Page 17 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

"Colin Armstrong," Father Ferguson intoned, "dae ye take this woman as yer wife, tae share yer name, yer lands, and yer protection? Dae ye swear by the blood of yer clan and the honor of yer ancestors tae cherish and defend her until death claims ye both?"

"I dae so swear," Colin replied, his voice clear and formal, carrying no more warmth than if he were reciting patrol schedules.

"Morag MacDuff, dae ye take this man as yer husband, tae share his burdens and his joys? Dae ye swear by the blood of yer clan and the honor of yer ancestors tae stand by his side until death claims ye both?"

"I dae so swear," Morag whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of her own heartbeat.

"Then let the binding be sealed with the ancient rites." Father Ferguson lifted a length of cloth. "Join hands now, and let us bring this union."

Colin took her hand, his touch impersonal and businesslike, as if he were helping her mount a horse rather than binding himself to her for life. His fingers were warm but rigid as Father Ferguson wound the soft wool around their joined hands.

"Gus am bris an là agus an teich na sgàilean," the priest continued in Gaelic. "Until the day breaks and the shadows flee away. What God has joined, let no man put asunder. What the clan has witnessed, let no enemy tear apart. Ye are one flesh, one name, one destiny."

The priest's voice rose as he spoke the final blessing.

"May the Highland winds carry yer happiness and may the mountains themselves guard yer union." As tradition demanded, Colin's sword was laid before them on the chapel floor. "Step over the blade together," Father Ferguson instructed, "leavin’ yer old lives behind and entering yer new one as man and wife."

They stepped over the sword in unison, and for a brief moment, Morag's heart fluttered with the symbolism of it—crossing into their new life together. She turned to Colin, hoping to see some echo of that significance in his face, only to find his expression neutral as carved stone. The flutter died instantly.

Old Mairi Campbell stepped forward with a piece of oatcake blessed by the clan mothers. "Share this bread," she said gently, "that ye may never ken hunger while ye're together."

Colin took a small piece and offered it to Morag, their fingers brushing briefly as she accepted it. The oatcake was sweet with honey, but it tasted like ash in her mouth.

A cheer went up from the assembled clan, but it felt forced, uncertain. Morag felt the weight of their stares as Colin unwound the plaid from their hands with mechanical efficiency. When tradition demanded he kiss his bride, his lips barely brushed hers. It was a cold formality that left her feeling more alone than if he hadn't touched her at all.

"Let it be known," Father Ferguson announced to the congregation, "that Laird MacDuff has sent wedding gifts tae honor this union as his daughter becomes an Armstrong this day!"

Several ornate chests were opened to reveal fine weapons, bolts of rich fabric, and bags of silver coins—a generous offering that earned appreciative murmurs from the Armstrong clan members. The sight of them made her chest tight. It reminded her that she was as much a political transaction as the gifts themselves.

As the bagpiper struck up a celebratory tune and the congregation began to file out toward the great hall, Morag's eyes met Colin's. For just a moment, she saw his features soften into what seemed like affection. Her heart began to race and she smiled at him. Instead of the response she expected, the warmth she had seen disappeared so quickly she might have imagined it, replaced once again by the impenetrable mask of the Iron Laird.

"Me lady," he said quietly, offering his arm with the same courtesy he might show any guest. "Shall we proceed tae the celebration?"

Lady Armstrong. That’s who I am now. But I’m still a stranger tae me own husband. This is how it will be, Last night was an aberration. This coldness is who he truly is.

In the great hall, the wedding feast spread before them on long wooden tables. There was roasted meat, fresh bread, and enough ale for the day’s cheer. But the conversations around them were muted, voices carefully lowered as if the guests feared speaking too loudly might disturb something fragile.

"Tae the bride and groom!" Jamie called out, raising his cup with forced cheer.

"Aye, tae our laird and his lovely bride!" echoed Duncan MacLeod. His eyes darted nervously between the newlyweds.

Colin lifted his cup in acknowledgment, even managed what might pass for a smile. "Me thanks," he said formally, then immediately turned to discuss patrol schedules with the man on his other side.

Morag had been raising her cup toward her new husband, but when he turned from her, she froze with her own cup halfway to her lips. The chair next to hers might as well have been empty for all the notice Colin took of her presence.

"Me lady," Sheena approached with a plate of honeyed cakes. "Cook made these especially fer ye."

"How thoughtful," Morag replied, forcing brightness to her voice. "Please thank her fer me."

She took a small bite, chewed mechanically, and tried not to notice how Colin continued his conversation about border defenses as if she weren't there.

"The music is lovely," she said to him during a brief lull, gesturing toward the small group of musicians in the corner.

"Aye," Colin replied without looking at her, his attention already shifting to Niven, who was approaching with some urgent message.

"Dae ye want tae dance?"

Colin continued his conversation. Either he hadn't heard her, or he'd chosen to ignore her request.