Epilogue
“Are ye crying already? Ye cannae do that. The wedding has nae even started yet.”
Sorcha’s chastisement did nothing to slow Taryn’s tears. Even Aila looked a little weepy.
“What are they crying about, Aunt Sorcha?” Elsie asked, her eyes glued to the mirror.
“I have nay idea,” Sorcha answered, admiring the girl’s reflection.
Aila had been working on combing and braiding Elsie’s hair into a pretty plait that complimented the little ringlets. She had then tucked in a crown of heather that matched the flowers Elsie would toss down the aisle before Sorcha walked down it.
“Ye both are just so bonny,” Aila explained, sniffling.
“I never thought the day would come when we were all as happy as we are,” Taryn said, having finally dried her eyes enough to put the finishing touches on Sorcha’s hair.
Oliver had requested she wore it loose, wanting to see her red curls about her shoulders.
His mother had given her several pins encrusted with diamonds that when Taryn used them to pull back just a few pieces out of her face, it made Sorcha’s hair look like there were little dew drops nestled in her mane.
“We were all so, so—”
“Wild?” Sorcha finished for her.
“Aye. Wild. And too busy running from our pasts to ever contemplate a future. Yet here we are. Sorcha, about to become a marchioness. Aila, a lady of her own castle. All of us, loved by good men. All of us, safe and content with the life we have built.” Tears welled again, making her dazzling blue eyes glitter.
“Och, ‘tis a verra good day. And ye really to make the most bonny bride.”
“I dinnae think Oliver has ever seen me like this,” Sorcha thought aloud.
Aila came up behind her, smirking in the mirror.
“I doubt he will be able to keep his eyes off ye. Or his hands.”
Laughter eclipsed the sound of knocking at the door that quickly became insistent.
“Lachlan,” Aila greeted, letting him in the room through a crack in the door. “Arran, Christopher. Is everyone ready?”
“We were ready half an hour ago, my love,” Lachlan admitted, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “If Sorcha does nae get down there soon, there is sure to be a riot. I have never seen the Great Hall so full. It is fit to burst with men and women hungry for a feast and ale.”
“We better go down then,” Aila said calmly. “Come along, Elsie.”
“Here, Sorcha.” Christopher thrust out a bouquet of wildflowers, bursting with color and the smell of summer.
“We picked them for ye,” Arran told her, rising to press a kiss to her cheek.
“Thank ye.”
It was her turn to blink tears out of her eyes now.
“Let’s go find our seats,” Aila said, ushering the children and their Laird out of the room.
“Uncle Loch,” Elsie called, slipping her hand into his, “why will Uncle Oliver nay be able to keep his hands off Sorcha?”
Lachlan blushed as Aila and Taryn let out a bark of a laugh.
“Er… Well, I, uh…”
“I will explain when ye are older,” Aila promised, saving Lachlan from any more stuttering.
Sorcha took one last look at the mirror, admiring the picture she made.
Isobel and Laura had spent the past two weeks sewing an entire new wardrobe, claiming Sorcha would need it to be fit for her role as an English noble.
The thought had brought a scowl to her face, but she was grateful for their efforts now as her fingers danced over the gold embroidered hem of her green gown.
The linen corset draped beautifully over her figure, sporting the same flower embroidery motif as her pleated skirts.
With a strand of pearls, a wedding gift from Oliver, wrapped around her neck, Sorcha had to admit that she agreed with Aila’s prediction.
Pulling back her shoulders, Sorcha turned and followed her family to the Great Hall. Aila and Taryn walked the children to their seats at the front of the makeshift aisle, while Lachlan waited just outside the doors to escort Sorcha down.
Bagpipes, proud and moving, sounded her arrival and carried her through the hall to where Oliver awaited. Had her hand not been tucked into the crook of Lachlan’s arm, she might have floated to him.
There were so many eyes on her that she would have thought she might have been nervous.
The McGregors who had followed Taryn and James to the Kincaid Clan sat, mixed in with the Kincaid villagers as if they had always belonged there.
McKenzie and Fraser tartans were equally mingled, Iona and Finn sitting at a table of honor near the front.
Having decided to stay these past two weeks in wait for today, they had all become fast friends with their new allies.
