Chapter 30

30

“ Y e just wait,” Ersie said with a grin, shifting restlessly as she stood at Doughall’s side in the chapel. “If yer jaw doesnae hit the flagstones, I’ll eat me horse.”

Soft autumn sunlight filtered in through the stained glass windows, spilling colorful shards across the pale gray floor. The pews of the chapel were filled to bursting, the congregation crammed in, elbowing one another for breathing room. Outside the chapel, the villagers watched and waited eagerly, some sitting on the shoulders of others so they could peer in through the windows.

“I dinnae think yer horse would appreciate that,” Doughall replied gruffly.

He, too, was restless, but he could not show it in front of his clan. Until the doors opened and he saw his bride, he would not be able to quell his fears.

But Ersie remained undeterred, speaking in a hushed tone, a wide smile on her lips. “I hear she made the impossible happen.”

Doughall shot her a warning look. “Now isnae the time for yer gloatin’.”

“Gloatin’?” Ersie seemed wounded for a moment. “Nay, M’Laird. I wouldnae gloat about somethin’ like that. I just wanted to tell ye that I’m glad. Ye’ve always deserved to be happy, and as yer second-in-command and yer oldest friend, I cannae think of anyone more capable of makin’ ye happy.”

“Do I look happy to ye?”

She snorted. “Ye look like ye’re tryin’ to hide it.” She paused, cocking her head. “But as her friend, I should also warn ye that if ye upset her, I’ll?—”

“Ye’ll what?” he interrupted. “Eat a swan?”

Ersie blinked, astonished that he had made a joke. “Nay, I’ll just be very cross with ye.”

“Aye, well…” Doughall trailed off as the doors of the chapel squealed open and the congregation rose clumsily to their feet, jostling each other.

But it was just Flynn, raising his hands in apology as he slunk, shamefaced, toward the front of the chapel to join Isla on the front pew. He cast a regretful look at his nephew and earned a stern look in response.

Are ye tryin’ to kill me, Flynn?

Doughall was nervous enough without his uncle adding to it. Judging by Flynn’s rough appearance, he had just come from the distillery.

The doors of the chapel had barely closed before they opened again with a louder shriek of rusty hinges. The confused congregation, who had begun to sit down, quickly shot up again… and this time, they were not disappointed.

Bathed in the golden morning light, looking as if she had just recently descended from heaven itself, was his bride. Freya held on to Adam’s arm, smiling nervously as a collective gasp rippled from wall to wall and back again.

Underneath that rustling sound of delighted astonishment, Doughall made a quiet addition. A sense of absolute calm swept through his veins, slowing his heartbeat to a steadier rhythm, his lips unable to resist the tug of a smile as he watched her walk toward him.

Beautiful… Who else would be the Devil’s bride but an angel like that?

She stole his breath away, the ivory silk of her gown somehow sparkling in the light of the chapel. Her red hair was loose and fell to her waist in glossy waves, aside from a thin braid interwoven with dried summer flowers that acted as a crown. And her eyes were brighter than the meadow fireflies, widening just a little as they met his intent gaze.

“Looks like me horse is safe,” Ersie whispered, but Doughall was not listening.

Even Adam looked at ease as he guided Freya the rest of the way down the aisle and put her slightly shaky hand into Doughall’s.

“Be good to her,” he said quietly. “Take care of her and cherish her, as I cherish me Emily, and I’ve nay doubt that ye’ll be better off for havin’ her at yer side.”

Doughall bowed his head to his friend, his hand tightening around Freya’s in the hope of making it stop shaking. Surely, she wasn’t still afraid of him. After last night, it could not be possible… could it?

“Ye’re late,” he said, resisting the urge to lift her hand to his lips.

She shot him a mock withering look. “I am nae. Ye must have been early.”

“Ye look… like ye belong to yer title,” he continued, wishing they were alone so he could tell her with his actions, if not his words, how beautiful she was.

He was about to elaborate when he noticed the necklace around her neck. His heart clenched at the sight of it. It had been twenty years since he had seen that emerald. In truth, he had thought it was lost. Unable to help himself, he reached out and touched the sparkling jewel, ignoring the appreciative sounds that rumbled through the chapel.

“Isla insisted that I borrow it,” Freya said anxiously. “If ye dinnae want me to wear it, I can take it off. I tried to refuse, but?—”

“It’s perfect,” he cut in, feeling for a moment that his mother was there with them, watching the proceedings, no doubt glad that her son had finally found himself a wife. “And it’s yers, Lady MacGordon.”

The vicar coughed into his fist, leaning in. “Nae just yet, M’Laird. Ye have to let me do me part first.”

Doughall shot the white-haired man a sharp look that made him quake in his vestments, clasping his hands together as he hurried to welcome the congregation.

As the old man warbled through the beginning of the ceremony, Doughall returned his attention to his bride, feeling the tremors in her hand cease. Her warm brown eyes looked at him with affection, her smile relaxed and true, her cheeks colored with the faintest dusting of pink.

The longer they gazed at one another, the more the rest of the chapel began to fade away. If he had his way, there would have been only a few guests, to make the occasion more private, but Isla and Moira had insisted on making it more of a spectacle. He had worried about that, but his worries vanished as he took hold of her other hand, as calm with her as he was on a battlefield before he called for his soldiers to charge.

He was so lost in the peace between them that he did not hear the vicar approach, holding a length of twine in his hand. Although Doughall’s people followed the religion of the land, all marriages among his clan gave a nod to their old traditions, the handfasting more symbolic than it was necessary.

“With this rope, I bind ye,” the vicar said, looping the twine around their joined hands. “This man and this woman, joined together in a holy union that cannae be broken.”

Freya beamed from ear to ear as Doughall went a step further, interlocking his fingers with hers.

