Page 29

“Stop yer foolishness,” Alisdair hissed as the pipes came closer. He wanted to throw a warning look at his friend, but his eyes refused to stray from Isla.

Duncan chuckled. “I cannae stop. It has been a while since I saw ye this entranced.”

Alisdair did not dignify that with a response. He could not. Because Duncan was right. So he stayed still as Isla finally reached him, still looking at her as his aunt kissed him softly on the cheek, as Duncan clapped him on the back, as the bagpipes swelled and his people cheered around them.

He reached out and took her hands in his, barely noticing whose fingers tied the tartan around their wrists. It felt as though the two of them had drifted somewhere else entirely, caught inside a ceremony that was both wholly theirs and strangely foreign.

“How are ye feeling, Isla?” he asked.

Isla chuckled, as if suddenly struck by the absurdity of their situation and the impossibility of answering him honestly.

“Same here.”

She looked up, her eyes filled with a question she didn’t voice, before the quaich was pressed into their hands. Alisdair stayed caught in the blue of her eyes as they drank from it in turn, before passing it on to family and friends.

The whisky burned down his throat as he watched a small drop linger on her lower lip. He didn’t even know if he wanted the ceremony to end or to go on forever.

“Break the cake, Alisdair!” Lady Moira exclaimed.

She handed him the oatcake, and he took one step closer to break it over Isla’s head, his hands perfectly steady even as he searched her eyes.

What could she possibly be thinking? She had ridden through treacherous roads and away from a disastrous betrothal just to land in the castle of her family’s mortal enemy. Was she content, at least, if not happy?

And why should he care either way?

The crowd cheered around them, buoyed by the feast to come and perhaps by the quiet reassurance that the MacLeod line would carry on.

Then they were ushered into the kirk for the rest of the ceremony. Alisdair couldn’t even follow the ritual. He could barely focus on anything other than the way her chest rose and fell as she stood beside him.

“Ye may kiss yer bride,” the minister’s voice suddenly rang out.

Alisdair turned to her, and she looked up at him, startled. Of course she was; they had barely spoken to each other, barely exchanged a single word in the past days, and now she was his wife.

He let his gaze linger on the flush in her cheeks and on her lips parting just slightly, just enough to set something alight in him.

He leaned in slowly, and their lips met. The kiss was brief. Chaste. She was warm this close, her lips soft, her scent intoxicating. Then he realized she was not kissing him back, had not moved so much as an inch.

This was, without question, her first kiss.

He pulled back sharply, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, and looked down into her eyes. This woman, this bold, infuriating woman, was now his wife.

Isla thought, absurdly, that her head would roll off her shoulders and into the middle of the Great Hall any moment now. And she was not sure she would even mind. Around her, everything blurred into noise, laughter, and bagpipes.

After the ceremony, everyone gathered in the Great Hall, and she sat in the chair beside the Laird’s at the high table. Folks welcomed her in turns, smiling, teasing, wishing her a long and prosperous life.

And yet many still watched her the whole night through, as if waiting for her to sprout a second head or reach for a dagger, proving their suspicions right. Their scowls only deepened with every passing moment she failed to oblige them.

She turned to look at her husband. For some reason, the ghost of his kiss lingered on her lips, quick and innocent as it was. She had never been kissed before him.

“Ye should eat, child,” Lady Moira urged, drawing her attention. She had prepared a plate for her with meat and pies and fresh fruit.

Isla smiled at her. She wouldn’t have survived the wedding preparations without her. She was grateful for her care.

“Ye will need yer strength,” Lady Moira added.

Isla’s smile faltered at the innuendo. Instinctively, she glanced at the giant of a man beside her.

Alisdair had his cup raised to his warriors, listening to them reminisce about the old days. His clothes did little to contain that massive frame of his, and his voice carried through the Great Hall, deep and resonant, the dark timbre of it settling somewhere low in her chest.