Chapter 11
Compared to the pomp of Hector and Cara’s wedding—and Aileen and Léo’s the previous harvest—the gathering outside St. Columba’s chapel was small and reserved.
Calum stood with his mates and the men of the Lochbuie guard, all dressed in their finest, waiting for his bride.
No pipers played, no villagers crowded the yard.
At Freya’s request, the day was kept quiet, private.
Still, it was a fair morning to wed a lass, and no small miracle that they had reached it.
David leaned against the stone wall of the churchyard, his grin wide, eyebrows bouncing. “Where are you taking her for the wedding night?”
The men roared with laughter, and Calum fought back a blush. “Da gave us the auld bothy in Lealt, it was all that was available. My parents offered to share their cottage, but I thought it best to start away from Inverlussa. From our parents. And Murdoch.”
Murdoch made a face. “Did you give it a tidy? That bothy looked rough last I saw.”
Calum shrugged. “I made the bed. Picked up supplies from the village.”
“Och. Poor lass. S’pose it’s too late now.”
Doubting whether he’d done enough to make the bothy special, Calum shifted uneasily, trying to recall its state. “Should I have paid for a night or two at the inn instead?”
Iain waved him off. “Dinnae fash. She’ll no’ be noticin’ annaethin’ this night. You’ll be too busy gettin’ to know each other.”
Léo winced and pointed to Gabriel swinging from his hand. “Little ears.”
Angus chuckled. “I tho’ he only spoke French.”
Léo shook his head. “He’s nearly fluent in Aileen’s signs now—and it’s helping him pick up Gaelic.”
Little Gabriel looked up at Calum with curiosity. “Cousin Calum, don’t you already know your bride?”
Calum raised a brow. “Of course I know my bride.”
Gabriel’s nose wrinkled with confusion. “Then why do you need to get to know her tonight?”
Léo rolled his eyes at Iain and crouched down to his son’s level. “They’re going to…play a new game. They’ve never played it before. They need to learn how to be…on the same team.”
David smothered a grin. “Aye, it’s a verra, verra jolly game you get tae play all night.”
Hector roared with laughter, and Léo shot them both a warning glare.
Gabriel grinned. “I want to play.”
Léo groaned, leaning down and speaking rapidly to his son. “Maman et moi jouerons à un jeu avec toi en rentrant. Fais attention à la charrette, la mariée arrive bient?t.”
Gabriel, satisfied, swung contentedly from his father’s hand his eyes now fixed on the road.
Young Eamon, however, darted in circles around his father. “Game! Jolly game! Cousin Calum and Freya play game. Games all night!”
Hector grimaced at his youngest, Finn, who wriggled in his arms and giggled at his da’s half-scowl. “Your mammy’s going to have my hide. Look what we’ve taught your brother.”
Léo snorted. “Not so amusing now, eh?”
Calum sucked in a nervous breath as he thought about taking Freya back to the bothy, suddenly unsure about its cleanliness—or her willingness to play any games with him.
The memory of their almost-kiss at her sickbed still taunted him, colliding with the sharper image of her lips on Rory’s the night of the ceilidh.
How she’d felt about her Rory remained a mystery, beyond her passing remark that Rory was most handsome.
His gaze fell to the puddle at his feet. Ten years ago, with his hair neatly shaved and braided, his jaw smooth, she might have thought him handsome. Now the reflection gazing back seemed less a suitor of youth and more a man slipping past his prime.
It was just as well, perhaps. On Jura, his days were claimed by his father’s defenses, and the Sundays left for Freya, still hampered by her wounds, offered no ground for courtship.
Their acquaintance amounted to little more than a few chaperoned conversations at her bedside, and later, two Sundays at liturgy, once she could manage the walk without pain.
Guilt swamped him. What right did he have to expect her to give herself to him tonight when she did not yet love him as she should?
Friends, he reminded himself, pacing outside the chapel. I need to be her friend. Nothing more.
The sudden peal of bells startled him, and the small gold ring slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the flagstones. It rolled away and he lunged after it, only for Angus to stop it neatly with the toe of his boot. Bending, he picked it up, turning it over in his hand.
“This is some ring. How did you afford it?”
Angus placed it back in his palm. He studied the band himself, the gold widening into a quatrefoil, a pointed stone gleaming at its center. He had never considered its value. “It belonged to Freya. I found it in the pouch of coin she gave me when I left Jura. I could never bring myself to sell it.”
