Chapter Thirty-Six
Rachel
"Yer giving our only child, our precious daughter, a secondhand ring ye stole from a..." my father looks to Mother. "Did ye call it a mew-zee-um, gràidh ? That's a building that holds...artwork or some such rubbish. Aye?"
Mother struggles not to laugh but ends up spluttering instead. "Close enough, Kieran. I wish I'd had a dictionary in my purse that day when I was hurled into the past. Would've made translating twenty-first-century language into medieval Scottish-ese."
Father rolls his eyes. "May I go on lambasting Joey Finnegan now, gràidh ?"
"No lambasting of any kind, Kieran. Rachel and Joey are in love, the forever kind. And we will be supportive." Mother raises her brows, giving Father a reproving look. "Isn't that right, sweetie-pie?"
Oh dear . She called Father "sweetie-pie" strictly to prove who really wears the trews in their relationship. It's Alyssa Vescovi, of course. No man would dare claim otherwise.
Father growls out a sigh, then his shoulders sag. "Aye, all right, I will refrain from lambasting the laddie."
Mother pats his cheek. "Thank you, honey."
"We must begin the preparations for the wedding, aye?"
"Yep. Immediately"
The aunts and my mother drag me away from Joey and down to the great hall, which my mother has declared will from henceforth be known as "wedding central."
"Wedding central, is it? I dinnae remember agreeing to that." The voice belongs to Efrica, the eldest of my great-aunts
"Ye didnae have to agree," I say. "It's my wedding."
Mother winks at me as she pulls out a leather-bound journal that's already stuffed with fabric swatches and pressed flowers.
"When did you gather all that rubbish?" I ask her. "Is this my wedding or yours?"
Mother hugs me, for no apparent reason. "I'm sorry, Rachel. But I want you to have the wedding of your dreams, not like the kind your father and I had. We were in love, but we also had to worry about Simidh Gunn trying to kidnap me or kill me or both." She sets her hands on her hips. "I will murder anyone who gets in the way of your big day."
"Oh, Mother." I fling my arms around her. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever done for me. Or offered to do for me."
"Hopefully, murder won't be necessary."
Over the next four days, my mother and the aunts work together to create the perfect dress for me. I know Joey will approve of it. The gown has a lower bodice than the ones on the dresses I wear every day.
"Lower bodice?" Father's voice booms from the doorway, making us all jump. "Just how low, Rachel?"
Efrica shoos him away with a flick of her plump hands. "Away with ye, Kieran! 'Tis bad luck for the father to see the bride's dress before the ceremony."
"That's the groom, ye daft woman," Father grumbles, but he backs away nonetheless.
"Same principle," Efrica retorts, then turns to me with a gleam in her emerald eyes. "Now, dearie, let's discuss the enchantment for the veil."
"Enchantment? Dinnae want magic interfering with my wedding.
Mother pulls a delicate length of lace from her collection. "Just a small protection charm. Nothing that would interfere with the natural flow of things. Right, Morna?"
"Aye. 'Tis only a precaution."
While the aunts and Mother resume fussing with my wedding gown, I slip away to find my groom. Joey is in the courtyard---hurling a caber. By the looks of things, he must be on his tenth attempt.
"Joey!" I shout, lifting my skirts so I can run toward him. "Why are ye doing that, mo chridhe ?"
He has the caber vertical, but he pauses to grin at me. "Hey, Rach. How's the wedding dress craziness going?"
"Well enough." I pore my gaze over the caber and the sweaty man in front of me. "Joey, you should have waited for me. You know I love to watch you hurl cabers. Your sweaty, glistening skin arouses me."
"Then you'll love what I'm about to do." He crooks a finger at me. "Come here, baby, and hold this thing up for a sec. All you have to do is put both hands on the caber. Piece of cake, right?"
I trust him completely, so I do as he suggested. A moment later, he rolls a caber toward me, and a moment after that, he has the log fully upright.
"Ye cannae toss two cabers at once, gràidh ."
"No, but I can hurl one right after the other. Capisce?"
"Aye. But why must you fling two cabers?"
