The Devil Wears Tartan Read Online Free Page A

arranged himself beside the altar as was customary, in the secluded nave where the bridegrooms of two hundred years had waited. He wondered how many of them had begun to second-guess their unions as he was doing at this moment.
    His uncle stood behind him, also following custom. A few hundred years ago, the man in that position would have held his sword at the ready, defender of the laird, protector from any rival, bloodthirsty, cattle-stealing clan who might send a member to rob him of his life or his bride on this day.
    The Ross family had been civilized for so long that it was difficult for Marshall to conjure such a scene ever happening—although he knew for a fact that it had. His family history was replete with stories of his ancestors’ great heroism and even greater audacity.
    What would they say, these forebearers of his, if they looked either downward from heaven or upward from hell to witness this day? Would they fault him for hisactions of the past? Or judge that today he was reaping the full measure of his punishment for what had happened in China?
    Outside, the pipers began to play “The Rowan Tree.” He stood at attention, preparing himself by forcing a diplomat’s smile to his face. So must he have looked as they sailed into Canton Harbor. He clenched his left hand tightly.
    His bride was walking down the aisle toward him, her white lace dress and elbow-length gloves much too elaborate for this small chapel.
    Her gaze was on the front of the chapel, and he knew when she saw him. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and her footsteps slowed.
    His solicitor had said she was pretty.
    She wasn’t.
    His bride was radiant. Glorious. Perfect. There was color to her face, a flush that lent her pearlized skin a soft glow. Her auburn hair was riotous around her shoulders, a mass of tendrils held back from her face with tortoiseshell combs. She looked like a Florentine Venus.
    No, she was more than pretty. She was crafted of alabaster and porcelain, with delicate pink lips and finely arched brows. He’d never actually thought about a woman’s nose before, but hers was perfect. That chin was remarkably firm, however, hinting at stubbornness.
    What color were her eyes? Surely not brown. They had to be some magnificent color to match her face.
    Dear God, they were bluish green, the color of Bahamian seas.
    He took a step forward and then stopped himself. Heshould remain here beside the altar and wait for her to travel to him. Wasn’t that the way these ceremonies went? The bride walked slowly past friends and family, clad in her pristine white dress with its acres and acres of lace, demonstrating her courageous sacrifice to the monster.
    He realized he didn’t want to wait, and before his uncle could stop him, Marshall took the two steps down to the aisle and advanced on Davina McLaren.
    She halted in the middle of the aisle, ten steps or so from the altar. She didn’t flinch when he approached her. Nor did she look away.
    Brave girl.
    When he was close enough that their conversation couldn’t be overheard, he spoke to her.
    “You look terrified,” he said.
    Her brows drew together, but she didn’t comment. Fascinated, he continued to stare at her. After a moment, he was surprised to see her blush. The faint color, oddly enough, detracted from her appearance rather than adding to it.
    “You should never blush,” he said.
    She looked startled at his comment. “I normally do not. But then, I’m rarely married.”
    “Are you afraid?”
    “A little,” she admitted.
    “Of me? Or marriage?”
    She seemed to consider the question, and as she did, he came to her side, turned, and extended his arm.
    “Have you noticed that the entire chapel is filled with people staring at us as if we’ve lost our minds?” he asked.
    Davina smiled. “I suspect they’re waiting for me to turn around and run down the aisle.”
    She placed her small bouquet of heather and white roses in her right hand, and placed her left hand