CHAPTER TWO
T ears were burning behind Paige’s eyes as her maid pinned the pearl-tipped comb into her hair. She was not angry, she was not furious, stunned or even feeling betrayed— Paige was numb.
It was the day of her marriage to the hellraiser of the McKinnon Clan and if she made herself think too much about it, she knew she would dissolve into sobs.
“Paige,” her mother said behind her, “Please daenae fret. I ken it isnae what ye wanted but if ye fret about it, it might make it that much worse.”
“I am nae frettin’, Mama,” she said.
In truth, she was not worrying. The deep-seated dread that had settled into the pit of her stomach from the moment she’d heard about the marriage surpassed worry.
Her maid Innes pulled her hair back into a long braid, then wrapped the braid around her head and pinned in place. Deftly, she wove in a few ribbons to give her flaxen hair a flair.
She stood and turned, looking down at her wedding dress. The tails of her finely woven wool dress were a faint bluish-grey with long bell sleeves. It was simple and well-fitting, but fashionable. Her mother pinned the sash of her clan around her left shoulder to her hip.
Her mother held Paige’s face, “I urge ye to find the good in the midst of this. Mayhap in due time, ye and this man can have a civil, even happy union.”
I doubt that will happen.
A knock on the door had them turning and as Innes answered, another young woman in dark clothing entered. She curtsied; the sun’s rays turned her dark red hair into a burnished brass. “Good mornin’, me ladies. I am Maisie Grant, and I was sent by Laird McKinnon to be yer maid, Lady Paige.”
Paige shared a look with her mother before she addressed the young woman, “Thank ye for comin’ but I question why. I already have a maid.”
“I will be yer lady’s maid when we return to Clan McKinnon.”
“But—”
“As much as we might like to talk this over, we daenae have time to do it now,” Daisy stopped them. “It’s time to head to the chapel.”
The chapel, affixed to the east end of the castle was large enough to hold thirty people. Her father had used it to hold masses for other lairds before they went to meetings.
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window above the altar and shone upon the hanging crucifix. If she weren’t filled with such misery and resentment, she would have admitted that the light, with dust motes floating around the cross, was beautiful.
Her father was in his finest clothes, his kilt trimmed with a fur collar and hemmed in gold. Paige inhaled deeply and tried not to cry. She couldn’t be weak even while grief sat like a boulder in her chest, but she would not succumb to it.
“Hold yer chin up.” Her father told her. “Ye cannae be soft in front of him .”
As if summoned, her gaze lifted to the man at the other end of the hall. His tall, lean body, broad shoulders, and muscular chest were clothed in a great kilt of reds and gold tartan.
The tunic underneath was crisp white and richly embroidered with gold threads. It stretched tautly across his, the tunic fell to his knees, meeting the tops of fine leather boots. The sun gave his thick, tawny brown hair a burnished gleam and he was clean-shaven, which was odd for a highland Scot.
His granite chin and hard-edged features gave him a distinctively wolfish mien. He was too far away to see his eyes, but when he met her gaze, her heart beat a rapid staccato.
The priest was waited for them at the altar. Laird McKinnon turned to nod to the man beside him, moments before he strode over to her. Paige felt like a mouse trapped in the eyes of a goshawk as he came closer.
“MacPherson,” he addressed her father while his eyes rested on her. “A moment with yer daughter alone.”
“I’d prefer if I stayed?—”
“I dinnae ask ,” the beast said, “We will talk alone.”
His stern tone had the people around them bowing away, even her father, who looked mulish doing so.
This close, his heavy-lidded eyes half-covered his intense blue-black irises. The color was like that of the deepest loch, bottomless and infinite.
Half his hair hung down to his shoulders, and half was tied back with a leather thong. A thin crimson scar pulled taut along the right side of his face near his mouth.
“I daenae want this,” Paige said, bitterness turning her voice brittle.
“Neither do I, but here we are lass,” he said, the hard lines of his mouth softening for an instant. “There is nothin’ ye can do about it. Or do ye want to face the King’s wrath?”
“I ken who ye are. Ye’re a murderer,” she said hollowly.
His lips tightened, “Have ye ever been in war lass? Nay, of course ye havenae. Nae with those butter soft hands of yers, I reckon. To survive, it is kill or be killed. If we daenae marry, the king will make sure we are dead.”
She turned away and muttered, “That might be better.”
A snort came from him and then she heard the subtle shrrk of metal against leather. “Have at it then.”
What ?
Paige turned to find him holding the handle of a dagger to her by its cross guards.
The blade glinted in the bright sunlight and her belly shivered at the insinuation. His face was unreadable as he held the weapon to her; her eyes flickered from the weapon to the man holding it.
It felt like a cruel taunt.
“Put it away,” she said.
“Are ye sure?” he asked, “Ye said ye’d prefer to be dead than marry a murderer.”
“Ye’re a brute,” she whispered.
The brute had a glint in his eye as he sheathed the dagger. “Stop ragin’. We will marry.”
Paige’s throat was constricted, and she felt tears sting her eyelids. “Why do ye want me to have a new maid? I already have one.”
“I daenae trust yer faither and I will nae have a spy in me house,” he said.
“Me maid is loyal to me.”
“Yer maid is bound to yer faither and if he wants something he will have it,” he said.
“Ahem,” the priest cleared his throat, his dark eyes flitting from Ruben to Paige. “May both parties please come to the altar, we are ready to proceed.”
Ruben grasped her arm and bowed, “We’ve a weddin’ to attend.”
Her very soul rankled at his words and tone, he was treating her like a recalcitrant child and not as the grown woman with her own mind that she was.
The cleric looked between them, then to her father—who was silently stewing in fury—and lastly to the cadre of the Brute’s soldiers who were around them. Paige was sure that so many weapons in the house of God was a sin.
She held her frustration in; no sobs, no cries of outrage, no pleading with her father to stop this.
Mutely, she stood at the Beast’s side. The cleric wound a length of plaid around their hands, joining the two of them together.
Then he hefted the ancient bible and began to drone on with the psalms to bless this union.
I already feel cursed.
“…and do ye, Ruben Miller, Laird of McKinnon clan take this woman, Paige Bradley, daughter of Laird MacPherson, to be yer wedded wife —”
“Aye. Move on,” the Brute clipped.
“Do ye, Paige Bradley, daughter of Laird MacPherson take Ruben Miller, Laird McKinnon to be yer wedded husband, love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health? Do ye pledge to forsake all others, keep only to her as long as ye both shall live?”
Any horror she might have previously felt was now dwarfed as she realized she was about to wed McKinnon. A man she hated to the depths of her soul.
The priest frowned at her silence, “Me lady?”
“She does.” Ruben said brusquely.
Nervously the cleric looked to Ruben, “I beg yer pardon, yer lairdship, I need to have her response.”
Paige could not bring herself to say the words.
“Ye will respond, woman,” Ruben said, his voice was low and threatening.
Air scraped through her throat as she took a desperate breath. “…I will nae.”