Forevermore (2 page)

"That's our signal," Mr. Leslie said. "I expect I should fetch the bride."

When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. "May I come with you?"

"Of course you may, princess."

"Princess," Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how she'd ended up holding a marquess's niece. And what she was supposed to do with her.

She glanced up to ask Mr. Leslie, but he was already too distant and Mary was happily chatting away. She wondered if perhaps she'd lost her daughter to this man.

Mary had always dreamed of being a princess.

Cameron Leslie was known to be a wee bit quiet. A man of simple needs, he didn't want for much. But when he did find something he wanted, he generally got it.

At the moment he was wanting Clarice Bradford. Or his body was, at least. His head told him he couldn't come to that conclusion following a five-minute conversation.

Good Lord, he mused as he climbed the steps to his cousin's chamber, in all his twenty-four years he'd never found himself attracted to a woman as he was to Clarice. Her quiet dignity, her wholesome beauty, something in her large gray eyes. The way she so clearly adored her delightful daughter.

A pity his time here in England was so short. He'd like to get to know the lass, but he had less than a week before he needed to head home to Scotland.

Wondering how much persuading Clarice would take to spend some time with him, he knocked on his cousin's door and called through the sturdy oak to ask if she was ready.

When the door opened, his jaw dropped. "Cait?" Dressed for her wedding, she looked different from the girl he'd known since her birth. Unbound from its customary plaits, her dark blond hair, so much like his, hung straight and loose to her waist. She wore cosmetics and a sky-blue gown trimmed in silver lace. An English gown.

"Good Lord," he said. "Cait, you look lovely."

"Thank you." She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling as she surveyed his own attire, a deep blue velvet suit that he'd borrowed from one of the groom's brothers. He suspected Caithren thought he looked as English as she. She aimed a curious glance at the wee lassie who still held his fingers gripped tight. "And who is this?"

"Her name is Mary, and she and her mother are special guests. She, uh, attached herself to me." Cam lifted his hand, and Mary's little hand came up with it. Though he gave a sheepish shrug, his heart swelled, warm and pleased. "She may be walking down the aisle with us."

Caithren knelt, her silk skirts pooling around her. "Good day," she said.

"Good day," Mary returned in a small, polite voice. "I am pleased to meet you, my lady."

"I'm not—" Cait started.

"You'll be a lady within the hour," Cam interrupted with a teasing smile. "You may as well get used to it." He knew firsthand how difficult it was to adjust to a new station in life, having unexpectedly found himself to be a baronet after Caithren's brother died last month. He blew out a breath. "I, on the other hand, will never get used to being a sir."

"Aye, you will." Cait stood and linked her arm though his. "Shall we go?"

Bagpipe music swelled when they reached the double front doors and stepped out into the sunshine. It was a glorious day to be wed, the quadrangle redolent with the scent of newly-cut grass, the sky blue as Cait's gown and dotted with wee, puffy white clouds. Cameron's gaze swept the enormous castle's crenelated walls and the ancient keep while he mentally compared it to the tiny castle he'd recently inherited in Scotland. Beyond the timeworn tower, the grass grew high and untamed.

"Gudeman's croft," Caithren murmured.

"What is that?" Mary asked.

Cameron knelt down to her. "A place allowed to grow free as a shelter for brownies and fairies."

"Oh." Mary's eyes opened wide. "Do you know stories of brownies and fairies?"

"Many. But they'll have to wait for later." With his free hand, Cam ruffled her unruly curls, then he stood and faced Cait. "It's really the old tilting yard. Colin told me they don't groom it since it's long been in disuse."

"I knew that." Her lips curved in a soft smile as she scanned her new home. "Can you believe this place, Cam?"

He met her hazel eyes. "You always were meant to live in a castle, sweet Cait."

"Aye," she said, no doubt thinking of her family's tiny castle at home—Cameron's castle now. "But who'd have ever guessed it would be such an enormous, historic one…and in England?"

"You'll do fine." Though they'd always been inseparable and he would miss her terribly, Cam knew in his heart she belonged here at Cainewood with the marquess she'd come to love. He leaned to kiss her forehead, then looked up. "There's your man now."

