Chapter 27 #2
A ripple of silence spread through the crowd, the kind that happens when even restless men remember to keep their voices down for something important.
A hush had fallen over every corner of the courtyard by then; the rare kind of quiet that settles over a crowd when they sense history taking form in front of them.
Before the vows themselves were spoken, the priest lifted a small silver quaich between the couple, filled with whisky dark as peat smoke, and held it out first to Sebastian, then to Alba, each of them drinking in turn.
“Let this cup mind ye both,” he said, “that what is shared willingly tastes sweeter than what is taken alone. Ye’ll share yer table, yer troubles, and yer triumphs from this day onward, the same as ye share this cup now.”
Sebastian took a lingering sip, the whisky burning warm as it slid down his throat, and passed the quaich to Alba.
She drank deeply, unbothered by its burn, drawing a low murmur of approval from more than one watching Highlander who clearly had not expected a Lady raised soft to manage it so easily.
A few of the older Lairds nearby raised their own cups in reply, a low chorus of approval rolling through that corner of the crowd before the priest cleared his throat pointedly to reclaim the ceremony.
“Sebastian MacGregor,” the priest said, turning to him, “do ye come here freely, of yer own will, with nay chain upon ye but the one ye choose?”
“I do,” Sebastian said, and the words came out steadier than he expected, given how shaken he felt standing this close to her.
“And do ye vow to protect this woman, to honor her counsel, to stand beside her in war and in peace, in hunger and in plenty, until the last breath leaves yer body?”
“I vow it.” He locked his eyes on Alba’s as he said it. He did not think he could do otherwise, even if the whole of Kerr’s army had come marching back through the Gates behind him.
The priest turned to Alba next, and something in his weathered face softened slightly.
“Alba MacLaren,” he said, “do ye come here freely, of yer own will, with nay chain upon ye but the one ye choose?”
“I do.” Her voice did not waver either, though her fingers tightened faintly around his.
“And do ye vow to stand beside this man, to speak yer mind plainly to him always, to share in his burdens as ye would have him share in yers, until the last breath leaves yer body?”
“I vow it, aye.” A faint, private smile crossed her mouth. “Though I make nay promise about the speakin’ part bein’ gentle.”
A low ripple of laughter moved through the nearest rows of guests, and even the priest’s mouth twitched before he continued, clearly not the first unconventional vow he had presided over in his years.
“Then let their hands be bound as their lives are now bound, each to the other, from this day until their final day.”
He produced a length of plaid, MacGregor green woven through with a thread of MacLaren blue.
Alba was fairly certain Margaret had insisted on it.
He carefully wound it around their joined hands, once, twice, a third time, murmuring words in the old tongue that Sebastian only half followed, though he caught enough to know they spoke of binding, of hearth, of two houses becoming one that could not easily be unmade.
The knots themselves were plain, unremarkable work, and yet Sebastian found himself watching the priest’s hands with more focus than he had given anything in weeks, as though the binding might somehow slip loose if he looked away too soon.
“What is bound here,” the priest said, tying the final knot, “let nay man unbind; and let nay distance, nay quarrel, nay hardship pull apart what has been woven together on this day.”
The plaid settled warm around their joined wrists, and Sebastian looked up at her again.
He really looked at her, past the crowd, past the priest, past the noise of an entire Clan holding its breath around them.
He realised that the rest of the world had lost its weight somewhere in the last few minutes without knowing exactly when.
“Ye are me home now,” he said, low enough that it was meant only for her, though half the front row likely heard it regardless. “Wherever ye are standin’. That’s the whole of it. That’s all home ever needed to mean.”
Alba’s breath caught, her eyes becoming bright and shaken in a way she’d fiercely deny on any other day of her life.
“Well,” she managed, her voice rough, “ye’ve a strange way of admittin’ ye need somebody, MacGregor.”
“I never said I needed ye.”
“Kiss me before ye ruin it with more arguin’.”
He did.
The courtyard erupted the instant their lips met, a wave of rejoicing and whistling roaring, and someone—likely Hamish—bellowing something unintelligible over the noise. The pipes struck up a fast, joyful tune that nearly drowned out the cheering.
And then, cutting clean through it all, high and carrying and utterly without shame, came Brian’s voice.
“Does this mean I have to call her Ma now, or just Auntie Alba, who kisses Uncle Sebastian a lot?”
The kiss broke apart.
Sebastian’s forehead dropped against Alba’s with a short, helpless laugh he could not have stopped if he had tried. Alba’s own laughter came out in a startled, undignified burst, while pressing a hand flat over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Around them, the entire courtyard abandoned any remaining pretenses of formality and burst into loud, roaring laughter.
Fergus doubled over completely, one hand braced against Sebastian’s shoulder for support, Margaret laughing so hard that Isobel had to steady both her and Lily, even the silver-haired priest pressing a fist briefly to his mouth to hide his own grin.
Nearby, an older woman neither of them seemed to know, judging by the polite, uncertain nod Sebastian caught passing between her and Alba a moment earlier, pressed a handkerchief to her own eyes, already dabbing at tears despite the ceremony being barely half finished.
“Brian.” Philomena’s voice, mortified and delighted in equal measure, cut through the noise as she hauled the boy back by the collar of his tunic. “Ye cannae simply ask a lady that in front of the whole clan!”
“Why nae? It’s an honest question.”
“It’s an honest question for a quieter moment, lad.” Isobel, still laughing quietly beside Margaret, shook her head at the boy with open fondness. “That bairn will be the death of every solemn occasion this family ever hosts.”
“He’s got the right of it, though,” Fergus called out, still wheezing with laughter. “Best decide now, MacGregor, before the boy starts introducin’ her as Auntie-who-kisses-a-lot at every gatherin’ from here to the Coast.”
“Ma will do fine,” Alba said, crouching slightly despite her skirts to look Brian properly in the eye, still fighting down the last of her laughter. “If ye’ll have me for it.”
Brian considered this with a certain seriousness only a six-year-old could summon amid utter chaos. “Aye. I suppose that’ll do.”
“High praise,” Sebastian murmured, pulling Alba back up against his side, the bound plaid still warm around both their wrists.
“The highest he’s got to give, apparently.”
“Best decision he’s made all year,” Hamish called out from somewhere in the crowd, cup already raised. “Second best bein’ lettin’ me choose the whisky for tonight’s feast.”
Around them, the courtyard surged forward all at once, well-wishers and kinsmen and half the assembled Lairds of the Highlands pressing in with congratulations and cups raised high.
Sebastian kept one arm locked firm around Alba’s waist through all of it, the plaid still binding their hands together exactly as the priest had promised.
Unbroken, unmade, and entirely, finally mine.