Chapter 26
The preparations for the celebration were well underway. It was going to be Lilliana’s first cèilidh, and she was very excited.
She scooped up Bramble, who seemed determined to join the festivities, and locked him in her chambers along with a large dish of food.
“You can have your own wee celebration in here,” she said with a teasing grin before she locked the door.
Adjusting her plaid around her shoulders, she made her way down the stairs to where Kayden was waiting by the carriage. He looked resplendent in full Highland regalia, his dark tartan kilt falling in neat pleats to his knees and putting his magnificent calves on display.
The fabric was patterned with the bold colors of Clan McGill, and Lilliana could not help but beam with pride to see it.
A richly adorned sporran hung at his waist, its silver clasp gleaming in the firelight, while a crisp white sark and tailored waistcoat accentuated the strong lines of his broad shoulders.
Over one shoulder, he draped a tartan plaid fastened with a silver brooch, and his thick woolen hose disappeared into sturdy leather shoes. His brown hair was neatly tied back, and a feathered bonnet perched atop his head.
He looked simply magnificent. Her heart swelled with pride to see him with his head held high and a slight smile on his face. He turned, his eyes lighting up when he spotted her.
He made a leg. “May I say how lovely ye look, me love?”
She smiled shyly, shifting from one foot to another in a way that had her brown satin gown shimmering softly in the sunset. “Thank you, kind sir. You look quite handsome yourself.”
He held out his hand to help her into the carriage. She took it, showing her colors.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he climbed in beside her.
The ride to the village was spent mostly in silence, but he held her hand the whole way, and it was all she could do to keep her smile contained.
The village square was alive with the vibrant spirit of a true Highland cèilidh as they arrived just as the sun disappeared and the moon began to rise.
Beneath the vast, starlit sky, a bonfire crackled at the center, casting warm light over the gathering villagers. There were fiddlers and pipers playing reels and jigs accompanied by the tapping of feet and soaring of hearts.
Moira held court near the food tables, speaking animatedly to several villagers. Lilliana gave her a wave before turning to watch the dancers. To her surprise, she saw Jacob twirling Betsy about on the dance floor and could not help laughing out loud.
She bathed in the wonder of it, turning to Kayden with wide eyes.
“Let’s go and join them,” she said with excitement.
He laughed, taking her hand and helping her down from the carriage. “By all means, Me Lady.”
Fiddles sang into the night sky, the bowstrings moving so fast they blurred in the torchlight. A bodhrán thudded beneath it, steady as a heartbeat, and boots struck the stone floor in an echoing rhythm. The scent of roasting lamb, fresh bannocks, and spiced ale drifted through the air.
For weeks, the village had known only whispers and watchfulness. Tonight, it roared.
Kayden stood near the high table, tankard in hand, surveying the hall. Men who had looked hollow and worried now grinned wide enough to split their faces. Women who had once clutched feverish children now spun freely beneath the lanterns.
The illness had vanished. The wells were sealed. The stranger was gone.
And at the center of it all was Lilliana.
She was not dressed in London silk tonight, but in a deep green gown Moira had insisted on, dyed with Highland moss and stitched to fit her new station. Her hair, usually braided or pinned in neat English fashion, fell in loose waves down her back, woven with a thin strip of tartan.
She threw her head back and laughed as Betsy pulled her into the circle.
“She looks like she belongs,” Jacob said at Kayden’s elbow.
“She does belong,” Kayden replied evenly.
Jacob smirked. “Aye. I meant with ye.”
Kayden ignored him, though his gaze did not leave his wife.
Lilliana stumbled once during a particularly fast reel, and two older women caught her by the arms before she could fall. Instead of scolding her, they laughed and pulled her back into step.
She did not shrink from it. She adapted to it.
That was the thing about her.
The song ended to thunderous applause. A young lad leapt onto a bench and shouted, “A toast!”
Tankards were raised. The hall quieted in waves.
Old Fergus stood slowly, leaning on his cane but looking stronger than he had in months.
“To Malgrave,” he called.
“To Malgrave!” the hall echoed.
“To the Laird, who kept us steady.”
Kayden inclined his head slightly.
“And to the Lady, who kept us alive.”
The cheer that followed was louder.
Kayden did not move, but something tightened low in his chest. Lilliana flushed crimson, clearly unprepared for the public acknowledgment. She glanced at him, searching.
