The words settled deep in Fiona’s chest, heavy and calm all at once.
The minister continued, returning to Scots.
“This joining is made freely. No king commands it. No sword enforces it. Ye come here of your own choosing.”
His gaze turned to Fiona.
“Fiona Cameron, will ye take this man, Harris Mackenzie, to be your husband?
To share his name and his hearth.
To walk beside him in hardship and in hiding.
To keep faith with him so long as God grants ye breath.”
Fiona lifted her chin.
“Aye,” she said clearly. “I will.”
The minister turned to Harris.
“Harris Mackenzie of Glenoran, will ye take this woman, Fiona Cameron of Achnacharry, to be your wife?
To honor her courage and her counsel.
To shelter her without silencing her.
To keep faith with her so long as God grants ye breath.”
Harris swallowed once.
“Aye,” he said. “I will.”
Flora stepped forward and tied the linen gently around their joined hands.
The minister placed his hand briefly over theirs.
“Far am bi dithis ceangailte mar seo,
bidh iad nan aon.”
“Where two are bound thus,
they become one.”
He nodded, satisfied.
“Then before God, these witnesses and the blessed land that stretches here and beyond us,” he said, “I declare ye man and wife.”
He stepped back.
But Harris did not release her hand.
Instead, he lifted Fiona’s fingers and pressed his mouth to her knuckles.
The wind lifted his plaid and stirred the embroidered heather and thistle at her hem.
Fiona stood there, wife to an outlaw, married in a tongue the Crown was trying to erase.
