Page 24 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)

CHAPTER 24

“I do believe ye’re twice as pale as usual,” Camden noted, elbowing Murdoch in the ribs. “And is that a sheen of perspiration I see, peeking just above that mask of yers?”

If it was not his wedding day and there were not so many guests gathered in the castle chapel, Murdoch would have been more inclined to punch Camden in his jesting mouth. Anything to shut him up, for Camden’s comments were only making him more restless.

“Remind me who invited ye again?” Murdoch muttered, glancing back at the chapel doors. They remained closed, with no sign of his bride.

Camden chuckled. “Yer lovely maither. Well, she invited Paisley, seein’ as she’s such a dear friend of yer bride, but I couldnae resist comin’ along to see this miracle for meself. Och, and now that I mention it, I believe I did see a couple of pigs flyin’ over the fields on our way here.”

“Ye’re an idiot,” Murdoch snarled.

“That I may be, but a delighted one.” Camden flashed him a grin. “I wouldnae have missed this for anythin’. I mean, just look at ye—ye’re the very picture of an overjoyed man on his weddin’ day. Ye ought to be careful, smilin’ like that, or yer face might be stuck.”

Murdoch glared at him. “Ye should take yer seat now.”

“Och, nay. It’s only right that ye should have a laird standin’ at yer side as yer groomsman,” Camden insisted. “I’m quite content right here.”

He might have continued to antagonize Murdoch, relishing every moment of the admittedly unexpected occasion, had Paisley not caught his eye at that moment.

Murdoch noticed the look at the same time and had to resist the urge to smirk—Paisley did not seem best pleased by her husband’s antics. She frowned at him, shaking her head subtly, her eyes narrowed with exasperation.

“On second thoughts,” Camden said, clapping Murdoch on the shoulder, “I’d best tend to me wife. Just remember to repeat yer vows as ye hear them, and ye’ll be in happy, holy matrimony with the rest of us in nay time at all.”

He winked at Murdoch and went to join his wife, pulling her into a playful embrace as he took his seat. She whispered something in his ear—a reprimand, no doubt—but a moment later, she was laughing and smacking him lightly on the arm, her exasperation immediately forgotten.

Is that what it’s supposed to look like?

Murdoch observed them discreetly out of the corner of his eye, feeling that strange sensation in his chest again. But it was milder than jealousy. Something like envy, or perhaps remorse that he could not give Cecilia the same loving marriage. Why, he had never even made her laugh, nor did he know how to.

Just then, the chapel doors opened, and the guests hurried to rise to their feet, all turning to look upon the bride.

A collective gasp rose up, the sound like a stormy wind rustling the woodland trees. Murdoch did not gasp, swallowing the impulse, but his entire body reacted to the sight of her—his bride.

His heart thudded harder, his back stiffened, his shoulders pulled back, his throat tightened, and his mouth went dry. His eyes widened behind his mask, while his stomach felt like he had swallowed a rock for breakfast.

She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, attired in a remarkable gown of cream velvet that shimmered like liquid with her every slow step. The neckline and tight sleeves were trimmed with golden lace, while that belt of gilded ivy cinched her waist. Her long hair was loose, partially held back from her face with two slides that resembled small wings. Her skin was so radiant that she looked ethereal, and her blue eyes were so bright and clear that he wondered if he would be able to see their future in them.

And she is mine…

It was absurd. A beast did not deserve a beauty like her.

Yet, she did not falter as she continued to walk toward him, guided by her aunt. Instead, she held her head high, casting cheery smiles at the congregation as she passed, playing the part of a blushing bride to perfection.

But it is just an act. It has to be.

He had given her no reason to look so happy on their wedding day. He had avoided her since his proposal. He had set somewhat harsh terms, and yet she smiled and dazzled as if she really was overjoyed.

All of a sudden, she was standing in front of him and Mairie was putting her hand in his.

“Ye treat her well, Laird Moore, or else ye’ll have the heavens to answer to,” Mairie whispered, shooting him one last glare before she wandered off to take her seat on the front pew.

Cecilia peered up at him with those beautiful blue eyes. “A pity,” she said softly.

“What is?” he asked, struggling to shake off the trance that her entrance had put him in.

“That it didnae snow again,” she replied. “I thought it might. It would’ve been terribly romantic, do ye nae think?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Never mind.” She turned her head and smiled at the priest, who took it as permission to begin the ceremony.

The wedding had passed by in a blur, so strange and disorienting that Murdoch had barely remembered to speak his vows when the priest prompted him to.

In truth, he had spent most of the ceremony gazing into Cecilia’s eyes, utterly bewildered by her vibrant demeanor. How could someone behave so coyly and so confidently at once? How could one woman hold an entire congregation rapt? And how could a woman who had not wanted marriage suddenly glow so brightly, so disarmingly, as a bride?

She must be a sorceress. It’s the only explanation.

He was still staring at his bride in a daze, though she had left his side a while ago to mingle with the guests. He noticed that she was only conversing with ladies, speaking with dismissive politeness to any men who dared approach.

“I cannae believe ye didnae kiss her, Murdoch,” a voice purred nearby, drawing his attention away from his wife. “I was certain ye’d give us all what we wanted and show us some of yer prowess.”

Murdoch raised his glass of whiskey and took a sip. “It wouldnae have been seemly, Fiona.”

“Nay, I suppose ye’re right.” Fiona slid into the chair beside him and reached toward the nearest dish to grab a plump blackberry. “I forget how proper ye are, sometimes.”