The vicar continued to speak, but Doughall drowned him out, concentrating solely on his bride, until the time came for him to say his vows. He recited them by rote, listening intently as Freya recited her vows to him in kind, knowing that the moment would soon be upon them when they were truly bound together.

“In this holy place, beneath God’s eyes, I now pronounce ye man and wife, the Laird and Lady of Clan MacGordon,” the vicar concluded, and though it was not customary for a husband to kiss his wife at that moment, Doughall could not let his vows go unsealed.

Stepping toward Freya, their hands still bound, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. The fierce and fiery kiss he wanted to press to her lips would have to wait, and though he was still keeping his promise not to lie with her, he was already thinking of the myriad other things he could do to pleasure her on their wedding night. Things that would satisfy her enough that she would not tempt him into breaking his promise.

The congregation erupted in cheers and bawdy whistles, some guests breaking into song as Doughall weaved his wife’s arm through his and led her back up the aisle.

Heading out together into the hazy sunshine, the congregation followed behind their Laird and Lady, until a great crowd was making their way up the hill to MacGordon Castle, where the real festivities were about to begin.

In the Great Hall, accompanied by the giddy tune of even livelier musicians, Freya could hardly catch her breath as Doughall whirled her around the dance floor. There was no one else dancing, the tune reserved solely for them, but she had expected something more restrained—certainly not a vigorous reel that had her head spinning as fast as her body.

She twirled away from him, gasping as he pulled her back against his chest—apparently not quite aware of his strength—and slid his arm around her waist, bringing her even closer. His other hand clasped hers, and just like that, pressed to one another, he whirled her around and around until the rest of the room became a heady blur.

I always dreamed of a moment like this, but I never thought it would happen for me outside of me books.

She threw her head back and let go of her last inhibitions, laughing delightedly at the ferocity of the dance as she clung to his shoulder, safe in his embrace. For a moment, she wondered if this was what it felt like to fly, to be as free as the birds in the sky.

At length, Doughall slowed their spinning, giving his cue to the musicians to slow their enthusiastic playing. And in that lull, he leaned in and whispered, “I command ye to enjoy yerself this evenin’.”

“That shouldnae be too difficult to obey,” she replied, breathless.

“But if I see ye dancin’ with another man, I cannae be held responsible for me actions.”

She chuckled. “I’ve promised Ersie a dance. Does that count?”

“Nay, though she might argue otherwise,” he replied, swaying with her until the musicians stopped.

As soon as they did, a group of eager dancers took the quiet as permission to take to the dance floor, and the musicians quickly struck another boisterous tune. All along the feasting table, married men pushed back their chairs and offered their hands to their wives, while the eligible bachelors went in search of the ladies they had their eyes on, hoping for a dance.

Amid the entertaining chaos, Freya held tightly to her husband’s hand and allowed him to lead her back to their seats at the head of the feasting table. Although what had been an elegant wedding feast was in as much disarray as the dance floor—the roast birds and haunches of venison picked apart, the dishes of buttery vegetables scraped clean, nothing on the trays of crisp potatoes aside from a few abandoned sprigs of rosemary.

As it should be.

Freya grinned, her stomach comfortably full. She had left enough room for the fruit tarts, clootie dumplings, and apple fritters that she knew would be served later.

Flopping down into her chair, she grabbed her cup and gulped down the pressed apple juice that she had specifically requested. On a night like this, she wanted to keep most of her wits about her, though she had allowed herself a cup or two of spiced wine earlier, just until she felt warmed by it.

Everyone else, however, was indulging in all the wine, ale, and liquor they could get their hands on, throwing themselves headfirst into the festive spirit of the occasion.

“I’ll be with ye in a moment,” Doughall said, letting go of her other hand.

She grabbed it back. “Ye cannae leave me. Where are ye goin’?”

“To tend to somethin’ before it becomes an unpleasantness,” he replied, nodding toward the other side of the room, where a guard seemed to be trying to pull a reluctant maid into the hallway.

Freya released his hand at once. “See to it that she’s safe.”

“I will, lass.”

He slipped away while she returned to drinking her apple juice and watching the celebrations, overwhelmed in the best possible way by the merriment in the room.

Ersie was dancing with a man Freya did not know. Emily and Adam were standing off to the side, whispering and stealing kisses. Moira had joined a gaggle of older women to gossip loudly, while Isla and Flynn were pressed to one another, dancing with the passion of newlyweds. Freya wished Laura could be here. But at least she was safe, making her own choices. And soon, she’d get to see her again if Adam’s plan succeeded.

I hope this night never ends.

Freya sighed contentedly, reaching for the jug of apple juice to pour herself another cup.

She had not even taken a sip of the freshly refilled cup when her hand began to feel strangely weak. Puzzled, she set the cup down and turned her wrist this way and that, wondering if she had sprained it somehow during all that vigorous dancing. Her fingers began to shake, that weak sensation slithering up her arms and down the center of her, pooling into her legs.

She swallowed, but her throat was thick, and as she looked out across the Great Hall, her vision blurred as if she had smeared butter on her spectacles. She took off her spectacles, but the blur remained, no matter how rapidly she blinked to try and clear it. Her throat itched all the way down to her lungs, her breathing ragged, her tongue suddenly too big for her mouth.

Somethin’ is wrong… Somethin’ is wrong and Doughall isnae here.

She squinted at the exit, hoping to spot him, but everyone and everything was melting together before her very eyes.

On violently shaking legs, she pushed herself up, determined to find her husband—he would know what to do to help her. Up on her feet, her head swam as if there was water where her brain should be, sloshing against the sides of her skull.

She took two stumbling steps away from the table, croaking Doughall’s name… and collapsed.