The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (30 page)

Chapter 26: The Ten of Cups

It was now Midsummer’s Eve and Cat was sitting at the skirted vanity in the bartizan dressing room at
Tur-nan-Deur
, putting the finishing touches on her hair and makeup. Behind her, in a zippered vinyl garment bag, hung her wedding dress. She’d been lucky enough to score it off the sale rack at an Inverness bridal boutique. It was new, but had a vintage
je ne sais quois
with its fitted lace bodice and tea-length full skirt. The traditional sash in the Logan tartan would complete the look, along with the fussy up-do Avery had spent half the morning teasing, pinning, and spraying.

“
You look beautiful, Cat. Really beautiful. And so happy.”

“I am happy,”
she returned, beaming at Avery in the looking glass.

Avery
turned and unzipped the garment bag, setting Cat’s stomach aflutter. Butterflies of anticipation, not nerves. She wasn’t the least bit nervous about marrying Graham. On the contrary, she couldn’t wait to be his wife and the mistress of
Tur-nan-Deur
, where they’d decided to live. She couldn’t wait to see him all decked out in his Highland finery, either. Or to get him out of it as soon as the formalities ended.

The groom
was getting ready downstairs, in the bedchamber adjoining the priest hole. He’d slept there alone for the past fortnight while she’d slept up here in the tower. She hadn’t seen him since they said their goodbyes in the drawing room last night, with an annoyingly platonic peck on the cheek. They’d been chaste since they became engaged—at his insistence. To make the wedding night more special, ostensibly.

“I’ve been waiting two hundred years to marry
you,” he’d said, “and want everything to be perfect.”

She’d
bitten her tongue despite wanting to point out she’d been waiting thirty years to get shagged and wanted to make up for lost time—not wait, for pity’s sake. Neither did she mention how much she was itching to know what it would be like now that he was human again. Or was that the problem? Was he afraid of disappointing her?

Taking a deep breath, she
stepped into her gown. No, everything would be perfect. In a few minutes, they’d exchange their vows under the hawthorn tree in the garden—a few feet from where they’d buried Fitzgerald under a cairn with his feet pointing skyward. The wedding planner MacCabe used, a fastidious woman named Enid Worthington, had erected an iron arbor for the purpose. Her helpers had decorated it with the same roses, ivy, heather, thistle, and tartan ribbon as in the bridal bouquet now resting beside her elbow. It was perfect, as was everything.

She’d never really dreamed about her wedding the way other girls did. Had she, her dream wedding would have been exactly what they’d planned
: a handfasting in the garden on Midsummer’s Eve. As luck would have it, Mrs. Worthington knew a pagan clergyman who performed the sort of ceremony she had in mind. Graham had expressed his desire to be married by a priest, but hadn’t insisted on it.

Her parents had declined
her invitation to attend, which hurt some, but so it goes. Some people tried to use love as a weapon or to manipulate and control others. But she was too old and independent to change her beliefs to suit anyone but herself. And she wasn’t about to let bloody-mindedness spoil her wedding day. Or her happiness. She was marrying the man she loved, the man she was born to be with, the other half of her soul.

“Are
you ready?”

As
Avery swept the wedding dress out of the bag, she rose from the dressing table, being careful not to step on Wallace and Bruce, who lay at her feet. They’d been groomed, perfumed, and festooned with big tartan bows for the ceremony. In the absence of her father, the dogs were walking her down the aisle. Mrs. Worthington and MacCabe had rustled up a couple dozen guests from the surrounding area. Merchants, farmers, neighbors, and the like—locals to whom the elusive laird of
Tur-nan-Deur
was a both a mystery and a celebrity.

Avery unzipped and lowered the gown so
she could step in without messing up her coif. Her underpinnings consisted of a strapless longline white torsolette, thigh-high stockings, a lace thong, and a half-slip with oodles of foofy black crinoline to poof out the gown’s full skirt. She chose black to create an edgy yin-and-yang effect. The underlying dark side and all. Her shoes were simple satin pumps with a pointy toe and low heel to avoid breaking an ankle walking across the grass.

Mrs. Worthington, with her consent, had hired a string quartet. Cat was not, however, content to do the traditional uber-traditional thing and walk down the ais
le to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March or even Pachelbel’s Canon. Oh, no. She would walk down the aisle behind a bagpiper playing
Love Divine
.

“Let’s go,” Avery said. “It’s show
time.”

Nerves
aquiver, heart overflowing, the bride took up her bouquet and the dog’s leashes and let the Westies lead her down the spiral staircase, across the drawing room, and out the side door leading into the garden.

It was
a perfect day for a garden wedding. Warm, sunny, and clear with a slight onshore breeze to cool the skin. She took a deep breath, drawing in the intermingled scents of sunbaked plants, sea, and wedding flowers. It was time to at last become his wife and she couldn’t wait—even if the only family member in attendance on either side was a ghost watching from an upper window.

Her heart, already in her throat, nearly leapt out of her mouth as the piper stepped in front of her. He was an older gentleman with a bit of a paunch, but still lo
oked impressive in his ceremonial costume. He gave her a nod as he blew into the chanter to inflate the bellows. The pipes began to drone—a low, mournful sound—then struck a pair of high, shrill notes before settling into the tune.

The piper set off and was halfway down the aisle before Avery
stepped in between him and the bride. Cat drew a deep breath to steady her nerves before starting herself, fighting the eager dogs to keep a slow, measured pace. Ahead, clustered around the arbor, were Benedict, Avery, and the cleric. When her gaze fell on her bridegroom, her breath caught and her blood surged, heating her face.

