Her Scottish Groom (35 page)

Across from her, Kieran lounged back on his elbows. Sunlight fell on his face and neck where he had unbuttoned his shirt. “Actually, I spoke to him about it a few days ago.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Touched and oddly shy at the idea that he had planned their picnic in advance, she ducked her head. “This is one of the loveliest afternoons I’ve ever spent.”

“It’s not over yet.” Rising in one fluid motion, he held a hand out and assisted her to her feet. “There’s somewhere else I’d like to show you.”

“More surprises?” She brushed some dried bracken off the skirt of her riding habit. At his innocent expression, she rolled her eyes. “Very well, but it had better be as nice as this was.”

She spoke in a tone of mock severity, but he answered soberly. “I hope you think so.” His aqua eyes searched her face intently for a moment before he released her.

In the time they finished packing up the leftover food and utensils into their protective layers of straw and newspapers, the sun had shifted slightly to the west. Despite the warm afternoon, Kieran insisted they put their jackets back on. Picking up the carefully folded plaid from its place on the ground, he shook it out and rearranged it over his clothing.

Eyeing the woolen length, Diantha shook her head. “You’re going to roast.”

He shot a smile at her. “It’s important.”

“For what?” The smile widened to a grin as he shook his head and knelt to toss her into the saddle. After she mounted, she sighed. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a remarkably stubborn man?”

“It has been mentioned, yes.” With a chuckle, Kieran climbed onto his horse and led them toward a hillock in the distance. Birdcalls and the buzz of insects filled the companionable silence between them.

As they drew closer, Diantha noticed that it seemed to be crowned with a ruin of some kind. She studied it as they approached along a barely discernable path through the heather.

“It looks like a Norman keep.”

“It is a Norman keep. Or at least as close to one as we could build in the 1100s.” Reining in his horse for a moment, her husband stared up at the crumbled walls. “One of my ancestors was a Norman knight who fled England after he crossed Henry I,
during the reign of Alexander I of Scotland. After distinguished service to the chieftain, he married his eldest daughter and was taken into the clan.” They started up the trail again.

Riding next to him, Diantha listened to the pride in his voice. “Fascinating. What was his name? Did they live happily ever after?”

“We don’t know his original name. He took our name when he married.” He paused. “It was probably an arranged match, but I’d like to think they were happy.”

Their glances met and by mutual consent, they left this dangerous subject. Instead, Kieran told her the history of the old keep, how it had sheltered generations of Rossburns.

“You’ve studied it a great deal.” Diantha looked up as they passed through what had been the outermost gate. Blue sky stretched above them through the collapsed arch.

“Exploring this place was my favorite pastime as a boy.” He stopped his horse and she did likewise.

“With all this falling stone?” She shuddered as they dismounted near an enormous pile of rubble. Mefisto and Dancer immediately fell to grazing on the long grass. “It’s a wonder you weren’t killed then.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, I spoke without thinking.”

“Please.” He leaned over to touch her arm. “We’re both alive, and safe. I don’t want to think about Barclay and Iona, and I don’t want you to. Today is for us.” He held her hand until she gave a tiny nod.

“Besides, I never felt the least endangered here.

Perhaps the spirits of Rossburns past protected me.” He bent to tether the horses.

“Or you were a heedless boy.” After a shout of laughter at her tart remark, he drew her arm through his as they strolled among the remains of the bailey. He showed her the rocky outlines of several storerooms as they crossed to the roofless great hall. He even coaxed Diantha up a set of stairs creeping along the wall to a sturdy section of rampart. After looking out at the vast view of the Highlands beyond, she sighed and turned to lean her back against the worn stones.

“This is splendid. No wonder you’re drawn to the place.”

“You surprise me. My father used to bring me here when I was a boy, but no one else in the family visits.” He placed a steadying arm over her shoulder as a stronger gust blew against them. “Too remote, I suppose.”

Below, she spied a nearly intact building with an arched doorway in it.

“What is that?” His gaze followed her pointing finger.

“Next on the tour.” After he carefully led her back down the narrow stairway, they made their way across the keep.

At the threshold she stopped and peeked inside. “Amazing.” She lowered her voice instinctively. “I wonder how it survived.”

A line of window openings on each side allowed enough light to illuminate the stone altar under a Celtic cross carved into the back wall. A few clumps of grass thrust through breaks in the stone floor,
but the chapel had suffered less decay than the rest of the keep.

“I like to think there’s an element of divine intervention.” She slanted a glance up at Kieran, but he spoke seriously. “It always seemed so restful in here.”

She had to agree. The windows allowed fresh air and light in, but sheltered by the bailey walls, very few of the outside breezes entered. The warm air barely stirred.

Linking hands, they slowly approached the altar. Someone must have carved the cross with a great deal of care, she decided. She stepped forward to examine it more closely, but a hand on her arm restrained her. She looked at Kieran in confusion.

He in turn regarded her soberly. “I’ve wanted to do this since the night Barclay tried to kill me.” Turning her to face him fully, he took her hands and tenderly kissed each in turn. He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes.

“I, Kieran Moray St. Colm, take thee, Diantha Susanne to be my wife. I promise to be a loving, faithful, and loyal husband to you as long as we both shall live.”

Diantha gulped down a small sob. Another followed. He brushed the tears from her face with his thumbs. Finding her voice at last, she replied.

“I, Diantha Susanne, take thee, Kieran Moray St. Colm, to be my husband. I promise to be a loving, faithful, and loyal wife to you as long as we live.”

She saw a track of moisture on his cheek when she finished. Slowly he unfastened the clan badge and lifted his plaid off. She stood immobile as he wrapped her in the woolen length, fastening it with
the brooch. “Welcome to the family.” He cradled her face in his hands. “My lovely, brilliant, foolishly loyal wife.”

“My kind, beautiful, far too stubborn husband.” The words scarcely left her mouth before his lips touched hers in the sweetest kiss they had ever shared.

“Our first kiss as true man and wife.” He rested his forehead against hers.

“Actually, I thought that might have been last night.” She hiccupped as a chuckle escaped her.

“You’re spoiling the moment.” Even as his chest shook with laughter, a warm drop fell from his closed eyes and rolled down her cheek. “I’ve wanted to feel this kind of love all my life, but didn’t think it existed. And it nearly cost you your life before I realized I’d found it.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me.” She pressed her face against his chest.

“I will always want you.” His lips brushed the top of her head. “More important, I love you. I will love you for the rest of my days and beyond.” For long moments, they embraced loosely, letting the light and peace of the old chapel fill their hearts.

Finally, sliding an arm around her waist, he led her to the doorway. She stopped and looked back, wanting to remember every detail of what she would always think of as her true wedding day.

Shakily, Diantha stepped through the arch and searched fruitlessly in her pockets under her husband’s quizzical gaze. “I don’t suppose a kilt has any room for a pocket handkerchief, does it?”

Another chuckle escaped him. “I’m afraid not.”

She mopped her eyes on her sleeve and took a shaky breath. “They do seem to be rather inconvenient garments.”

“On the contrary, they can be remarkably useful for some activities.”

She sniffed. “I hardly think there is sufficient time to raid any rival clans before teatime.”

“That wasn’t the activity I had in mind.” She regarded him with a furrowed brow as a slow smile spread up to his eyes.

“Haven’t you ever wondered what a Scotsman wears underneath a kilt?” Recognizing the wicked twinkle in those aqua depths, she gasped in indignation.

“Kieran! Are you telling me that you’re not wearing—that you’re completely—” She broke off as an entirely different emotion surged through her. “Really?”

He smirked at her. “Really. And I think I know where the lord’s bedchamber used to be.”