This was not how Isabeau had imagined her wedding, and with Michael by her side, she wouldn’t change it for the world. Before him, she had thought it would be a grand affair on Clan Grant lands, with the entirety of Clan Grant and Clan Campbell present, followed by an opulent feast—a wedding she would have spent miserable, surrounded by enemies.
But now, she was surrounded by family. Even hurried as the wedding was, Isabeau wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Rummaging through the chest in the keep with the help of the servants, Isabeau managed to find an old dress, undoubtedly belonging to one of the women in her bloodline.
Perhaps even me maither…
It sounded likely, pristine as it was, its blue color still vibrant, untouched by time and sun. When Isabeau pulled it on after a hasty bath, the pearls along the neckline glittered in the looking-glass, and she traced her fingers over them with an almost reverent breath. Her dark hair was pulled back to show off the jewels, pinned with delicate hair pins by Maisie’s steady hand.
She would have never guessed such an artefact would survive in the keep. Her father had been notorious for throwing all things away, for preserving only what interested him and what would make him appear wealthy and powerful to visitors. Isabeau couldn’t help but think it was always meant to find her, to be worn at that very moment, a family heirloom unknowingly passed down to her.
Behind her, Alyson looked at Isabeau’s reflection in the looking-glass, and though she wasn’t quite smiling, Isabeau could see the softness around her eyes, the way she seemed to have calmed, even a little. She had made sure Alyson had been bathed, warmed, fed and given adequate clothing. She had given her and her brothers rooms near her own, the nicest guest chambers in the keep. But she knew it would take a long time before she felt safe and cheerful again.
“Ye look very bonnie, Isabeau,” she said. “Are ye… are ye happy?”
Isabeau turned to face her, nodding. “O’ course I am.”
“It’s all happenin’ so fast,” said Alyson. “Will there even be a feast?”
“The servants are workin’ on it,” Isabeau assured her. The head housekeeper, Mrs. McKinsey, was nothing if not an industrious woman, and Isabeau had no doubt she would manage to come up with something. It would have to be small, of course, and modest, in an acknowledgment of all those they had just lost, but it would still be a celebration. “An’ besides, I dinnae care about that. We could have nay feast fer all I care.”
All that matters is that I wed Michael.
“Come,” she told Alyson, offering her hand. Alyson took it, letting Isabeau lift her from the bed, and the two of them walked out of her chambers and down the hallway, down the stairs and out through the back of the keep. There was another way for them to reach the chapel at the very edges of the castle—through the front courtyard, but the last thing Isabeau wanted was for Alyson to lay eyes on the entrance to the dungeons.
The more protected she was from it all, the faster she would heal.
Alyson let out a soft chuckle as Isabeau rushed her through the corridors and that sound was enough for Isabeau to regain her good spirits.
If she can still laugh, then she is stronger than we think.
The two of them headed to the chapel together—a small, squat stone building that faced the lake. There, Michael already waited with his brothers and the priest, who had come even before the break of dawn from the village, fetched by Tòrr himself to perform the ceremony. But even as the others circled her vision, Isabeau’s gaze was drawn only on Michael.
The clothes he wore were not fine; there had been no time for that. He wore one of his usual, plain tunics, the soft cream colorcontrasting with his tanned skin. He bore no jewels—only a pin she had never seen him wear before. It took her a few moments to recognize the design as the MacDonald crest; a hand bearing a cross crosslet fitchy over a crown.
It was pinned over his heart, like a reminder that no matter which clan he led, he would always be a MacDonald.
But despite the lack of finery, Michael wore his dark hair tied at the nape with a short length of leather, his curls tamed, as if he had put effort into each ringlet. Isabeau could hardly take her eyes off him—off his strong, angular profile, the hazel eyes that never once left her face as she approached.
And when she finally reached him, he took her hand and pulled her close to whisper in her ear “Ye’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever seen.”
Isabeau’s cheeks heated under the praise. She had wondered if Michael would like the dress, if he would be surprised to see her like this when she usually favored simple dresses, and his reaction had not disappointed.
The only people in the chapel were the two of them, the priest, Tòrr, Daemon, and Alyson. They didn’t even have time to delay the wedding long enough for the rest of Michael’s family to make it to Castle Inveraray—his other sisters, Catherine and Sofia, about whom Isabeau had only just learned. But Michael had assured her she would meet them soon, too.
Once everything had settled and the war was behind them, Isabeau would finally get to visit Clan MacDonald and get to know her new family.
But for now, all that mattered was Michael.
“Today, ye witness the joinin’ o’ two hearts an’ two clans,” said the priest as he held out his hand. Tòrr was quick to drape two lengths of rope over the priest’s fingers, and Isabeau instantly recognized it as part of a banner than hung in the great hall. She had to stifle a laugh at that—Tòrr, apparently ever-resourceful, had refused to let the ceremony take place with a simple rope and had scoured the keep for this—a thin braid of golden thread, the perfect size to bind their hands together.
With methodical movements, the priest bound their hands, lacing the rope around them.
“Now ye are bound with a bond that is nae meant tae break,” said the priest, placing his own hand over their joined ones. “May ye grow in wisdom an’ in love. May yer marriage be as strong as this cord. An’ may yer bond last in this life an’ beyond.”
The moment the priest stepped back, Michael used the rope around their hands to pull Isabeau closer and press their lips together into a kiss. It was dizzying, the taste of wine sweet on his tongue, and Daemon erupted in cheers behind them as Tòrr gave a soft snort of amusement.
When they parted, the two brothers stepped forward, eager to congratulate them.
