Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dawn broke blood-red over Dunvegan’s chapel.
Moyra stood outside the doors, her hands fisted in cream silk that Laoghaire had somehow transformed into a wedding gown overnight.
A fit that emphasized curves months of captivity had nearly stolen, flowing skirts, delicate embroidery at the hem catching early light. She should have felt beautiful.
Instead, she felt terrified.
“Ye look lovely, me lady.” Catriona’s voice came softly beside her, eyes bright with emotion.
“I look like I’m about tae faint.”
“That too.” Catriona smiled. “But the laird willnae be able tae take his eyes off ye.”
In moments, she’d walk down that aisle and bind herself to Euan before God and witnesses. No going back.
Except it wouldn’t be a cage. Because Euan, for all his brooding intensity and scarred shoulders, had never once made her feel trapped. Even when offering marriage, he’d given her choices.
And she’d chosen to stay.
“Ready?” Catriona asked gently.
“Nay. But I dinnae think that matters anymore.”
The chapel doors opened.
Candlelight spilled out, golden against the cold dawn.
Inside, the space was intimate—barely large enough for the handful of witnesses in rough-hewn pews.
No finery. No celebration. Just stone walls that had witnessed centuries of MacLeod vows, and low murmurs of prayer rising from ancient foundations.
Moyra’s breath caught as her gaze found Euan.
He was magnificent. Clan colors draped over battle-worn leather and steel armor. His sword hung at his side, its grip worn smooth from use. His dark hair pulled back from his face, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that tracked her every step.
A groom and warrior in one. Ready to marry her and defend her in the same breath.
Her pulse hammered.
The Covenant brothers stood to one side. MacLeod council members bore witness with varying approval. And there, the refugees she’d helped—women who’d lost everything but had come to watch her gain something.
Moyra forced her feet to move. Catriona followed at her back. But it was Euan who held her attention—the way his eyes never left her face, the subtle tension suggesting he was fighting the urge to go towards her rather than wait.
When she reached the altar, he extended his hand.
She took it, his scarred fingers closing around hers.
“Ye came,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
“Did ye think I wouldnae?”
“I thought ye might come tae yer senses and run.” His mouth quirked. “Still time, if ye want. I willnae stop ye.”
Even now, he was giving her a choice.
“Too late fer that. Ye’re stuck with me now.”
“Good.”
Father Dougal cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”
Euan barely heard the priest’s words.
His entire focus had narrowed to the woman before him—copper hair caught back simply, green eyes wide with nerves and determination, cream gown making her look ethereal despite the very real courage it had taken to walk down this aisle.
She was beautiful. Always had been, even filthy and defiant in that Norham cell. But seeing her there, choosing him—
“The vows,” Father Dougal prompted gently.
Right. Euan forced his attention to the priest, though his hands never released Moyra’s. Her fingers trembled in his grip.
“Euan MacLeod, will ye have this woman tae be yer wedded wife? Will ye protect her, honor her, forsaking all others as long as ye both shall live?”
“I will. I swear before God and these witnesses—I’ll protect her with me life. I’ll honor her choices. And I’ll stand between her and anyone who tries tae harm her, including her own faither if necessary.”
Moyra’s breath caught. Those weren’t traditional vows, but he needed her to understand. This wasn’t just strategy.
“Moyra MacKenzie,” Father Dougal continued, “will ye have this man tae be yer wedded husband? Will ye stand beside him, support him, forsaking all others as long as ye both shall live?”
She met Euan’s gaze, and he saw fear give way to certainty.
“I will.” Her voice carried stronger than expected. “I’ll stand beside ye against whatever comes. I’ll help protect yer clan. And I’ll choose ye—every day, fer as long as we both draw breath.”
The addition made Euan’s throat tight. She’d just promised to choose him. Not from necessity, but because she wanted to.
