Page 20 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

She could not have imagined a lovelier wedding.

The Scottish church had an elegant simplicity: whitewashed walls trimmed in polished wood; rows of gleaming wooden pews; and leaded glass windows that let in beams of golden morning light.

That serenity infused her spirit, reassuring her and renewing her resolve.

Joining Strathburn at the altar before the Scottish minister, with a few witnesses in the pews behind them, she told herself she was embarking on the perfect new direction in life.

Yet when the minister spoke, she quailed, and the flowers that Sir Walter had given her trembled in her grasp. What if this impulsive wedding, her cherished dream, ended poorly?

She breathed slowly, deliberately, and met Strathburn’s steady gaze. He gave a slight smile, but something anxious flickered in his eyes. She was not alone in her nervousness.

You will not regret this, I promise, he had said. She wanted to trust that.

“I do,” she whispered in reply to the minister.

Then Dare pressed her gloved fingers in his and repeated his vows. He was earth, anchor, rock, to her; he was rescuer and risk, all in one.

“I do,” he said. His grip was steady, hers shaky. The fortitude that emanated so naturally from him stirred new resolve in her. She straightened her shoulders. This was meant to be, she told herself. This was what she had always wanted.

Strathburn turned as Lord Linhope stepped forward to hand him something. A ring, she realized.

“Your glove,” her groom whispered.

Surprised, she drew off her left-hand glove and extended her fingers. He slipped the ring on her finger. Delicate stones, colorful and faceted, glittered on a gold band.

Tears pooled in her eyes. She glanced at him under the brim of her bonnet, blue wool and ribbons shielding her expression from everyone but him.

He smiled. The minister pronounced them man and wife, but she hardly heard, lost in those beautiful, dark, deep-set eyes.

Turning with him, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, she faced the small gathering in the quiet church.

She saw wonderful smiles and a few frowns there.

Her heart tumbled with happiness when she saw those seated in the first pew.

But dread tainted that joy when she caught a glimpse of the few witnesses seated in the far back row.

In the front pew, Georgina dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes while Oliver smiled.

They sat with Sir Walter Scott—what an honor to have him here, Hannah thought.

He had been so eager and generous, arranging the ceremony and even finding flowers.

With them were Mr. Lockhart and Lord Linhope.

Friends and family both, and all she needed.

In the back pew, Sir George Naylor sat, tall and wide and frowning.

Beside him was Frederic Dove, scowling like a fiend.

The woman beside him was draped in sooty black, as if she attended a funeral, not a wedding.

Yet under the murky veil, the woman seemed to smile.

Beside her was Charles Dove, lanky and lonely.

Seeing all this in a glance, Hannah felt time slow. Then Strathburn lifted her hand with its sparkling ring, and led her forward.

“They are here!” she whispered as she moved down the aisle beside him, her fingers clutching his arm, feeling steel and sleeve there.

“Smile, lass. Just like me.” He did so, and she lifted her head to echo it.

They stepped outside into October sunshine and a nippy breeze under a blue sky glazed with city smoke. Pausing on the cobbled walk, Strathburn turned with her to wait for the others to exit the church.

Hannah kept close to his side, sheltered from the breeze, shielded as they greeted the others. Seeing the delicate twinkle of the ring on her finger, she felt thrilled and stunned by what the morning had wrought—unexpected and welcome, it would soon change her life.

Sir George approached. “Lord Lyon! Strathburn, sir, I had no idea. And Miss Gordon, my dear, I did not realize you knew Lord Lyon so well. Congratulations!” He took her hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I got your note, my lord,” Naylor told Strathburn. “Now I see you had other reasons to come down to London. You wanted to court this young lady.” He smiled.

“An important reason,” Strathburn admitted smoothly. “We have known each other for a while, and I am fortunate indeed that she allowed me to propose before I went back to Scotland. It was perfect timing, was it not, my dear?”

“Perfect.” She smiled, pressing close.

Frederic Dove approached then, though Mrs. Dove-Lyon hung back, black veiled and mysterious. Both were like dark shadows over her wedding day, Hannah thought. But as she caught the woman’s glance, she saw a gracious nod, and tilted her head in silent response.

“So you intended to marry the girl all along?” Dove asked.

“I did,” said her groom. “We kept it secret.”

