Page 30 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Niamh nodded mutely. She waited until Catriona had closed the door behind her, then went to the small table that sat against one wall and picked up the letter she’d written to her father the night before.

Dear Faither,

I hope this letter finds ye well, and the clan prosperous.

Me husband-tae-be and I have arrived at his home o’ Castle MacDuff, and in a very short time I shall be wed, tae become Lady Niamh MacDuff. I write this letter tae tell ye o’ our safe arrival, and tae reassure ye that I’ve found a warm welcome here – and unexpected kinfolk, fer I was greeted by nay other than me cousin, Catriona MacLean, who is the healer here.

As I write this letter, I find myself concerned about me upcoming marriage, but more than that, I find meself regretting the way we parted. ‘Tis clear tae me that ye will nae be able tae be here tae give me away, and I fear that is partly my doing, fer scorning yer presence at our departure.

I have had much time tae think, and I find meself sorry that I didnae give ye a proper farewell. I was angry, and felt betrayed, but even so I love ye, and I am sorry that I didnae say goodbye and give ye a final embrace and a kiss before I left home.

I am still angered, and hurt, but nae so much as I was, and I find I miss the comfort o’ yer presence. Likewise, I miss the comfort o’ kenning that I will be able tae continue the traditions I have grown up with. In particular, Samhain is on the horizon, and I am keenly aware that, this year, I am nae at home with ye tae write our annual letter tae send tae Maither.

I am keenly aware that ye have many duties, as laird o’ Clan Cameron, but ‘tis ey hope that ye might be able tae journey tae Castle MacDuff fer Samhain, so we can still write our letter and burn it in the Samhain bonfire as we have done in years past.

Whether I see ye afore Samhain or nae, I send ye me love and wish ye tae ken ye are in me thoughts and prayers.

All me Love,

Niamh Cameron (soon tae be Lady Niamh MacDuff)

She read it through once more, then folded it and sealed it with a bit of wax. A part of her wished that the wedding could be delayed until she could be sure her father received it, but she knew that was impossible.

She opened the door to her room and handed the folded missive to one of the serving girls. “Please see that this is given tae Laird MacDuff’s quickest messenger tae take tae me faither, the Laird Cameron.”

“At once me lady.” The maid bobbed her head and darted off.

“Are ye ready now?” Catriona’s voice was soft. “’Tis almost time.”

“Will ye walk me down the aisle and give me away? Yer the closest kinfolk I have here.” She hadn’t known who she would ask, but it felt right that Catriona should stand for her, given that she’d been beside her since her arrival.

“I would be honored, me lady.”

“Niamh, please.”

“As ye will, Niamh.” Catriona embraced her gently, then looped an arm through hers and led her toward the Great Hall, and her waiting groom.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Stop fussin’.” Ewan’s low-voiced murmur drew Alistair’s attention to where his left hand fidgeted with the torc of rank about his neck. He scowled and forced himself to drop it.

He’d never liked wearing his formal attire. High stockings, low boots – and the boots had to be cleaned, and the leather freshly oiled to shine – then a new kilt, his wide, tooled leather belt, and his lightweight blade. Added to that a new shirt, so white from laundering that it made him think of fresh snowfall. Over that went a decorated vest, then his sash and his torc of rank.

His hair had been trimmed, his hands scrubbed and nails seen to by his manservant, Devlin, and his beard combed, cut and combed again. He now understood fully why Ewan had declared he needed candle-marks to get ready.

He hated being fussed over, and had he not been reminded, several times, by Devlin and Ewan both that his betrothed would be undergoing similar preparations, he would have dismissed them all and said propriety be hanged.

At least his brother had finally declared him ‘presentable’ and permitted him a small bite to eat and a swallow or two of scotch to steady his nerves. Now he stood before the altar, awaiting his bride and trying not to pay too much attention to the watching clan-folk, the muttering, or the bagpipes playing soft aimless tunes in the corner of the large receiving room where they’d chosen to have the ceremony.

He had to admit, the women of the castle had done well in decorating, and the flowers and colors were an elegant blend of harvest season and the colors traditional to a wedding. Candles joined the torches to lend their soft light to the room, and flowers were interspersed with harvest sheaves and tokens of luck and fruitful union.

Had it not been an arranged marriage, and had he not been burdened with his memories of the woman he’d once hoped to wed, he might have appreciated it more. But Constance was no longer among the living, and he no longer even had her ring to remind him of her. What he did have were responsibilities to his clan, and a duty to continue on with his life.

It would have to be enough.

A servant came in and spoke to Ewan. His brother gestured to the musicians, and the music changed to reflect the approach of the bride. Alistair took a deep breath and prepared himself.

A moment later, Niamh appeared, carrying a small bouquet of wildflowers and heather. Alistair sucked in a sharp inhalation at the sight of her, striding slowly up the aisle toward him in her soft blue dress, with the MacLean silver at brow, throat and wrists. Green embroidery on sleeves and bodice brought out the green in her eyes, and her hair tumbled down her back, gleaming like a cascade at sunset, muted fire shining from every strand.