The Laird’s Runaway Bride (Charmed by the Sassenachs #1)

Chapter 7

7

As Amelia made her way down the central aisle of the church, she could feel the blood rushing through her veins.

Wearing a simple white gown that grazed against the flagstone floor below; a soft light filtered in through the small windows that lined the pews, though it did not reach a crowd taking in their new union. No, only a small handful of people had attended the wedding. She wondered if that was Arran’s choice, or if there had just been few people who were willing to put aside how swift their engagement had been.

Regardless, here she was, approaching the altar, where her future husband stood waiting for her. He looked handsome, in a fine kilt of red and green tartan, his hair pushed back from his face, his dark stubble freshly shaven. She felt a flush rise in her cheeks as she remembered how it had felt grazing against her skin when he had kissed her the night before last, but she quickly pushed it aside. After all, soon, they’d be doing more than kissing.

Mairead, who had been helping her with her skirt, slipped into one of the slightly uneven pews and smiled at Amelia as she reached the altar. She’d helped Amelia prepare for the day, brushing out her hair and drawing it into a long braid down her back. She wondered, briefly, what her sisters would have thought if they could have seen her now; a bride, her ring finger bare for but a few moments more, as she finally reached Arran where he stood at the head of the church.

Beside him, a priest, dressed in simple white robes with a drape of green and gold around his shoulders planted a hand on the worn pages of the bible beside them.

“If you’re ready,” he remarked. “I’ll begin…”

Arran nodded. Without looking, he reached for her hand, and her breath caught in her throat when she felt his rough fingers against her skin. Was he aware of the effect he had on her? He must have been. Had he been with women before? Questions stormed her mind, questions that should have been nowhere near her head in the middle of a church.

Her ears rang as they made it through the ceremony.

A few people looked out from the pews, though she knew none of them. Sunlight dappled through the windows, a pale, watery shade that cast long shadows on the ground below. One of the strips of light lapped at the hem of her long, simple dress.

All she could take in was the feel of his hand against hers, gripping her tightly, as they both repeated their vows after the priest. That heat was starting to rise in her again, the same one she had been trying to ignore, even though she knew she couldn’t. Something told her that their wedding night, one way or another, might sate it at last.

“I take thee to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

He spoke the words with a confidence that caught her off-guard. How could he be so sure of the choice he was making, knowing that the two of them scarcely knew each other at all? It seemed impossible. But, when he glanced over to her, she found herself echoing the phrase before she could stop herself.

“To obey. Till death do us part.”

Those words were meant to be sacred, a bond between two people who loved and cared for one another, but she hardly knew this man. She should have been outraged that she was being put in such a position in the first place, but she could hardly find it in her. Not when he looked at her the way he did, his eyes unreadable, full of a promise she could hardly wait to uncover.

He pushed the ring on to her finger—a small metal band, far from the fancy gem she had once imagined taking residence on her hand. She gazed down at it for a moment, wondering if she should have felt something more, but instead, all she could think about was how soon they would be alone together.

His hand on the small of her back, he steered her down the aisle. Her husband. The words felt almost surreal to her, and she stole another glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking at her, but she could feel something coming off of him in waves; a low, burning energy that seemed to circle around her and entrap her on the spot.

He pushed open the doors, and outside, a carriage was waiting for them. She raised her eyebrows, a little taken aback. In the short time she had been there, she had never seen anyone in the Keep use a carriage.

“My friend Gregory insisted,” he remarked, as though sensing her incredulity. “He also insisted on havin’ a gathering down in the village, to celebrate.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, glancing down at her wedding dress. She suddenly wished she had something a little more impressive to wear, if she was going to be seeing the people she would stand above as the Laird’s new Lady. He seemed less impressed with the whole affair, and ushered her towards the carriage. Before they reached it, a striking young man leapt out, and held the door for her with a warm smile.

“Ye must be Amelia,” he remarked, nodding to her in greeting. “I’m Gregory. The Laird’ll tell you I’m a bad influence, but he just doesn’t know how to have fun.”

She shot a look over at Arran, trying to parse whether this was all in good fun or not. Judging by the slight smile on his lips, she trusted that this was just the usual banter between friends. He offered her a hand to help her up into the carriage, and Arran soon followed, slipping into the small seat beside her. His leg was pressed against hers in the compressed space, and she could feel the strength of his thigh through the fabric of his kilt. For a moment, she found herself wondering what it must have looked like beneath his clothes, though she swiftly pushed the notion aside.

“So, ye’ve tied yerself to my dear friend Arran, have ye?” Gregory exclaimed with a chuckle. “Ye’ll be the envy of many a woman in the village.”

