Page 16 of A Bride for the Kilted Beast

Diarmaid stood up, feeling his chest swell with pride to see the cup at his own wedding, something he had never before imagined. The Kincaid quaich was fashioned from finely wrought silver brought over from Ireland, and it had been in the family for three centuries at least.

Now, it would bind the Kincaid’s and the McIrvings in amity forever, even though, because of the speedy nature of the nuptials, no McIrvings were present to partake in the time-honored drinking ceremony.

He took Lillie’s hand and gently urged her to her feet, taking up the quaich and offering it to her with a smile.

“Tae love and friendship between me and the new Lady Kincaid and Clan Kincaid and Clan McIrving!” he declared.

Lillie shook her head. “I cannae drink tae that,” she said coldly.

“Drink,” he hissed under his breath. “Dinnae cause a scene.”

“I cannae drink it,” she insisted. “As I’ve told ye a hundred times, I’m a MacDonald, nae a McIrving. ’T’will bring bad luck.”

Diarmaid became supremely conscious of the expectant eyes watching them, waiting for the bride to drink from the quaich.

“Then pretend tae drink,” he growled, doing his best to maintain the smile of a happy bridegroom. “Or it’ll be the worse fer ye.”

The threat worked, for she at last sipped—or pretended to sip, he did not care which—at the lover’s cup he was offering her. Then, with forced joviality, he himself drank deeply of the whisky, as if to make up for her shortcomings. The quaiche was then passed around the guests, who all took their turn to drink and toast the union of man and wife and the two clans.

“Me love, I think it’s time I introduced ye tae everyone,” Diarmaid announced, looking over to the beaming elderly couple sitting at Lillie’s right. “Next tae ye is Andrew Latham, our longest serving and most trusted councilor, and his wife Rosemary.”

“We’re honored tae meet ye, melady,” Andrew said with a respectful bow of his graying head. “We never thought we’d see this day, and especially nae so unexpectedly!” he joked, shooting Diarmaid a mischievous glance. Diarmaid laughed. The matronly Rosemary leaned over, raising her goblet of wine in an impromptu toast as she addressed Lillie directly with a cheery smile.

“Aye, tae yer good health, melady, and many blessings on yer union. May ye have many strong bairns. We’re so glad to welcome ye to the castle. If ye dinnae mind me sayin’ so, ye make a lovely bride,” the older woman said.

“Thank ye, but ’t’was naething tae dae with me,” Lillie suddenly blurted out. The Lathams looked as surprised as Diarmaid felt. He forced a laugh.

“She means she appreciates the efforts of the women who helped her tae get ready,” he improvised, sending Lillie a warning message with his eyes. “Am I right, bonny lass?”

“Aye,” Lillie replied weakly as he squeezed her hand tightly. But then he felt her fingernails digging hard into his palm like talons. The tiny, pinching pain was negligible on his hardened palms, so he ignored it.

But then, smiling sweetly at him, she piped up, “Husband, ye dinnae ken yer own strength. Can ye nae squeeze me poor hand so hard? Ye’re like tae break me bones at that rate.”

That elicited general laughter from the company, and Diarmaid felt his cheeks flush as he was reluctantly forced to relax his grip on her hand slightly while maintaining a good-humored expression.

“Och, she’s a feisty one, m’laird,” declared Dennis Logan, one of his sergeants, laughing and drawing mirthful agreement all round.

“Of course, dearest. I apologize,” Diarmaid told Lillie with false concern. Inside, his blood was beginning boil.

“Och, ’t’is nae yer fault ye were born such a great lummox, with hands the size of shovels,” she murmured with equally fake affection.

At that precise moment, Ciarán succumbed to a violent paroxysm of coughing, ale spurting from his nose and mouth. “Excuse me,” he choked out after being slapped hard several times on his back and had recovered enough to speak. “Something went down the wrong way.”

Though he was grateful for the distraction, for all eyes had instantly flown to Ciarán, Diarmaid regarded his brother with suspicion. He noticed the way Ciarán’s shoulders were shaking and how he hid his face with his hand when he excused himself to go and clean up.

Plastering on another false smile, Diarmaid returned his attention to his wife, who had now sat down again. He followed suit.

“I suppose ye think that was funny,” he whispered, leaning across to her, their faces inches apart. She smiled winsomely back at him. Anyone looking at them would have assumed they were whispering sweet nothings to one another, but only he could see that her eyes resembled chips of blue ice.

“Aye, I did. Fer ye looked so pleased with yersel’, I thought ye needed takin’ down a peg or two,” she said smugly.

“Keep it down, will ye? Ye’re embarrassing me in front o’ me friends,” he hissed, fighting to keep his smile in place.

“That was the idea.”

It was unfortunate for Diarmaid that Rosemary Latham, clearly trying to make another attempt to win over the bride, chose that moment to say, “’T’is a great shame that none of yer kin could attend, melady. Was it too far for them to travel here in time fer the wedding?”

Before he could do anything to stop her, Lillie turned to the woman and replied, “Nay, they couldnae be here because they dinnae ken⁠—”