He watched her pop the blackberry into her mouth, some of the dark juice beading on her red lips. She wiped it away with her fingertip, gazing at him with sultry brown eyes.

He waited to feel something, to feel any sort of attraction toward the woman who had not so long ago been his paramour—or, rather, his distraction when sculpting was not enough.

He did not even feel a twinge of desire for her, though he was beginning to wonder if there had ever been. His body, mind, and soul had never burned for Fiona, but just one look at Cecilia ignited an inferno within him.

Fiona smiled. “I can see why ye sent me away that night, M’Laird.” She stole another blackberry. “And I can see why ye havenae sent for me since.”

“It was nothin’ personal,” Murdoch replied stiffly.

Fiona giggled. “I didnae say it was, M’Laird. I just had to see it with me own eyes, for me own sake.” She paused, glancing at Cecilia with a soft sigh. “Now that I have, I can be content. Ye’ve found her, Murdoch.”

“Found who?” Murdoch coughed slightly, his whiskey going down the wrong pipe.

“Yer match,” Fiona replied, her expression warm. “A lass who’s probably too good for ye, in truth. But a woman’s heart is a funny thing. So, dinnae make a mess of it, eh?”

Murdoch had chosen Fiona because she was discreet and sensible, and because she was not the sort of woman who developed attachments. She did not put much credence in things like love and romance, so it surprised him to hear her speak so… sweetly about Cecilia. And because it was unusual, it struck him like a blow to the stomach.

“She will be taken care of,” he said, not quite understanding what she meant.

Fiona laughed. “Och, Murdoch, ye’ll have to do more than that. Ye cannae give a rare bird like that mere scraps, or she’ll starve. I couldnae imagine anythin’ worse than seein’ a lass like her become a husk of her former self, all of her light dimmed.” Her expression turned serious for a moment. “So, make sure that ye help her shine even brighter, eh?”

“What I do is none of yer concern,” he replied, not unkindly.

Fiona shrugged and got up. “Dinnae say ye werenae warned, Murdoch.” She smiled down at him. “Maybe try and be happy for once, do ye hear? Ye never ken—ye might like it.”

“I wish ye luck and good health,” he muttered in response, taking another sip of his whiskey.

“Aye, ye too. Both of ye.”

With a nod, Fiona left the way she had come, down the side of the feasting table, and disappeared into the crowd in the Great Hall.

Murdoch did not know how his mother and Mairie had managed to assemble so many people in so short a time, but it was… nice to see the hall filled again. He had resisted for years, but perhaps his mother was right—a laird should host gatherings to strengthen alliances and to have the opportunity to perform guest rites.

His eyes sought Cecilia again, his stomach twisting when they locked gazes. She had clearly been watching him talk to Fiona, but there was no anger or jealousy on her face. Instead, to his surprise, she flashed him a radiant smile and immediately turned back to the conversation she had been having with Paisley and Camden.

What is she up to?

He did not like things he could not control or predict, and he feared that his wife had become very unpredictable, indeed.

As he watched them, trying to figure out what they were saying by reading their lips, his mind drifted back to what Fiona had said. “Ye cannae give a rare bird like that mere scraps… Make sure that ye help her shine even brighter… Maybe try and be happy for once.”

He brought his cup to his lips, murmuring against the rim, “If only it were that simple.”

Murdoch made his way through the dark, empty hallways and trudged up winding staircases, striding from one pool of torchlight to the next, guided by an instinct he could not quell.

Down below, the festivities were in full swing, the revelry transforming from lively reels and hearty feasting to drunken dancing and an overwhelming cacophony of loud, inebriated voices.

Cecilia had left the celebrations ten minutes ago, sneaking out the doors unseen, but before she had departed, she had paused on the threshold and flashed him one of her beautiful smiles. A smile he could not decipher.

It could only be an invitation…

He knew what he had promised, and he knew he should be staying as far away from her bedchamber as possible, but it was like some force was pushing him in the direction of her room. The same force that had made him unable to resist kissing her, touching her, putting them in a position that now had them bound in holy matrimony.

It will still be a white marriage, as long as we dinnae consummate it.

And he had plenty of ideas on how to get around that imperative. Ideas that would have her moaning his name once more, though perhaps he would get her to call him ‘husband’ instead, to see what reaction it elicited in him.

Eventually, he stepped into the hallway where her chambers were located. He strained his ears in the gloomy silence, catching the puppy yip and bark his contentment as he had Cecilia’s attention once more.

Murdoch approached her door slowly and took a deep breath. He could turn around now and keep the vow he made—it was not too late.

“Cecilia?” He knocked on the door for good measure.

Dipper’s excited barks turned into a low growl, but Cecilia did not answer.

Annoyed that she would dare to ignore him, he tried the door handle… but it would not turn. His wife had locked him out on their wedding night, and he suspected she would not open the door no matter how hard he knocked or how many times he called her name.

He had set the terms of their marriage, and she was sticking to them, despite her willingness and eagerness to be touched by him before.

“I… just wanted to say goodnight,” he called through the door. “So, goodnight.”

With that, he quickly walked away.

This was what he had wanted, this was what he had insisted upon, this was his doing. She was just abiding by his rules. Indeed, the best thing he could do now would be to lock himself in his tower, so he would not be tempted to try again or imagine an innocent smile that was not there.

It had not been an invitation at all, but a wife being polite to her new husband.

Ye damn fool, Murdoch. Ye damn fool.