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Authors: Tarah Scott and KyAnn Waters
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in a firmer tone.
The reverend’s head jerked up.
“What did you say?” Taran repeated.
The man cast Caroline an uncertain glance, then straightened and said in a clear voice, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Caroline’s breath caught when Taran looked at her and said with conviction, “I will.”
The reverend shifted his attention to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Love, honour, care for him, yes. Obey and serve? Caroline wadded the handkerchief in her fist. “I am uncer—”
Viscount Blackhall yanked her against him, forcing the last of her sentence into an indistinguishable squeak.
“She does,” he growled.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the reverend asked.
Her uncle seized her wrist and extended her hand—handkerchief and all—towards the reverend. He blinked, then an unexpected gleam of determination lit his eyes and she realised the good reverend intended to bring her to heel. He gripped her hand and extended it towards Taran. His warm fingers closed around hers with a firm but gentle touch. Her heart jolted. He was supposed to have stormed from the chapel, not taken her hand in his as if he meant to honour the damned vows.
“Repeat after me. I, Taran Robertson.”
Taran began, “I, Taran Robertson.”
“Viscount of Blackhall,” the minister went on, “take thee, Lady Caroline Wilmont to my wedded wife.”
Taran repeated the words.
Caroline cursed the tremble in her hand when Taran said, “To love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
The minister addressed her, “Repeat after me. I, Caroline Wilmont, take thee, Lord Taran Robertson, to my wedded husband.”
Voice level, Caroline repeated the vows, ending with, “according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The reverend laid a hand on their joined hands and said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Caroline stiffened. God had taken no more part in their union today than he had last night. Her husband had yet to see her full wedding trousseau. He would demand an annulment before the wedding night ended.
Taran released her hand and reached into his pocket to produce a gold band. He grasped her left hand and said, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
He started to kneel. Caroline didn’t move, and he yanked her down so hard he was forced to grab her waist to keep her from tumbling onto her rear. She scowled. He lifted a brow and she fisted her hands with the full intention of landing a blow to his belly before thinking better of it.
“Let us pray,” the minister began. Yes, Caroline needed a prayer because in another moment she would be wed.
Chapter Eight
Taran hauled his wife to her feet, placed his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. Her brow creased in confusion, then her green eyes narrowed. She slapped his chest and jerked back as if he had sprouted horns. He forced back a laugh. The lass had grit.
He pulled her against him, stopping an inch from her face. “I have grit as well,” he murmured, and kissed her.
Her lips weren’t pliant like the she-devil last night, but they were soft and warm. He touched his tongue to the seam. She gasped and he slipped inside for a taste. Caroline held her posture rigid and her mouth unyielding. He wrapped an arm around
The reverend’s head jerked up.
“What did you say?” Taran repeated.
The man cast Caroline an uncertain glance, then straightened and said in a clear voice, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Caroline’s breath caught when Taran looked at her and said with conviction, “I will.”
The reverend shifted his attention to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Love, honour, care for him, yes. Obey and serve? Caroline wadded the handkerchief in her fist. “I am uncer—”
Viscount Blackhall yanked her against him, forcing the last of her sentence into an indistinguishable squeak.
“She does,” he growled.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the reverend asked.
Her uncle seized her wrist and extended her hand—handkerchief and all—towards the reverend. He blinked, then an unexpected gleam of determination lit his eyes and she realised the good reverend intended to bring her to heel. He gripped her hand and extended it towards Taran. His warm fingers closed around hers with a firm but gentle touch. Her heart jolted. He was supposed to have stormed from the chapel, not taken her hand in his as if he meant to honour the damned vows.
“Repeat after me. I, Taran Robertson.”
Taran began, “I, Taran Robertson.”
“Viscount of Blackhall,” the minister went on, “take thee, Lady Caroline Wilmont to my wedded wife.”
Taran repeated the words.
Caroline cursed the tremble in her hand when Taran said, “To love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
The minister addressed her, “Repeat after me. I, Caroline Wilmont, take thee, Lord Taran Robertson, to my wedded husband.”
Voice level, Caroline repeated the vows, ending with, “according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The reverend laid a hand on their joined hands and said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Caroline stiffened. God had taken no more part in their union today than he had last night. Her husband had yet to see her full wedding trousseau. He would demand an annulment before the wedding night ended.
Taran released her hand and reached into his pocket to produce a gold band. He grasped her left hand and said, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
He started to kneel. Caroline didn’t move, and he yanked her down so hard he was forced to grab her waist to keep her from tumbling onto her rear. She scowled. He lifted a brow and she fisted her hands with the full intention of landing a blow to his belly before thinking better of it.
“Let us pray,” the minister began. Yes, Caroline needed a prayer because in another moment she would be wed.
Chapter Eight
Taran hauled his wife to her feet, placed his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. Her brow creased in confusion, then her green eyes narrowed. She slapped his chest and jerked back as if he had sprouted horns. He forced back a laugh. The lass had grit.
He pulled her against him, stopping an inch from her face. “I have grit as well,” he murmured, and kissed her.
Her lips weren’t pliant like the she-devil last night, but they were soft and warm. He touched his tongue to the seam. She gasped and he slipped inside for a taste. Caroline held her posture rigid and her mouth unyielding. He wrapped an arm around
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