“Quite. And now I expect you will return to Scotland.” Dove glared at Hannah, a look she thought others missed. But Strathburn tensed, his arm stiffening under her hand as if he was just managing to hold back the urge to strike the man. She fluttered her fingers on his sleeve.

“We must hurry,” Strathburn replied. “If you will excuse us.”

“So kind of you to come,” Hannah murmured. Dove grunted.

“My dear.” Strathburn spun on his heel to guide her toward the carriage where Sir Walter and Linhope waited.

Hannah stopped. “Oh! I must say goodbye to Georgie and Oliver first!”

“Of course,” he said, as she whirled to run toward Georgina and embrace her.

“Congratulations! He is wonderful,” Georgina said. “I will pack the rest of your things and send them along. Take care! I will come to Scotland to visit you.” She kissed Hannah’s cheek. “You inspire me, Hannah.”

“How so?”

“You found work as an artist, work that benefits others. I want to do the same.”

“Come to Edinburgh and join Papa’s studio,” Hannah urged. “He would be happy to have you. Write to me at Papa’s address. I am not sure yet where I will be.” She glanced at Strathburn. “I do not even know where my husband lives,” she confided in a whisper.

“So many things to discover,” Georgina said with a giggle.

Next Hannah embraced Oliver, whispering that she hoped to attend his wedding someday too. Then she turned to Charles Dove, who stood alone.

“Charley, thank you for coming today.”

“I am happy for you. I am. But I had no idea about this until Sir George had a note from Lord Lyon this morning telling him about the wedding. We all rushed here to witness your marriage to Lord Lyon, of all men! You never said you knew him so well.”

“We met years ago,” she explained.

“My father is not pleased,” he said. “But he is never pleased.”

“I know.”

“He is unhappy to see that Lord Lyon is close friends with Walter Scott. He says Lyon expects to be introduced to the king. Father wants me to be introduced to the king, you see, as the designer of the new royal crest. He does not want that to go to Lyon’s artists.”

“Your father wants you to succeed, Charley. He would…do anything to help you, I’m sure.” The irony of that felt heavy as she took his hand and tried to smile.

Then she remembered, with a sinking feeling, that Charles Dove knew that she had been working on the Scottish crests in secret.

She had confided in him not long before Lyon arrived in London—and she had forgotten about it.

Nor had she had the chance to share her work with Naylor.

Perhaps it was for the best. She would show it to Dare first and ask his advice before she sent the drawings anywhere.

As Lord Lyon, her husband would know the best way to present her drawings.

Fate had continually stepped into her life, she thought. Even the delay in sharing her designs seemed advantageous. Perhaps now that Strathburn was fully part of her life, her luck was truly changing for the better.

“Miss Gordon—Lady Strathburn,” Charley said, “what will I do without you in the art room?”

“You will excel, Charley. You are so talented.”

“Father wants me to supervise the heraldry work someday. I do not want that.”

“You would do well with it. Everyone respects you there. You know heraldry.”

“I hope so. I am not sure. Will you paint for the Scottish office now?”

“I have not thought about it,” she said, raising her brows. “Time will tell.”

“Lord Lyon told Sir George he needs a painter up north.”

“I did not know.” Puzzled by that, she glanced toward her bridegroom. Strathburn stood talking to the lady draped in black, the matchmaker partly responsible for their marriage. When he handed the woman an envelope, she frowned.

Of course, she thought. He was paying the marriage fee. She never needed the contract that Dove had forced on her—Strathburn had wanted to marry her all along. That revelation warmed her all through. Fate again had guided her in this direction.

Would he give Dove an envelope as well? A twist of fear swirled through her. Dove wanted to be paid, but Strathburn didn’t intend to give him anything. He wanted proof, and would haul Dove to court if necessary. She feared Dove would continue to pursue them.

But she was married to Strathburn now, and the sense of protection that brought was a blessing. She wanted to leave all these troubles behind her in London. But the knot in her stomach still remained.

Bidding Charley farewell, she hurried to the carriage. As she walked past Dove, he glared at her so fiercely that she stumbled. Strathburn reached out to take her arm, and she saw him spare a knife-like glance for the older lawyer. Hannah could feel the tension rolling off her husband.

“There you go, lass,” Dare said, handing her into the vehicle.

“Can we go to the port now?” she whispered. “Can we hurry, please?”