Chapter 23
I wish me parents were here, Daphne thought faintly, staring at the closed doors only inches in front of her face. Would they be proud of me? Disappointed? What?
No time to think about it. She could hear the shuffle and murmur of countless people behind the chapel doors.
The keep chapel was not a very large building, since a lot of people actually traveled to chapels and churches outside of the keep walls to attend the sermons with their families. Today, she guessed that it was packed to the rafters.
“Daphne?” Ceana murmured, leaning forward anxiously. “Are ye all right? Ye seem a wee bit disoriented.”
“I’m just tired. I… I scarcely slept last night,” Daphne murmured back.
The hall outside the chapel was empty, at her own request. Lady Pilbury and Helena had gone on ahead, leaving only her, Ceana, and, of course, Willow out in the hall.
Willow’s dress matched Daphne’s, a smaller version of her simple forest-green gown.
They both carried sprigs of wildflowers, and Daphne had two scraps of fabric pinned to her hip, one Morrag tartan and one MacCrimmon tartan.
She hoped that would help people remember who she was and who she intended to become.
For the first time, a twinge of excitement unfurled inside her.
Lady MacCrimmon. I’ll be Hunter’s wife. Helena will teach me how to run the keep, and Willow will have a real family. A mother, grandmother, an aunt. And, of course, a father.
Hunter.
She swallowed, her tongue darting out to moisten her dry lips.
It would be a lie to say that she hadn’t spent most of last night lying awake and thinking about him.
They were drawn to each other by a strange sort of magnetism that had kept each of them thinking of the other for over five years.
She’d have been a fool not to consider the possibility of love, real love.
After all, why not? Why shouldn’t they share a bed and be like an ordinary married couple? Why not?
Time would tell. But they already had a good start, in her opinion. They both loved Willow and wanted her to be happy. Surely their own happiness would follow.
Ceana rested her hand gently on her sister’s shoulder. “Are ye sure about this?” she asked quietly. “If this isnae what ye want…”
“It is what I want,” Daphne assured her. “I think I can be happy, Ceana. I wasnae sure for a while, especially nae with Hunter’s vow.”
“Vow?” Ceana repeated, frowning. “I suppose that could be a bit upsetting. His clan didnae hold him to it, which is a good thing, but I always thought the vow was an excuse nae to wed again.”
Daphne glanced at her sister. “What do ye mean?”
“Did he nae tell ye? He was married before. And he had a child, a son.”
She froze. “A child? He has another child?”
Ceana shook her head. “Nay. The child died. Wait, he didnae tell ye?”
Daphne opened and closed her mouth, at a loss for words.
I always kent it would be a terrible story, she thought dimly.
For a moment, she imagined turning on her heel and running away, fleeing down the hall. Only for a moment.
Whatever his story is, I’ll hear it sooner or later, she promised herself. I imagine that once I hear whatever tragedy lies in his past, I’ll understand him better.
“Ma?” Willow chirped, peering up at her. “Are we going?”
Daphne smiled affectionately down at her. “Aye, lass. We’re going.”
Hunter had almost been afraid that she wouldn’t come. The castle was hardly locked down like a fortress, since the clan was not at war. If she wanted to escape, she could.
When the chapel doors opened, he hardly dared look around. The guests rose to their feet, all craning their necks. He heard Skye whisper to Helena, “She looks lovely.”
At last, he allowed himself to turn around.
Magnus stood by the wall, always on guard, his face blank.
Hunter gave him a nod, then glanced toward the front pew.
Helena, Skye, and Lady Pilbury sat there, the latter delicately dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
Elspeth had been given a place of honor beside them, having worked late into the night to prepare Daphne’s dress.
It had been worth the effort.
The dress was a simple one, rich green, but it hugged her curves well and suited her coloring. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders in a torrent, a faint draft brushing the ends.
Willow skipped in front of her, River padding along at her side. She carried a small basket full of rose petals mixed with chopped herbs, and tossed the colorful, savory-smelling mix gleefully out into the crowd.
She reached the head of the aisle first and beamed up at Hunter.
“She’s coming!” she announced, somewhat unnecessarily.
Me daughter, Hunter thought, emotion clogging his throat. She’s me daughter. And now, at last, everybody kens.
Whatever the future held, he’d have his daughter by his side. And Daphne, if that was what she wanted.
Willow stood beside him, clutching River in her arms. She had the rings, or so he hoped.
