“Arran, I dinnae ken what to do. I mean, I dinnae have a dress, and there is nay time to put together a bridal box. Or a dowry. Is there a priest? I’m assuming we have to get married before Blackwell gets here. Do we have enough time?”
The questions kept coming, and Arran just smiled and winked at her.
Skye paused, wondering if he’d influenced Fionn’s upbringing.
“Arran—”
Arran raised his hand, stopping her. He sent for someone named Astrid and then told one of the servant girls to fetch Nellie as well.
Soon, a short, plump woman emerged from the kitchen door. She had very curly red hair that had escaped her kerchief and shrewd brown eyes. Flour or millet dusted her apron—obviously, she was the cook.
“Astrid, this is going to be a surprise, and I daenae want to alarm ye. But ken before I say this that I have the utmost confidence in yer abilities.” Arran paused to let his compliment sink in. “Tomorrow, I will be wed.”
Astrid’s sharp intake of breath was heard throughout the hall. “And I’m guessin’ ye want a wedding feast? And at such short notice?”
Arran took a step back, letting her rant.
“How many guests? What do ye want on the menu? I’m nae a miracle worker, ye ken. The food isnae going to multiply like loaves and fish!”
Skye wondered if Arran would punish the woman. At Castle MacKeith, the consequences of speaking to the Laird in that tone would have been very harsh.
“Astrid, I ken for a fact that ye do indeed make miracles in that kitchen, but I daenae expect a miracle. There will be nay guests except for Magnus and Fionn, and I daenae expect any special fare. But is it possible to make a cake?”
“Arran, that is really nae necessary.” Skye turned to the cook. “Please, Astrid, daenae go through any trouble for this. There’s just nae enough time.”
Astrid looked at Arran and then at Skye. “I’ll see what I can do, but I cannae promise miracles, me Laird.” She turned to leavethe hall, but then stopped at the door. “And Arran,” she called back, “I like her!”
“Well, there ye have it.” Arran grinned. “Ye have the cook’s approval. What more do ye need?”
“She’s quite, uh, feisty,” Skye remarked.
“Astrid practically raised me when me faither was in mourning and sometime after he recovered. Aye, she is feisty, but her value extends far beyond her cooking skills to me.”
This clan is so odd. Nay one seems afraid…
Nellie entered the room and stood before them, looking like she was about to burst.
“Nellie, I’ve called ye to tell ye that?—”
“Ye’re getting married!” she squealed, jumping with joy and clapping her hands together.
Arran turned to Skye. “As ye see, ye cannae keep a secret here.” He shook his head and then turned back to Nellie. “Aye, we are getting married. The wedding is tomorrow, and Skye needs yer help.”
He’d barely gotten those words out when Nellie grabbed her hand and led her out of the hall. “Now, daenae worry about athing. I ken what we need to do, and we’ll have ye ready for tomorrow in nay time.”
Arran sat in the chair in front of the fireplace, reflecting on how his life had changed in the three days since he’d walked into Braewall. He hadn’t expected to find Helena and Skye, and now he was marrying the woman he’d promised Laird MacKeith he’d return. But that was before he’d made his intentions clear.
Some promises need to be broken.
His thoughts drifted to what marriage with Skye would be like, but soon Magnus joined him in front of the hearth, interrupting his reverie.
“Tell me what yer plans are, Arran.”
“I’m going to marry Skye Pressly, Magnus.”
Magnus sat up straight, opened his mouth to speak, but then paused. After a moment, he nodded his head. “Aye, I see how that could work. It’s yer best chance at getting the lands returned to the MacArthurs. And the lass would be free of that menace.”
“It’s the only way,” Arran murmured.
