Chapter 6
Aweek later, Liam stared out of the window, watching as the sun rose over the moors in the distance. Today was a day that he had never thought would come again, a day he would never endure.
But it was here, and he had already given his word.
Sighing, Liam turned away from the window and glanced at the small chamber that had become his refuge. After today, it would no longer be just his, but also Sorcha’s.
Why had he agreed to such a union? After Nelia’s death, he swore on her grave that he would never wed again.
Yet here he was, about to take another wife. He had to...
Still, as he thought about how he was betraying his wife, it was hard not to think of the woman he was about to wed. She had surprised him by her sparring and even more so when she won. Liam knew then that Sorcha was not just another woman looking for a husband.
She was looking for more.
A knock on the door caught his attention, and Liam strode to it, pulling it open. “Good morning,” Uncle Sheamus stated. “Ye ready for today?”
Liam rolled his shoulders. “Aye.”
His uncle arched a brow. “Ye dinnae seem so sure of yerself.”
“I’m wedding her today.” Liam frowned as his uncle stepped through the doorway. “Are ye concerned that I wilnae?”
“Nay,” he replied, laying the bundle in his arms on the bed. “Yer too bloody noble.”
Liam grinned. Once he had given his word, he did not go back on it. It was a trait passed down through the McCallums.
“I brought yer plaid,” he said after a moment.
“Nay,” Liam replied immediately, his grin fading. The last time he had worn the plaid was when he had wed Nelia. He would not sully that memory by wearing it today.
His uncle frowned. “’Tis a tradition, Liam.”
Liam thrust a hand through his hair roughly. “I cannae.”
Uncle Sheamus took him by the shoulders, squeezing them gently. “Lad, ye will never forget her, but ’tis time tae move forward with yer life. Ye have honored her enough.”
Liam tore from his uncle’s grasp, pointing toward the door. “Leave.” He did not want to discuss her or any part of that loss with anyone, not even his uncle.
“Dinnae make this hard on her,” Uncle Sheamus said as he moved to the door. “She will be yer wife, Liam, not a warrior.”
Liam didn’t reply as he shut the door behind him, leaning against it heavily. He did not like to fight his uncle, not on matters that he couldn’t understand. His wife was still alive, and though they had not been able to bear bairns themselves, he woke next to the woman he cared for.
Liam did not.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Liam glared at the wedding plaid that had been handed down for generations, wrapped in paper when it was not being used.
Though faded, the tartan was meant to be draped across the groom’s shoulder as a sign of remembering where he had come from and where he was moving toward with his new wife.
A new life.
Yet, this was not a new life for Liam. It was a means to a problem, nothing more.
A few hours later, Liam waited on Sorcha with his uncle and the rest of the clan, the great hall filled with Scots wanting to see their laird wed again.
To his immense dislike, he was wearing the wedding plaid over his fine lawn shirt, fastened at his waist so as not to overshadow his kilt in McCallum colors.
The ceremonial sword hung at his side instead of his warrior sword and his sporran in the middle of his kilt.
A sprig of heather was fastened to the tartan, reminding Liam of his wedding day long ago where Nelia had fastened one on him herself.
His heart clenched in his chest, but Liam kept his features schooled, not wanting to show any sort of emotion. Those days were long past, the days of marrying for something that was in his heart.
This was for his clan.
The crowd died down as Sorcha made her appearance, and for a brief moment, Liam found it hard to swallow. Bloody hell, she is bonnie. Her dress was dark blue, her hair down around her shoulders with sprigs of flowers fashioned like a crown on top of her head.
The McCallum tartan was draped over one shoulder, and Liam cleared his throat, a peculiar sensation welling up in his chest. Was that pride he felt? She could have chosen her own clan colors, yet here she was, draped in his.
Sorcha reached his side, and Liam couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
He barely listened to the elder clansman as he droned on about the wedding and their pledges to each other, but when it came time for him to place the ring on her hand, he reached into his sporran and pulled out the small circle of silver.
The blacksmith had fashioned the ring for him days ago, though there was no inscription, no decoration amongst the metal.
Just a plain, silver ring.
Sorcha held out her hand, and he slid it upon her finger, finding her hand trembling. Was she nervous? He wasn’t; he just wanted to get the pomp and circumstance over with so that he could quit this day.
Soon he and Sorcha were being blessed by the local village healer, and the ceremony was complete. “She’s yers tae kiss, lad,” the clansman said, his grin broad.
Liam swallowed as he took Sorcha’s hands, marveling at how tiny they looked inside his.
His thumb brushed over the ring, and suddenly, he wished to tell her that he could never love her, that he would be a bastard of a husband to her.
Their marriage would never take on the same as his first had and that while he couldn’t protect Nelia, he would ensure her safety.
He had to.
“Kiss me, Scot,” Sorcha said gently, her voice low.
Liam leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, feeling the awakening of his body for the first time since Nelia died. He had not kissed another woman, held her hand, or smiled with one since he had put Nelia in her grave.
He had done two of the three with Sorcha, and they were only minutes into their marriage. Stepping back, he gripped her hands. “I will protect ye with mah life.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked at a loss. “And I will protect ye,” she finally said as the clan cheered around them.
