“By my count, I haven’t kissed you in three days,” he said, his voice casual.
Annabel’s bones melted at the look in his eyes, but: “It’s not proper,” she said. “We should never—”
“Blame it on your corset,” he said, snatching her into his arms.
It was some time before Annabel was free to finish her sentence, if she’d even remembered what it was. “I have to warn you of something,” Ewan said. He was leaning against the wall and looking down at her, and the only thing she could think about was pulling his head down to hers again. “The news is spreading among the clans that we’re about to marry.”
“Will they come here?” Annabel asked, trying to focus on what he was saying.
“Certainly. I’m the earl, and we’re a sociable lot of Scotsmen.”
“How many people do you think will come to congratulate you?”
“Us,” he said. “They’ll come to congratulate us.”
“Us, then,” she said.
He had that lazy smile that seemed to come to him so easily—at least when he was adequately clothed and fed. “The last time I went to a Highland wedding, ’twas for the clan of McKiernie, and there were at least a hundred. But you’re as Scots as I am. Haven’t you been to a proper wedding before?”
Annabel’s father didn’t like to leave his stables, not for something as frivolous as a wedding. And they wouldn’t have had proper clothes. “Not lately,” she said. “Not since my mother died.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t your mother die when you were six?”
“Yes. So I’ve no idea what to expect,” Annabel confessed.
“It means Clan Poley, but all the others as well. I should think we’ll be seeing hundreds of Scots. Drunk, most of them, or they will be. Dancing, all of them. They’ll be some fights, some crying, a lot of laughing, a few babies made, a few wives shrieking…” He reached out to open the door, and then hesitated. “We don’t seem to be speaking to each other, Annabel.”
She bit her lip and forced a smile. “Wedding nerves, I expect,” she said lightly.
“But you’re worried about something.”
If he touched her, she would burst into the absurd tears that kept stealing up on her at odd moments. Of course, she couldn’t admit that all of a sudden she’d developed an alarmingly romantic nature.
“Answer or I shall be forced to kiss you into speech,” Ewan said with mock severity.
The words came so quickly she didn’t realize she was going to speak before she did so. “Well, I do think that I shouldn’t marry you,” Annabel said. “At the heart I’m a terribly greedy person. I truly wished to marry a rich man. And I don’t think I shall ever feel the way you do about the church. I’m just—I’m afraid that we shan’t suit each other, in the long run.”
He smiled at her and she felt a prickle of annoyance. She was starting to think that Ewan didn’t listen to half the things she told him.
“I really did consider that adultery was a certain part of my future,” she told him fiercely.
“If you had married someone else, God forbid,” Ewan said, “and I met you after the fact, I expect I would be thinking about adultery as well.”
“You are not listening to me,” she told him. “I do not fear for my soul. I would have shot those robbers in London without blinking, if I’d had an appropriate weapon!”
“Man and wife do not have to be in agreement on all things,” Ewan observed. He turned over her hand and brought her palm to his mouth. “Would you wish me to marry someone else?” he asked. “With honesty.”
“No,” she said, after a moment. “I’d kill the woman who tried to marry you, Ewan. With the first pistol that came to hand.”
“I’ve married a bloodthirsty wench, that’s for certain.” But he wasn’t laughing, and there was something burning in his eyes that made her heart thump in her chest. He held out his hand. “Would you like to retire, or may I tempt you into losing a bawbee or two?”
“You’ve already tempted me into losing something of greater value,” Annabel said, before she thought. “What’s a few bawbees?”
“Some things are priceless,” Ewan said, his eyes utterly serious. “If I could take back my rash actions on our journey, Annabel, I would.”
She forced another smile.
In the parlor, Uncle Pearce was fussily laying out the cards for speculation. Gregory was watching him like a hawk and the countess was complaining. Apparently no one other than Pearce ever won speculation.
“You put two on your own pile!” Gregory said, and then his face fell a little when Pearce counted out his cards, showing that he had the same number as everyone else.
“We’re all fascinated by Pearce’s cheating,” Ewan whispered in Annabel’s ear. “Gregory is particularly baffled by it, and yet he can’t seem to catch Pearce at the practice.”
Sure enough, by an hour later, not a one of them had any bawbees except Uncle Pearce. Gregory looked extremely disgusted and Lady Ardmore was positively gibbering with rage.
Annabel sat out the last two games, just watching the flow of cards. As they were preparing to retire, she put a hand on Gregory’s arm. “Will you have tea with me tomorrow morning?” she asked.
“I would be most honored,” he said with a quaint little bow. Annabel was touched to see that he had turned a bit pink.
“Perhaps you can teach me more about speculation,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m woefully inept.”
“No one ever wins at that game,” he whispered to her. “Didn’t you notice?”
Annabel grinned at him. “I have three sisters,” she whispered back. “And the youngest likes to cheat.”
Gregory’s answering smile was huge.
She turned to find Father Armailhac offering her an arm. “I wonder if I might talk to you a moment about your marriage,” he said.
Annabel felt herself blushing. Ewan was already halfway up the stairs, his grandmother leaning heavily on his arm. Gregory melted away, and Father Armailhac held out his arm, for all the world as if he were a French courtier. So she allowed herself to be drawn into the library.
“Do you wish to marry our Ewan?” he asked, when Annabel was seated in a velvet chair before the fire, sipping a tiny glass of something fiery that tasted like burnt oranges.
“I do,” she said.
“And may I call you Annabel?”
“Please do.” It was the first time she’d been on any sort of intimate terms with a clergy member. Annabel had a pulse of anxiety. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to say a prayer. She was sure to say it wrong.
“The most important thing,” Father Armailhac said, turning his peaceful llama face toward her, “is whether you truly wish to marry Ewan. In your heart of hearts.” And suddenly the monk looked almost as stern as any parish priest. “Because to make the sacrament of marriage without true feeling in your heart is wrongful.”
“This is not a marriage for love,” she said, her voice catching a little. “We are marrying because of scandal.”