Léo tilted his head, squinting at the inscription. “It’s Latin. Terra vel mari meus es. It means, ‘By land or sea, you are mine.’ Where would she have come by this?”
The rough lettering had a dark, angular cast, the words pressed close together. Calum frowned. “Dinnae ken where it came from or what it means. Is it wrong, d’ye think?”
Hector shook his head. “No’ wrong. Just…unexpected. I’d thought her a woman of limited means.”
Calum slid the ring over the first joint in his finger. “She is. Is it worth something?”
Hector’s brows pinched as though piecing together a riddle. “That’s a diamond, lad. Worth a fair bit more than you’d guess.”
Calum shrugged. “Perhaps someone paid her with it?”
Léo shook his head, unconvinced. “A possibility. But that’s pure gold. What did she do to earn it?”
He squinted again at the little ring. “Embroidery.”
The bells boomed overhead, cutting the question short.
Gabriel ran across the churchyard, pointing toward the road. “Je vois le voiture!”
Coming from the direction of Moy, Calum spotted Hector’s wagon draped in ivy and harvest leaves. Heart pounding as it drew near, he made out the faces of Aileen, Aoife, Cara, Margaret, and Ursula—and there, veiled and seated between his mother and father, was his bride.
The ring lay forgotten on his finger as he stood transfixed, watching the wagon come to rest. Da climbed down first and offered her his arm, steadying her as he guided her up the chapel steps.
She appeared almost unreal, impossibly his, clothed in the red damask gown her father had purchased, now patiently mended and made new.
Along her right sleeve ran a wolfhound embroidered in gold thread, the same that marked his own arm, a hinted token of kinship before a single vow was spoken.
Da kissed her cheek before placing her hand into Calum’s. He twined their fingers together, feeling the slight tremble in her grasp.
Father Timothy appeared at the door, beaming as he stepped onto the porch. “Good morning, good morning. A fine day for a wedding.”
Freya leaned toward Calum, her expression faltering as her gaze swept the quiet gathering. He felt the heaviness return, knowing whom she searched for—what she still hoped. Her voice came softly, threaded with disappointment. “My kindred didnae come?”
Calum shook his head. “I’m sorry, lass.” He searched for words to soften the blow. “It’s me he’s angry with.”
Freya nodded, her face assuming the placid quiet it had worn these past few weeks and his heart sank, wishing he could change the circumstances of this day.
Together they turned to Father Timothy.
“Shall we begin?” the priest asked warmly.
Calum set the bag of gold and the ring upon the open book, and their wedding began.
He stole glances at her as the words were spoken, disappointed to see none of the light he had imagined for this moment.
Where Birdy and Cara had glowed with anticipation, Freya stood pale and still, as if she were standing beside a grave, listening to an internment.
Father Tim asked for Calum’s vow, his confirmation to be joined. Calum looked at Freya feeling as though he had just swallowed a ball of sunlight, happiness bursting in his chest. “Aye.”
Father Tim turned to Freya. “Freya Anna, wilt thou take Calum Bjorg MacLean, here present, for thy lawful wedded husband, according to the rite of the holy church?”
Freya blinked, then asked softly, “What does rite mean?”
The friar’s bushy brows shot up toward his hairline like two caterpillars scrambling for the shelter of a bush, but he answered without hesitation. “A rite is the tradition by which our church expresses faith—in this case, the sacrament of marriage.”
She glanced at the book in his hands. “And what is a sacrament?”
Calum shifted uneasily, but Father Timothy’s voice remained patient.
“A sacrament is how God shows His people the extraordinary in the ordinary. Marriage is no mere contract, like a handfast. It is a covenant—a sacred, unbreakable bond. As Christ gave His life for the church, so Calum will give his life and body to you. He will love and protect you. And in return, you will honor and strengthen him with your love.”
Her brow furrowed. “What is a covenant?”
“A covenant is a vow sealed in blood. In your traditions, perhaps with animal blood or an oath ring. In ours, it is sealed by Christ’s sacrifice once for all.
When you make this promise, it is upon His blood that you and Calum are joined—one body, one life, forever.
It is the holiest, most sacred union we possess, except for that of our own union with Christ.”
Freya’s features softened. “Then if I make this vow, it is most precious. Once done, Calum cannae put me aside, nor I him—because a body cannae put itself aside.”
The simple explanation touched him, and he watched with wonder as she began to grasp what he had sometimes taken for granted.
She looked at Calum with disbelief. “Are you certain you take me as your own? No matter what…or what you might learn about me?”