Chapter 7
Hannah couldn’t even bring herself to look in the mirror as Elspeth and a couple of other maids helped her get ready for the day: her wedding day.
Her outfit was comprised almost entirely of the clan tartan, with only a ribbon in her hair of the tartan of her father she never got to know—a little strip of maroon and navy that made her nauseous to look at.
Ever since her conversation with Magnus in the forest, she couldn’t help but wonder if her father had known of the arrangement with the Blacks and had brought her just to marry her off for political reasons like an object.
A voice pulled her from the reverie. “There ye are, M’Lady,” Elspeth said, stepping back with a big grin. “Ye make a darling bride.”
Hannah didn’t bother trying to smile or ease the discomfort on the maids’ faces as she looked completely distraught over the pending union.
One of the older maids, Tilly, gave her a pat on the shoulder but didn’t say a word.
It felt like the little gesture said all that words couldn’t.
This is hard and we see that, but we are here anyway.
Even though her eyes held pity that sliced through Hannah like a blade.
Hannah wasn’t sure she was deserving of their kindness, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted it.
All she wanted was to go home. She let out a shaky breath, trying not to cry as the severity of the situation settled on her shoulders.
Closing her eyes tight, she steadied herself, trying to remind her fragile inner world that even if she was forced to marry Magnus, it wasn’t the end.
If she was ever given even a sliver of an opportunity to escape, she would take it.
There was a quick knock at the door and Hannah looked up to see Magnus’s right-hand man, Angus, standing there. “‘Tis time, M’Lady,” he said.
Hannah let the mask fall back over her face, her demeanor detached and icy.
She stepped to him, letting him take hold of her arm as he guided her down the corridor, heading to the first floor and right to the Grand Hall.
A Grand Hall where many clan Black and clan McTavish people would be gathered to witness Hannah being married off against her will.
A room of people who would sit in silence as she was traded like property for political gain, and those same people she was meant to make her life around.
Bitterness ate at her veins, wishing to scream, for someone other than her to speak up for what was right—for anyone to come to her rescue.
“I ken my word means nae a thing to ye,” Angus said softly. “But… I feel I have to say it. This marriage is far from ideal for ye, and I can feel yer resentment from here… But Magnus will be a good husband to ye, if ye let him. He’s nothing like his brother.”
Hannah had to hold in a scoff. He was right, his words didn’t mean anything to her and even less now that he had said them. “I just want my own life back. I don’t want to be a wife,” she muttered.
“We dinnae always get to choose the cards we are dealt in life, but what we do with them… That’s our choice.”
His wisdom rang true in the back of her head, but annoyance flared just underneath her surface. He didn’t get to write her life away with a cliche, when he wasn’t the one being forced into a lifelong partnership with a man that was holding him captive. Hannah huffed in annoyance and stared ahead.
“Whatever you say,” she muttered. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The doors pushed open and all eyes were immediately on her.
Some brides, she was sure, would be nervous and falter under their eyes.
But Hannah panned her gaze slowly around the room, as though to look each person in the eye.
They were bearing witness to something wholly unjust, and she wanted them to know it.
She wasn’t a blushing bride or alight with joy and nervous energy, she was a woman scorned and they would all feel it.
As she approached the altar, her gaze finally fell to Magnus.
He looked stoic as ever, but the softness had returned to his twilight eyes.
Even though no part of her wanted to admit it, he was rather handsome in his formal attire.
When she had thought of him as she got ready, she had imagined his bulking, brutish form looking more like a dog in clothes than anything else—ill-fitting and utterly ridiculous.
Yet, before her was a man that looked in his element despite his brutish, warrior nature.
He wore a navy shirt that matched his green and blue tartan vest, and it was tailored to perfection with the way it hugged but didn’t strangle his muscles and broad shoulders.
The one peculiar thing about his attire was a single bluebell that he had sticking out of his breast pocket.
