Chapter One

The MacLeans are an ancient family, long of grace and fair of face. 'Tis a pity they know their own worth, fer it makes 'em difficult to bargain with. Shrewd they are; 'tis rare they come out on the bottom side of any bargain. Yer own pa says he'd rather be bit by a sheep than dicker with a MacLean.

OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT

Gretna Green, Scotland April 9, 1807

Fiona MacLean forced herself to smile. "Father MacCanney, we've come to be married."

The heavyset priest looked uncertainly from Fiona to the groom and then back. "B-but—he's not—I canna—"

"Yes you can, Father," Fiona said in her calmest voice, her hands fiercely fisted in the strings of her reticule.

Come hell or high water, she was about to end the longest, most drawn-out, and most foolish feud in all Scotland. And thereby lose her freedom, her carefully planned future, and perhaps even a bit of her heart.

The thought made her stomach sink lower. But this marriage was necessary if she wished to keep her brothers safe from their own foolish tempers. It's the only way. I cannot waver.

"Fiona, lass," Father MacCanney said in an exasperated voice, "he's not fit to be a groom!"

"All the more reason for me to marry the fool." At the priest's blink of surprise, she quickly added, "'Tis a known fact that a good woman can turn even the most contrary, rotten, stubborn ne'er-do-well into a responsible man."

The priest glanced uneasily at her prospective groom. "Aye, but—"

"Have no fear for me, Father. I know he's no prize, but he's the one I want."

"Fiona, I know the lad might benefit from the match. 'Tis just—"

"I know," she said, sighing bravely. "He's a philanderer who's been with every woman from the North Sea to the fleshpots of London."

The priest flushed at the mention of fleshpots. "Yes, yes. So everyone knows, but—"

"He is also a complete wastrel who has made no effort to embrace a useful life. I know he's not the best choice of groom, but—"

"He's not even conscious!" the priest burst out. "He canna even say his own name!"

Fiona glanced down to where her man, Hamish, had dropped her groom on the cold flagstone at her feet. Muddy rivulets dripped onto the church floor from Kincaid's clothing. "I was afraid that was your problem." Even unconscious, Jack was a royal pain. Some things never changed.

"Lassie, ye canna drag an unconscious man to the altar."

"Why not?"

"Because—because 'tis just not done, that's why!"

Copyright © 2007 by Karen Hawkins.