Page 14 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

What was happening to her?

Tucking her hand in his arm, Alexander led her through the rows of cheering well-wishers, politely waving here and there with a stiff smile. Margaret tried to mimic him, relying on her Isobel disguise to guide her while she buried her true self, and all of the new complications that came with it, deep within.

They emerged from the church, and Alexander immediately pulled her to the side and around the corner, pressing her up against the smoothed stone exterior.

“Are you feeling alright, lass?” he asked, resting one of his hands on her forehead. “You were looking awfully pale in there. Of course, now you’re flushed. Should I ask for an apothecary?”

“N-no,” Margaret said, stumbling over the words as she pulled Alexander’s hand away from her face, somehow knowing that that was part of the problem. “I just did not sleep well. I need a moment to myself, if you do not mind.”

The hum of people emerging into the yard was growing, and Alexander straightened, moving away from her ever so slightly. “Aye, take all the time you need. I’ll see if I can find Ann.”

And with that, he rounded back to the front of the church, earning a raucous cheer from the few Mackays and even fewer Gunns that supported this arrangement. Margaret leaned her head back against the stone and took a few deep, calming breaths. If her heart continued to race like this, she would surely die on the spot.

It was only because she was now a wife. Yes, the weight of that change was what was pressing upon her. Nothing more.

“Hey.”

Margaret opened her eyes and looked forward to where Gavin stood a few paces away, his arms crossed in front of him. There was something in his dark eyes that was unsettling, and she found herself suddenly wishing to run back to Thurso so she could hide from him in her father’s office.

“Hey,” she replied, pulling herself away from the walls of the church. But she had overestimated the power of her knees and stumbled forward. Gavin rushed ahead, a single cold hand grabbing her wrist to keep her upright.

He stared at her for a few moments, or perhaps a few minutes, Margaret could hardly tell anymore. But then, from the front of the church, Ann’s voice could be heard. Gavin glanced in that direction before he sighed and dropped her wrist.

“Just remember, you made me a promise,” he said quietly before turning to disappear around the back of the church, leaving her with nothing more than a forming bruise.

“I always heard that brides cried on their wedding day. But, I dare say, this is far more entertaining,” Alexander said, eyeing her with a bit of amusement as she stared forward, stone-faced, one foot held up in the air in preparation of taking another step. Unfortunately, the floor was spinning, so she could hardly put it down just yet.

“Yes, well, you ken that I donna cry and I’ll not tell ye why,” Margaret replied, hearing the heavier accent of a dockworker slip into her voice as her focus was being dedicated elsewhere. She stomped her foot down suddenly, as if she was going to stop the spinning through sheer force. But then, she had the distinct feeling that the floor was rushing up to punish her for it.

“Ach, be careful,” Alexander said, reaching out to steady her. Margaret shivered, noting the heat radiating off of his arm as it encircled her waist. “If you fall, you might ruin that pretty dress.”

Pretty was hardly the word to describe it. It was a beautiful dress, a light green velvet that perfectly matched a shade shared by both Gunn and Mackay tartan. The bodice was an embroidered masterpiece of interwoven flowers and vines, with each flower’s center being studded with white and pink pearls. Halfway between her elbow and wrist, the velvet gave way to a thin and wispy lace. Or, at least, it would have been thin and wispy if there hadn’t been so much of it, for it seemed to fall down her arms in massive white drifts. From the back of her arm, the pieces were so long that they came down to her knees, which had proven to be a source of near constant frustration throughout the night, seeing as she could hardly pick up her goblet without dragging the perfectly white lace through some sort of sauce, stain, or spill. Isobel, who had ordered this dress the very day she had suspected an engagement, was the only person that Margaret knew who would both design and pay for this sort of self-inflicted torture.

“I shouldna tried drinking with Kenna,” Margaret said.

“No, that lass is deceptively capable with her drink,” Alexander said, his hand not moving from her waist as he continued to guide her forward through the hall.

After Ann had found her and helped her settle her raging nerves, the crowd of merrymakers had moved their celebrations to the pavilion behind the house, where a feast and musicians were already prepared. Margaret had found herself seated between her new husband and Kenna Fraser, the latter of which taking it upon herself to continuously top off Margaret’s goblet throughout the feast. For Margaret, who hadn’t had the money to pay for wine in months, the dull heat of the alcohol had been welcomed, as it allowed her an excuse for the flush of her cheeks that was entirely unrelated to the man sitting beside her.

But, where alcohol gives, it also takes away, which Margaret remembered only when a suddenly acidic taste came into her mouth while she was in the middle of the pavilion, listening to some important Highland laird or another going on about the spice trade. She knew she had to get away, and soon, or else she would be sick right there in the center of the pavilion, bringing swift and immediate shame both upon her clan and herself.

When the laird finally paused to take a breath, Margaret said, “Would you mind excusing me for a moment, sir? I have a very important friend I need to discuss something with.”

“Ah, yes,” the laird said, and Margaret had lifted her skirts to run off when he continued, “You ken, twas the deep friendship between my relations and their neighbors that resulted in the trade partnership I was just describing. You see, friendship…”

Margaret felt her eyes bulging from their sockets, shocked at how quickly her exit strategy had failed. This man was a powerful foe. She was about to cut her losses and just run off, hoping that he did not make a scene when she so rudely abandoned their one-sided conversation, when an arm had slipped into hers.

“Please excuse me, Laird Sinclair,” Alexander said. “I must borrow my wife.”

“Oh, of course, Laird Mackay, new love is—”

Margaret didn’t hear the rest, for Alexander had already pulled her away, navigating her through the now cluttered array of tables and benches, and the drunken wedding guests that clustered around them. Even after they had left the security of the pavilion, Alexander kept moving. Finally, when the torchlight was so far off in the distance that it could no longer illuminate them, he stopped.

“Go ahead,” he said, and Margaret immediately wretched.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her chin and looking up to where she thought he stood, wishing she could see how terribly disappointed he was in the darkness.

“Tis nothing. You can blame it on Kenna.”