Cam 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.”
THREE
“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, all evening she had remained excruciatingly aware of the gentleman beside her. She’d smiled at the end of each loudly proclaimed wedding toast, striving to appear normal as she nodded and drank with the others. There had been a great many toasts, and now she felt lightheaded. Cameron Leslie—Sir Cameron Leslie, as it turned out, for she’d learned that he was not only young and handsome and boyishly charming, but also a baronet—had flirted outrageously through it all. When he wasn’t slanting her meaningful glances or touching her surreptitiously, he was being attentive to her daughter—a sure way to any mother’s heart. He was playing Clarice like a musical instrument, and he knew it, too. Perhaps he was older than he looked.
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 for him. He was a good lord. A good man.
“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 had to 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. The cousins pulled faces at each other, and Clarice could sense a pleasing affection between them. They would miss each other, she realized.
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 warmed, and she averted her eyes, only to find Sir Cameron watching her in a way that made her cheeks even warmer. Casually his hand slipped around her waist, making her more discomposed, and somehow she thought he was enjoying her discomposure. Or rather, his own ability to make 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 a smattering of 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 embellished 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
