Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The council chamber erupted the moment Euan finished speaking.
“Marriage?” Malcolm’s weathered face creased with disbelief. “Tomorrow morning? Me laird, surely ye jest—”
“I never jest about matters of clan survival.” Euan’s voice cut through the rising protests like a blade.
He stood at the head of the table, his scarred hands braced against the oak surface, hard as winter stone.
“MacKenzie ships approach our shores. His forces have already burned our villages. Every day we delay gives him more opportunity tae destroy what we’ve built. ”
“But a wedding—” Fergus shifted in his chair, his master-at-arms pragmatism warring with obvious concern. “Me laird, is there even time? The preparations alone—”
“Will be minimal.” Euan straightened to his full height. “This isnae about pageantry or celebration. It’s about legitimacy. About giving the Covenant and the Crown grounds tae support us against Keith’s aggression.”
“And ye think a hastily arranged marriage will accomplish that?” One of the younger councilors leaned forward. “What’s tae stop Keith from claiming we forced his daughter intae this? That it’s a sham tae justify our own territorial ambitions?”
“Because Lady Moyra agreed of her own free will.” The certainty in Euan’s tone brooked no argument. “She understands what’s at stake. And she’s chosen tae stand with us.”
“Chosen, or been coerced?” Daniel’s mind was already working through angles. “Keith will spin this however serves his purposes. He’ll paint her as a victim, himself as a faither driven tae desperate measures—”
“Then let him try. Every laird in the Highlands kens what Keith MacKenzie is. They’ve read his letters, heard his threats. When they learn he’s attacking the clan his daughter married intae, they’ll see the truth—that this was never about rescuing her. It was always about land and power.”
Silence fell. It was broken only by the crackle of torches and the distant sound of guards changing posts. Around the table, weathered faces processed the implications—war, alliance, the delicate balance of Highland politics shifting on the axis of one wedding.
“The ceremony will be simple,” Euan continued. “Before God and witnesses. Faither Dougal has already agreed tae officiate at dawn. We’ll exchange vows, make it legal and binding, then send word tae every allied clan and the Crown itself.”
“What about Lady Moyra?” Malcolm’s voice carried genuine concern. “Has anyone considered what she needs? A wedding dress, attendants, the proper preparations—”
“I’ve arranged fer a seamstress.” Euan’s tone suggested this wasn’t up for debate. “She’ll have what she needs. If that’s all,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t a question, “ye’re dismissed. Get some rest. Tomorrow we change everything.”
The Council filed out, their voices rising in urgent discussion the moment they cleared the doorway. When the last councilor departed and the heavy door closed, Euan finally allowed his shoulders to sag.
He stood at the window, staring at the darkening sky, the weight of decisions that would reshape both his and Moyra’s lives pressing down on him.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Enter.”
Moyra stepped inside, her expression unreadable.
“I heard the news. Ye didnae have tae arrange fer a seamstress,” she said quietly.
“Aye, I did.” He turned then. “Ye’re giving up everything tae save me clan. The least I can dae is make sure ye have a proper dress when ye become me wife.”
She crossed the space between them, her hand finding his.
“Thank ye.”
His scarred fingers threaded through hers. “Dinnae thank me. Ye still have tae survive being married tae me.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“Have ye now?” His free hand cupped her jaw. “Because I’m fairly certain I’m about tae become the most demanding husband in the Highlands.”
“Good.” She rose on her toes, bringing their mouths close. “I prefer ye demanding.”
The knock came softly, almost apologetic.
Moyra looked up from where she sat by the fire, exhaustion pulling at her bones. The day had been endless—council meetings and preparations, refugees to organize, the constant awareness that somewhere out there, her father’s ships prowled closer.
And tomorrow, she’d marry Euan MacLeod.
The thought settled over her shoulders like a warm cloak.
“Come in.”
The door opened to reveal a tiny woman carrying what appeared to be half a fabric shop. Grey hair escaped from beneath her cap, and bright eyes assessed Moyra with professional efficiency.
“Lady Moyra? I’m Laoghaire, the seamstress. The laird sent fer me.” She bustled in without waiting for invitation, spreading fabrics across the bed with practiced hands. “Says ye’re tae be married tomorrow and need a proper gown.”
Moyra’s throat tightened. “He actually sent ye.”
“Aye, and in quite a state about it too.” Laoghaire’s mouth curved. “Tracked me down personally, demanded I drop everything and see tae ye immediately.”
“I dinnae need anything elaborate,” she managed. “Just something simple—”
“Nonsense.” Laoghaire waved away the protest. “Ye’re marrying the Laird of Clan MacLeod. Simple willnae dae, even if it is rushed.” She pulled out a length of cream silk that caught the firelight. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with. Stand up, lass. Let me get a proper look at ye.”
Moyra rose, letting the seamstress circle her with assessing eyes. Laoghaire’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she took measurements, her commentary a steady stream that somehow soothed Moyra’s jangled nerves.
“Good bones,” Laoghaire muttered. “Lovely coloring—that auburn hair will look beautiful against cream. Bit thin, though. Have ye been eating properly?”
“There was a dungeon involved,” Moyra said dryly. “It rather killed me appetite.”
Laoghaire’s hands stilled. “So the voices were true.” Her expression softened. “The whole castle’s been talking about ye. How the laird brought ye back, how ye’ve been helping with the refugees.”
“I’ve just been daeing what needs daeing.”
“Aye, well, that’s more than most would manage after three months in a cell.” Laoghaire resumed her measuring, her voice gentle. “The laird chose well, if ye dinnae mind me saying. Ye’ve got spine. He needs that.”
The casual approval made Moyra’s eyes sting. “I’m nae certain I’m what he needs.”
“Then ye’re a fool.” Laoghaire’s bluntness rivaled Niall’s. “I’ve known that lad since he was a bairn. I’ve watched him grow intae the finest laird this clan’s ever had.”
Laoghaire stepped back, surveying her work with satisfaction. “Now, about this gown. I’m thinking fitted bodice, flowing skirts—something that moves well but still shows yer figure. And we’ll dae cream silk with perhaps some embroidery at the hem...”
She continued talking, sketching designs in the air with her hands.
“The neckline’s important,” Laoghaire was saying. “We want elegant, nae revealing. Ye’re marrying in a chapel, after all. Now, shoes.”
They spent the next hour discussing details—fabrics and fit, the best way to style her hair, whether she wanted flowers or simple elegance. Laoghaire’s competence was soothing, her matter-of-fact approach to the wedding making it feel real rather than some fever dream born of desperation.
When the seamstress finally packed up her materials, promising to return before dawn with the finished gown, Moyra felt something settle in her chest.
The following day, she’d marry Euan MacLeod.
And she was ready.