But as Una arranged her hair in a most artful style on the back of her head, chatting all the while about Harold, Mared managed to let a small ray of joy beam inside herself. And she allowed herself the tiniest sliver of hope that she, too, might marry one day and hold her own baby in her arms, as fat and happy as wee Duncan. A hope that she might be loved and not feared, that no one would die in the course of loving her.
That hope buoyed her, and when she donned the blue silk with Una’s assistance, her appearance steeled her. She couldn’t help but stare at her reflection in the mirror, for she’d never looked so elegant as this, had never possessed the aristocratic bearing necessary to carry it. By some miracle, she did this evening. Something about the way Payton had looked at her there by the stable had made her feel beautiful and entirely immortal.
“Oh, Miss Lockhart!” Una exclaimed behind her, blinking at her reflection. “Ye’re even bonnier than the poor bride!”
Mared laughed. “Bring the roses there, aye?” she said, nodding at a vase on the windowsill. “What do ye think? We shall put them in our hair.”
Una was delighted, and so it was with Scottish roses entwined in her hair and jewelry borrowed from Ellie that Mared joined the common wedding feast at dusk.
She was instantly aware of the many eyes on her. Some looked at her in fear, but some—men, really—looked at her with a sort of admiration. And lust, if she were quite honest about it. From the women, there was perhaps a bit of coveting of her gown.
That put a smile on Mared’s face.
With her hands clasped behind her back, she found a small Scotch pine and she and Una stood with their backs to the tree so they could watch the enormous crowd as the wedding speeches were made. The setting sun looked as if it was straight out of a painting, glistening on the surface of Loch Leven. Butterflies swooped in and above the crowd as several shouted their gay and bawdy words of encouragement to the bridal couple, demanding kisses and cheering the couple when they playfully touched their lips together.
As the speeches wound down, and the sun had slipped into the hills, five large fires were lit about the large parklike lawn, signaling that the feast and dancing were soon to begin. Apair of bagpipers and flautists made their way onto the platform that had been vacated by the bridal couple and began to play lively tunes.
Una spied Harold, and with a shriek of glee, and after Mared assured her she’d be perfectly fine without her, off the girl went, leaving Mared to stand alone under the limbs of the pine tree. Only a few moments passed before she sensed someone watching her and very deliberately turned and looked over her shoulder.
He was standing a good distance from her, but Mared saw him instantly and her heart stopped beating at the sight of him. He was still dressed in the traditional plaid with his legs braced apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and gazing at her with the sort of smile that suggested he very much liked what he was seeing.
Mared tilted her head in acknowledgment of that and smiled.
Payton returned the nod.
Her smile broadened; she gestured to her gown, how it gathered tightly beneath her bosom then flowed into silky layers of embroidered panels over an underskirt. He cocked a brow. She turned a little to her right so that he might see the train, then to her left, and then laughingly dipped a tiny little curtsey.
Payton smiled fully and bowed low. And then he began to move, his stride unhurried, his gaze never leaving her as he made his way through the lively crowd, the hem of his plaid kicking up with his gait. Mared turned fully toward him, her heart pounding harder and harder with his every step.
She was practically levitating out of her blue silk slippers when he finally reached her and paused to let his ravenous gaze take her in. “Good evening, Miss Lockhart,” he said, a roguish smile of delight on his lips.
“Good evening, Laird Douglas.”
“Ye are a vision of beauty, lass. Ye’ve surprised me.”
“Thank ye,” she said, bowing her head with pleasure. “And how pleasing to see ye so nattily turned out in yer Highland dress. Many was the time I thought ye a Highland imposter.”
“I should be offended, I am sure, for I am as true a Highlander as ye are a beauty,” he said, casually bracing his arm against the tree on which she was leaning.
She laughed and glanced around at the crowd, several of whom had already begun to dance. “Ye flatter me, and yet ye know I’ll no’ be the least bit enticed by it.”
“Donna be so certain,” he said with a low chuckle, “for I have no’ yet begun to flatter ye.”
“Ye shouldna waste yer breath.”
“But I canna be deterred. I shall continue shamelessly, for a gorgeous woman deserves every flattery a man can offer.”
“Mmm.”