When her gaze flew to her intended, her face lit at the sight of him. Suddenly Cameron ached for the security this tall, dark-haired man so clearly enjoyed—a woman to love and a place that truly felt like his own.

A family.

Now that Cait was staying here in England, Cameron felt very alone. A family would be comforting. With several bairns who would grow up and help him make the Leslie estate into everything he and Cait had always dreamed it could be.

Clarice walked over to take Mary by the hand. "It's time," she said gently, and reluctantly the wee lass released her grip on Cam. The girl looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes lingering on him as the woman led her away.

"Her mother?" Cait guessed.

"Aye. Her name is Clarice Bradford. You'll like her." Cameron's gaze followed the two as they walked toward the gatehouse on their way to Cainewood's private chapel. Clarice's rich brown hair gleamed beneath a pink-ribboned straw hat. Her pink dress was simple compared to those of Caithren and the other women, but it suited her perfectly.

Cameron was simple as well.

He turned to take Cait by both hands. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"More ready than I ever thought possible." Smiling at him, she squeezed his fingers. "You know, Mam always said it's better to marry over the midden than over the muir."

"I've heard that said, that it's wise to stick within your own circle." Unbidden, his gaze flicked over to Clarice. "But I'm not sure I believe it."

"I don't believe it, either." Caithren's own gaze trailed to her groom, waiting for her by the barbican. "I reckon even mothers are wrong sometimes."

"A Scots funeral is merrier than an English wedding," the very-Scottish bride declared.

The fairytale wedding was speeding past. Clarice dragged her unfocused gaze from the dining room's diamond paned windows to the long mahogany table, set with fine china and crystal she'd seen before only in stories. The stack of marzipaned wedding cakes that had sat in the middle had been reduced to one—hers.

"Thank you." Dazed, she smiled up at the servant removing her supper plate, which was still piled embarrassingly high with the most delicious food she'd ever tasted. As another servant set the cake before her, she sipped yet again from her seemingly never-empty goblet of spiced wine.

No matter how ridiculous she told herself she was acting, her attention all evening had remained focused on the man beside her. She'd nodded and grinned and drank to all the loudly proclaimed wedding toasts, and now she was feeling lightheaded. Cameron Leslie—
Sir
Cameron Leslie, as it turned out, for she'd learned that he was not only young and charming and gut-wrenchingly handsome, but also a baronet—had flirted outrageously through it all. When he wasn't slanting her heated glances or touching her surreptitiously, he was being attentive to her daughter—a sure way to any mother's heart.

Now they all turned to the beautiful bride as she rose with a scrape of her lattice-backed chair. "Whatever happened to that bagpiper?"

Lord Cainewood shrugged. "I think he's eating in the kitchen." His face seemed to radiate a happiness Clarice had never seen. She was thrilled that her suffering and Mary's hadn't been for naught—while senseless, at least it had played a small part in bringing these two people together.

"Well, would somebody fetch him already?" The new Lady Cainewood moved from the table and shook out her gleaming silk skirts. "I'll be wanting to dance."

Following the others' lead, Clarice stood and listened to the bride's instructions. "Hold hands in a circle, lads and lassies alternating."

Clarice found herself between Sir Cameron and one of Lord Cainewood's brothers, holding two strange men's hands. Aristocratic men, no less.

Lud, this must be a dream.

"That's it," the bride said. "Now, who has a handkerchief?" When one of the men produced one, she handed it to Sir Cameron. "You take the middle since you know what to do."

Clarice didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed when Sir Cameron released her to do his cousin's bidding. The piper arrived, and Clarice's mouth gaped open when the bride kicked off her high-heeled blue satin shoes. Laughing, her two sisters-in-law did the same.

"Mrs. Bradford?" Sir Cameron tapped her on the arm. "Are you not going to take off your shoes?"

She looked at the women's silk-stockinged feet and then down to her own, clad in wool stockings concealed by shoes both flat and sensible. Surely she could dance in them. Lud, she wouldn't take them off, regardless. Not in front of Lord Cainewood and all his family.

