The Bride Says Maybe by Cathy Maxwell

rapidly. She heard herself murmur, “Then it cannot be replaced.”
    “No, it is the only one,” he said, “and I treasure it.”
    She now learned something else about this man, about what he held dear. She could understand. She kept a locket that had belonged to her mother even though it was broken and in two pieces.
    “Hold the ring over her first finger and repeat after me,” the Reverend Kinnion instructed Laird Breccan. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
    “With this ring, I thee wed,” he repeated.
    “With my body, I worship thee.”
    “With my—” Laird Breccan hesitated ever so slightly as if realizing the import of the words. Then, in a firm voice, he repeated, “With my body, I thee worship.”
    “ Trust him. The bits go together nicely if it is done right. ”
    “With all my worldly goods I thee endow,” the Reverend Kinnion read.
    Laird Breccan had no problem repeating that vow. It was actually their promise to each other, Tara realized. Their bargain.
    There are moments in life one never forgets. As Laird Breccan slid the ring on her finger, Tara knew she would always remember every detail. Her senses were filled with him. Beyond the scent of food being cooked someplace in the house, of the coal in the fire and the smell of her father’s whisky, underlying it all was her awareness of him. He smelled of fresh air and good soap.
    The thin gold band fit. His mother must not have been a bigger woman than her. Funny to imagine such a giant could come from a petite woman.
    The Reverend Kinnion began finalizing the vows by making the sign of the cross over their joined hands, but the laird signaled for him to stop. He turned to Tara, his hand still holding hers.
    “I want you to know I shall be a good and faithful husband to you.”
    Tara nodded. In many ways, there was almost a dreamlike quality to this turn of events. She kept expecting to wake up and find her life back where it had once been, back in the days when she’d believed she’d been in control of her destiny.
    Apparently he hadn’t expected an answer from her. He’d made his declaration, a promise born out of his sense of honor. He looked to the Reverend Kinnion. “You can finish now.”
    The Reverend Kinnion waved a blessing over their joined hands. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” He raised his hands over them. “And now, what God has joined, let no man put asunder.”
    And Tara was married.
    In the space of a few hours, her life had been changed forever.
    There followed an awkward moment of silence. Tara didn’t know what to do now and apparently neither did Laird Breccan.
    “Are you going to seal your pledge with a kiss, Breccan?” his uncle Jonas asked.
    For a second, Tara panicked. She wasn’t against a kiss, but not in front of this audience.
    The laird seemed to understand, or perhaps he felt the same way because he said, “We are not here for your entertainment, Jonas.”
    “Aye, but you should kiss the bride.” Jonas argued. “If you don’t wish to do so, Breccan, I’ll do it for you.”
    Jonas’s offer brought heat to Tara’s cheeks.
    But it spurred the laird to lean over, and he barely brushed his lips across Tara’s as if not wanting to touch her.
    They were strangers. She told herself his kiss was respectful, a formality . . . but it was also a far cry from the kisses she had once shared with Ruary Jamerson, the man who was, she reminded herself, the love of her life.
    One life; one love.
    Who she married no longer mattered . . .
    Mrs. Watson took on the role of host since the earl was passed out. She announced, “Come now, Cook has prepared refreshments to celebrate. You will come this way, will you now, Laird Breccan and Reverend Kinnion?”
    Laird Breccan frowned with distaste at Tara’s sleeping father. His mouth was open, and he was beginning to drool. “I need to be returning home.”
    “But we can eat,” Jonas protested.
    “It’s dark,” the laird said.