She looked… grown. Feminine.
Undeniably a woman.
“I look ridiculous,” Fiona said automatically.
Flora made a sharp sound. “If that’s ridiculous, then the rest of us are in trouble.”
She reached for the hem and lifted it slightly, angling it toward the light.
“See this?”
Fiona leaned closer.
Threadwork bloomed along the fabric; subtle, only visible when the light caught it just right. Thistles, their spines delicate but unmistakable, and woven between them, heather—small purple blossoms climbing the edge like a promise.
Fiona’s throat tightened.
“Heather,” she murmured.
“Aye,” Flora said. “And thistles. Thought it fitting. This island remembers who we are, even when kings try to forget.”
Fiona traced the stitching with her fingertip. “It’s beautiful.”
Flora’s voice softened, just a fraction. “So are you. Even if ye’re uncomfortable with the idea.”
That landed harder than Fiona expected.
Because shewasuncomfortable.
Not because she felt plain, but because she didn’t.
Flora handed her a simple silver pin. “No mud-stained petticoats,” she said briskly. “Sham wedding or no, we’ll not stand before God lookin’ like we crawled there.”
Fiona huffed a breathless laugh. “You’re terrifying.”
“Aye,” Flora agreed. “That’s why folk listen.”
When the door opened and Fiona stepped into the gray Skye light, the wind tugged gently at her skirts.
And Harris Mackenzie looked up.
He stood apart from the others, shoulders squared, posture unfamiliar in its stillness. Gone was the battered coat, the loosened collar, the look of a man prepared to run.
The tartan caught the light: deep Mackenzie greens and blues, woven into a kilt worn openly, deliberately. Nearly illegal now. Soon to be forbidden altogether.
Her breath caught.
He was making a statement.
Not just to the Crown.
Not just to Skye.
To her.
This is who I am.
This is what I fought for.
