A knock came as I finished adjusting my cuffs. Millie stood in the doorway, already fighting her tears. “Let me look at you.”
I turned so she could inspect me. She crossed the room and straightened my collar, though it needed no straightening.
“Your father wore this kilt the day he married your mother.” Her fingers lingered on the wool. “I pressed it myself that morning.”
Her hands trembled as she smoothed the front of my jacket. “I wondered if I’d ever see you wear it.” She cleared her throat and brushed away a single tear. “They’re beautiful, your two. They shine when they look at you. Did you know that?”
I hadn’t noticed. But Millie had, and if she said they shone, I believed her.
“Go on, then.” She waved me toward the door. “Oliver’s been pacing in the library for twenty minutes.”
I found him in a room I used to consider my private sanctuary, but which now belonged to the three of us equally. He turned from the window when he heard me, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. His charcoal suit was impeccable, and his hair looked soft enough that I wanted to run my fingers through it. His gaze moved over the kilt, the jacket, the full Highland regalia, and his composure fell apart.
“Sir. You look?—”
“Come here.”
He crossed to me. His hands reached for my lapels, but stopped short, waiting for permission.
I took his face in my hands and kissed him hard. I kissed him like he was mine, because he was.
When I released him, his chest heaved.
“I’m going to marry you today,” I said. “Both of you. And tonight, after the reception, I’m taking you both to the Thistle.”
He swallowed hard. “The collaring.”
“Yes.” I traced my thumb along his jaw. “You’ll kneel for me in front of witnesses. You’ll wear my collar for the rest of your life. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want.” He said it without hesitating.
I kissed him again, softer this time. “Go on now. I’ll see you at the altar.”
The great hallhad been transformed. Winter roses and heather lined the aisle, candles burned in silver holders along the walls, and the massive fireplace had been lit before dawn and fed through the morning until the whole room glowed. I stood at the front with the officiant—a friend from Edinburgh, a judge who’d agreed to preside over the ceremony.
The first part, between Ophelia and me, would be legally binding. She would become my viscountess, and our children would be heirs not only to Greymarch, but to the entirety of the family’s holdings. That didn’t mean Oliver would be left out. My attorney had drafted a document, giving him equal ownership of unentailed assets, and the rights to reside on any of the estate’s properties for the rest of his life.
Oliver sat in the front row, beside Callen, Gus, and Rafe. His hands were folded, and his eyes were on me.
When the harpist and violinist began to play Pachelbel’s “Canon in D,” I motioned for him to stand beside me.
Then the doors opened, and Ophelia appeared on the threshold on her father’s arm.
Her gown was made of ivory silk, and her dark hair was swept up while loose curls framed her face. Her father’s eyes were bright, and his smile broad. When they reached me, he placed her hand in mine, then held my gaze long enough to make his meaning clear before stepping away.
After she handed her bouquet of white roses and thistles to her mother, I took her hands. They were cold from nerves, and I rubbed my thumbs across her knuckles until the tension eased.
“Kiernan,” she said, low enough that only I could hear. “I love you.”
“I love you,” I said. “Both of you. More than I knew I was capable of.”
The officiant led the ceremony in a way that weaved legalities with the parts we’d added.
We exchanged vows we’d written—about protection and partnership, trust freely given, and dominance earned, a life that belonged to no template but our own.
When it came time for the rings, I produced two bands of platinum, each engraved on the inside—Ours to keep.
I slid the first onto Ophelia’s finger. I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t cry. She was too stubborn to break in front of witnesses.
