“Up with ye,” she ordered the maids. “Green on the tables. White at the arch. And where is the bairn’s wreath?”
Stella had it. She was gnawing on the twig ring with dedication and a soft hum. The nurse tried to barter a wooden toy, but Stella refused, proud of her new meal.
Emma’s breath caught. “Maybe this is a sign,” she told her sister. “Maybe I am cursed to ruin everything.”
Ava slipped behind the cradle, plucked the wreath from tiny teeth, and wiped it on her skirt. “Or maybe it is a Highland wedding. Ye ken how these go. We clatter, we squabble, and then we dance.”
Emma plastered on a smile that did not hold. She tried to distract herself by tying a ribbon and straightening a cloth. She even counted breaths, but it didn’t work.
She was right. Wedding days were just eternally cursed for her. Maybe they should just begin the marriage without the wedding anyway.
Guests began to file through the gates, their cloaks shaking free of road dust. Laughter rose and fell. She looked for one face and did not find it.
The third time she crossed the hall, Duncan caught her sleeve. His voice dropped. “We cannae find him.”
The floor seemed to shift. “Nae again.”
“He isnae in his chamber,” Duncan added. “Nae in the courtyard, nae in the chapel.”
Emma’s hands started to shake. “He said he was ready.”
“He is a man,” Ava said gently. “Sometimes they are born ready, and sometimes they are born foolish. We will check the stables.”
Emma moved faster than her sister could keep up. The courtyard was too bright. Every laugh sounded like a mistake. She cut behind the byre, her breath short.
“Emma!”
She turned. Jack emerged from the trees, mud plastered up his shins, a scratch along his cheek, a fistful of wild lilies in his hand. He was breathing hard, like a man who had fought a bear in the mountains and won by a mile.
“Where have ye been?” she asked, trying desperately to ignore the state of his shirt.
“The florist was useless,” he replied. “Ye deserved lilies, so I went to find them.”
“In the woods, on the morning of our wedding?”
“Aye,” he said, guilty as any boy with a stolen pie. He offered the bent bouquet. “For ye.”
Relief hit her so fast that it felt like anger. She laughed instead, the sound clear and loud.
“Ye daft man.” She tugged him down by the collar.
He kissed her forehead, still out of breath. “Chaos or nay chaos,” he said, “I am ready if ye are.”
“That depends.” She took the lilies. “Are ye done climbing cliffs for flowers?”
“For today,” he said. “Tomorrow, I might climb another.”
“Bring better boots.” She gave him a small smile that felt like sunshine.
She returned to the hall and let the seamstress apply the final tweaks to her wedding dress. The seamstress tugged and pinned until the gown sat where it should. Ava, on the other hand, pressed the sleeves and stepped back with a satisfied nod.
“There. Ye finally look like a bride, nae a lost cousin.”
Emma touched the skirt. It felt right at last. “Thank ye.”
Catriona bustled up with a string of pearls. “Stand straight, lass. I want to see pride on that spine.”
“I have plenty,” Emma declared. “I am marrying yer son, after all.”