“I’m sure I will,” she replied, and Gregory let out a bark of laughter.

“Just promise that ye’ll liven the place up a little,” he remarked, leaning forward and lowering his voice conspiratorially, though Arran was just beside her. “God knows we could use a woman’s touch around there.”

“Ye’re not short of a woman’s touch, Gregory,” Arran fired back, the closest thing to a joke he had made since she had met him. A bloom of warmth passed over her chest. Maybe he wasn’t quite as uptight as she had once imagined.

“Aye, ye’re not wrong there,” he agreed, leaning back in his seat with a grin. Though he wasn’t as impressive as Arran, his sunny disposition would surely have attracted plenty of women, especially when compared to Arran’s more stoic nature.

Not that it mattered if any women were interested in Arran. No, he was hers now—or, more likely, she belonged to him . She glanced down at his hand, resting on his knee as Gregory spoke to her, and she wondered if she should reach out and take it. Had he been thinking about the kiss they had shared as much as she had? She wished she had the nerve to ask him, but she could never much tell what was going through his mind, and she was sure the wrong words would just send him flying into a rage. Something bubbled beneath his surface, she was sure of it, though she wasn’t certain she wanted to find out precisely what it was.

When they arrived at the inn, Gregory hopped out, and joined in conversation with the driver, leaving Arran and Amelia alone together. She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. It was their first time spending such time alone with one another since they had gotten married, and her heart was thudding in her chest as she imagined what it might mean for them, what she might be expected to do next…

“We should probably go,” she remarked to him, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. “I… I expect they’re waiting for us, my Laird.”

She spoke to him using his title, suddenly fearful of showing him disrespect. Now that he was her husband, he owned every part of her, body and soul, and could do almost anything he wanted to her.

To her surprise, his hand slid to her face. He moved her head, twisting it slightly so that she was looking him in the eyes.

“Husband. I’m yer husband now. Not yer Laird. And that’s how you’ll address me.”

The commanding tone to his voice stilled her for a moment. Everything else seemed to fall away as she gazed at him, hardly able to respond. His thumb was just an inch or two from her lips, and he reached across, grazing it over her bottom lip, the silky-softness of her skin a contrast against the rough calluses of his hands.

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand. Husband…”

But, before she could speak another word, he drew her towards him once more, their mouths coming together with a raw, desperate hunger that spoke to how much they longed for one another. She gasped against his mouth, as he pulled her into his lap, his hands insistent as one slipped beneath the hem of her wedding dress.

He kissed her, harder this time, his tongue sliding into her mouth with a hunger that seemed to stir from some place deep within him. As his hand edged up her thigh, brushing aside the flimsy fabric of her skirt, the other moved into her hair, fingertips pressing into her scalp. His touch was firm, shuddering through every part of her, the pleasure slithering down her body to pool between her legs. She could feel something stirring beneath his kilt already, and a twist of excitement and nervousness took control of her. Her hands pressed to his chest, she fought the urge to move one down, to feel his manhood right then and there, while the townsfolk were just a matter of yards away, utterly unaware of what their new Lady was doing inside this carriage.

He groaned against her mouth, the vibrations of it coursing through her. The noise was almost animal, as though just a touch from her had drawn some beast out from inside of him, a beast that had waited long enough to slip the ring onto her finger before he made his move.

His hand moved up, up, along her thigh, his fingertips grazing along the crease of her hip. She could feel herself throbbing, her body crying out for him in a way it had never cried out for anyone before, longing, needing…

And then, all at once, a loud bang sounded on the door of the carriage. The two of them sprung apart, like teenage lovers caught in a tryst.

“Are ye coming, or what?”

Gregory yelled cheerfully through the door, seeming to sense that opening it would not be the best idea in that moment. Amelia could feel the blood rushing through her, and she could barely stand to look at Arran as she slipped from his lap and onto the seat beside him, quickly tugging down the skirt of her dress. What would they think of her, if they knew that she had allowed a man, even her husband, to slip his hand beneath her skirt in the back of a carriage like that?

Arran, after quickly adjusting himself, stepped out of the door, and offered her a chaste hand to help her down. She took it, still avoiding his gaze, like their eyes meeting would serve as flint to a stone.

The inn they had arrived at was a modest place, but there was a garland hanging above the door, and she could already hear the bright chatter of the people within. Arran put his hand on the small of her back again, guiding her with ease. She appreciated the way he touched her, as though he could sense that she needed his aid; she was sure she would not have been able to enter the inn with much confidence had it not been for him at her side.

She didn’t know what exactly she was walking into but, as the new Lady of the county, she knew that she would have to convince the people that she was worth trusting.

And that their Laird had not made the wrong choice in choosing to marry her.