He grins and shrugs. "Just for the hell of it."
I shake my head, one hand on my hip. "What you mean is that you want to outdo my father."
"Well...maybe."
A woman must learn to accommodate her husband, I reckon. So, I nod my assent. "If your manly pride requires it, then go on and do what you must."
He kisses my cheek. "Thanks, Rach. Now, for caber number one..."
Joey lays the second caber on the ground, then takes the one I've been holding up. Surprisingly, I have no trouble keeping the log upright. Must be something to do with physics and laws of motion or some such thing.
I step back, watching as Joey positions himself, shoulders squared beneath the weight of the first caber. His gaze narrows, and his lips flatten, as he concentrates. Muscles flex beneath his linen shirt, now damp from exertion. There's something mesmerizing about watching him embrace our Highland traditions with fierce determination.
"Ready?" my fiancé hollers, his voice strained.
"Aye, ready to see ye make a fool of yerself," I tease, but my heart swells with pride. Joey has acclimated to the seventeenth century better than anyone, including myself, could ever have imagined.
Joey takes three powerful strides forward, hefts the massive log upward, and with a guttural roar that would make my father proud, launches it into the air. The caber spins perfectly, landing with a satisfying thud precisely as it should---twelve o'clock position.
I jump and down, shouting and whistling. "Go, Joey! The new king of the caber toss!"
He raises his arms, flexing his biceps.
And I pretend that I might faint.
Joey grins and laughs. "Let me toss the second caber before you act like that. Never know, I might tank this toss."
"You, Joey Finnegan? Never."
He walks the second caber into a vertical position. In one fluid motion, he takes it from me, his hands brushing mine in that deliberate way that always sends shivers down my spine. The caber must weigh twice what I do, yet Joey balances it with practiced ease now.
"This one's for your father," he winks, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
"He'll be spitting thistles when he hears about it," I laugh, backing away to give him space.
Joey's face transforms into the picture of intense concentration. His squints again, jaw clenched, as he positions his hands just so on the rough wood. Three deep breaths, then he's moving---one, two, three powerful strides before launching the massive timber skyward. For a breathless moment, the caber hangs suspended, then tumbles with perfect precision as it lands dead center at twelve o'clock, just like the first one had.
"Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" I exclaim, rushing toward him. "Have ye been practicing in secret?"
Joey's chest heaves as he attempts to catch his breath, his triumphant smile lighting up his entire face. "Maybe a little. Your father's been giving me pointers when you weren't looking."
"My father?" I stop short, blinking in surprise. "The same man who threatened to use your bones for tent pegs when we first announced our betrothal?"
"The very same." Joey wipes his brow with his forearm, leaving a smudge of dirt across his forehead that somehow makes him even more appealing. "Turns out the fearsome Kieran MacTaggart has a soft spot for anyone willing to embarrass themselves repeatedly in pursuit of Highland traditions."
I throw my arms around Joey and pepper kisses all over his face. The tang of sweat on my tongue only heightens my lust.
Joey drags me into him for a deep, hot kiss that leaves me breathless. "Ready for the wedding tomorrow morning?"
"Oh, aye. Cannae wait to be your wife."
"Do you regret that we decided to abstain until our wedding night?"
"I could never regret anything we've done together."
But now it's time for me to become Joey Finnegan's wife.
We both agreed to sleep in separate rooms overnight, so I haven't laid eyes on my betrothed in precisely fourteen hours. I counted. Our bedroom has a clock on the mantel, after all. My mother helps me get into my gown while the aunts fuss with my hair, weaving tiny white flowers through the braided crown they've created.
"Hold still, lass," Morna chides, accidentally jabbing another pin into my scalp. "Beauty requires sacrifice."
Fortunately, those were only wee pricks---and I have thick skin.
"I'm not certain Joey cares about elaborate hairstyles," I say, wincing as another pin finds purchase.
Mother laughs, adjusting my bodice. "Maybe not, but he'll remember how you looked on this day for the rest of his life. Trust me."
The enchanted veil comes last, settling over my face like morning mist. It's so fine I can barely feel it, yet I sense the protection magic humming against my skin---gentle but unmistakable.
