"Good day to ye, Reverend." Cameron dropped lightly to the ground, placed his hands around Jeannie McLeay's waist and lifted her down.
"Cameron Fraser, is it you?" The minister came forward, brushing twigs and leaves from his clothes.
"Aye, Reverend, it is. I hope you and Mrs. Potts are well." Cameron was well aware of the minister's shrewd gaze running over them all, noting his cousins' inebriation, his own muddy state, and finally coming to rest on the muddy scrap he'd just helped dismount.
"And what is it ye want of me, Cameron? This is no' a social call I'll be thinking."
"I need you to perform a marriage." Cameron said it briskly, as if there was nothing at all strange in such a request. He held a hand out to the scrap and drew her to his side. "This is Miss Jeannie McLeay, originally of the Island of Lewis, and we are betrothed."
There was a muffled sound from the minister's wife, but the man himself didn't turn a hair.
Cameron continued, "We wish to be married today. Now, in fact."
The minister frowned. "No banns?"
"If ye can't do it now, just say so and we'll go elsewhere," Cameron said calmly. He'd prefer a church wedding, but Scottish laws ensured he didn't need the minister's cooperation. A declaration before witnesses would do it, and the minister knew it.
He eyed Jeannie dubiously. "Are ye of age, Miss McLeay?"
"I'm nineteen," she said, sounding quite composed for a girl with half a bog on her.
The minister pursed his lips. "Very well, then. I suppose I should be glad you've come to the kirk for it. Better a marriage with God's blessing than some godless arrangement. Come ye in. We'll get the details down. I expect they'll be glad of a cup of tea, Elspeth."
"Indeed, indeed," his wife said, looking curiously at the girl behind Cameron.
Cameron made to lead the scrap into the minister's house, but she didn't budge.
"I'm no' going into the house, not like this." She gestured at her muddy garments. She turned to the minister's wife. "Would it be possible for me to wash around the back of the house, ma'am?"
The minister's wife brightened. "Of course, my dear. I can see you've had a nasty encounter with some mud. Come along with me." She held her gestured to the path around the side of the house.
The minister waited until they'd disappeared from sight and then said, "Now Cameron, you'd better tell me what kind of a mess you've got yourself in this time."
"I'm not in a mess, Reverend Potts," Cameron said stiffly. The man was some kind of distant relation but it didn't excuse his familiarity.
The minister's brows rose skeptically. "Not in a mess? And yet you turn up out of the blue demanding to be wed to a lass who's mud to the eyebrows, here and now, no banns, no witnesses except for those feckless young wastrels."
The feckless young wastrels made indignant noises, but Rev. Potts swept on, "And none of the celebrations that one would expect of the wedding of the laird."
"None of that matters," Cameron told him. "Just wed us and be done."
Reverend Potts put a hand on Cameron's arm. "What is it, lad? Has the girl trapped you into this?"
Cameron shook off his hand. "She has not. And I don't propose to discuss it. If you're not willing to marry us, then say so and we'll be off."
The minister took a step back. "Now, now, laddie, no need to be like that. As long as you're happy about it, I'll wed the pair of ye, and gladly." He glanced down at Cameron's muddy breeches and boots. "But you'll not want to be married wi' your boots and breeks in such a state."
"It doesna matter—" Cameron began.
"It's not respectful to your bride to be married in dirt," the minister went on inexorably. "Come ye in and get cleaned up."
She was in an even muddier state, Cameron thought, but he followed the man anyway. He could at least clean up for her, he supposed.
IN THE LARGE, COZY kitchen at the back of the house, Elspeth Potts and her cook were firmly stripping Jeannie of her muddy clothes. "Och, child, ye canna go to your wedding reeking of the bog, I'd never forgive myself," Elspeth said. "There's plenty of hot water, so you just climb into the tub there and scrub it all off. Your hair, too — Morag, beat up an egg."
"An egg?" Jeannie's stomach rumbled.
"Aye, followed by a vinegar rinse. T'will give your hair a lovely glossy finish. Now hop in, my dear, before you get cold."
