Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"What if we married?"
Lachlann looked up from the letter he'd been writing. The candle on his desk had burned low, guttering in its holder, and the hour was late enough that the castle around them had gone quiet.
Alba stood in the doorway of his solar in a simple dress and a shawl, her hair loose.
He set down his quill.
"Alba."
"I'm serious." She went into the room and closed the door behind her.
"I couldnae sleep. I kept thinkin' about the warrant, and Torquil, and what he's goin' tae dae next, and I thought—" She stopped in front of his desk, her hands wrapped in the shawl.
"If we married, would it help? Would it make it harder fer him tae claim me? "
He was quiet for a moment, looking at her.
She could see him working through it. The legal complications, the political ramifications, the question of whether a marriage would strengthen their position or simply give Torquil a different angle to attack from.
"It might," he said finally. "If we could prove consummation and intent, it would complicate his position considerably. The king would be less inclined tae dissolve a marriage than tae simply enforce a custody arrangement." He paused. "But it's nae a guarantee."
"I ken it's nae a guarantee." She pulled the shawl tighter. "But it's somethin'. And right now somethin' feels better than naethin'."
He studied her face. "Ye're certain?"
"Aye," she said, looking at him. "Very certain."
He looked at her a moment longer, and then he nodded once, decisive.
"All right," he said. "Then we dae it taenight."
"Taenight?"
"Before anyone has time tae stop us. Before Torquil has time tae make his next move." He rose from the desk. "Can ye be ready in an hour?"
She stared at him. "An hour?"
"We'll need witnesses, nae many, but enough. And the chapel." He was already moving, his mind clearly several steps ahead of his words. "Ruadhri and James can stand fer us. Father Calum will perform the rite if I ask him tae."
"Will he nae ask questions?"
"He'll ask questions," Lachlann said. "But he'll dae it. He kens what's at stake." He stopped and looked at her. "Are ye havin' second thoughts?"
She took a breath. "Nay. Just, it's very fast."
"Aye," he said. "It is."
She held his gaze for a moment.
Her heart was beating very quickly, and she could feel the weight of what they were about to do settling onto her shoulders. Not the vows themselves, which she'd expected, but the speed of it, the finality of it, the way it would change everything between them in ways she couldn't fully predict.
But standing there in his solar in the middle of the night, looking at the careful steadiness of him, she found she wasn't afraid of that.
"An hour," she said.
"An hour," he agreed.
The chapel was cold and dark when they arrived, lit only by the candles Ruadhri had set in the sconces along the walls.
Father Calum stood at the altar in his vestments, his expression carefully neutral in the way of a man who had been woken in the middle of the night and told to perform a wedding and had decided not to ask the questions his face was clearly showing.
James stood near the door, his presence more guard than witness, and beside the altar Ruadhri waited with his hands clasped, looking at Lachlann with an expression that was equal parts concern and approval.
Alba's heart was beating very fast.
She had not changed.
There had been no time for ceremony, no time for the particular rituals that usually attended a thing like this. She wore the same dress and shawl she'd worn to Lachlann's solar, her hair still loose.
Lachlann stood beside her in his shirtsleeves and trousers, looking as though he'd been called from his desk, which he had.
It was possibly the least dignified wedding either of them had ever attended.
Father Calum cleared his throat.
"We are here," he began, in the careful formal cadence of the liturgy, "tae join this man and this woman in the sacrament of marriage. If there is anyone present who kens of a lawful impediment tae this union, let them speak now."
The silence stretched.
Alba found herself holding her breath, half-expecting someone to burst through the door with an objection, a warrant, a reason why it couldn't happen. But the door remained closed, and the chapel remained quiet, and the moment passed.
Father Calum continued.
"Lachlann MacKinnon. Dae ye take this woman, Alba, tae be yer lawfully wedded wife, till death dae ye part?"
"I dae," Lachlann said.
His voice was steady. It carried in the cold chapel without needing to be loud, and Alba felt something in her chest loosen at the sound of it, the absolute certainty in it, the complete absence of hesitation.
