her waist. They carefully pinned a crown of white roses on her head.
Maude stepped back to eye their handiwork, and nodded approvingly. “Stunning,” she said with a satisfied nod.
Joanna turned to face the tall mirror on the cupboard door and gasped in delight. The effect of her red hair against the white roses and white satin proved stunning indeed. The image reflected in the glass fulfilled all her girlish dreams.
Stepping behind her, Lady Emma fastened a rope of pearls around Joanna’s neck. “Rory told me that you weren’t particularly pleased with his sapphire necklace,” she said with a wink to Joanna in the mirror. “I informed him that these are a much better choice for a young bride. This is my wedding gift to you, child.”
Joanna touched the pearls in awe. “Milady,” she said, “how can you be so kind to me, when I’ve played such a despicable trick on your son?”
Lady Emma turned her around and cupped Joanna’s face in her hands. “My darling daughter, had I the entire world to chose from, I could not have found a better wife for Rory. Not if I’d invoked a hundred magic spells, or searched for a thousand years.” With a tender smile, she leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
Together, the two women took Joanna out a side entrance of the vestry and around to the front of the church, where Lady Emma handed her a bouquet of white roses.
Maude swung the door wide for her. “Go away in, chickie,” she urged. “We’ll hurry ahead and tell Father Thomas you’re ready.”
When Joanna entered the vestibule, James IV, King of Scotland stood waiting for her, along with a small entourage of courtiers. Tall and handsome, the king had a broad forehead, large eyes, and high cheekbones, complemented by a shock of straight reddish hair and a finely trimmed beard. He frequently adopted the Highlander’s colorful attire while visiting them, and today he was splendid in red and black tartan.
She halted, suddenly terrified he was there to accuse her of treason. As her king and guardian, he’d ordered her to marry The MacLean, and she’d purposely attempted to defy his royal command.
Joanna’s throat tightened as she took a tiny step back. Her mouth went dry, and her eyes blurred with sudden tears.
The entire purpose of His Majesty’s sojourn through the Western Highlands was to secure the sworn fealty of the most powerful lairds in the area. What would he think of a maid who’d dared to defy him?
“Since you were our ward before you became Lady MacLean,” James Stewart said with a pleasant smile, “we have the honor of escorting you up the aisle.”
Joanna released a shaky breath as she dipped in a low curtsy. “Thank you, Your Majesty. ’Tis my great honor, indeed, to be escorted by my sovereign.”
He was the only Scots king who’d acquired the Gaelic. Though he wasn’t letter-perfect, he could converse with those of his subjects who knew nothing of Scots-English. But James IV had a gift for more than just languages and the proper arrangement of the belted plaid. His liaisons were legendary. At the age of twenty-nine, he’d fathered several royal bastards by a long string of mistresses.
The king’s brown eyes twinkled in his lean, pale face as he gazed at Joanna reassuringly. He took her hand and placed it on his crooked elbow. “No one appreciates the attraction of a bonny lass more than your sovereign,” he said, patting her fingers. “Since we must one day choose our bride for political reasons, we can only hope that we shall be fortunate enough to find a lass as fair as Laird MacLean’s.”
“Your Majesty is too kind,” Joanna replied with a shy smile. She could see why the king was so immensely popular with most of his subjects—the exception being, of course, the Macdonalds and their allies in the Hebrides.
At a nod from the king, two of his courtiers opened the main doors.
Joanna entered the nave alongside James Stewart, and the congregation rose to its feet. From the choir above them came the magnificently trained voices of the Observantine friars and Poor Clares, accompanied by the sweet lilting strains of a bagpipe. So this was why the friars and nuns had been included in the royal entourage.
Ahead, MacLean waited for her in front of the altar. His observant gaze took in her loosely flowing locks, the white satin gown, and the velvet robe with its long, elegant train. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face as he held out his hand to her.
Rory watched Joanna walk majestically up the aisle on the arm of the King of Scotland, past the grinning MacLeans and the scowling Macdonalds, past Kinlochleven’s faithful retainers and servants, past the entire Scottish court.
The sight of her heart-shaped, gamin face sent his spirit aloft. The wariness and confusion in her marvelous indigo eyes made his throat ache with a need to be tender. To cherish and protect her.
His mother had been right—his lucky star had risen. All the icy cynicism that encased his heart seemed to melt at the sight of his bonny wee bride.
When Joanna and the king reached the altar, Rory took his wife’s hand and led her to the pair of prie-dieux. Together they genuflected and knelt on the crimson velvet cushions, and Father Thomas opened his missal.
From the choir came the hauntingly beautiful strains of Kyrie eleison, and Joanna and Rory MacLean’s wedding Mass began.