This is what I bring to you.
He looked different like this. Not the hunted Highlander. Not the fugitive moving from shadow to shadow.
A man.
AScot.
Beautiful in a way that startled her.
His hair, newly cut, no longer fell wild down his neck. It framed his face instead, sharpening the lines of him.
His gaze met hers and stilled.
Something in his expression shifted, like he’d braced for battle and found himself disarmed instead.
Fiona felt it then.
The fear.
The thrill.
The gravity of what they were about to do—not because they loved each other yet, not because this was a dream—but because it wasreal.
Political.
Protective.
She stood somewhere between fire and softness and realized she didn’t have to choose just one.
Flora cleared her throat softly.
“Are ye ready?”
Harris didn’t look away from Fiona as he spoke.
“Aye.”
The minister stepped forward, the wind tugging at his cloak. He opened his Bible but did not read from it at first.
“We stand here an làthair Dhè,” he said quietly, “before God Almighty and before the land He gave us, to witness the joining of two souls.”
Flora unfolded a length of linen—plain, handwoven, softened by age—and laid it carefully across their joined hands.
Fiona felt the tremor in herself as Harris closed his fingers fully around hers. His palm was warm and calloused, grounding her.
The minister spoke then in Gaelic, his voice low and unhurried, as if the words had been waiting centuries to be spoken again.
“Ann an ainm an Athar, agus a’ Mhic, agus an Spioraid Naoimh,
ceanglaidh mi sibh an-diugh—
chan ann le fòirneart, ach le rùn.”
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,
I bind you today—
not by force, but by will.”