He
was—
gulp
—resplendent. His hair, pulled back in a tight braid, shone in the sunlight like a copper halo. Over his kilt, he wore the formal Prince Charlie coat and waistcoat, the modern Highland equivalent of a tuxedo. All she could see of his shirt was a bit of ruffle at the collar and cuffs. His kilt was a muted green and blue with intersecting bars of vermillion, yellow, and black. The ancient Logan tartan. It was the same one she and the dogs wore. Another large swath of plaid hung from his right shoulder, where it was secured by an ornate silver brooch with a large golden gem in the center. His favorite fox sporran filled out the breathtaking ensemble.

H
e was better than any fictional Highlander because he was real. And would be her husband very soon. She turned the idea over in her mind, still unable to grasp the reality. She was getting married. To a man she loved with all her heart and soul. A man who fulfilled and completed her.

If this is a dream, may I never awaken
!

When
she reached the arbor, Benedict took the dogs, Avery relieved her of the bouquet, and her gorgeous groom leaned in and whispered, “You’re a vision,
m’aingael
. I’m quite undone.”

The cleric cleared his throat. As they turned to face him, he said, “What greater thing is there for two soul
s than to feel they are joined together for life—to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, and to be one with each other in silent, unspeakable memories? The vows you exchange today will join your souls in this way—in this and future lives. Do you wish to proceed with the handfasting?”

“We do,” they replied in unison.

The cleric said more, but the buzzing in her head drowned out most of his words. She came back when he asked them to join hands and look into one another’s eyes. As they did, she observed with detached fascination how Graham’s hand trembled as much as hers. Was he as nervous as she was?

She
’d so far avoided looking at him, but now glanced up to find him staring down at her. His face was pale and his eyes looked like clouded emeralds. She tried to smile at him, but the corners of her mouth refused to obey. The pressure of his fingers on hers increased, giving her the impression he would fall over if she let go. Oddly, the feeling heartened her. Come what may, good or ill, they would endure it together with hands clasped.

The cleric produced a tartan ribbon and proceeded to tie it around their joined hands.
He then looked at the groom. “Will you cause her pain?”

“I may
.”

His
voice was steady, but his hands shook. She squeezed his fingers to spur him on. The blood drained from her brain, making the words sound far away. A chill crept through her even as sweat pooled under the layers of her gown. She prayed she wouldn’t faint. Or worse, throw up.

“Is that your intent?” the cleric asked.

“No.”

She
swallowed hard and took a deep, bracing breath. It was her turn.

“Will
you cause him pain?”

“I may.”

“Is that your intent?”

“No.”

To both of them as a couple, he asked, “Will you share each other’s pain and seek to ease it?”

“
Aye,” Graham replied a second ahead of her “Yes.”

Several similar exchanges followed. W
ould they look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other? Would they share each other’s burdens so their spirits might grow in the union? Would they dream together to create new realities and hopes? Would they take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of their marriage? Would they honor one another and never give cause to break that honor?

A
s they answered each question, the cleric wrapped another ribbon around their joined hands. Finally, it was time to exchange their vows. Graham went first, speaking in Gaelic a handful of sentences that sounded like gibberish. With all due diligence, she repeated the nonsensical syllables, fudging her way through some of the more challenging pronunciations.

“What did we say?” she whispered, hoping he hadn’t tricked her into agreeing to obey him.

“An old Celtic vow,” he replied, keeping his voice low.

She blinked up at him.
“I gathered that, but—”

The
cleric cleared his throat to regain their attention and then removed the ribbons from their hands. “May the god and goddess in their goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with their blessings. What they have joined, let no one put asunder.” With a beaming smile, he turned to Graham. “You may now kiss your bride.”

When
her big, handsome husband bent to kiss her, it was clear he intended only a pious peck on the lips, but she did her best to draw him in. It didn’t take much. She forgot the cleric and their guests as he gathered her in his arms and surrendered his tongue. The world fell away and for several exquisite moments, it was as if they were the only two souls in the whole of existence.

* * *

Ceremony now over, she couldn’t wait to get her gorgeous groom alone. He looked so bloody hot in his Highland attire she was on fire to get her hands on him. A fortnight of abstinence had reduced her to a quivering ball of need. At present, they were in the receiving line Mrs. Worthington had insisted upon with Avery and Benedict, who were being obnoxiously lovey-dovey. Word the laird was coming home to
Tur-nan-Deur
had spread like, well, parish gossip. All were welcome to the reception, apparently. A seemingly endless stream of people ushered past, shaking their hands, kissing her cheek, wishing them joy, and telling her how lovely she looked.
Shit
. Had MacCabe invited everyone on the Black Isle? After forty minutes of this mind-numbing ritual, she began looking for ways to amuse herself.

They were in the
castle’s foyer with their backs to Bonny Dundee. Assuming her bridegroom was “going regimental,” she slipped her hand around to his bum and started to inch up the pleats of his kilt. He was either oblivious or pretended to be. When at last she achieved her objective, she cupped one of his cheeks and gave it a gentle squeeze. He shot her a deriding look, reached around to her hand, and plucked it off his arse. His kilt dropped like a theatre curtain, ending her fun. She offered him a pout he didn’t see.

Tucking the offending hand i
nto the crook of his elbow—to forestall another attack, presumably—he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Behave yourself, Lady Logan.”

She smiled, liking the sound of her new name, especially in his sexy burr
, despite his admonishing tone.

Wh
en the line of well-wishers finally reached an end, the piper reappeared and escorted the wedding party into the ballroom. Cat’s jaw dropped when she saw how the wedding planner had transformed the space into a woodland wonderland. The tables, draped in sheets of green and brown moss, glowed with hundreds of tiny votives. In the center of each stood a towering crystal flute filled with twinkling tree branches. More shimmering branches hung from the ceiling. The effect was dazzling.