Page 65 of Who’s That Earl

“Mmm?” Drowsily, she burrowed deeper into the pillow she’d made in the slight hollow where his chest met his shoulder.

“Best wake up, or you’ll sleep through your own wedding.”

Those words succeeded in rousing her. “Wedding?”

“Aye. And here’s your surprise.”

At last, she lifted her head and blinked sleepily at the little specks of light that pierced the darkness. Too small to be the windows of the village, they flickered and twinkled like stars. Unlike the driver of the Royal Mail, Thomas slowed the horses as they rounded the bend and entered Balisaig, just east of the apothecary’s shop.

Candles twinkled along the edges of the street, warming the hands and lighting the faces of every villager. Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy waved merrily before she bent to say something to little Mary MacIntyre, who nodded and scampered down the road ahead of the horses. Across the way, Elspeth Shaw stood before the Thistle and Crown with her family about her, each one with a candle upraised in welcome. Farther along came other familiar faces. Mrs. Murdoch and Dougan. Dunnock tenants. Anyone and seemingly everyone who called this piece of the Highlands home.

As she and Thomas passed, they all saluted and cheered and fell in behind the curricle, ushering them finally to the Campbells’ little house, where Ross greeted them. He’d reached Balisaig ahead of them? She rather thought she might still be dreaming.

“And here we are,” Thomas announced, stopping the horses and hopping from the seat, then turning to lift her down.

“I don’t—” Between smiles and answering curtsies, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and tried to tuck a few loose strands of hair beneath her hood. “What’s going on?”

“Your wedding, Mrs. Higginbotham.” Mrs. Abernathy and Mrs. Murdoch stepped up on either side of her, and each taking an elbow, they swept her toward the house. Ross clapped an iron grip on Thomas’s shoulder and dragged him in the opposite direction.

The Campbells’ little sitting room was empty. “My wedding?” Jane repeated, bewildered.

“Och, aye. You’ll see.” With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Abernathy reached up to untie Jane’s hood.

“Oh, no,” Jane protested, shaking her head when Mrs. Abernathy tried to lay the hood aside. “My hair must look a fright.” She could feel the normally tight chignon hanging low on her neck, and wisps of hair tickled her face.

“I can’t think when I’ve ever seen it—or you—look lovelier,” insisted Mrs. Murdoch. “That softer style suits you. Och, I’m that glad you’ve come back to us, I am,” she said, taking Jane’s hands in her own gnarled ones.

“And I’m ever so glad to be here,” Jane agreed, drawing the elderly housekeeper into an embrace. No more keeping the world at arm’s length.

A knock at the door prompted Mrs. Abernathy’s final preparation: the removal of Jane’s kid gloves. “You’ll see,” she promised as she tugged them free before gesturing her outside once more.

The people of Balisaig, all smiles, formed a candlelit path leading toward the forge. Though open to the night air, the fires made it a cozy shelter. The sharp scents of peat smoke and damp wool clothes and rusty iron mingled in the night air. A smaller gathering awaited them there—Mrs. Campbell in a warmly situated chair, freshly-washed Athena and Aphrodite content on her lap, the fur that normally hung in their eyes tied back with pink ribbons. Davina standing devotedly beside her future mother-in-law. Ross and Theo Campbell sporting wide, devilish-looking grins. And Thomas, clad in a kilt.

She lifted a hand to cover her own smile. So that was why they’d hurried him away!

Oh, but it suited him, his strong, shapely legs just visible between its hem and the tops of his boots. The Earl of Magnus. The Laird of Dunnock Castle. The Highland warrior of her dreams.

Mrs. Abernathy nudged her toward him, and she reached out a hand to take the one he held outstretched. The little crowd surged into the blacksmith’s forge behind her.

“We had the right idea that night in Edinburgh,” Thomas said to her, his voice low. “It just needed witnesses.” Then he darted a glance at the assembled company and laughed.

She laughed too, love and joy bubbling up from a deep well inside her that had been capped for far too long. Mrs. Murdoch produced a length of white linen and handed it to Mr. Campbell, who took Jane and Thomas’s clasped hands and began to bind them together with it.

A handfasting ceremony? Performed by the village blacksmith? She’d heard of the like before, of course. But this was not exactly what she’d been expecting when Thomas had mentioned a wedding.

“Is this...legitimate?” she whispered to him.

“Quite,” Thomas assured her. “But I’ve a friend from Glasgow who’s agreed to come to Balisaig and be our parson. He can do the deed, if you’d rather wait a fortnight or so.”

Wait? His eyes twinkled mischievously, as if daring her to recall what they’d done a few nights ago. Or in the curricle an hour past.

But she let her gaze drift around the little—well, not so very little—gathering. Candles still flickered in the darkness, setting aglow the cheerful faces of the people who had welcomed her. Befriended her. Who had made Balisaig home to her, when she’d believed she would never have a home again. Who were eager now to see her become their countess.

Her eyes returned to Thomas, who’d been watching her, his own expression that maddening mixture of amusement and affection. His eyebrows rose and fell, prodding her for an answer.

“Wait?” she echoed aloud. “And for what? There will never be such a storybook perfect moment as this, Lord Magnus.” A cheer went up from the assembled company, muffling her next words so that only those closest to her could hear. “And I could not love you more than I do right now.”

“That’s decided then,” Mr. Campbell said, laying their joined hands on the anvil and covering them with his own.