Chapter 7
The Great Hall fell silent the moment he crossed the threshold.
Dozens of eyes turned toward him—his people, his responsibility—and then, past him, toward the woman at his side. The murmur of conversation died beneath the crackle of the hearth. Even the hounds near the fire lifted their heads, alert.
Natalie’s fingers tightened on his arm. He felt the tremor in them and, beneath it, her effort to stand tall.
She looked small beside him, wrapped in a borrowed length of MacDuff tartan, her golden hair glinting like sunlight against stone.
She was no ordinary lass; anyone could see that.
But she was his now, and he would make his people see that too.
He straightened, letting his voice carry. “Madainn mhath,” he greeted.
The hall answered in a low rumble of respectful but uncertain Gaelic good mornings. The fire popped, throwing light across the rafters and the long wooden tables, where the remnants of a meal lay forgotten.
He led Natalie deeper into the great hall, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the stone floor in the near silence.
When they reached the dais table, he pulled out an intricately carved chair beside his own and motioned for her to sit.
Natalie nodded, and gracefully sat, her cheeks flushed pink.
Raising his cup, he looked over his people—the men he’d fought beside, the women who’d fed and mended and prayed through years of war and hardship. They were his to protect. And now, somehow, so was she.
“This is Natalie,” he said. His voice carried easily through the hall, calm and sure. “My betrothed.”
A hush fell heavy. Then came the sound of a tankard slipping from someone’s hand and clattering to the floor. Whispers followed, like wind stirring dry grass.
Ian kept his expression neutral. Let them talk. Let them wonder. His gaze moved over the faces—Lachlann’s steady approval, Old Morag’s squint of suspicion, the younger warriors’ open curiosity. They’d seen him take women to his bed before, but never to his table.
A bearded man—Seumas, one of the smiths—rose and lifted his ale. “Then let us drink to the laird and his lady!”
Laughter and shouts broke out, the tension melting into cheer. Cups clinked, bread tore, and the familiar skirl of the pipes filled the air. The sound swelled up into the beams, ancient and proud.
Ian leaned toward Natalie. She was watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, her lips parted in a mixture of awe and disbelief. The sight tugged at something inside him he hadn’t expected protectiveness, and perhaps, God help him, admiration.
He raised his cup again, joining the chorus of voices toasting their future. And as he watched Natalie smile shyly at the women nearest the hearth, Ian realized with quiet certainty that the hall, his clan, and his heart already felt different.
“If ye are betrothed, why not state your intentions here, now?”
Ian looked at the warrior who’d shouted the suggestion, then quickly turned to see Natalie’s face pale before she looked at her hands.
Did she know that stating their intentions was as good as marrying?
If he repeated his vows in front of witnesses and declared his commitment to her, then he and Natalie would be husband and wife, it was legal and binding.
All they’d need to do was have a priest bless the union later.
The grumblings of the people in agreement echoed through the hall. Ian reached for Natalie’s hand; her gaze was panicked. As much as he wanted her to be his wife, he didn’t want it in name only. He would have to find a way out of this.
He raised his hand for silence. Warm, slim fingers lightly caressed his arm. He gazed down into her eyes. Acceptance filled their depths. She nodded, and once again, he sensed she could see into his soul.
Smiling, he placed a feathery kiss on her forehead, and then, turning, he clasped each of her hands in his. His people fell silent as they watched and waited.
“I, Ian, now take ye Natalie to be my wife.” He squeezed her fingers, winking, hoping to ease her fears.
“In the presence of God and before these witnesses, I promise to be a loving, faithful, and loyal husband to ye, for as long as we both shall live.” Or as long as we have together, he wanted to add but kept that part to himself.
Natalie looked down for a moment, the top of her short hair only reaching his chest. He had the sudden urge to crush her to him and caress away all of her fears. He couldn’t imagine the turmoil she was going through right at that moment. She took a deep breath before returning her gaze to his.
“Tha mise, Natalie, a-nis ’gad ghabhail-sa, Ian, gu bhith ’nam chéile phòsda.”
Ian raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her perfect Gaelic. Until then, he’d been mainly speaking English with her. She repeated the rest of her pledge to him in Gaelic, and Ian felt his chest puffing with pride.
Was this her way of telling him she was more than ready to wed him, be with him?
Touched by her use of his language, Ian clasped her around the waist, hauling her against him before capturing her mouth for a searing kiss. The clan cheered and howled their approval.
During the light meal of bread, cheese, salt pork, apples, and ale, Natalie barely spoke, giving him small smiles and murmuring to the people surrounding her.
His people observed and chatted lively with her. He realized how much he really did want her to stay.
Would she?