She shook her head, glad when Mary provided a distraction by pulling off her own little brown shoes and gleefully tossing them into a corner. Laughter erupted all around when her stockings followed.

"Very well." The new Lady Cainewood turned to the piper. "We'll have a reel, if you please."

Around and around they went in time to the rousing tune, until Sir Cameron came from the center to his cousin. The circling stopped, and he laid the lace-edged hankie in a neat square at her feet. They knelt on either side, and she bestowed him with a kiss on the lips. This met with laughter and Clarice's startled gasp. But she could sense an affection between the cousins that made her heart warm; she wondered how much they would miss each other.

Lady Cainewood snatched up the handkerchief and took her place in the middle. Around they went again, dancing until she chose her new husband. Their kiss was long and deep. Clarice's cheeks went hot, and she averted her eyes, only to find Sir Cameron watching her in a way that made her cheeks burn hotter. Casually his hand slipped around her waist, making her more uncomfortable, and somehow she thought he was enjoying her discomfort. Or rather, his own power in making her so. When his arm dropped and he reclaimed her hand, she wondered if she had imagined it all.

The spiced wine had surely gone to her head.

After much throat-clearing and finally applause, Lord Cainewood finally went into the center, and the circling resumed.

The dancers spun by in a blaze of color. The men wore deep jewel tones, the women mint and plum, and the bride sky-blue. The fabrics were rich and sumptuous, shot through with silver and gold, adorned with ribbons and lace. The ladies' stomachers were enriched with intricate embroidery, their skirts split in front and tucked up to reveal glorious matching underskirts. Clarice's Sunday gown seemed so ordinary in comparison; when the dance paused for another kiss, she had to stop herself from fidgeting with the plain pink linen.

"You look beautiful," Sir Cameron whispered in her ear. She was saved from putting her hand to her cheek when he grabbed it to begin the dance again.

After several more rounds, Mary was picked, and no one was surprised when she selected Sir Cameron. She bestowed her new love with a wet, smacking kiss.

Clarice was the only one who'd yet to be chosen. And it was Sir Cameron's turn again . . .

But he'd no sooner tapped her on the shoulder when the piper quit the tune. Perhaps it was just as well—her face was likely as pink as her dress. But she heard Sir Cameron's groan of disappointment, and it gave her an odd little thrill.

If she didn't know better…but no, she didn't believe in love at first sight. Long experience—as a young wife in an arranged marriage, and then a widow alone in the world—had taught her not to trust love at all.

And she and Mary were happy together.
Alone
together.

But she was at the castle for this one night… Just this one night, could she not live a fairytale fantasy? Even ever-so-practical Clarice Bradford was entitled to a harmless fantasy now and again, wasn't she?

"A kissing dance!" Her red curls glimmering in the light of the dining room's fire, Lady Kendra, the groom's sister, breathlessly made her way to a chair. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

"There's much kissing at Scottish weddings." The bride winked at Sir Cameron, who was still hovering close by Clarice. "A kiss can be claimed at the beginning and end of each and every dance." That news made Clarice all tingly inside. "Now, get up, all you lazybones. We'll have a strathspey next, and a hornpipe after that."

The strathspey was energetic, a sort of line dance with much weaving in and out—no easy opportunity for kisses there. And the hornpipe was wild. After those, the piper played some lively English tunes, country round dances, until they were all worn out.

Mary curled up on a chair and promptly fell asleep. Finally, when Clarice was certain she'd collapse, the piper launched into a slow, unfamiliar tune.

Sir Cameron took her by both hands and swept her into the dance. But not before claiming one of those before-dance kisses his cousin had mentioned. He leaned close, and his lips brushed hers, light and fleeting, naught more than a whisper.

Her own lips tingled in response, and the kiss left her wanting more. Clarice Bradford, who had never really wanted a kiss from anyone. Her heart pounded with new and not quite welcome feelings. "Wh-what is this dance?" she managed to stammer out.

"A galliard. All the rage at King Charles's court. Or so I've been told. Kendra taught it to me yesterday."