It felt far too soft for a man like him to be wearing a flower, especially one with such delicate little blossoms. Hannah eyed him curiously but his expression gave nothing away.
Taking one last look at him and then the crowds, Hannah waited for a beat for anyone to say anything, to put an end to this before it became too late.
Of course, no one did. They all looked on with pleasant expressions—except those along the aisle and in the front rows.
They ogled her with distrust and horror, no doubt because of the scar on her face that they could clearly make out during her entrance.
At last, she turned to the priest and gave him a bored stare. If this was her fate, she wanted nothing more than to get it over with.
As the priest began the ceremony and reading his scripture, a hand enveloped hers.
Her eyes cast to Magnus, whose eyes were fixed on the priest, his expression neutral.
Her eyes narrowed at the side of his face, wondering if he was only holding her hand to make sure she didn’t run.
Annoyance flared in her at the thought. Did he think she was foolish enough to try, knowing how full that room was and that guards were posted at the doors?
When the smallest of huffs escaped her, Magnus peered at her from the corner of his eye.
She anticipated him to glare or squeeze her hand as a reminder of her place in all this, but he simply studied her before looking back to the priest.
“Repeat after me,” the priest spoke, gaining her attention back. He was talking to Magnus. “I take thee, Hannah McTavish, as my wife. As the rib of my side. To protect and cherish for all our days to come.”
Magnus was looking at her again, his dark blue eyes glimmering with the light from the vast windows of the Grand Hall.
He almost looked happy, but Hannah was certain it was a trick of the light.
“I take thee, Hannah McTavish, as my wife. As the rib of my side. To protect and cherish for all our days to come.”
Notably, his voice wasn’t as gruff as usual.
It was still deep and firm, but there wasn’t the usual command and sharpness to his words.
It made her soften, just a fraction. She hadn’t considered he would recite his vows so earnestly; but she quickly reminded herself that all of this was for show, for politics.
Of course he had to play the part in front of his people so that they viewed the union as valid instead of the charade it in fact was.
“Repeat after me, M’lady,” the priest said to Hannah. “I take thee, Magnus Black, as my husband. As the head of my household and the father of my children. To serve and cherish for all our days to come.”
Her jaw clenched, her body itself wishing to reject the very idea of saying those words.
It was all traditional things for wives to declare to their husbands, but in this case, it felt pointed.
She could feel Magnus’s eyes on her and the entire room’s as they waited for her to obey the priest. How dare they make her pledge her life, her servitude, and her potential children to this man she was being forced to marry?
“M’Lady?” the priest murmured.
Hannah took a long, controlled breath as she reminded herself that while this was her fate, it wasn’t the end.
She would find a way out of all of this, no matter what it took.
“I take thee, Magnus Black, as my husband. As the head of my household…. And the… father of my children.” She could hardly think around the sensation of her cheeks heating at an alarming rate.
Really, what a crude thing to make her declare in her wedding vows.
“To serve and to cherish for all of our days to come.”
“Ye may now kiss the bride,” the priest said.
Hannah’s mind went blank. In all of the chaos that had been her capture and now forced betrothal, she hadn’t thought about the wedding kiss or what came that night.
She turned to face Magnus, ready to warn him not to even think about touching her.
And two rough, calloused hands that were warm enough to burn cradled her face.
There was only time for her to get a glimpse of his eyes before they closed and his lips crashed into hers.
Her eyes stayed open for a long moment, shock overwhelming her entire body.
But as his lips moved against hers, the sensation was pulling her back into focus.
Heat, something completely different from the warmth of his hands, rolled through her body in a gentle wave.
It was an all-consuming heat, like one would feel being sat too close to a fire.
And the flames urged her, to move her mouth, to get more of that kiss—even if she despised the owner of the lips.
Magnus’s kiss was rough and claiming, his lips parting just so that he devoured her bottom lip with each touch. It felt like the room faded around them and all there was was his mouth on hers.
And then applause erupted, breaking the spell of the kiss.