Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ S top fussin’.” Ewan’s low-voiced murmur drew Alistair’s attention to where his left hand fidgeted with the torc of rank about his neck. He scowled and forced himself to drop it.
He’d never liked wearing his formal attire. High stockings, low boots – and the boots had to be cleaned, and the leather freshly oiled to shine – then a new kilt, his wide, tooled leather belt, and his lightweight blade. Added to that a new shirt, so white from laundering that it made him think of fresh snowfall. Over that went a decorated vest, then his sash and his torc of rank.
His hair had been trimmed, his hands scrubbed and nails seen to by his manservant, Devlin, and his beard combed, cut and combed again. He now understood fully why Ewan had declared he needed candle-marks to get ready.
He hated being fussed over, and had he not been reminded, several times, by Devlin and Ewan both that his betrothed would be undergoing similar preparations, he would have dismissed them all and said propriety be hanged.
At least his brother had finally declared him ‘presentable’ and permitted him a small bite to eat and a swallow or two of scotch to steady his nerves. Now he stood before the altar, awaiting his bride and trying not to pay too much attention to the watching clan-folk, the muttering, or the bagpipes playing soft aimless tunes in the corner of the large receiving room where they’d chosen to have the ceremony.
He had to admit, the women of the castle had done well in decorating, and the flowers and colors were an elegant blend of harvest season and the colors traditional to a wedding. Candles joined the torches to lend their soft light to the room, and flowers were interspersed with harvest sheaves and tokens of luck and fruitful union.
Had it not been an arranged marriage, and had he not been burdened with his memories of the woman he’d once hoped to wed, he might have appreciated it more. But Constance was no longer among the living, and he no longer even had her ring to remind him of her. What he did have were responsibilities to his clan, and a duty to continue on with his life.
It would have to be enough.
A servant came in and spoke to Ewan. His brother gestured to the musicians, and the music changed to reflect the approach of the bride. Alistair took a deep breath and prepared himself.
A moment later, Niamh appeared, carrying a small bouquet of wildflowers and heather. Alistair sucked in a sharp inhalation at the sight of her, striding slowly up the aisle toward him in her soft blue dress, with the MacLean silver at brow, throat and wrists. Green embroidery on sleeves and bodice brought out the green in her eyes, and her hair tumbled down her back, gleaming like a cascade at sunset, muted fire shining from every strand.
She was glorious, radiant even with the apprehension he could see in her eyes. It was a struggle to breathe through the rushing in his ears and the heat filling his veins. He barely managed to pull his eyes away to see who escorted her up the aisle.
Catriona walked at Niamh’s side, and the gleam in her eyes suggested she saw the effect Niamh’s appearance had on him. She’d been involved in helping plan much of the wedding and had volunteered to be Niamh’s attendant.
It was too late to think any more on the matter as the two women approached. Alistair swallowed once, closed his eyes briefly to regain his composure, then offered Niamh his hand. She took it, slowly and hesitantly, as the two of them turned to face the priest.
The priest offered a short prayer, then stepped forward. “Would those who wish to be joined together here today step forth, and speak their names?”
Alistair spoke first. “Alistair MacDuff, Laird o’ Clan MacDuff.”
Niamh’s voice was soft, and not entirely steady as she responded in turn. “Niamh Cameron, daughter o’ Laird Cameron.”
“And who stands witness for these two, tae attest their character and their willingness tae enter this holy state o’ union?”
Ewan stepped forward. “I, Ewan MacDuff, braither tae Laird MacDuff, dae attest tae the character and willingness o’ Alistair MacDuff, tae be wed here taeday.”
Catriona took her place at Niamh’s side. “I, Catriona MacLean, Healer o’ Clan MacDuff and cousin tae Lady Cameron, dae attest tae the character and willingness o’ Niamh Cameron tae be wed here taeday.”
“It is so noted. If there be any who kens a reason why these two should nae be wed, speak now, or forever keep yer silence.”
Alistair bit his tongue to keep himself from speaking. He wanted to protest, to refuse, to turn around and march out of the room with Niamh at his side, then tell her she could go home. And yet, that was impossible. They’d come too far for him to allow his reluctance to interfere now.
The allotted time for protests passed without a word.