“Then by the power vested in me,” Father Dougal said, “I pronounce ye husband and wife. What God has joined, let nay man put asunder.” He paused, ancient face crinkling. “Ye may kiss yer bride, Laird MacLeod. Though I’d suggest keeping it brief—I can hear yer men getting restless.”
Nervous laughter rippled through witnesses. But Euan didn’t care about them.
“Come here, wife,” he murmured.
Moyra rose on her toes as he bent down. His free hand cupped her face and then his mouth found hers.
The kiss was supposed to be chaste. Proper. A simple seal on vows.
It was none of those things.
Heat exploded between them—tension igniting like dry kindling. Euan’s control cracked, his mouth opening over hers, claiming her with thoroughness that had nothing to do with propriety. She was his now. His wife. His to protect and—
Moyra made a soft sound against his mouth, her free hand fisting in his cloak, pulling him closer despite the armor between them. She kissed him back with equal fervor, all hesitation burned away.
Calum whistled appreciatively.
Father Dougal cleared his throat. Loudly.
Euan forced himself to pull back, though it took every ounce of willpower. Moyra’s lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with awareness that made his blood run hot.
“That was nae brief,” she breathed.
“Nay. But necessary.”
“Necessary?”
“Tae make it real. Tae make sure ye ken exactly what ye’ve just agreed tae.”
“And what’s that?”
“Being married tae a man who’s nae going tae be patient or proper when it comes tae ye.” His voice dropped lower, meant only for her ears. “A man who’s going tae want ye—often and thoroughly.”
Color flooded her cheeks, but her eyes held challenge. “Good. Because I’m nae interested in a husband who treats me like glass.”
“Congratulations, braither!” Calum’s voice shattered the moment, grin wide. “Though I have tae say, that kiss was entirely too enthusiastic fer a chapel.”
David joined them. “Welcome tae the family, Lady MacLeod. May ye survive yer husband’s stubbornness with yer sanity intact.”
“Lady MacLeod.” Moyra tested the name. “That’s going tae take some getting used tae.”
“Ye’ve time.” Archibald massive hand clapped Euan’s shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Assuming yer faither daesnae kill us all first.”
The reminder of Keith’s approaching forces cast a shadow over the chapel’s warmth. Around them, witnesses began filing out—returning to duties that couldn’t wait, to defenses that needed manning.
“We should go,” Euan said. “There’s much tae be done.”
“Wait.” Moyra caught his arm. “Just... one more moment. Please.”
He understood. This small pocket of peace—this brief window where they could be just Euan and Moyra—wouldn’t last. Once they left this chapel, duty would consume them both.
So he gave her that moment. Stood with her in candlelit space while Father Dougal tidied his prayer book, while Catriona dabbed at her eyes, while the last witnesses disappeared into the cold dawn.
“Are ye all right?” he asked.
“I just married a man I met barely a few weeks ago. A man whose clan has been enemies with mine fer generations. A man who’s about tae go tae war with me faither.” Her laugh held an edge of hysteria. “So nay, I’m nae all right.” She paused, her hand finding his. “But I’m nae sorry either.”
“Neither am I.”
“Even though this is going tae be complicated?”
“Especially because of that.” He pulled her closer, conscious of armor between them but needing contact anyway.
“I’ve spent me whole life daeing what’s expected.
Following duty. Making safe choices.” He cupped her face, making sure she saw truth in his eyes.
“But ye? Choosing ye—that’s the first thing I’ve done purely because I wanted tae.
Because when I look at ye, I see something worth fighting fer.
Something that goes beyond duty or obligation. ”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said tae me.”
“Is it? Because I was going fer honest rather than romantic.”
“It can be both. Now come on, husband. Let’s go face whatever the hell me faither’s bringing.”
He took her hand, threading their fingers together, and led her from the chapel into the grey dawn. Outside, Dunvegan bustled with organized chaos—guards manning walls, refugees being moved to safer quarters, the Covenant brothers already deep in discussion about defense strategies.
And somewhere on the horizon, Keith MacKenzie’s ships prowled closer.