Kilted at the Altar by Anna Markland

Author:Anna Markland
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: 0
Published: 2018-01-09T16:00:00+00:00

A Simple Ceremony

HAMMOND WANDERED AROUND the church, shoulders hunched and muttering as if he feared the ghost of John Calvin himself might strike him dead for entering a papist shrine. He finally settled on the elaborate walled tomb of the eighth MacRain chief as a suitable backdrop for the ceremony.

The handful of MacKeegan clansmen who’d accompanied Grig seemed equally uncomfortable amid the tombs of long-dead MacRain chiefs. Every cough, sniffle, footfall and whisper echoed off the stone walls and tiled floor.

The afternoon sun had chased away the rain, yet water dripped slowly into some unknown pool. Darroch suspected the sound never ceased.

“I reckon the roof needs repairs,” his captain whispered, looking up at the soaring arched ceiling. The dark wooden beams seemed almost new compared to the ancient nave over which they brooded.

Mumbled agreement arose from men and women of both clans. The building likely hadn’t seen such a gathering for many a year. Damp wool and the smell of the living had helped chase away the stale odor of decay.

Darroch sought to ease his nervous anticipation by studying the riot of carved ornamentation above the effigy of the eighth chief himself—the four evangelists, the twelve apostles, a hunting scene with deer, angels blowing trumpets, a birlinn, Dungavin Castle, the Virgin Mary cradling her babe. He assumed Hammond had decided to pay no mind to that Popish image.

He’d counted and recounted the figures, the angels, even the points on the deer antlers when he finally heard Fanny’s voice and knew Isabel had arrived. He fingered the sprig of juniper pinned to his plaid, pleased his men had managed to find a clump of the shrub after a bit of a search. Inhaling deeply to slow his racing heart, he uttered a prayer of thanks to whatever saintly ghosts lingered in this holy place, acknowledging his marriage was off to a much better start here than in Dun Scaith. Duty had forced him to the altar there. Now he was a man motivated by love.

He turned to watch Isabel walk towards him, arm in arm with Fanny. The faces of both women were flushed, a result of climbing the hill to the church. He couldn’t see the hatpin, but had no doubt it was keeping the hat firmly in place on his bride’s braided hair.

He licked his lips. Soon he’d be loosening the braid and sifting his fingers through her crowning glory.

An errant thought popped into his head. He’d given no thought as to where they’d spend their wedding night.

*

WHILE ISABEL BATHED at the pump, Fanny had worked feverishly to clean the riding habit, but it still looked rather the worse for wear. And if anyone had foretold she’d be wearing a muffin hat and thigh-high riding boots when she got married, well…

Blue whined when she admonished him to stay outside the church, but he obeyed.

As she walked resolutely toward her betrothed, boot heels echoing on the tiles, she suspected the red dress she’d planned to wear for the ill-fated ceremony at Dungavin wouldn’t have elicited the same appreciative gleam in Darroch’s green eyes.

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