Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Melissa returned once the bathwater had cooled and the servants had taken the tub away, her arms laden with folded linen and ribbons. Arianna sat before the small mirror as Melissa warmed scented oil between her palms and smoothed it over her skin.
“Rose and heather,” Melissa said softly, “for calm and strength on a weddin’ day.”
Arianna breathed it in, nodding as her nerves fluttered anew.
Melissa took up the brush and began working through Arianna’s brown hair in slow, steady strokes. “Ye’ve fine hair, me lady,” she said, her tone reverent, “it takes a braid kindly.”
Arianna managed a small smile. “Me mother always braided it when I was a lass,” she replied, watching her reflection.
“Then we’ll do it proper, the old way,” Melissa said, dividing the hair with careful fingers.
As the braids took shape, Melissa spoke of tradition, her voice soothing. “McGuire brides wear their hair bound but nae hidden,” she explained, “to show honesty before God and clan.”
Her mother placed small white flowers, woven through the plaits, their scent light and clean. Arianna’s heart thudded as she realized how real it all felt.
The first layer of her gown was pulled over her head, fine linen cool against her skin. Her mother tied it snug and straightened the seams with practiced hands. “This layer’s for comfort,” she said, “for the day’s long and full of eyes.”
Arianna laughed nervously. “I feel as though all of Scotland will be starin’.”
“Aye, near enough,” Melissa replied with a grin. She reached for the heavier wool gown, pale cream with embroidered borders. “Clans have come from far valleys,” she continued, “McLeod, Fraser, Grant, and more besides.”
Arianna’s stomach fluttered at the thought of so many witnesses.
The gown settled over her shoulders, weighty and warm. Her mother laced it carefully, tugging just enough to shape without pain.
“This sash was stitched by McGuire women,” Melissa said, “each thread a wish for prosperity.”
Arianna swallowed, moved by the unseen hands that had worked for her.
The sash, deep green, edged with silver, was beautiful. Melissa draped it across Arianna’s shoulder and pinned it at her hip. “Green for growth, silver for endurance,” she murmured. Arianna touched it lightly, feeling the weight of meaning in the cloth.
Her mother watched quietly, eyes shining. “Ye look like a bride,” Eilidh said softly.
Arianna met her gaze in the mirror. “I feel like one now,” she admitted, her voice barely steady.
Melissa brought forth a small cloak, light but finely made. “This ye’ll wear after the vows,” she explained, “when ye leave the kirk as a McGuire.”
Arianna’s chest tightened at the words. “A new name,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
“A new beginnin',” Melissa said kindly. She adjusted the flowers in Arianna’s hair and stepped back to inspect her work. “The clans will see strength in ye,” she added.
Arianna straightened her shoulders at that, drawing courage from the thought.
As the final pins were set and the folds smoothed, the sounds of the castle drifted in from beyond the door.
Footsteps echoed, voices murmured, and somewhere a piper practiced a low, steady tune.
Arianna’s heart raced, yet a strange calm settled over her.
Wrapped in tradition, cloth, and quiet care, she felt herself becoming the woman she was meant to be.
Arianna stood at the Kirk doors with her heart pounding, the weight of the day settling upon her shoulders.
Cold stone rose around the entrance, softened by garlands of pine, white heather, and trailing ivy woven along the arch.
Candles flickered in iron sconces, their glow warming the grey walls.
The air smelled of wax, evergreen, and fresh flowers crushed underfoot.
Inside, the Kirk had been transformed beyond anything she had known.
Long benches were dressed with ribbons in the colors of both clans, green and deep blue twined together.
White cloth draped the altar, embroidered with ancient Celtic knots meant to bind souls and fortunes alike.
Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, catching dust motes that shimmered like blessings.
Arianna drew a slow breath, steadying herself. She stepped forward, aware of every eye turning toward her. Her heart beat fast as awe filled her, for it was the most beautiful wedding she had ever seen.
Then she saw him. Ian stood near the altar, broad-shouldered and unmoving, as though carved from the stone itself.
He wore dark formal garb trimmed with deep green and silver, his clan colors resting across his chest. His long black hair was bound at his neck, his beard neatly kept, and the eyepatch only made him look more formidable.
As she walked toward him, Arianna could not deny how handsome he seemed.
His brown eye followed her every step, sharp and intent, yet something unreadable flickered within it.
