The doors open. All eyes turn to us. And there at the front of the hall, waiting beside the ancient stone of my ancestors, stands the man who will be my husband before the sun sets.
Lachlan Drummond. Warrior. King. Conqueror.
Mine.
The thought sends a shudder through me, revulsion mingled with something else I refuse to name. Something that makes my skin prickle with heat when his eyes find mine across the crowded hall.
Each step toward him feels like a step toward my own execution. The faces we pass are a blur—my father's lords looking away in shame, Lachlan's men watching with hungry eyes, the few ladies of the court who haven't fled weeping silently behind their hands.
And then we're there, standing before him. My father places my hand in Lachlan's, and I feel the first shock of contact—his skin hot against mine, his fingers engulfing my own. He's so much larger than me, so much stronger. The knowledge sits like a stone in my stomach.
"Who gives this woman?" asks the priest, a trembling old man who has served my family since before I was born.
"I do," my father says, his voice surprisingly steady. "Edgar MacLeod, King of?—"
"Former king," Lachlan interrupts, his deep voice silencing the hall. "Let us not confuse the matter."
My father's jaw tightens, but he says nothing. What can he say? The sword at Lachlan's hip is still stained with the blood of our soldiers.
The priest begins the ceremony, his words washing over me without meaning. I focus instead on Lachlan's hand holding mine, on the calluses I can feel against my skin. Warrior's hands. Killer's hands. Hands that will soon touch me in ways I've never been touched before.
Fear crawls up my throat like bile.
"Do you, Lachlan Drummond, King of the Northern Territories, take this woman to be your wife, to rule beside you as queen, to bear your children and uphold your honor until death separates you?"
"I do." No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty, as if he's claiming something that has always been his.
"And do you, Fiona MacLeod, Princess of the Eastern Shores, take this man to be your husband, to serve him as queen, to bear his children and uphold his honor until death separates you?"
I'm silent. The hall holds its breath.
Lachlan's hand tightens on mine, not painful, but a warning.
"Princess?" the priest prompts, fear making his voice quaver.
I look up at Lachlan, meeting those blue eyes directly for the first time. "And if I say no?"
A muscle in his jaw ticks. "You won't."
"Answer the question. What happens if I refuse?"
His voice drops, meant for my ears alone. "Then your father dies before the sun sets. Your ladies-in-waiting become playthings for my men. And you still become my wife, only with more blood on your hands than necessary."
I believe him. God help me, I believe every word.
"I do," I whisper, the words like ash in my mouth.
"Louder," he commands. "Let them all hear you choose me."
I want to hate him for this public humiliation. I do hate him. But underneath the hatred is a grudging respect for his cunning. He knows exactly what he's doing—forcing me to appear willing in front of witnesses, making sure no one can later claim I was taken entirely against my will.
"I do," I say again, loud enough to carry to the back of the hall.
The priest rushes through the rest of the ceremony, clearly eager to be done with this farce. When he instructs Lachlan to seal our vows with a kiss, I brace myself for invasion, for possession.
Instead, Lachlan's mouth is almost gentle against mine, a brief press of lips that's gone before I can react. But his eyes when he pulls back are anything but gentle—they burn with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
"Mine," he murmurs, too quiet for others to hear.
