waved back and smiled lightly, her heart trembling in her breast. He must be weary, having been in the saddle all through those dark hours with only the moon and coach lamps to guide his mount over the lonely road north.
The sun brightened. The moon descended, and the day drew on. They crossed the River Sark on the toll road near to sunset. Candles burned in the windows, and a narrow walkway made of pebbles went from the road to Joseph Paisley’s marriage shop.
“I have no wedding clothes,” said Eliza, when Hayward dismounted and approached the coach door. “Does it disappoint you?”
“Not at all. You are beautiful as you are.”
The blush in Eliza’s cheeks deepened, and she gazed into his intent eyes. “Indeed, wedding clothes would have been a frivolous waste of money,” she said, hoping to please him. The gown she wore had been new by a few months, pretty, made of soft brown linen over a white chemise. And when she saw how he cast his eyes over her bodice as it peeked through her cloak, she knew he accepted her as she came to him.
She woke Fiona, and they stepped out into the pale morning light. Eliza held the hand Hayward offered. Her eyes followed the straight line of the path that led to an oaken door. “We shall not wed in a church?”
He leaned closer. “ ‘Where there are two or three gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of you.’ Remember?”
She nodded. With anticipation stirring within her, she watched him push open the door and step inside.
“I am doing the right thing, Fiona. Hayward and I belong together, and I will follow him wherever he may go.”
Fiona looped her arm through Eliza’s. “Mr. Morgan is a fortunate man to gain a wife who loves him as you do.”
“I am the one who is fortunate to have such a man. He is as strong as he is brave.”
“Do not discount your own bravery, my girl. Your willingness to leave England and live with him in an unknown land is more than most would ever agree to.”
“Yes, and you are just as courageous to come with me. Ah, but my heart trembles for him.”
“Why?”
“He has yet to feel the pangs of true love, nor the passion and devotion that comes with it.”
She watched him turn and hold his hand out to her. She lifted her skirts and hurried forward. The priest , as Joseph Paisley was called, greeted them warmly in a heavy Scottish accent. His wispy hair was brushed over his ears. A fleshy, large man, his collar hugged his ample neck. His eyes were large and misty, his cheeks ruddy.
He stood with his legs wide apart, his Anglican prayer book tucked beneath his beefy arm, his gaze upon Eliza as she walked inside. A petite woman came through a side door, dressed in a homespun gown of a shade matching her light russet hair, and stepped up beside the anvil that stood between Mr. Paisley and them.
“Who comes to murry?” said Paisley.
Hayward moved forward with Eliza. “Hayward Morgan of Havendale and Miss Eliza Bloome—Derbyshire.”
“Did ye come of yer own free will, Miss Bloome?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“And who is witness to this union?”
Fiona stepped from behind the couple. “I am, sir.”
Eliza placed her hand in Hayward’s, and he closed his fingers over hers. They were warm and strong, and unwilling to let go. The vows were read and repeated, and Paisley struck his anvil. “God be wi’ ye! Yer murried!”
Hayward turned Eliza to face him. With shining eyes, he looked down into hers, and placed his hands on each side of her face.
“Kiss h’r, man.” Paisley gave him a little nudge on his shoulder. “What are ye waitin’ fer?”
And so Hayward bent his head and tenderly kissed Eliza. No man had touched her lips before. He was the first, and she vowed he would be the last. For all her goodness and faith, could she ever conceive of breaking her vows? Never. Could she fall if he neglected her, hurt her, or failed to reach the heights of love? Never , she repeated in her mind.
As he lifted his
The sun brightened. The moon descended, and the day drew on. They crossed the River Sark on the toll road near to sunset. Candles burned in the windows, and a narrow walkway made of pebbles went from the road to Joseph Paisley’s marriage shop.
“I have no wedding clothes,” said Eliza, when Hayward dismounted and approached the coach door. “Does it disappoint you?”
“Not at all. You are beautiful as you are.”
The blush in Eliza’s cheeks deepened, and she gazed into his intent eyes. “Indeed, wedding clothes would have been a frivolous waste of money,” she said, hoping to please him. The gown she wore had been new by a few months, pretty, made of soft brown linen over a white chemise. And when she saw how he cast his eyes over her bodice as it peeked through her cloak, she knew he accepted her as she came to him.
She woke Fiona, and they stepped out into the pale morning light. Eliza held the hand Hayward offered. Her eyes followed the straight line of the path that led to an oaken door. “We shall not wed in a church?”
He leaned closer. “ ‘Where there are two or three gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of you.’ Remember?”
She nodded. With anticipation stirring within her, she watched him push open the door and step inside.
“I am doing the right thing, Fiona. Hayward and I belong together, and I will follow him wherever he may go.”
Fiona looped her arm through Eliza’s. “Mr. Morgan is a fortunate man to gain a wife who loves him as you do.”
“I am the one who is fortunate to have such a man. He is as strong as he is brave.”
“Do not discount your own bravery, my girl. Your willingness to leave England and live with him in an unknown land is more than most would ever agree to.”
“Yes, and you are just as courageous to come with me. Ah, but my heart trembles for him.”
“Why?”
“He has yet to feel the pangs of true love, nor the passion and devotion that comes with it.”
She watched him turn and hold his hand out to her. She lifted her skirts and hurried forward. The priest , as Joseph Paisley was called, greeted them warmly in a heavy Scottish accent. His wispy hair was brushed over his ears. A fleshy, large man, his collar hugged his ample neck. His eyes were large and misty, his cheeks ruddy.
He stood with his legs wide apart, his Anglican prayer book tucked beneath his beefy arm, his gaze upon Eliza as she walked inside. A petite woman came through a side door, dressed in a homespun gown of a shade matching her light russet hair, and stepped up beside the anvil that stood between Mr. Paisley and them.
“Who comes to murry?” said Paisley.
Hayward moved forward with Eliza. “Hayward Morgan of Havendale and Miss Eliza Bloome—Derbyshire.”
“Did ye come of yer own free will, Miss Bloome?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“And who is witness to this union?”
Fiona stepped from behind the couple. “I am, sir.”
Eliza placed her hand in Hayward’s, and he closed his fingers over hers. They were warm and strong, and unwilling to let go. The vows were read and repeated, and Paisley struck his anvil. “God be wi’ ye! Yer murried!”
Hayward turned Eliza to face him. With shining eyes, he looked down into hers, and placed his hands on each side of her face.
“Kiss h’r, man.” Paisley gave him a little nudge on his shoulder. “What are ye waitin’ fer?”
And so Hayward bent his head and tenderly kissed Eliza. No man had touched her lips before. He was the first, and she vowed he would be the last. For all her goodness and faith, could she ever conceive of breaking her vows? Never. Could she fall if he neglected her, hurt her, or failed to reach the heights of love? Never , she repeated in her mind.
As he lifted his
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