The priest went into a short speech about the importance of marriage, then another blessing. Alistair had directed him to forego the traditional hand-fasting wrappings. He had a feeling they would have reminded Niamh too much of how he’d tied her up at the beginning of their journey.
Finally, it was time for the vows. “Dae ye, Laird Alistair MacDuff, promise tae tak’ this woman as yer wife, tae keep and tae care fer, tae nurture and defend in all o’ life’s seasons, in prosperity and difficulty, joy and sorrow, peace and war, health and illness, fer so long as both yer lives shall last?”
“Aye. I dae.”
The priest nodded. “Dae ye, Lady Niamh, promise tae tak’ this man as yer husband, tae keep and tae care fer, tae nurture and stand beside ye, in all o’ life’s seasons, in prosperity and difficulty, joy and sorrow, peace and war, health and illness, fer so long as both yer lives shall last?”
Alistair waited, but no response was forthcoming. He squeezed Niamh’s hand lightly to prompt her. Still no response.
He turned to ask what she was thinking, and all his irritation fled. Niamh’s face was pale, her eyes wide, and her breath coming in short, uncertain bursts.
Something was wrong.
Niamh heard the priest ask for her assent and her vow, but her voice would not obey her. Everything seemed dim and far away, compared to the panic that seeped through her like ice water.
She’d been all right, resigned and determined to make the best of the situation, as Catriona led her up the aisle and gave her hand over to Alistair.
But then she’d heard the words ‘tae keep and tae care fer, and all of a sudden, she was overwhelmed by the unspoken meaning.
Caring for her husband meant giving him children. All her fears swept over her like a cold wave, and abruptly she was drowning in terror, unable to say a word. She couldn’t even whimper, she was so terrified.
The world was fading before her eyes as she gasped for air, unable to breathe through her terror. Then, without warning, her hand was released, and two large, strong arms were around her. A low, steady voice spoke in her ear, grounding her. “Easy there. Easy. Tak’ a breath. Breathe in. And out.”
She managed a shuddering breath. “Again.”
She did as instructed, her hands clenching at the arms around her. Gradually, her fear receded, and the world came back into focus.
Alistair was holding her, whispering to her. At his side, Catriona had a hand on her shoulder and was stroking her hair gently.
She heard the murmurs of the crowd and felt her face burn in mortification. She’d hoped that even if she couldn’t get married happily, she could at least do so gracefully.
“Dinnae mind them. They might mutter, but ye’re nae the first bride tae be overwhelmed durin’ the ceremony.” Catriona spoke softly.
“Aye. Catriona took so many calming draughts she fell asleep almost as soon as the ceremony ended.”
From the way the healer colored, Alistair was telling the truth, and the knowledge cheered Niamh a little. “I... I dinnae ken what came over me.”
“’Tis nerves. Every bride has a right tae be uncertain... and every groom too.” Catriona said.
“Aye.” Alistair nodded.
“Ye’re... nervous?”
“Aye. Near swallowed me tongue tryin’ tae breathe when I first saw ye. Couldnae believe someone like ye would be marryin’ me.”
Alistair’s frank admission restored her a little more. She managed a few deep breaths, then slowly stepped free of Alistair’s arms. He moved to take her hand again as Catriona retreated to her place opposite Ewan. “What now?”
“Ye’ve still tae speak yer vows.”
Niamh nodded, then faced the priest. “Yer pardon, Faither. I tak’ this man tae be me husband – I do.”
“Then by the powers vested in me by the holy powers above, I pronounce ye wed within the eyes o’ the heavens and all those gathered here taeday. Laird MacDuff, ye may now kiss yer bride.”
Alistair’s hand cupped her chin, and his mouth fastened over hers, firm but gentle. His lips were dry and slightly rough, and he tasted faintly of salt and spirits, mingled with the scent of some sort of herbal soap.
She’d barely any time to appreciate the kiss, or respond, before he released her and stepped back to offer her his arm. She took it, still feeling slightly dazed by the kiss and the warmth of him beside her. She flinched as the room erupted into cheering, and the bagpipes began to play, sealing her fate once and for all. Niamh was in so much turmoil, she barely felt Alistair’s hand start to lead her from the altar as the priest intoned the final words of the ceremony.
“Assembled clansmen and women, I give ye – the Laird and Lady MacDuff!”