Three.

The small stone kirk of St Andrew's-by-the-burn was the last remnant of a hamlet that was slowly dying. The elderly minister and his wife were in the front garden, tending to the rose bushes.

"Good day to ye, Reverend." Cameron dropped lightly to the ground, placed his hands around Jeannie Macleay'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 help 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 Macleay, 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 Macleay?"

"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 an irregular marriage with God's blessing than a 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 hand out and 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 sceptically. "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, cosy 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 just you 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."

With the last of her clothes stripped from her shivering body, Jeannie had no alternative but to climb into the tin bathtub. She'd been prepared to scrub the worst of it off with a bucket of cold water, but Mrs Potts wouldn't hear of it. "Cold water? Nonsense. A bride deserves the best we can give her, isn't that right, Morag?"

So Jeannie luxuriated in a tub of warm water and scrubbed the dirt from her body. The bath water was soon black and the minister's wife ordered a second bath, with hotter water. This time, instead of the strong-smelling soap Jeannie had used the first time, she gave her a small oval cake that smelled of roses.

"It's beautiful," Jeannie said, inhaling the rich scent as she lathered her body for the second time.

"It's French," the older lady admitted. "A terrible indulgence for a minister's wife, but I confess, I cannot resist it. Now, close your eyes and Morag will shampoo your hair with the egg."

It seemed a waste of good food, but Jeannie sat in the deep tin bath with her eyes closed while Mrs Potts and Morag fussed over her. The hot water was blissful. The last four years she'd bathed in lukewarm water: Uncle Ewen's kettle only held a small amount of hot water and he didn't approve of wasting fuel to heat water for baths.

She felt herself relaxing as Morag's strong fingers massaged her scalp. It was so long since anyone had seemed to care if she lived or died, let alone felt clean and smelled good. Four years since Mam had died, but now, with her eyes closed, she could almost believe Mam was here, helping prepare her for her wedding.

She stood while Morag rinsed her down like a child, wrapped her in a large towel and then rinsed her hair carefully, several times, with water, then vinegar, then with a mixture that also smelled of roses.

"There you go, lassie, sit ye down by the fire now and drink this." Morag pushed a cup of hot, sweet tea into her hand. Jeannie drank it gratefully.

She dried her hair by the fire, using her fingers to untangle it. The pile of muddy clothes lay on the stone floor where she'd discarded them and her heart sank. Not much use in being clean and sweet-smelling when the only clothes she had were muddy cast-offs. The dresses she'd brought to Uncle Ewen's four years ago were long outgrown or worn out. The skirt she'd worn today was a patched together creation of what remained of them. But she had no choice. She'd have to dry her clothes by the fire and brush off as much mud as she could.

"Here you are," Mrs Potts swept into the room with an armful of clothes. "We'll find something pretty for you here."

"But-"

"Hush now, I can see you've lost your own clothes, and I'll not let a bride be wed in those." She flapped disdainful fingers towards the muddy pile. "Now, let's see." She pulled out a couple of dresses, held them up, shook her head and tossed them on a chair. "Ah, this one, I think. Matches your bonny blue eyes." She held up a dress in soft blue fabric, glanced at Morag for confirmation, and nodded. "Now, let's get you dressed."

She handed Jeannie a bundle: underclothes of fine, soft lawn, edged with lace, finer than anything Jeannie had worn in her life.

"But I canna accept-" Jeannie began, pride warring with longing for the pretty things.

"Pish tush, they're old things I have no more use for. They don't even fit me now, see?" Mrs Potts patted her rounded shape comfortably. She added in a softer voice, "And it would give me great pleasure, Jeannie Macleay, to know that you go to your wedding dressed as a bride should be, from the skin out. You've a handsome young man there who'll appreciate them later." She winked. "Come now, indulge an old woman."

Blushing and wordless at the unexpected kindness, Jeannie donned the chemise and petticoat. She picked up the stockings and looked up in shock. "These are silk."

Mrs Potts flapped her fingers at her. "Well of course silk for a bridal. Besides, what use are silk stockings for an old woman like me? Now, no argument. And try these slippers on." She handed Jeannie a pair of soft brown leather slippers.

They were a bit big for Jeannie, but once Morag stuffed the toes with wool, they fitted.

"Now for your hair."

Jeannie began to twist it in a rope around her hand.

"No, no, no! Leave it out. 'Tis your glory, child, and as a married woman you'll be covering it up soon enough. In the meantime leave it out to dazzle that man of yours."

Jeannie wasn't sure she had it in her to dazzle anyone she was no beauty, she knew but if Mrs Potts said her hair could dazzle, Jeannie would leave it out.

She had no idea what marriage to Cameron Fraser would be like, but she would do her best to make it work. And Mrs Potts was giving her a head start.

Producing a brush, Mrs Potts brushed out Jeannie's long hair till it shone, then produced a veil of creamy, precious lace, which she placed carefully over Jeannie's head. "'Twas my own bridal veil, and both my daughters wore it at their weddings, too."

She stood back and smiled. "There, a bonny bride you are indeed, is she not Morag? Right now, I'll just-" She broke off, hesitated, then said, "Child, do you have no kith or kin to stand up with you?"

Jeannie shook her head. "There's only Uncle Ewen, and he wouldna come. He doesna like people."

Mrs Potts and Morag exchanged glances. "Would that be Ewen Leith, the one they call 'the hermit'?"

