Page 13 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER FIVE

"Hold still now, me lady, just a wee bit longer," the seamstress murmured around a mouthful of pins as she adjusted the ivory silk bodice. "This gown is a beauty, it is. I fitted this same gown decades ago fer the laird's dear maither, God rest her soul."

Morag stood motionless on the small stool in the solar, trying not to wince as pins pricked through the fabric. The dress was as beautiful as Sheena described it, made of fine silk with delicate embroidery at the sleeves and neckline.

"'Tis such an honor tae be working on the laird's wedding gown," the seamstress continued, her weathered hands deft as she tucked and pinned. "Never thought I'd see the day Laird Armstrong would settle down."

It should have been a normal comment, seeing how cold Colin responded to things, but there was something in her tone that suggested much more.

"Oh? Why is that?" Morag tried to keep her tone casual, but her heart raced as she anticipated the reply.

"Well, I always thought he'd marry Kirsten McKinley," she said, her voice barely audible, as if she was whispering a secret she shouldn’t be telling. "They've kenned each other since they were bairns, and she's been waiting fer him tae ask fer years."

Morag forced herself to remain perfectly still as the seamstress worked around her waist.

"Aye," the old seamstress continued. "Tae be honest, it came as quite a shock when we heard about the arrangement. I’m sure it was fer her as well."

The pins suddenly felt like tiny daggers against Morag's skin. Kirsten McKinley, a woman Colin had grown up with. A woman who loved him.

A woman he probably loves in return.

"Nearly finished, me lady," the seamstress said, oblivious to the turmoil in Morag's chest, even though Morag did not miss the pity that flashed in her eyes. "Just need tae adjust the sleeves and ye'll be ready for tomorrow's ceremony."

"That's... that's fine," Morag managed, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. "Take yer time."

But her mind was anything but fine. She was about to marry a man who was in love with someone else, wearing the wedding dress of his late mother, in a castle full of people who thought she was the wrong bride.

Of course, he'd prefer someone he'd grown up with, someone who understood his clan and his burdens. Not some stranger forced on him through political necessity.

But it doesnae matter, this is an arranged marriage, nothing more. I shouldnae care who he might have preferred.

The rest of the day blurred together—discussions with Cook about the wedding feast (simple fare, given the clan's strained resources), meetings with the steward about gifts for the townspeople (coins were too precious, so they settled on ribbons and small cakes), and endless decisions about flowers, music, and seating arrangements.

Through it all, Morag noticed Colin's complete absence. Where was the groom while his bride planned their wedding? The question nagged at her, especially as she began to truly observe the people around her.

Unlike her father's lands, where faces were generally cheerful and children played freely in the courtyards, Armstrong Castle carried an air of quiet desperation. Servants moved with efficient purpose but little joy. The few clans people she glimpsed looked worn down, their clothes mended more than once, their expressions bearing the weight of long hardship.

"Sheena," she said as they walked through the courtyard late in the afternoon, "the people here seem... subdued. Is it always so?"

Sheena's face grew somber. "It's been a hard few years, me lady. The war with Fraser has cost us dearly—good men lost, crops burned, cattle stolen. Many families have lost their sons, their faithers." She shook her head. "Well, let's just say we've all learned tae make dae with less, even here at the castle."

A chill ran down Morag's spine as understanding dawned. The castle's obvious need for repairs, the simple meals, the servants' careful economy with candles and firewood. Castle Armstrong wasn't just being frugal. This was a clan on the edge of survival.

Which raised a troubling question: if the Armstrongs were so desperate, what had they possibly offered her father in exchange for this marriage alliance? Her dowry was substantial, but Highland marriages were rarely one-sided affairs. Typically, the groom's family provided lands, cattle, or strategic advantages in return.

What did they give up that they could afford tae lose? she wondered. Or what did they promise that they maybe would not be able to deliver?

Armed with these unsettling questions, and a growing need to understand the man she was about to marry, Morag made her way through the castle in search of Colin Armstrong.

The dram burned as it went down, but it wasn't enough to dull the images that kept flashing through Colin's mind. Morag's terrified face as those Fraser bastards dragged her through the woods, the angry rope burns circling her delicate wrists, the way she'd flinched when he first approached her.

He was trying to focus on the papers in front of him when Niven knocked and entered without waiting for permission, a liberty Colin allowed only him.

"Ye look like hell," Niven said, settling into the chair across from Colin's desk without invitation.

"Charming as always." Colin poured him a glass and slid it across the polished wood. "What brings ye here?"

"The same thing that has ye drinking alone when ye should be celebrating yer upcoming nuptials." Niven's shrewd eyes studied Colin with uncomfortable intensity. "Ye're worried about more than just Fraser's next move."