Underneath The Mistletoe Collection. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
not an option. The look he’d given her then, aglow with love, made her want to kiss him then and there, on the blustery and freezing-cold deck of the Rothesay Castle.
It had begun snowing when they’d arrived at Strone Bridge, and it was snowing still. The last day of the year was spent making sure that the Home Farm was spotless, hanging rowan in the doorways for luck, and hazel to stop the bad spirits who’d been swept out getting back in again. Mhairi’s advice, of course, but Ainsley had become so accustomed to pandering to good faeries and warding off bad that she’d almost started to believe in them.
She was making a final check in the mirror when the door opened and Innes entered the bedchamber. He was in the full Highland regalia he’d worn for the Rescinding. Her pulses leaped when he smiled at her. His hair was black as night. His eyes were the blue of the sea. She loved him so much.
‘May I tell you, wife, that you look absolutely ravishing?’
‘You may.’ She dropped him a curtsy. ‘May I tell you, husband, that you look absolutely ravishable?’
He laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s a word, but I like it.’
‘I think it’s an excellent word, and I intend that Madame Hera makes it a popular one.’
‘To keep a happy marriage, make sure your husband is ravishable at all times.’
‘You see, it’s perfect.’ She put her arms around him and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.
‘Shall I prove how perfect?’ he whispered.
She chuckled. ‘Maybe next year. We have a ceilidh to attend.’
‘A whole six hours, you’re making me wait!’
‘I’ll make it worth your while, I promise,’ Ainsley said with a meaningful look.
‘I shall hold you to that,’ Innes said with one of his devilish smiles. ‘Did I tell you about the tradition of Reaffirming?’
‘Is this another one of your invented customs?’
‘It is.’ He reached under the pillow and pulled out a leather box. ‘I had this done in Edinburgh. Open it.’
Her fingers shaking, she did as she was bid. The rose-tinted diamond was the same, perfectly cut stone as before, but the setting was completely different. The diamond sat flat inside a very modern-looking circlet of gold, and the white diamonds that had encircled it were now also sunk inside the gold band. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Ainsley said. ‘It’s breathtaking.’
Innes slid the ring onto her finger, not where she had worn it for the Rescinding, on the middle finger of her right hand, but on her left hand, above her wedding band. ‘A symbol of the passing of the old and the birth of the new,’ he said. ‘A reaffirming of what we promised, and a promise of so much more. I love you, Ainsley. I plan on loving you a little bit more every day.’
‘A Reaffirming.’ Her eyes were wet with tears, but she had never felt so happy. ‘I think that might be my favourite custom yet.’
* * *
She had not thought she could be any happier, but as she stood by her husband’s side in the Great Hall awaiting the bells that would herald the New Year, Ainsley thought she might burst with it. Looking around her at the faces, bright with the exertions of the reels and jigs, she couldn’t help but compare it with the last time she had been here in this hall, a virtual stranger among them. Now she knew every person here by name. She knew which of the huddle of bairns at the far end of the hall belonged to which family and which croft.
But tonight, it was not only the people of Strone Bridge who were here to celebrate the New Year. There were new faces, too, from as far afield as Arran and Bute. The laird of Glen Vadie was here, and so, too, was his ward. Blanche Murchison, née Caldwell, was every bit as beautiful as Ainsley had imagined. Her hair was golden blonde. Her eyes were cornflower blue. Her brows were perfect arches. Her lips were a perfect Cupid’s bow. The gown she wore was of silk the same colour as those big eyes of hers, and the diamonds on her necklace were obviously not paste. She was slight, several inches smaller than Ainsley, and she was most infuriatingly curvaceous. She had a smile to melt a man’s heart, and she had one of those bell-like voices into the bargain. Were she not so obviously besotted by the man whose name she bore, Ainsley might have been worried. Then she turned to her own husband, who had made the introductions, and saw the way Innes smiled at her, felt the pressure of his hand on hers and looked down at the diamond glinting on her hand, and she decided that she had no need to be worried about a single thing.
The bells rang for midnight. On cue at the last chime came a thumping at the door, and the first foot arrived, chosen for his coal-black hair, sheepishly bearing a bottle of whisky and a black bun cake. Glasses were filled, and the call for a toast went up.
Innes put his arm around Ainsley’s waist and called for silence. ‘I’ll keep this short and sweet,’ he said, ‘for you’ve better things to do than to listen to me. At the Rescinding, we put the past to bed. Tonight, this first day of 1841, I want to talk about the future. The future my wife and I have planned here at Strone Bridge. The future I hope you will all share with us. Robert?’
He nodded over at the surveyor, who, with the help of several men, brought a long table into the centre of the room. ‘This, I am proud to tell you, is all my lovely wife’s idea,’ Innes said. ‘This is our promise to you. A Reaffirming,’ he said, giving Ainsley a glowing look. ‘A symbol of the passing of the old, and the birth of the new. Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lassies, I’d like you to raise your glasses to Strone Bridge Castle Hotel. Sláinte.’
* * * * *
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‘Dunstan is no friend of Warehaven.’
She explained what he already knew.
‘Why would you deliver me to him?’
Her tone rose with each word.
He heard her inhale sharply before asking, ‘Who are you?’
He tightened his hold round her, lifted her feet from the ground and resumed their walk towards the beach. He was certain from the tightness of her voice that she’d already guessed the answer.
Dipping his head, so he could whisper into her ear, he responded, ‘Who am I?’ He brushed his lips along the delicate curve of her ear. ‘Why, fair maiden of Warehaven, I am Richard of Dunstan.’
She trembled against him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Glenforde must pay for his crimes.’ Richard hardened his voice. ‘And you, as his intended bride, will ensure he does.’
Award-winning author DENISE LYNN lives in the USA with her husband, son and numerous four-legged ‘kids’. Between the pages of romance novels she has travelled to lands and times filled