A sennight later
I stood in the stone chapel, my heart fluttering as the scent of heather garlands and beeswax candles filled my lungs. Sunlight streamed through the narrow windows, casting golden beams across the worn flagstones at my feet. The cream-colored gown I wore, with its delicate embroidered thistles trailing down the bodice, rustled softly as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Never in all my careful planning had I imagined myself here, about to wed a man I loved with all my heart. My life had been forever altered by whispers from beyond the grave.
The whispers came again now, a gentle chorus that no longer frightened me but instead felt like a comforting presence at my back. I closed my eyes briefly, allowing the voices to wash over me. Some spoke words I couldn’t quite catch; others simply hummed with approval.
“Are ye nervous?” Guinn whispered beside me, her small hand slipping into mine. She looked so beautiful in her green gown.
I squeezed her fingers gently. “Aye, a wee bit,” I admitted. “But ’tis a good kind of nervous.”
Bess, standing on my other side, looked up at me with solemn eyes. “Da says his heart might burst from happiness.”
My throat tightened at her words. These lasses, who had first welcomed me when their da could not, had become as dear to me as if they were my own flesh and blood. I bent down, mindful of my gown, and pressed a kiss to Bess’s forehead. “I feel mine could burst as well,” I whispered.
The doors at the back of the chapel creaked open, and I straightened, my breath catching in my chest. Munro stood framed in the doorway, the sun behind him casting his tall figure in dramatic silhouette. He wore his finest plaid, draped over one shoulder and secured with a silver brooch bearing the Ross crest. His dark hair still dripped from a swim in the loch and curled around his neck. He filled the space and commanded attention.
Our gazes locked across the chapel, and the rest of the world seemed to fade away. The voices of the dead receded to a gentle murmur as Munro began his walk toward me, his steps measured and deliberate. Emotions played across his face—pride, wonder, and a vulnerability that few ever saw beneath his warrior’s exterior. My heart swelled with love so fierce it nearly stole my breath.
“Murieall,” he said, my name a caress on his lips as he reached us.
I placed my hand in his, gathering comfort from the strength in his fingers as they closed around mine.
“Ye take my breath, lass,” he said, as the priest stepped forward.
Father William cleared his throat and began. “Who stands as witness for Murieall Buchannan?”
“We do, Father,” my parents and Bruce said from the right of me.
I glanced at them and smiled, my heart swelling with happiness again to see them here for the wedding, so clearly glad for me.
“And who stands for the—”
“James does, Father,” Munro interrupted. “Now get on with it. I want to make the lass mine now.”
Laughter filled the chapel, and I grinned at Muro’s impatience. I felt the same way.
Father William scowled at Munro but immediately launched into the ceremony. The traditional words washed over me as Munro and I stood facing each other, hands joined, and suddenly Lisette’s voice was in my head.
Be happy, sister. Live without fear.
I smiled at her words and then blinked at the sudden pressure on my hands. I looked at Munro and found him grinning at me. “’Tis yer turn to say the words, lass.”
I bit my lip that I’d missed his words while listening to Lisette, but at Munro’s chuckle, I was certain he knew and understood.
My heart pounded as my eyes held his. “I give to ye my vow, my body, my life. I will stand beside ye in joy and sorrow. In sickness and in health until death parts us,” I said.
The silver quaich was brought forth, filled with sweet mead. Munro took it first, raising it to his lips before passing it to me. I sipped from the same side, the ancient ritual sealing our bond. As I handed the quaich back to Father William, Isabella whispered near my ear.
Love him as I did. Heal him as I could nae. Be the mama my lasses need.
“I will,” I said. The priest frowned at me, and Munro cocked his eyebrows. “Isabella,” I whispered and tapped my ear.
Munro’s smile was that of a man who was at peace with his loss now, and a great sense of peace settled over me as well.
Father William raised his hands and said, “Ye are as one now, joined together in body, vow, and spirit.”
Munro’s hands cupped my face with exquisite tenderness, and then his lips claimed mine in a kiss that spoke of promise, of passion, of a future I had never dared imagine for myself. The chapel erupted in cheers and applause, but I heard only the beating of my heart and Munro’s whispered, “Mo chridhe,” against my lips.
I returned his kiss with the fiery passion blazing through me and whispered back, “My heart.”
