constricted by the pearl-coloured silk of her wedding gown, and her hair yanked into an elaborate plait, Moira waited outside the great hall with Lord Albermarle at her side. It would be he that gave her hand to Lachlan Ramsay, since Lord Kildrummond was physically unable to claim that particular honour.
The earl’s rest had restored him, though—enough, at least, that he could make the journey from the keep to the hall with the aid of two sturdy clansmen. They held his elbows, bearing his weight with patience as he scuffled his feet along the flagstone floor. Lady Glinis hovered at his back, ready, it seemed, to catch him if his knees should buckle suddenly. Though what she could do in that instance that the two burly clansman at the earl’s side could not was anyone’s guess.
Not once did she glance in Moira’s direction. In fact, as she passed the lass, her chin raised a notch in blatant dismissal of her presence. Her dark eyes smouldered with quiet hatred. Nor did Lady Glinis offer a glance for Lord Albermarle, who took the slight in stride. He knew the reason for it. When he felt Moira stiffen at his side, he patted her elbow.
“Dinna think on it, lass. ‘Twill soon be over.”
There was little pause between the time Lord Kildrummond was taken into the hall and the ceremony began. Before she knew it, Moira was being pulled across the room on Lord Albermarle’s arm to where Lachlan stood waiting for her on the dais.
Curse the brute, must he look so handsome? His chin had been scraped smooth, emphasizing the regal tilt of his jaw. Odd that such a simple change should alter his face so noticeably.
Or perhaps it was not his face that was altered, but rather some ind efinable quality behind it. When rough and whiskered, it was a touch savage. But now, the battle hardened knight had been transformed into the noble viscount by nothing more than a scraped chin.
His eyes, however, still retained a wisp of that savagery, still looked out on the world from a warrior’s perspective. It was a chilling duality; a dangerous one.
An inexplicably sensual one, too.
Moira pressed her lips together, annoyed with herself for even having entertained the thought.
Catching her grimace, Lachlan cocked an eyebrow in question, and raised his shoulders ever so slightly. For heaven’s sake, she was being ridiculous. He probably thought she was scowling at him . If she were not careful she might just start muttering to herself. Unclenching her teeth, Moira drew a calming breath and glanced around the hall to distract herself.
She knew many faces in the crowd. And liked almost none of them. The only guests she could truly count as friends were the MacCormacks, invited at her special request and only because of her special request, for they were not important enough to be in attendance otherwise. Mary MacCormack looked at her with something akin to motherly pride. Next to Mary was Master MacCormack, tall and wiry like his eldest son, who stood on the other side of him. The remaining four members of the MacCormack clan stood in front of their parents and eldest brother: Niall’s two younger brothers, nineteen and seventeen respectfully, and beside nine-year-old Imogen was a second sister, thirteen years old.
Knowing his friend’s outward composure was a lie, Niall crossed his eyes, jutted his bottom teeth forward and pulled the most atrocious grin.
His timing couldn’t have been worse . Under the weight of her frazzled nerves, Moira’s ribs began to vibrate with a silent chuckle.
Which turned into a barely contained giggle that shook her shoulders.
Soon she was laughing out loud with such force that tears blurred her eyes and her stomach hurt. A twitter of astonishment flitted through the crowd, mingling with murmurs of disapproval; Lord Albermarle had to pull on her arm to quiet her.
Yet still she had trouble keeping a solemn face. By the time she reached the altar and Lachlan had taken her arm she was trembling with
The earl’s rest had restored him, though—enough, at least, that he could make the journey from the keep to the hall with the aid of two sturdy clansmen. They held his elbows, bearing his weight with patience as he scuffled his feet along the flagstone floor. Lady Glinis hovered at his back, ready, it seemed, to catch him if his knees should buckle suddenly. Though what she could do in that instance that the two burly clansman at the earl’s side could not was anyone’s guess.
Not once did she glance in Moira’s direction. In fact, as she passed the lass, her chin raised a notch in blatant dismissal of her presence. Her dark eyes smouldered with quiet hatred. Nor did Lady Glinis offer a glance for Lord Albermarle, who took the slight in stride. He knew the reason for it. When he felt Moira stiffen at his side, he patted her elbow.
“Dinna think on it, lass. ‘Twill soon be over.”
There was little pause between the time Lord Kildrummond was taken into the hall and the ceremony began. Before she knew it, Moira was being pulled across the room on Lord Albermarle’s arm to where Lachlan stood waiting for her on the dais.
Curse the brute, must he look so handsome? His chin had been scraped smooth, emphasizing the regal tilt of his jaw. Odd that such a simple change should alter his face so noticeably.
Or perhaps it was not his face that was altered, but rather some ind efinable quality behind it. When rough and whiskered, it was a touch savage. But now, the battle hardened knight had been transformed into the noble viscount by nothing more than a scraped chin.
His eyes, however, still retained a wisp of that savagery, still looked out on the world from a warrior’s perspective. It was a chilling duality; a dangerous one.
An inexplicably sensual one, too.
Moira pressed her lips together, annoyed with herself for even having entertained the thought.
Catching her grimace, Lachlan cocked an eyebrow in question, and raised his shoulders ever so slightly. For heaven’s sake, she was being ridiculous. He probably thought she was scowling at him . If she were not careful she might just start muttering to herself. Unclenching her teeth, Moira drew a calming breath and glanced around the hall to distract herself.
She knew many faces in the crowd. And liked almost none of them. The only guests she could truly count as friends were the MacCormacks, invited at her special request and only because of her special request, for they were not important enough to be in attendance otherwise. Mary MacCormack looked at her with something akin to motherly pride. Next to Mary was Master MacCormack, tall and wiry like his eldest son, who stood on the other side of him. The remaining four members of the MacCormack clan stood in front of their parents and eldest brother: Niall’s two younger brothers, nineteen and seventeen respectfully, and beside nine-year-old Imogen was a second sister, thirteen years old.
Knowing his friend’s outward composure was a lie, Niall crossed his eyes, jutted his bottom teeth forward and pulled the most atrocious grin.
His timing couldn’t have been worse . Under the weight of her frazzled nerves, Moira’s ribs began to vibrate with a silent chuckle.
Which turned into a barely contained giggle that shook her shoulders.
Soon she was laughing out loud with such force that tears blurred her eyes and her stomach hurt. A twitter of astonishment flitted through the crowd, mingling with murmurs of disapproval; Lord Albermarle had to pull on her arm to quiet her.
Yet still she had trouble keeping a solemn face. By the time she reached the altar and Lachlan had taken her arm she was trembling with
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