Jeannie nodded. "My mother's brother."

"I never realized he had a young girl living with him. I'm sorry lass, if I'd known you were alone up there in the hills, I would have visited."

Jeannie shrugged awkwardly. "It doesna matter."

The older lady hugged her. "Well, you'll not be lonely any longer with young Cameron Fraser for a husband. I'm amazed you two ever met, let alone had time to court. Right then, I'll away and see if the men are ready. Take her to the church door, Morag, and when you hear the music send her down the aisle." The minister's wife bustled away.

Jeannie and Morag looked at each other. "Could I maybe-" Jeannie began. "Is there a looking glass somewhere, so that I could see ..."

"Och, of course, lass." Morag looked out into the hallway, then beckoned.

Jeannie stood in front of the looking glass in the hall and stared. Other than in a pool of water, she hadn't seen her reflection in four years. Uncle Ewen didn't believe in wasting money on such things.

She'd changed in four years. Grown up. "I ... I look like my mother," she whispered. "I look ..." Pretty, she thought. She couldn't say it aloud. Vanity was a sin. But she thought it and the thought gave her a warm glow. She was still a bit freckled and skinny and her cheeks were red from the cold and her mouth too wide and she still had that crooked tooth but she looked ... nice. Like a proper bride. A real bride. She adjusted the beautiful lace veil. If not for Mrs Potts's kindness ...

Emotion surged up in her and her eyes filled with tears.

"Now stop that, lassie, or you'll start me off as well." Morag said briskly. "Time enough for tears later. Let's get ye to the kirk."

Four.

They waited in the vestibule of the small stone kirk until they heard the full chord of an organ sound. Jeannie took a deep breath. One step and she was on her way to wed Cameron Fraser, a man she'd known but a few hours. And once married, there was no going back.

She couldn't move.

"Go on lass," Morag whispered and gave her a hefty shove that sent her stumbling into the aisle.

And there he was, waiting. Cameron Fraser, solemn as a judge and as fine a man as she'd ever seen. To her surprise he wore the kilt, the Fraser dress kilt, a splash of bright colour in the austere little whitewashed kirk.

Jeannie's heart fluttered. She'd always been partial to the sight of a man wearing the kilt. And Cameron Fraser looked as braw and bonny as any man she'd seen. The man had a set of legs on him that fair took her breath away.

The music continued and Jeannie walked slowly down the aisle, drinking in the sight of her groom. He wore a white shirt with a lace jabot at his throat, the foam of the lace in stark contrast at the hard line of his jaw and square, firm chin. Over it he wore a black velvet coat with silver buttons. He looked like a hero out of a painting of old.

His expression hadn't changed. He looked ... no, she couldn't read his face at all. He ran a finger between his throat and his jabot, as if it was tied too tight.

Was he having second thoughts?

She hoped not because she wanted him, wanted him with a fierceness that burned bright and deep within her. She quickened her step.

Cameron Fraser had made her want him. He'd caused all her long-buried dreams to surface, had tantalized her with possibilities she knew were foolish and impossible, but now she wanted him, wanted the house he'd promised her, the place, the home. Her home. And him. She wanted it all.

He was not going to back out now. She hurried the last few steps to where he waited at the altar and when he presented his arm, she grabbed it. And held on tight.

He stared down at her, looking faintly stunned.

Cameron couldn't believe his eyes. This was his muddy little bog sprite? This? This lissom young woman walking towards him with shining eyes and a look of hope so transparent it went straight to his heart.

Behind him, one of his cousins said something but Cameron wasn't listening. His attention was entirely on his bride as she made the interminable walk down the aisle, light and graceful in a pretty blue dress.

He straightened, glad now he'd stuffed his kilt and jacket into his saddlebag when he left, glad the minister had insisted it wouldn't do for the laird to be wed in his breeks, even if nobody except a couple of young wastrels were there to witness it. His bride would remember he'd done her honour on this day, the old man said.

Cameron ran a finger around his neck. He hadn't wanted the fussy lace jabot. The minister had pressed it on him at the last moment, completing the full formal dress.

Cameron was glad of it now. His bride was ... He took a deep breath and faced it: his bride, his little bog sprite was beautiful. Not the perfect, polished beauty in the portraits of his mother, nor the ripe, sensual beauty of Ailine, the widow who'd first taught a brash boy how to please a woman.

Jeannie Macleay's beauty was something quite different.

She was the scent of heather on the wind, the softness of mist in the glen, and the clean, fresh air of the mountains. It was a subtle beauty, like that of his homeland, not delicate and whimsical and demanding as his mother had been, but strong and free and bonny.

She wore a softly draped veil of lace over long, glossy chestnut hair that fell clear to her waist. Where had she hidden that hair? His fingers itched to run through the silken length of it. Her skin was smooth and fresh with a dozen or so small freckles, like brown breadcrumbs sprinkled over cream, her cheeks a wild rose blush echoed in her soft, full lips.

Cameron straightened under his bride's clear gaze. She liked how he looked too, he could tell by the feminine approval in her wide blue eyes. He drew himself up, glad now he'd worn the kilt and even the stupid, fussy jabot.

She gazed up at him, clinging tightly to his arm, and gave him a hesitant, shy, faintly anxious smile that pierced his heart.

His bride.

"Dearly beloved."