He stepped forward. That small movement silenced the murmurs.
“Me clan,” he said, voice carrying easily across stone and timber. “Lady McGill did what she was called to do. As did ye.” He paused, then added deliberately, “She is the Lady of Clan McGill in deed as well as name.”
There was no hesitation in the answering roar.
Lilliana’s eyes widened slightly at his words. He had never said it publicly before.
Jacob leaned in again. “Ye have just made it impossible for yerself to scowl at her in public ever again.”
“Silence,” Kayden muttered.
The music resumed faster, celebratory. Someone shoved a tankard into Kayden’s free hand. Someone else clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle bone. Then Lilliana appeared in front of him, breathless and glowing.
“My Laird,” she said sweetly, offering her hand. “You have yet to dance.”
“I daenae—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” Her chin lifted in challenge.
Several clansmen noticed and began chanting, “Dance! Dance!”
Jacob raised both arms in encouragement. “Aye, Cousin, show us yer courtly English steps.”
Kayden shot him a warning look but allowed himself to be pulled into the circle.
The steps were not complicated, but they were fast. Lilliana guided him at first, her fingers warm in his. When he missed a step, she laughed, not mocking but delighted.
“Ye are doing this on purpose,” he accused under his breath.
“Of course I am.”
He adjusted quickly, finding the rhythm.
Soon they were spinning in time with the others, boots striking stone together. The energy of the hall surged through him. It was not tension or vigilance, but something dangerously close to joy.
When the dance ended, she remained close.
“You see?” she said softly. “You are not made of stone.”
“Aye,” he replied, voice low. “I am learning.”
Another song began, slower this time. Couples formed naturally, hands linking, movements gentler.
Without asking, Kayden drew Lilliana closer. Her body fit against his as if it had always known the shape.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“For dancing?”
“For believing me.”
He brushed his thumb lightly along her waist. “Ye were right.”
Her smile grew.
Moira approached then, wiping flour from her hands, eyes shining. “The hothouse frame arrives next week,” she said proudly.
Lilliana’s face lit up like sunrise. “Truly?”
“Aye. And three girls have volunteered to tend the winter herbs.”
Kayden watched her absorb the news, watched how she began planning aloud, speaking of drying racks, of tinctures, of a small permanent apothecary near the lower village.
No one dismissed her. They leaned in. They listened. That, more than anything, settled something inside him.
Jacob drifted close once more. “She has done more in a fortnight than most lairds manage in a year,” he observed.
“Aye,” Kayden said.
“And she did it without fear.”
Kayden’s gaze did not waver from her. “She is the bravest among us.”
The dancing continued long into the night. Children fell asleep on benches. The fiddler’s pace slowed. Tankards emptied.
Lilliana lifted a tankard to toast him. “Slàinte,” she said quietly, before letting out a yawn.
Kayden lifted his own tankard. “To ye, me wife,” he replied in a deep voice. Then leaned down to her ear. “Come,” he murmured. “Let us go home.”
She nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes soft.
They got back to the castle late and exhausted. As they walked up the stairs hand in hand, Kayden could not help but smile at his wife.
“Ye seemed to enjoy yerself immensely tonight.”
She looked up at him with a smile. “I did. A cèilidh is much different from your run-of-the-mill English party. For one thing, it’s much less formal and a lot more enjoyable.”
He chuckled. “Are ye saying it’s better than London balls?”
“Much,” she said with feeling. “I never liked those. And I assure you that they did not like me.”
“Well then, their loss is our gain.”
She blushed, and she dipped her head, hiding from him. He let go of her hand and tucked her close to him as they walked down the hall to their chambers.
At his invitation, Lilliana had been sleeping in his bed for the last few days. He found it to be a very satisfactory arrangement.
Long may it continue.
They came to a stop at his door and paused. She turned to him. “You must be tired. Do you want me to…” She pointed to her door.
He pulled her tighter against him. “I’ve grown accustomed to falling asleep to yer gentle snores,” he said, grinning teasingly.
She hit his arm. “Kayden!” she cried. “I do not snore.”
He burst into laughter. “Indeed. Ye make these delicate little snuffling sounds that are so adorable.”
She pouted at him. “You’re no gentleman to say such a thing to me.”
He chuckled, ushering her into his chambers. “I am a Highland brute, and ye ken it well by now, lass.” He swooped down and picked her up, and she squealed in surprise before bursting into giggles.