Craeg’s pulse quickened. Events were moving swiftly now. After he’d sent Macquarie a missive, agreeing to the match, the chieftain was keen to formalize things with a betrothal ceremony.
Moy Castle’s hall was quieter today. No roaring crowd. No thunder of approval. Just a small gathering of witnesses—Craeg’s mother and Alec, Lena, and a handful of Macquarie clansmen who’d traveled here with their chieftain. Ailean and Greig were absent. They’d already left Mull, traveling to the mainland, to Andrew Murray’s side.
Christ’s rood, he wished he were with them. He belonged in battle. Rank and responsibilities didn’t matter there, and neither did the stain he carried. Macquarie’s use of his full name, which included his father’s, made his mouth sour.
But he wasn’t fighting for Scottish freedom. Instead, he stood before the dais, his left ankle bound beneath his boot. His ribs were still sore, although not as uncomfortable as before. Three days had passed since he’d woken in Hazel’s cottage to the smell of bannocks.
And the spirited herb-wife had lingered in his thoughts ever since.
Inconvenient indeed, for Isla stood at his side, her hands clasped before her.She wore a fine kirtle of deep green, and her golden-brown hair had been carefully braided and wrapped around the crown of her head.
Her gaze remained fixed on the floor.
Craeg’s gut tightened. He tried to imagine those downcast eyes flashing with amusement as Hazel’s had when she’d teased him. He tried to picture this quiet, sheltered lass standing in her cottage with a sheathed knife at her belt, declaring she could look after herself.
He couldn’t. All the same, he hoped Hazel was safe and well. Despite her assurances to the contrary, a woman living alonewasvulnerable.
“I do,” he said.
A grin split Hamish’s face. “Then let it be known that Isla Macquarie is betrothed to Craeg Maclean. The wedding will take place on the twentieth day of September.”
Craeg’s pulse kicked into a canter, even as his chest grew tight.
He had just under two months of freedom left.
His mother stepped forward, embracing him. But when she pulled back, her dark eyes searched his face with shrewd perception. “All is well?”
“Aye,” he replied. What else could he say? He’d agreed to this.
A few yards back, Alec raised his cup in a silent toast, meeting Craeg’s eye for a few moments. Craeg nodded to his stepfather, yet quickly averted his gaze. Alec was even shrewder than his mother. Meanwhile, Lena looked on. Her blue eyes sparkled, just like when he’d been sworn in as chieftain.At her age, the idea of marriage seemed exciting and romantic. She often chattered on about the brave, handsome man she’d one day meet and fall in love with.
Liza’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned to Isla. “I look forward to welcoming ye to Moy as my daughter-by-marriage.”
“Thank ye,” Isla murmured.
Silence fell then. Craeg knew he should say something. It was expected. “The Macleans of Mull are fortunate indeed,” he said, wishing they weren’t so awkward together. His bride-to-be struggled to meet his eye.
Isla glanced up briefly, then away, her throat working.
“I hope—” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I hope I’ll be a good wife to ye.”
The words were spoken earnestly, yet they made something twist in Craeg’s chest. Guilt.
“I’m sure ye will be,” he replied, his voice gentling.
Isla’s fingers trembled as she accepted the cup of wine a servant offered. She took a small sip, then handed it to Craeg. The betrothal cup. He was meant to drink from it, sealing their union.
He lifted it to his lips. The wine was one of his mother’s finest Iberian reds. It should have tasted like celebration.
Instead, it tasted like vinegar.
He thought of another cup. Willow bark powder mixed with water, bitter on his tongue. Hazel’s capable hands offering it to him. The way she’d sat back on her heels and studied him with those startling blue eyes, unafraid to speak her mind.
Why couldn’t he be betrothed to a woman like that?
“To the happy couple,” Hamish boomed, raising his own cup.
Sitting beside Isla at the chieftain’s table, Craeg was painfully aware of the tension between them. Conversation flowed around the betrothed couple—Hamish regaling Alec with hunting stories, Lena giggling at something Cameron Macquarie, the laird’s son, had just said. Laughter echoed off the stone walls.