"There," Efrica declares, stepping back to admire their handiwork. "A vision of loveliness, just as your mother was on her wedding day."
Mother's eyes mist over as she adjusts the veil one final time. "Oh, Rachel. My little girl is getting married. Next will come babies---lots of them."
"Dinnae get ahead of yourself, Màthair ," I reply, smoothing the delicate fabric of my gown. "We will have at least one babe, but after that...who knows."
"I predict a dozen babies."
My attempt to stop myself from laughing results in a loud snort.
A knock at the door interrupts us, and Father's gruff voice calls through the wood. "Are ye nearly ready? The guests are assembled, and your future husband looks like he might wear a hole in the stone floor with his pacing."
"Almost there!" Mother calls back, then turns to me with a smile that trembles at the edges. "Ready to become Mrs. Finnegan, my sweet baby girl?"
"I've been ready since the moment that infuriating man tumbled through a time portal and into my life." My voice remains steady, despite the butterflies in my stomach.
When the doors to the great hall open, I feel as though I'm floating. The room has been transformed with flowers and greenery, candles flickering in every alcove. Our guests---Guarin Abadie, as well as the chieftains of clans Grant and, surprisingly, MacLeod too---rise to their feet.
But I see only Joey.
He stands tall at the end of the aisle, his dark hair falling casually across his forehead. I've grown to love his goatee for the bad-boy flavor of it. His gaze is fixed on me with such intensity that I feel my knees weakening. He wears a MacTaggart kilt, specially made for him, and a white linen shirt that makes his tanned skin glow in the candlelight.
"Ye look bonnie, my sweet Rachel." Father clasps his hand over mine on his arm as we begin our walk up the aisle. His voice is rough with emotion. "I may have been hard on Joey, but know this---I couldnae have chosen a finer man for ye if I'd searched a thousand years."
I struggle not to cry as we walk down the aisle. Joey never looks away from me for even one second, and the smile spreading across his face makes me choke up a wee bit. How did I get so lucky? This man traveled through time itself to find me.
When we reach the altar, Father places my hand in Joey's, his own lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. A silent warning, mayhap, or simply reluctance to let his only daughter go.
"Take care of her, lad," Father murmurs, "She's our beloved daughter and our only child."
Joey's eyes never leave mine as he responds, "I'll protect her with my life, sir. That's a promise."
Father nods once, then steps back to join Mother, who immediately clutches his arm with tears streaming down her face.
The ceremony begins, but I barely hear the words. Joey caresses my hand with his thumbs in small, soothing circles. I feel the tremble in his fingers---my fearless, time-traveling warrior is nervous. And that makes me love him even more.
My parents wed in an irregular marriage. But Joey and I will have the usual sort with a minister.
"I, Joseph Anthony Finnegan, take thee, Rachel Morainn MacTaggart..." His voice is steady despite his trembling hands, each word pronounced with deliberate clarity as though he's been practicing for weeks. Mayhap he has.
The vows continue, beautiful Gaelic words binding us together for eternity. When it's my turn, I speak clearly, though my heart threatens to burst from my chest.
"I, Rachel Morainn MacTaggart, take thee, Joseph Anthony Finnegan..."
The minister nods approvingly as we exchange rings. Joey slides onto my finger the "borrowed" museum piece that caused such a stir with Father. I place a thick silver band on Joey's finger, one crafted by our clan's metalsmith specifically for this day.
"By the power vested in me," the minister intones, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Joey pulls me in for a deep, romantic, exquisite kiss that leaves me slightly woozy in the best manner. Then he sweeps me up in his arms and twirls us round and round while I giggle like a silly lassie. Once he sets me down, Joey gives me an odd look.
"Your middle name is Morainn?"
"Aye. 'Twas my grandmother's name. She was a Ross by birth, but once she met my grandfather Uilleam, she became a MacTaggart through and through."
"When did she die?"
"Oh, long before my father met my mother."
"I'd love to learn more about your family tree, but right now..." He sweeps me up in his arms once more. "It's time for the wedding night to begin."