Sorcha felt a certain kinship with Iona and was already dreading having to tell the woman goodbye in the morning.
Sitting at the table opposite of them were Aila and the children.
James and Taryn clung to each other while Laura was nestled in between her parents, Isobel and Graham, as she often was.
Sporting her own tartan, Oliver’s mother sat proudly, beaming at Sorcha as she strode towards her son.
Nanny Edith and Mary, both held handkerchiefs to their noses, wiping away any signs of emotion before they were caught.
But as Sorcha laid eyes on Oliver, all other thoughts vanished.
His dark hair gleamed, standing out with the black coat and shining gold buttons of his doublet.
His waistcoat, cleverly embroidered with the same flowers as on her dress but in a matching green thread, stood out against his crisp white shirt and cravat.
Even his boots, tall up his strong legs, had been polished until they shone.
He was every bit the proud Englishman, a nobleman through and through.
She did not miss the fact that he too had wrapped a piece of his mother’s tartan over one shoulder, pinning it with a broach.
Though he was dashingly handsome, it was not his attire or the wave in his hair that stole her breath. It was the look in his eyes, amber and so full of love, that made her steps falter.
Taryn had been right. Today was a momentous day. And as she walked closer to her future, closer to making those iron vows of love and loyalty, Sorcha could not have been happier.
Another round of glasses clinking echoed through the Great Hall. Sorcha blushed and giggled when Oliver pulled her in, obliging the room for their request to see the couple kiss.
“That is the seventh time they have done that and the meal has only just finished,” Sorcha whispered into his ear.
He chuckled, unbothered. In fact, he seemed almost a little pleased with himself.
“Are you trying to tell me that you do not want to kiss me, wife?”
His eyebrow rose in mischief.
“Of course nae,” she blurted out a little too quickly. “‘Tis only that I prefer to do it in private.”
Oliver leaned in closer and pressed a simple kiss to her neck, sending a rush through her that stole her breath once again.
“Believe me,” he murmured, low and heedy. “I would much rather be upstairs alone with ye right now.”
He pulled back, taking in the sight of her blushing furiously.
“But seeing as the feast has only just begun, as you say, it will be sometime before we can sneak away. Anticipating this, I asked James to start the clinking of glasses every twenty minutes.”
“Oliver!”
She tried to keep her tone full of chastisement, but failed miserably, and instead, starting giggling again.
“Who knew my warrior of a wife had such a light laugh. I should like to hear much more of it. Tell me, darling, what would make you happy enough that I could hear your giggles every day?”
“Ye could agree to spending half the year in Scotland,” she proposed.
It was the same lighthearted debate they’d been having for weeks.
As a marquess, Oliver obviously had an obligation to run the lands he had, to rule them well.
But Sorcha couldn’t bear the thought of going years, or even months, without seeing her family.
It was not so long of a journey that they couldn’t make the trip regularly should they choose.
“Och, is that all it would take to make you happy?” he teased. “A mere forgoing of my responsibilities and duties to our people so we may jaunt across Britain any time we please?”
She blinked, a mix of surprise and delight on her face.
“What is it?” Oliver asked, gathering her hands in his. “What did I say?”
“‘Our people.’ I had yet to think of them as ‘ours’ but they are now.”
Oliver pulled her into a kiss, hot and demanding, crushing her against his chest. He gave no heed to her dress nor his doublet.
He did not even bother waiting for the next time the glasses clinked.
He simply kissed her as a man kissing his bride, full of promises of all the night would entail, of all their future would entail.
She melted into him, forgetting the room full of onlookers entirely, and let her hands fold into the lapels of his jacket.
She held him in place and breathed him in.
Some part of her in the back of her mind wondered if this feeling would ever fade, the constant desire, the blissful happiness, the hopeful outlook. She desperately hoped it would.
“Aye, darling,” he muttered against her now swollen lips, words full of brogue. “They are ours. And they are verra lucky to have ye. As am I.”
The music picked up again and Oliver swung her onto the dance floor, twirling and spinning her until her feet no longer touched the ground.
Clansmen from every table joined in the revelry.
Children ran underfoot, laughing and chasing each other through the joy of it all.
In that moment, there were no clans, separate from each other.
There was no English or Scottish side. There were only people, gathered together to celebrate the start of something magical.