The Scot. Lyn Stone

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      Now, at the moment of pledging her future to a stranger, Susanna imagined her mother beaming happily about it. Strange, when the vicissitudes of marriage had been the very thing that caused her death. Repeated attempts to produce a son in order to please her husband had drained the life right out of her. Two miscarriages and a stillbirth. She might have survived that had it not been for all of the other obligations forced upon her as countess of Eastonby.

      A woman’s lot, her mother would have said in that soft voice of hers, smiling even then as if she accepted and didn’t mind what fate had decreed for her. Susanna had promised herself at the funeral that such a destiny would never be hers. And yet, here she was, bound to answer I will before a clergyman who might be the one to speak over her own dead body in a few years.

      One thing for certain, wherever she went, Susanna meant to continue her crusade to encourage women to speak up and be heard, to take care of themselves and take charge of their lives. She was not giving in, not giving up. This marriage could be used to her benefit. No woman worth her salt sat around waiting for things to happen to her. She made them happen.

      “…love, honor and obey…”

      The minister’s words broke through her thoughts like a sharp stick thrust into a beehive. She gritted her teeth to keep her fury from flying out and stinging everyone there. They were all men, of course—her father, the Scot, the reverend and another stranger who just happened to be present when a witness was needed—and would shoo away her attacks as merely bothersome.

      A large hand encased her own and she allowed it. His was exceedingly warm and hers felt cold in the absence of her gloves. If men could use women for comfort, why not the other way around? Susanna knew the justification made no sense in this instance, but the whole day seemed to have taken on a strangeness that defied logic anyway.

      The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur—even the placing of the ring on her finger.

      “I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder….” The voice droned on.

      Asunder? God, she felt asunder at the moment. Her heart nearly stopped, then thudded so fast she thought she might faint when two large, very warm hands rose to grasp her neck. For an instant, she feared he would choke her for her rebellious thoughts.

      The Scot’s long fingers invaded the curls at her nape. His palms covered the pulsing veins at the sides of her neck. His thumbs caressed her chin. And his mouth drew nearer and nearer.

      Susanna blinked her eyes shut just as his lips fastened on hers. Her mouth must have been open. She should have closed it. This was highly improper, his open mouth upon hers, his tongue touching hers. Good heavens, she could taste him! And he was tasting her, as if she were a comfit he wished to savor and not eat up too quickly.

      Horrified at how her curiosity prompted her to linger over such a thing, Susanna pushed away, staring up at him to see if he would insist on a resumption of the kiss. She didn’t wish he would. She didn’t!

      Obviously, he didn’t either, she noted as he released her and dropped his hands to his sides. “Well then, wife, we’ve been wed and blessed. You look right fashed.”

      “Fashed?” she mumbled, unable to get her mind around the word.

      Her father quickly embraced her, eliminating the need for her to reply to the Scot. “So, my little girl is married! I wish you all that is happy, sweetheart. I am certain you shall have it.”

      Susanna managed to thank him, if not sincerely, at least politely. She had made up her mind earlier not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had upset her by throwing her to the wolves. The leader of a pack of them, in fact.

      She could deal with the Scotsman, she reminded herself. Hadn’t she been quite confident of that after he had made his promises to her? This was her choice. He was her choice.

      When Susanna looked at him around her father’s shoulder, she fully expected to see gloating superiority or some evidence of expression that he had tricked her into agreeing to this. Instead, he appeared almost deferential, as if pleasing her was his one goal in life.

      She was not fool enough to believe that was so, but bit by bit, her courage and confidence returned. It only seemed to flag when the Scot touched her. Or pinned her with that steady gaze of his. “I will become used to it,” she told herself aloud.

      “Of course you will!” her father assured her. “I fear you haven’t had too much in the way of happiness these past few years, but now—”

      “That’s not what I meant,” she declared, pulling out of his arms and turning away. But she dared not explain what she did mean. “Are we going back to the hotel immediately? I’m famished.”

      “Of course,” the Scot said, taking her by the arm, encouraging her to lean on him. She surrendered to it for now. Her knees were not functioning nearly as well as she would have liked.

      Collapsing in the aisle of the church would hardly signify her ability to stand on her own two feet. As for that inability, Susanna was certain it was only a momentary lapse.

      “I am hungry,” she muttered, more or less to reassure herself. Surely that accounted for the temporary weakness she was feeling.

      “Your slightest wish is my command,” the man declared gently as he patted the hand she had locked on his forearm. “Today and always,” he added, sounding quite sincere.

      His words and the tone behind them reinforced his benevolent expression and shored her up as nothing else could have. She drew in a huge breath and released it with a sigh of relief. Yes, he would be putty in her hands.

      That fact reestablished, Susanna decided she might as well start them off on the right foot. “That kiss was highly inappropriate,” she whispered. “From now on, you should refrain from shocking everyone with such displays.”

      He seemed to take the criticism well, though she noted his lips working to suppress any expression. Then he nodded and acquiesced quite admirably. “My apologies, wife. Seems I was carried clean away by your beauty and the moment.”

      A blatant lie, but Susanna gave him points for attempting good manners. She might make a gentleman of him one of these days.

      “Forgiven. Just see that it does not happen again,” she told him firmly.

      “Aye. Public kissin’ might set people to talking behind their fans and we wouldna be wantin’ that, now would we?”

      Had that been a reference to her difficulties in London? Was this—this buffoon making sport of her troubles?

      Before she could summon up a scathing reply, they had reached the coach that had brought them to the church. Later, she promised herself, later she would take him to task for that insolence. If he had meant it that way. Had he? Surely he would not dare.

      Susanna let him hand her into the coach. The inside lanterns were lit, casting a warm glow over the interior.

      The Scot’s wide shoulders filled the space beside her, his left one pressed against her right. Though his suit seemed a trifle snug and could have stood a pressing, she noted now that it was of the finest wool and had obviously been tailored for him. Most men with his height would find that necessary, she supposed.

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