LITMIR.BIZ

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only she hadn’t chuckled. Up until then it had been fine. Business only. He could do this. He could marry her, he could keep his distance, he could fulfil the letter of the deal and he could walk away at the end of twelve months feeling nothing. He intended to feel nothing.

      But that meant he had to stay impervious to what she was; to who she was. He couldn’t think of her as his wife at all.

      But then she chuckled and something happened.

      The old kirk. The beaming minister. The sense of history in this place.

      This woman standing beside him.

      She was in this for profit, he told himself. She was sure of what she wanted and how she was going to get it. She was Alan’s ex-wife and he’d seen how much the pair of them had cost Eileen. He wanted nothing to do with her.

      But she was standing before him and he’d felt her fear. He’d felt the effort it had cost her to turn to the minister and say those vows out loud.

      And now she’d chuckled.

      She was small and curvy and dressed in a simple yet very pretty frock, with white lace collar, tiny lace shoulder puffs and a wide, flouncy skirt cinched in at her tiny waist. She was wearing bell heather on her lapel.

      She was chuckling.

      And he thought, She’s enchanting. And then the thought flooded from nowhere.

      She’s my wife.

      It hit him just as his mouth touched hers. The knowledge was as if a floodgate had opened. This woman...

      His wife...

      He kissed her.

      * * *

      She’d been expecting...what? A cursory brushing of lips against lips? Or less. He could have done this without actually touching her. That would have been better, she thought. An air kiss. No one here expected any more.

      She didn’t get an air kiss. He’d released her hands. He put his hands on her waist and he lifted her so her mouth was level with his.

      He kissed her.

      It was a true wedding kiss, a lordly kiss, the kiss of the Lord of Duncairn claiming his bride. It was a kiss with strength and heat and passion. It was a kiss that blew her fragile defences to smithereens.

      She shouldn’t respond. She shouldn’t! They were in a kirk, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t seemly. This was a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience, and he had no right...

      And then her mind shut down, just like that.

      She’d never been kissed like this. She’d never felt like this.

      Fire...

      His mouth was plundering hers. She was raised right off her feet. She was totally out of control and there was nothing she could do but submit.

      And respond? Maybe she had no choice. Maybe that was the only option because that was what her body was doing. It was responding and responding and responding.

      How could it not? This was like an electric charge, a high-voltage jolt that had her locked to him and there was no escape. Not that she wanted to escape. The fire coursing through her body had her feeling...

      Here was her home? Here was her heart?

      This was nonsense. Crazy. Their tiny audience was laughing and cheering and she fought to bring them into focus. She fought desperately to gather herself, regain some decorum, and maybe Alasdair felt it because finally, finally he set her on her feet. But his dark eyes gleamed at her, and behind that smile was a promise.

      This man was her husband. The knowledge was terrifying but suddenly it was also exhilarating. Where were smelling salts when a girl needed them? she thought wildly, and she took a deep, steadying breath and turned resolutely back to the minister. Get this over with, she pleaded silently, and let me get out of here.

      But the Reverend Angus McConachie was not finished. He was beaming at her as a father might beam at a favourite daughter. In fact, the Reverend Angus had baptised her, had buried her mother, had caught her and her friends stealing strawberries from his vegetable patch, had been there for all her life. She’d tried to explain to him what this wedding was about but she doubted he’d listened. He saw what he wanted to see, the Reverend Angus, and his next words confirmed it.

      ‘Before I let you go...’ he was beaming as if he’d personally played matchmaker, and happy families was just beginning ‘...I wish to say a few words. I’ve known our Jeanie since the time she turned from a twinkle in her father’s eye into a pretty wee bairn. I’ve watched her grow into the fine young woman she is today. I know the Lady Eileen felt the same pleasure and pride in her that I do, and I feel the Lady Eileen is looking down right now, giving these two her blessing.’

      Okay, Jeanie thought. That’ll do. Stop now. But this was the Reverend Angus and she knew he wouldn’t.

      ‘But it’s been my sorrow to see the tragedies that have befallen our Jeanie,’ the minister continued, his beam dipping for a moment. ‘She was devoted to her Rory from the time she was a wee lass, she was a fine wife and when the marriage ended in tragedy we were all heartbroken for her. That she was brave enough to try again with her Alan was a testament to her courage—and, dare I say, it was also a testament to the Lady Eileen’s encouragement? I dare say there’s not an islander on Duncairn whose heart didn’t break with her when she came home after such trouble.’

      ‘Angus...’ Jeanie hissed, appalled, but Angus’s beam was back on high and there was no stopping him.

      ‘And now it’s three,’ he said happily. ‘Third-time lucky. I hear the Lady Eileen has her fingers in the pie this time, too, but she assured me before she died that this one would be a happy ever after.’

      ‘She told you?’ Alasdair asked, sounding incredulous.

      ‘She was a conniving lass, your grandmother.’ Angus beamed some more. ‘And here it is, the results of that conniving, and the islanders couldn’t be happier for you. Jeanie, lass, may third time be more than lucky. May your third time be forever.’

      * * *

      Somehow they made it outside, to the steps of the kirk. The church sat on the headland looking over Duncairn Bay. The sun was shining. The fishing fleet was out, but a few smaller boats were tied on swing moorings. Gulls were wheeling overhead, the church grounds were a mass of wild honeysuckle and roses, and the photographer for the island’s monthly newsletter was asking them to look their way.

      ‘Smile for the camera... You look so handsome, the pair of you.’

      This would make the front cover of the Duncairn Chronicle, she knew—Local Lass Weds Heir to Duncairn.

      Her father would be down in the pub now, she thought, already drinking in anticipation of profits he’d think he could wheedle from her.

      ‘This is the third time?’ Alasdair sounded incredulous.

      ‘So?’ Her smile was rigidly determined. Alasdair’s arm was around her waist, as befitted the standard newlywed couple, but his arm felt like steel. There was not a trace of warmth in it.

      ‘I assumed Alan was the only—’

      ‘You didn’t ask,’ she snapped. ‘Does it matter?’

      ‘Hell, of course it matters. Did you make money from the first one, too?’

      Enough. She put her hand behind her and hauled his arm away from her waist. She was still rigidly smiling but she was having trouble...it could so easily turn to rictus.

      ‘Thanks, Susan,’ she called to the photographer. ‘We’re done. Thanks, everyone, for coming. We need to get back to the castle. We have guests arriving.’

      ‘No honeymoon?’ Susan, the photographer, demanded. ‘Why don’t you go somewhere beautiful?’

      ‘Duncairn

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