“The quaich,” Uncle Sheamus announced, handing Sorcha the two-handled bowl with Celtic etching on the sides. Liam watched as his bride took it before walking over to the table and ladling whiskey into it.
“A toast,” she called out, holding the cup to Liam. “Tae mah warrior husband. May he never know the taste of defeat on the battlefield!”
The clan cheered as she drank deeply before handing it to him, where Liam did the same.
“May our clan be blessed forevermore,” he added before passing it off to his uncle.
The bowl would be filled hundreds of times over before the entire clan had their fill, but it was a sign of good luck and unity to have it passed around.
The music was started, and soon the hall was alive with boisterous conversation and dancing. Liam drank deeply from the cups that were pressed into his hand, accepting the well wishes from his clan. This was what his clan had wanted to see.
A reason to celebrate. Had he really held them back from doing so? When was the last time they had held something in the great hall? He couldn’t remember.
“Come, Husband,” Sorcha said, appearing at his elbow and plucking the cup from his hand. “’Tis time tae dance.”
He wanted to tell her no, but Liam knew it was tradition.
The clan had to see them as a couple, even if that did not extend to anything more.
He drew her into his arms, and they swayed to the music, his arm wrapped snugly around her waist. “Care tae tell me what this day brings tae ye?” she asked, her hand resting on his chest lightly.
Liam arched a brow. “What are ye talking about?”
She sighed, the light in her eyes dimming. “There’s something that bothers ye today, Liam. Is it because ye are marrying me?”
Liam gazed into her lovely eyes, attempting to remember that this was her wedding. She had traveled from her home and had married him.
She had also surprised him, but Liam was going to keep that to himself. “Nay,” he finally said, his heart heavy. He could not tell her the truth. “Ye have done right by mah clan today, lass.”
A faint blush stole across her cheeks. “’Tis mah clan too.”
“Aye,” he replied, spinning her around. “It is.”
She laughed, and the sound burrowed itself into Liam’s heart, cracking the iron cage he had placed it in. When he handed her off to his uncle, it was his aunt that claimed him for the next dance. “I am so proud of ye,” she said, patting his cheek. “Ye have done right by this clan, Liam.”
Liam swallowed hard. “I always do right by the clan.”
She looked around, a small smile on her face. “Aye, ye do lad, but when is the last time ye have seen them like this?”
His sentiments earlier had been correct. “’Tis been a while,” he forced out. His own despair had fallen upon his clan as well, overshadowing their happiness.
Perhaps this union was good in more ways than one.
They danced and toasted the happy couple until the wee hours of the morning, where Liam was forced to pick up his bride in his arms and take her up the stairs, the shouts of his clan behind them.
Sorcha wound her arms around his neck as he did so, causing his blood to ignite.
“I know ye dinnae want tae make me yer wife in truth,” she said, her voice sad.
He hefted her into his arms as he reached the third landing. “Why would ye think that?”
“Because,” she said as he walked to his chamber, “I’ve forced mahself upon ye and the same with this marriage.”
“Ye forced me into nothing, lass,” Liam replied, pushing open the door with his foot. She fell silent as he stepped inside, depositing her on the bed. Someone had come in and started a fire, and the linens on the bed were finer than what he was used to.
It was his wedding night, after all.
Liam pushed the door shut with his boot and slid the bolt, not wishing to be the product of any surprise visits this evening.
Next, he started to remove the tartan carefully, though Sorcha’s small hands stilled his movements.
“Let me,” she said as she unfastened the brooch that held the pieces together.
He stood still as she worked the tartan off his shoulders, placing it aside on the chair. When she reached for his belt buckle, he stopped her, his body painfully tight. “I got this, lass.”
She swatted his hands away. “’Tis mah duty as yer wife. Yer aunt told me as much this morn.”
Liam chuckled, the sound rusty to his own ears. “What else did mah aunt tell ye?”
“Just tae be ready for yer surliness,” she responded as she unhooked his sporran and sword, letting them join the tartan. “And that yer bedchamber was small.”
He didn’t respond, not wanting to tell her the real reason he was in this room and not the laird’s chamber. He didn’t want to think about another woman on his wedding night.
Not now.
She untucked his shirt before stepping back, removing the tartan around her shoulders.
Liam clenched his jaw as she worked the laces on the front of her dress, letting it slide down her body until she was clad in just her shift, the fire illuminating her form.
When she reached for the crown, he stopped her.
“Leave it be,” he said hoarsely, yanking his shirt over his head.
He felt like a randy Scot about to bed his first woman, the way his manhood was straining against his kilt.
She was his first woman in five long years.
Unable to bear it, Liam captured her lips with his, his own mind fracturing as he slid his tongue into her mouth and tasted the whiskey she had consumed.
Sorcha moaned low in her throat and pulled him close until their bodies were fitted together.
He could feel her softness pressed against his hard planes, the way her hands were working themselves over his bare shoulders nimbly, as if to learn his body.
He wanted to learn hers.
Liam broke the kiss, his own breath ragged, and stepped back, keeping his kilt on for now. “I want tae see all of ye, lass.”