Page 88 of Rogue with a Brogue
Mary knew what Arran was doing; with his usual good humor he meant to keep them at ease as long as possible. Considering that any weapons were likely to be pointed at him, she could only admire his courage—and do her damnedest to see that the plan succeeded.
For all that it remained on the lips of every young pair of English lovers who felt the need to elope, Gretna Green was something of a disappointment in daylight. It barely qualified as a village at all, with perhaps a dozen houses along the lane, a single tavern, and a blacksmith’s forge. According to rumor the smith could also perform weddings, but she and Arran required the church.
And then the quaint little building came into sight at the top of a gentle rise just above the village. The butterflies in her stomach turned into bats. And not just because they might well be driving into a trap. Choosing to marry Arran was the most momentous decision she would ever make in her life. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been as certain as she was, but she simply couldn’t imaginenotspending the rest of her life by his side.
“Three horses at the rear of the tavern,” Peter whispered.
“I don’t suppose it could just be three men breaking their fast.” Mary kept her gaze straight ahead, even though more than anything she wanted to turn around and see if she recognized the horses.
“Could be,” Arran said. “Two more horses under the trees up here. Two, nae, three men. Relax, my bonny lass. Ye can be curious of strangers. Dunnae pretend ye dunnae see ’em.”
“Why are you so… proficient at this?” she whispered.
He shrugged, keeping the team at their leisurely walk up the slope. “Anyone nae wearing yer clan colors could mean ye harm. I grew up with that.” With a sideways glance at her, he sent them past the waiting men and circled the wagon so they were facing back down the hill. “I also got myself caught behind French lines once,” he went on conversationally. “Had to steal a corporal’s uniform and pretend to be French fer three days.”
“I never knew that, lad,” Peter said from behind them, his tone surprised and alarmed.
“I didnae tell anyone. Ranulf… He had enough to worry over withoot adding that. Whoa, lads.” He pulled up the ribbons and set the brake.
Good heavens, they were there. Twenty feet from the small, whitewashed church. And beneath the trees only ten feet farther away stood three men, all looking at them. Her breath caught. One of them was her cousin Arnold Haws.Oh, heavens.
“Help me with Mama, will ye, Duncan?” Arran said, hopping to the ground with that easy grace of his.
Yes. She was Duncan… something. Gilling. Duncan Gilling. Escorting his mother to the church to see the pastor and lay flowers. Swallowing, she climbed down, trying not to look too ungainly.
The men, five of them now, moved closer, but from what she could hear of their low-voiced conversation it was mostly snide comments about dirty peasants and ugly Lowlands women. Poor Peter.
Moving around to the rear of the wagon, Mary allowed herself a curious glance or two from beneath the brim of her hat, glad she’d let Arran rub some dirt on her face. She lifted a hand to Peter, and with Arran at his other arm the footman descended clumsily to the ground.
“Are those Sasannach?” Peter asked in Gaelic, his voice still not quite feminine.
“Are they, Angus?” Mary seconded when Peter squeezed her arm. He’d been a soldier too, she remembered. Two warriors, two Highlanders, both ready and able to protect her.
“I dunnae, Duncan. They’re none of our affair.”
With Peter between them, holding one hand around her arm and the other gripping the flowers, they walked in what she hoped was an unhurried manner up to the church door.
“Can we talk to them?” she heard herself ask, and she glanced over her shoulder at the group. No Charles Calder, and no sign of her father. Perhaps their luck was holding out.
“Nae,” Peter answered. “I dunnae want ye learning their ways, Angus. Into the church with ye, and be polite to the Father.”
“Aye,màthair,” she answered.
And with that they walked through the Gretna Green church doors and closed themselves inside.
Peter kept her by the door while Arran strode forward, checking all the pews and then walking through the side door into what must have been an office or a vestry. “What if the priest isn’t here?” she whispered, her stomach clenching at the thought.
“If he’s nae here, I’ll marry ye myself,” Peter stated.
To her immense relief, Arran returned a minute or so later, a tall, thin man with cloud-colored puffs of hair above either ear in tow. “This is Father Leonard,” he said, gesturing at the black-robed man. “He’s agreed to marry us.”
The pastor stopped just beside the first row of pews, his very high forehead furrowing in a frown. “We see a great many couples here,” he said, Scots in his voice, “all eager to begin their new path together. Some marry for love, and others for wealth. And no offense to you, madam, but I need to ask why this strapping young man has chosen to be wed to you.”
Mary blinked, then realized how they all must appear to poor Father Leonard. She stepped forward and pulled off her hat, then pulled the pins from her hair. “It’s me the strapping lad is to marry, Father,” she said.
The pastor looked relieved. “Ah. Now it makes sense. Come forward, child. And though it’s not my place to ask, I assume you two are marrying against at least one of your family’s wishes?”
“Aye,” Arran answered. “And Peter, remove yer bonnet. We’re in a church.”
