“It doesn’t feel like a grand adventure.” She heard that weak little response with self-disgust. Sucking in a breath, she squared her shoulders. Her father would be ashamed of her for being so spineless. An Urquhart could do better. “Oh, listen to me feeling sorry for myself. I apologize for making such a poor show.”
Quentin’s smile didn’t falter. “I’ve never met anyone as brave as you, and a few nerves at a time like this aren’t out of place at all.”
“What about a full-blown panic?” Although his praise eased her tension.
“Even that.” He ran an admiring gaze over her. “You make a bonny girl, by the way. I knew you would.”
Kit glanced down at Emily’s royal blue merino gown that Polly had made over to fit her. It was in the first stare of fashion, with pretty looping black velvet trim on the hem and cuffs. “After all these weeks in breeches, it feels strange to wear a skirt.”
Laughter lit Quentin’s eyes to bright gold. “That dress wouldn’t be very practical for mucking out the stables.”
“No. I suppose not.” Self-consciously she touched her hair. “And Polly did her best to change Kit’s crop into something feminine.”
Polly had worked magic with the scissors. Kit’s black hair feathered around her face in a much more flattering style than the rough mop she’d chopped it into before escaping Appin.
“She did a lovely job. You’ll set a new fashion. They’ll call it the countess crop.”
Kit muffled a laugh. He was making her feel better, which didn’t seem fair when she was about to ruin his life. “Thank you.”
“It looks devilish becoming. Stop worrying.”
She sent him a serious glance. “Thank you for bolstering my spirits.”
His smile broadened. “That’s my job.”
As Hamish raised his hand, Emily shot them a meaningful look. The confused hubbub below faded to charged silence. As if guessing that Kit’s heart raced with trepidation, Quentin caught her hand. Immediate warmth flooded her, and she clung shamefully tight to his fingers.
“Trust me, Kit,” he said under his breath. “I won’t let anything bad happen.”
Absurd as it was, she believed him. So when she faced the crowd, she stood straight and proud.
“You must all wonder why I brought you in here today,” Hamish began, his resonant voice effortlessly filling the large space. “You all know Kit, who has become a valued member of our household over the last weeks. Well, Kit isn’t quite what he seems. In fact, Kit isn’t Kit at all, but Christabel Urquhart, the Countess of Appin, who has sought refuge with us.”
Kit watched astonishment fill so many faces as a buzz of shock assailed her ears. She experienced her own surprise when she noticed that not everybody seemed taken aback by the news. Was it possible that her secret wasn’t such a secret after all?
Hamish went on, recounting the tale of oppression and escape with such élan that Kit couldn’t help feeling that he made her sound like a heroine from a novel. She shifted awkwardly from one slippered foot to another, as acts of sheer desperation became in his account feats of daring bravery.
“It wasn’t like that,” she murmured to Quentin. “He’s turning me into Joan of Arc.”
“I’m hoping this story has a happier ending than hers.”
She muffled another giggle. Never had she imagined deriving any enjoyment from the exposure of her identity, but she hadn’t counted on Quentin’s wry sense of humor.
“So, people of Glen Lyon who have adopted Kit as one of your own, I hope you’ll be equally ready to protect Lady Appin,” Hamish said in a ringing tone, as if he called his clan to battle. “We only need to keep her safe until Christmas Day, when she’s free of her stepbrother’s control. What say you?”
To Kit’s surprise, a resounding cheer rose from the crowd, with shouts of approval for her actions. As Quentin squeezed her hand, she blinked away a rush of tears.
“I told you they’d be on your side,” he said softly.
Hamish raised his hands again to quiet the enthusiasm. “I have even happier news to share. Reverend Kinney is waiting in the library now to join her ladyship and my nephew Quentin MacNab in holy matrimony. Lady Glen Lyon and I couldn’t be more delighted that these two exceptional young people have decided to spend their lives together. Tomorrow night’s ball will celebrate not just Christmas, but a new family member. Tonight, the celebrations belong to the clan. I invite you all to a ceilidh to mark a wedding in Glen Lyon.”
This time the cheering was loud enough to raise the rafters, and Kit found herself smiling at the unbridled enthusiasm.
That smile faded abruptly when Quentin bowed and presented his arm. “The minister awaits, my lady.”
Troubled, she stared into those changeable hazel eyes. She searched for some sign of the reluctance she knew he must feel. But all she saw was his innate kindness and something that looked like affection.
What else could she expect? Quentin was too much of a gentleman to betray anything but gracious acceptance of the fate that awaited them.
Kit mustered her faltering courage, as worry and remorse coiled like poisonous snakes in her belly. Because while she could think of nothing she’d like better than a lifetime with this wonderful man, she was well aware that he put a good face on a duty he couldn’t avoid. She wanted him with every beat of her heart, but he deserved so much more than this hurried wedding to smother a scandal and save her skin. It broke her heart how hard he fought to hide his real feelings from her.
Right now, seeing Quentin’s shining eyes and easy smile, anyone would think he achieved his heart’s desire when he took Christabel Urquhart to wife. She’d spoken true when she told him that she didn’t deserve him.
Chapter 9
“Shall we slip away together now?” Quentin murmured in Kit’s ear, as she reached the breathless end of yet another furious reel.
He held her hands after swinging her around so fast that she was dizzy. Or perhaps that was just the effect of staring into his glittering hazel eyes.
Even a girl determined on keeping a level head and remembering the events that led to this riotous frolic hadn’t been able to resist the wild joy of the dancing and the genuine happiness that everyone expressed at her marriage to the laird’s nephew.
Now Quentin’s whispered invitation reminded Kit of their true circumstances and all her giddy excitement shriveled into dread once more. “But the party is for us,” she said, looking around the crowded room.
“I think the party has become just a party.” Perceptive eyes studied her as she kept a smile plastered to her face. She refused to shame him – and herself – by betraying that her wedding was anything but a love match instead of a complete disaster.
Right now, she’d dearly love to dance down here until new year. In 1850.
Not good enough, Kit.
As always, her cowardice made her cringe. She raised her chin. “Aye, let’s go.”
“Your ladyship?”
The voice burst the fragile bubble of intimacy that had formed around Kit and Quentin. Kit blinked to break the hold of her new husband’s intense gaze. When she released his hand, she struggled against feeling the absence of that sure, steady touch.