Page 82 of Bride of the Mad Laird
“I dae.” Her voice rang out, loud enough for all to hear, and a collective sigh rippled through the congregation.
She smiled up at the man beside her, and melted at the sparkle in his gray eyes as he repeated his vows.
Then he was authorized to kiss his bride and he swept her into his arms for a brief, heart-stopping kiss.
As they left the chapel, stopping every few paces to briefly clasp an extended hand and to nod their thanks for the folks’ good wishes, Lyra felt her spirits rise. Her heart was full. She was married to Tòrr and she was surrounded by love and the affection of all.
Once they were finally seated at the high table in the refectory hall in front of the noisy, jovial, crowd, Tòrr bent his head, whispering, “I thought I’d lost ye tae the fae back there in the chapel. Ye didnae respond tae poor Faither Padraig, when he had tae ask ye three times fer yer vow.”
She bit her lower lip and shot him a rueful look from under her lashes.
“I am sorry. Me thoughts were far away. I hardly heard the good Faither speaking.” She grinned. “Did ye think I had changed me mind and didnae want ye?”
He nodded, returning her grin. “Aye. I was beginning tae think it.”
She reached for his big hand and looked into his eyes. “Nay, I didnae change me mind Tòrr. I am happy tae be yer wife.”
He leaned in and kissed her soulfully on the lips, to the rousing and jubilant cheers of the assembled guests. Laughing, she clasped his hand, dipping her head in acknowledgment of the affection that was being displayed.
Bethia and her kitchen staff provided a lavish, sumptuous, feast. They dined on spit-roasted venison, baked salmon, and chicken pies, taking their time, constantly interrupted as different folk came to the table to pay their respects.
They spoke with several members of the Council that she’d previously met. She smiled to herself at them imagining they had made a fortuitous marriage for their laird. Little did they understand that this was a match of two lovers.
During the meal they were entertained by a bard playing the clarsach and reciting tales of ancient battles and tragic loves. Then, as last the musicians assembled, the crowd held their breath in anticipation.
The rollicking music of the piper, the fiddler, a lad playing the Irish drum and another with a clay whistle, got feet tapping.
Tòrr rose as the bard called them all to the dancing. He took Lyra’s hand and led her into the center of the room where the tables had been pushed back and the timber floor swept free of rushes.
“Ye ken I’ve ne’er danced before?” Her voice was a tad wistful. “I dinnae ken how ‘tis done.”
He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Dinnae fret, the bard will call out the steps fer us tae follow and yer feet will catch it soon enough.”
She frowned, still uncertain.
‘Tis fer enjoyment, nae fer terrors. I’ll guide ye.”
A cheer greeted them as they walked to the center of the room. Many other smiling couples joined them as the musicians began to play and the bard called out mysterious instructions that everyone but her seemed to recognize at once. “Join hands,” “Circle,” “turn yer partner,” “up and down.”
Tòrr was right, of course, it only took a few moments for her hesitancy to turn into being utterly beguiled by the musicians’ wild rhythms and the noisy, jovial, dancers.
Before long she was twirling and bouncing and clapping her hands every bit as gleeful as the rest of them. Kilts and skirts went flying, as they swung and circled in riotous revelry. All fears and frets banished. At least for that night.
When the musicians finally brought the dancers to a standstill, both Lyra and Tòrr were breathless. She was enchanted by the sparkle in his eyes and his unaccustomed smiling good humor.
Thirsty, they returned hand-in-hand to their seats at the table, where Edmund was pouring them each a tankard of ale.
"The scouts have returned and they’ve found naething. There is nay sign of any strangers near the castle.”
Lyra’s heart jumped. Could it be possible that MacDougall had realized he had lost? The wedding had taken place and he could no longer force her into being wed to him.
Tòrr took up his tankard and quaffed the ale. “And the patrols will continue?”
“Aye.” Edmund nodded.
It seemed that neither Tòrr nor Edmund was convinced the danger had passed. She let this information sit. So, they shared her suspicions. She said nothing, yet it came as a great as a relief to know their men were patrolling.
Tòrr turned to her. “Are ye ready tae leave this party, me lady wife?”
