I looked into Cian’s eyes, then leaned over to kiss him. “Not the smartest, but it’s right up there.”
EPILOGUE
Iwas hardly dressed for a ski lift, but I wasn't going to sacrifice the perfection of the day by being practical. My white gown was quilted. I had two thick pairs of socks to keep my toes from freezing off in the perfect pair of boots that were whiter than the snowdrifts. I did put spikes on the bottoms, so I didn’t end up on my ass at my own wedding.
Not a wedding, ahandfasting.
A heavy but beautiful white cape of faux fur kept my shoulders warm, and a matching muff did the same for my thinly-gloved hands.
Sitting beside me, absolutely terrified, Cian clutched the front of the seat and the iron armrest, praying in Gaelic. He looked warmer than I was in his full Scottish regalia, as he called it. A black suitcoat actually big enough to accommodate his muscular body, a shirt and vest, a kilt of the MacInnis tartan, complete with sash, and some of those thick, hand-knit stockings. His knees were visible, which neither of us minded.
Teasing him hadn’t helped him relax, but I couldn’t help one last try.
“Careful, my love. This is no time to be coloring the snow. There are people down there.”
Those people whistled and waved, my gown giving away what we intended to do.
In the chair behind us sat John MacEachern, dressed like Cian but his tartan was black and grey with some red and green. He’d offered to take my bouquet so I could lift my skirt with both hands when we stepped forward to catch our chair. Now he looked like a jilted lover, sitting alone, holding my flowers between his knees.
When he saw that I had turned in my seat, he grinned and waved, but I suspected he was just as nervous as Cian was, and I figured I’d have to call for a snowcat to get them off the mountain when we were done.
The trailhead sat just off a narrow road, half-plowed, the snowbank pushed high on either side. No lodge. No crowd. Just a small wooden sign and a strip of packed snow leading into the trees.
I hadn’t anticipated the steady breeze on the top of the mountain, but it was nothing like the arctic stuff that had blown around Balnacoorie for two days. And we’d be back at the ski lodge while the sun was still doing its job.
The path was already broken in. Narrow. Someone had been through earlier on skis or snowshoes, leaving a firm center line we could follow without sinking.
“Spiked shoes,” John said behind us. “I can make these.”
The clearing was more beautiful than I’d hoped. Pine and fir, branches heavy, bent low, bowing to us as we stepped inside the sanctum crated by nature. By the time we stopped and picked our places, three inches of snow clung to my hem in a uniform line like magic. Ice crystals winked up at me and I felt like Cinderella, whose gown might melt if she stayed out too long.
I didn’t picture one fairy god mother hiding in the trees, looking on. I pictured two.
Cian and I stood facing each other. John stood beside us and the three of us held hands while John offered a sweet but short prayer inviting the heavens to witness our commitment to each other. He took my bouquet from me, then he gave Cian a nod.
Cian took my right hand in his right hand. He cleared his throat, swallowed, then looked into my eyes.
“Leis an làimh seo, bheir mi dhut mo chridhe, mo chorp, agus m’anam sìorraidh.”
He reached for my other hand and pressed it against his broad chest, then inhaled deeply.
“Leis an anail seo, bheir mi dhut mo bheatha—gach nì a th’ annam, agus gach nì a bhios mi.”
Next, he removed my hand from his chest and kissed the back of my knuckles.
“Gabhaidh mi an làmh seo, gabhaidh mi an corp seo,
airson gaol a thoirt dha agus a dhìon, agus gun a thrèigsinn gu bràth.
Chan ann ann an teagamh, chan ann ann an dorchadas, chan ann ann an ùine.”
John held out a long strip of the deep green and blue MacInnis tartan. Cian accepted it and wrapped it loosely around our clasped hands like a Celtic knot.
“Fo dhìon Chlann MhicAonghais, tha sinn ceangailte?—
feòil is fuil,
talamh is nèamh,