As Daphne approached, Hunter found himself curling his fingers into fists.
Me wife. Me wife.
I never thought I’d wed again. And this time feels so different.
Usually, he didn’t allow himself to think of his first wife.
Still, he could remember the coldness of their wedding day.
A bleak midwinter morning, with sleet clattering against the window and an icy draft creeping in under the door.
His bride, pale as snow, grim-faced and austere.
She hadn’t even looked at him. He wasn’t sure that he had looked much at her, either.
This time was something else entirely. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from Daphne, and she stared right back, almost entranced.
This time, everything will be all right. I’m sure of it.
When she was nearly at the head of the aisle, he reached out a hand toward her. She hesitated, just for an instant. He saw determination and even hope cross her face, before she reached for him.
Their fingertips were less than an inch away when the air changed.
It was hard to describe. A coldness, maybe? The hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck stood on end, his instincts screaming a warning. His body moved before his brain caught up.
He lunged forward, pulling Daphne into his arms and throwing her down on the floor. A gasp rippled through the congregation, but he hardly heard it. He could only hear the minute hiss of something flying overhead, barely an inch above.
They landed with a heavy thump. Daphne cried out, clutching her side, obviously bruised in the fall.
Hunter leaped to his feet at once. He glanced at the opposite side of the chapel and already knew what he would see.
A quivering arrow was embedded in a wooden windowsill, the shaft still vibrating. Experience told him that he wasn’t the target. No, that arrow had been aimed at Daphne.
He swung around, spotting the cracked window at once. He pointed at it. “Out there, an archer! Find him, men! Hurry!”
At once, the guards posted at the door scrambled to obey, flinging themselves out.
Hunter turned to Magnus, intending to tell him to go too, to get to the bottom of this, but the words died in his mouth.
Magnus stood very still, Willow’s wrist held tight in his large hands. A sharp knife hung loosely from his fingers.
Hunter’s mouth dried.
“Magnus?” he forced out, desperately racking his mind for a reasonable solution. “What are ye doing?”
“He’s hurting me,” Willow whispered, trying and failing to twist out of Magnus’s grip. The skin on her wrist was turning red. There’d be bruises.
A spark of fury warmed Hunter’s gut. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Magnus, but he was faintly aware of Daphne clambering to her feet behind him.
“Stay low,” he murmured, hoping she would realize that he was talking to her. “The archer might shoot again.”
“He willnae,” Magnus said shortly. “One arrow, then run. That was the plan. But ye had to bloody interfere, did ye nae, me Laird?”
A whimper came from somewhere in the chapel. The guests were all huddled together in the pews, nobody quite daring to escape.
Of course, nobody was armed, not even the neighboring lairds. It was rude to bring a weapon to a wedding. So, with his men all gone to find the archer, there was just him and Magnus.
Hunter suspected the whimper came from the third pew on the right-hand side, where his councilmen were all crammed in together.
“Magnus,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “did ye plan to kill me bride on our wedding day?”
“Ye were never meant to have a wedding day,” Magnus spat.
“Ye vowed ye wouldnae! I kent this wee girl was yer bastard the moment I saw her.” He gave Willow’s arm a little shake.
“But I was ready to forgive ye. I was. I still thought that ye would do the right thing, and yet here we are. Nae only did ye pressure the council into forgiving ye…”
“They were free to vote as they chose.”
“Oh, please! They’re all afraid of the consequences should they unseat ye. They’d just squabble among themselves to replace ye.”
“Because they ken that I am a good laird and nae easy to replace,” Hunter snapped, his eyes flashing. “Put down the knife, Magnus. We were always friends, ye and I. We can talk. Whatever I’ve done to offend ye, we can—”
“Ye broke yer vow!” Magnus bellowed. “Ye swore to us all never to sire children again, never to wed again. Ye broke one part five years ago, and now here ye are, ready to break the other. I willnae have it, me Laird. Ye have failed me for the last time.” He tightened his grip on the knife.
Hunter curled his fingers into fists, glancing down at his daughter. Willow stared up at Magnus, her lower lip trembling.
“Willow, lass,” Hunter whispered. She glanced at him, swallowing. “Do ye remember what we talked about? When I carved the foxhead on yer sword? What did I tell ye?”
She blinked, obviously struggling to remember, then sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, there was determination there.
Then she leaned forward and sank her little white teeth into Magnus’s hand.