The Devil Wears Plaid - By Teresa Medeiros

Chapter One

AH, JUST LOOK AT the dear lass! She’s all a’tremble with joy.”

“And who could blame her? She’s probably been dreamin’ o’ this day her entire life.”

“Aye, ’tis every lass’ dream, is it not? To wed a wealthy laird who can afford to grant her every wish?”

“She should consider herself blessed to have snared such an amazin’ catch. With all those freckles, it’s not as if she’s any Great Beauty.”

“I’d be willin’ to wager she couldn’t bleach them away with an entire jar o’ Gowland’s Lotion! And the copper shade o’ her hair does make her look a wee bit common, don’t you think? I heard the earl met her in London during her third and final Season when all hope o’ findin’ a husband had nearly been lost. Why, she’s already one-and-twenty, they say.”

“No! So turribly auld?”

“Aye, that’s what I hear. She was on the verge o’ bein’ placed firmly on the shelf, she was, until our laird spotted her sittin’ with the confirmed spinsters and sent one o’ his men o’er to dance with her.”

Even as she gazed straight ahead and valiantly fought to ignore the avid whispers of the two women gossiping on the front pew of the abbey, Emmaline Marlowe could not deny the truth in their words.

She had been dreaming of this day her entire life.

She’d dreamed of standing before an altar and pledging her heart and her lifelong fidelity to the man she adored. She’d never caught a clear glimpse of his face in those misty dreams but there could be no denying the passion smoldering in his eyes as he vowed to love, honor and cherish her for the rest of his days.

She lowered her gaze to the quivering bouquet of dried heather in her hand, thankful the beaming onlookers who crowded the rows of long, narrow pews flanking the center aisle of the church were attributing her trembling to the joyful anticipation any eager young bride about to speak her vows might feel. She was the only one who knew it had more to do with the chill that seemed to permeate the ancient stones of the abbey.

And her heart.

She stole a glance at the churchyard beyond the tall, narrow windows. A sky the color of unpolished pewter brooded over the vale, making the day look more like deep winter than mid-April. The skeletal branches of oak and elm had yet to sprout a single bud of green. Crooked gravestones lurched out of the stony soil, their epitaphs worn away by the relentless assault of wind and rain. Emma wondered how many of those who now slumbered beneath the ground had once been brides like her, young women full of hopes and dreams dashed too soon by choices made by others and the inescapable march of time.

The jagged crags of the mountain loomed over the churchyard like monuments to an even more primitive age. These harsh Highland climes where winter refused to yield its stubborn grip seemed a world away from the gently rolling hills of Lancashire where she and her sisters loved to romp with such careless abandon. Those hills were already green and tender with the promise of spring, beckoning home any wanderer foolish enough to forsake them.

Home, Emma thought, her heart seized by a sharp pang of longing. A place she would no longer belong after today.

She shot a panicked glance over her shoulder to find her parents sitting in the Hepburn family pew, beaming proudly at her through eyes glazed with tears. She was a good girl. A dutiful daughter. The one they had always relied upon to set a sound example for her three younger sisters. Elberta, Edwina and Ernestine were huddled together on the pew next to their mother, dabbing at their swollen eyes with their own handkerchiefs. If Emma could have convinced herself it was happiness that prompted her family’s weeping, their tears might have been easier to bear.

More simpering whispers intruded upon her thoughts as the women resumed their conversation. “Just look at him! He still cuts a strikin’ figure, doesn’t he?”

“Indeed! It does one’s heart proud. And you can tell he already dotes upon the lass.”

No longer able to deny the inevitability of her fate, Emma turned back to the altar and lifted her eyes to meet the adoring gaze of her bridegroom.

Then lowered them as she remembered she towered over his wizened form by over half a foot.

He grinned up at her, nearly dislodging the poorly fitted set of Wedgwood china teeth from