Surrounded by women who would do anything for her, Emma felt more ready to walk down the aisle with each passing second. In an hour, she would become Lady MacLellan.
Something about the title made her breath hitch.
9
Logan did not realize he was tapping his fingers against his thigh until David leaned in close enough that only he could hear his voice.
“Are ye nervous, me Laird?”
The chapel’s courtyard had been dressed with banners and torches, though the sun still held the sky. Clan colors hung against the stone walls, and the benches were filled to the brim with villagers. A low hum of voices carried through the air like wind before a sail caught.
“Why would I be nervous about me own wedding?” Logan scoffed, not lowering his voice.
David’s mouth twitched. “It is fine to be nervous. Especially when one is marrying an Englishwoman.”
Logan shot him a look. “I amnaenervous.”
“Then stop tapping yer fingers, me Laird,” David said mildly. “Ye are giving the crowd a sight.”
Logan looked down, and his hand stilled immediately. He tucked it behind his back, jaw tightening. The weight of the people’s stares pressed on him fromeverydirection.
This was not just any ceremony. It was proof. Proof that the Laird had decided to settle down. Proof that the Lairdcouldsettle down. That the MacLellan line would not end with him.
He had faced storms that split masts and men. He had stood with blood on his hands and known he would live because he chose it. He had survived where lesser men broke. Why then did standing here make something shift under his ribs in a way he did not understand?
He could not answer the question because at that exact moment, the doors opened, thecreakcutting clean through his thoughts.
Emma stepped into the light, flanked by a woman he hardly recognized and Isobel.
The air left his lungs.
Her gown caught the afternoon sun and answered it. It was blue, deep and vivid, with laces edging the bodice and embroidery tracing the skirt in fine patterns that moved when she did.
The fabric fell around her like it had chosen her shape and not the other way round. The curls on her head slipped from where they had been pinned, soft against her temples. Her cheeks held an almost natural flush, and a gentle smile rested on her mouth.
Logan forgot the crowd.
He forgot David, who was standing just a few feet behind him.
He forgot the torches and banners and the judgment that had weighed so heavily moments ago. His chest tightened in a way no blade had ever managed. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was made for this exact moment.
All of a sudden, he became aware of the clan watching her. He could tell they were measuring and weighing the Englishwoman who would carry their name.
He straightened instinctively, shoulders broad, expression set. No one would doubt his choice or question whether she stood there by his will; that much was clear.
As she drew closer, their eyes locked.
The forest flashed before him without warning, vivid and sharp. He could still feel the cold press of his dagger and the hitch in her breath.
She stopped before him, close enough that he could see the faintest tremor in her lashes. He leaned in slightly, just enough so that only she could hear.
“Ye are beautiful.”
The words left him before he could dress them as some kind of tactic. It was the most honest thing he could have said to her at that moment.
Her lips curved. “Remember that when you are at sea with only men for company.”
A smirk tugged at his mouth.