Scars marked his face, telling silent tales of violence and survival.
Her pulse quickened despite herself, unsettled by the pull she felt.
She noticed how his broad shoulders strained his shirt, and a brief feeling of desire filled her chest. She quickly pushed the thought aside, but the flush flooded her cheeks regardless.
They met before the pastor, the space between them closing at last.
Ian inclined his head slightly, his voice low. “Ye look… steady,” he said, as if that were the highest praise he could offer.
Arianna lifted her chin. “And ye look ready,” she replied, refusing to sound afraid.
The pastor raised his hands, his voice carrying through the kirk.
“We gather this day before God and clan,” he said, “to bind Arianna Mullen of clan McDonald and Ian Bell, the Laird of clan McGuire, in lawful marriage.” He looked from one to the other, solemn and sure.
“This union is sworn in word, in witness, and in handfastin’, as our forebears have done. ”
A length of braided cord was brought forth, woven in green, silver, and white. The pastor took their hands, placing Arianna’s smaller one atop Ian’s scarred palm.
“Hands that will work together,” he intoned, “and stand together in peace and war.”
Arianna felt Ian’s grip tighten slightly, grounding and warm.
“Do ye, Ian Bell, take this woman as yer lawful wife,” the pastor asked, “to honor her and protect her as long as ye both shall live?”
Ian did not hesitate. “Aye,” he said firmly, his voice echoing. The word seemed to seal itself into her bones.
The pastor turned to her. “Do ye, Arianna Mullen, take this man as yer lawful husband,” he asked, “to stand beside him and uphold his house?”
Arianna swallowed, then spoke clearly. “Aye,” she said, surprised by her own strength. The cord was wrapped around their joined hands, binding them fast.
“By this handfastin’,” the pastor said, knotting the braid, “ye are bound nae only in body, but in fate.” He nodded once, satisfied. “Speak yer vows.”
Ian’s gaze locked on hers, intense and unwavering. “I give ye me name and me protection,” he said, rough sincerity in his tone.
Arianna felt heat rise in her chest as she answered. “I give ye me loyalty and me strength,” she said softly, meaning more than she had expected.
The pastor smiled faintly. “Then by the laws of God and Scotland,” he declared, “I pronounce ye man and wife.” A murmur swept through the kirk.
Ian released her hands and stepped closer. For a breath, he hesitated, as if giving her the chance to pull away. She did not. He pulled her close and kissed her, firm and claiming, sealing the marriage.
Heat flooded through Arianna at his touch, her knees weakening as the world narrowed to him alone.
His kiss was warm and sure, sending a thrill through her that she could not deny.
She felt his lips against hers with a tenderness that shook her.
His large hands held her firmly in place as she felt his warmth radiate through her sleeves, sparking a fire within her.
When he drew back, her breath came fast and unsteady. His presence loomed over her, and a tingle throbbed in her heart. The cheers of the clans washed over her, but all she could feel was the weight of his presence and the sudden, terrifying certainty that her life had truly changed.
The great hall of McGuire Castle rang with music and laughter as the ceilidh swelled into full life.
Ian sat at the high table, his gaze drawn again and again to the woman beside him.
Arianna had been comely when he first set eyes on her, but in her wedding dress, she was something altogether dangerous.
Her brown hair lay in neat braids, catching the firelight like polished chestnut.
He told himself to look elsewhere, yet his eyes betrayed him.
The curve of her full bosom rose and fell with each careful breath she took.
Her blue eyes shone too brightly, and her lips, full and soft, pressed together as if holding back words.
Heat coiled low in his belly, sharp and unwelcome, and he forced himself to look away.
She doesnae feel the same for me. Refusing to consummate the wedding on the wedding night because she loathes the sight of me.
Ian reached for his cup, grounding himself in the familiar burn of ale.
He reminded himself that desire was a weakness best mastered, not indulged.
Still, the knowledge that she was now his wife stirred something feral and possessive in him.
He shifted in his chair, silently cursing the effect she had upon him.
They sat shoulder to shoulder as the feast was served, the table bending beneath the weight of food.
Platters of roast venison and beef were carried out first, glazed and steaming.
Trencher bread soaked up thick gravies, while bowls of roasted vegetables were passed down the line.
The scent of herbs, smoke, and fresh-baked bannocks filled the air.