Father Calum turned to her.
"Alba. Dae ye take this man, Lachlann MacKinnon, tae be yer lawfully wedded husband, till death dae ye part?"
She felt the weight of it settle onto her. The reality of saying it, there, then, in the middle of the night, with war gathering at the edges of the glen and everything uncertain except that one singular choice.
"I dae," she said.
Her voice came out steadier than she'd expected. Clear. Sure.
Lachlann reached for her hand. His fingers were warm, and when he closed them around hers she felt the steadiness of him transfer through the contact, the same way it always did, solid and unhurried and entirely present.
"By the authority vested in me," Father Calum said, "I pronounce ye husband and wife. What God has joined taegether, let nay man put asunder."
The word settled into the silence of the chapel like a stone dropped into still water.
Alba didn't move.
She was aware of the candles, of James near the door, of Father Calum folding his hands with the careful dignity of a man pretending not to watch — but mostly she was aware of Lachlann. Of his hand around hers. Of the way he was already turning toward her before the last syllable had faded.
He reached up and touched her face. Just his thumb, tracing the line of her cheekbone slowly, as though he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.
"Alba," he said. Just her name. Nothing else.
She had heard him say it a hundred times. She was quite certain she had never heard it sound like that before.
He leaned in and kissed her. Not quickly, not urgently, but with a patience that undid her entirely.
Warm and deliberate, his hand curving around her jaw, his thumb still resting against her cheek. It was the kind of kiss that said I have wanted this and I am nae rushing it, and there is naewhere else I intend tae be.
Behind them, Ruadhri cleared his throat softly.
Lachlann pulled back just enough to look at her.
His eyes were dark in the candlelight, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite name - not triumph, not relief, something quieter and more private than either.
His thumb moved once, gently, across her lower lip.
"Good," he said, very quietly, as if he were answering a question only he had heard.
Alba let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Ruadhri stepped forward with a parchment and a quill, and Alba signed her name beside Lachlann's in the register.
Her hand shook only slightly, and James and Ruadhri witnessed it, and that was that.
The fire in Lachlann's chamber had gone out while they'd been gone.
He knelt before the hearth and built it again with the same methodical care he brought to everything. Kindling first, then the logs arranged to catch, his movements precise and unhurried despite the late hour and the strangeness of the night.
Alba stood near the bed and watched him work and tried to feel married.
It didn't feel particularly different. Not yet. She was still herself, still standing in the same room she'd been in a dozen times before, still wearing the same dress she'd worn to find him in his solar.
The only thing that had changed was a set of words spoken in a cold chapel and her name written in a register.
However, something else had changed too. She could feel it in the quality of the silence between them, not uncomfortable, but different.
Weighted.
He stood when the fire had caught and turned to face her.
"Are ye all right?" he asked.
"Aye," she said. "I think so."
He crossed to her slowly, and when he reached her he lifted his hand and touched her face. He touched her briefly, just his thumb against her cheekbone, the gesture both careful and deliberate.
“Ye’re mine now, Alba,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel, the burr of his accent wrapping around the words like a promise.
His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. The hardness of his body pressed into the softness of hers, and she could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her dress, the rigid length of his manhood trapped between them.
Alba tilted her chin up, meeting his stare without flinching. “And ye’re mine,” she replied, her voice steady despite the way her pulse hammered in her throat.
Her fingers curled into the thick waves of his auburn hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The sound sent a shiver down her spine, pooling low in her belly.
His mouth crashed onto hers before she could say another word, his kiss fierce and demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips to claim her in a way that left no doubt.
This was no gentle wedding night. This was a man staking his claim, and she was more than ready to let him.
His teeth grazed her lower lip, nipping just hard enough to make her gasp, and he swallowed the sound, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, lifting her against him.
The friction of his manhood grinding against the apex of her thighs through the layers of fabric made her whimper, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Lachlann broke the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, his breath hot against her skin, his hands already working at the laces of her dress.