Page 78 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
“All right?” he murmured against her ear, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
“Aye,” she breathed, her hands sliding down his back to grip his shoulders. “More than all right.”
They moved together then, finding a rhythm that was both tender and passionate, both desperate and reverent. Constantine watched her face as pleasure built between them, memorizing every expression, every sound she made, storing them away like treasures against an uncertain future.
When release finally claimed them both, it was with an intensity that left them clinging to each other, breathing hard against sweat-dampened skin. Constantine rolled to his side, pulling Rowena with him so that she lay curled against his chest, her red hair spilling across his shoulder like silk.
“Are ye alright?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Rowena was quiet for a long moment, her breathing slowly returning to normal as she traced lazy patterns on his chest with one finger. “Aye,” she said finally, tilting her head to look up at him. “Much better.”
Constantine smiled, tightening his arms around her. “Good. Because in a few hours, ye’ll be me wife, and I intend tae spend the rest of me life makin’ sure ye feel happy and secure lass.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Constantine said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
They lay together in comfortable silence. Today, Rowena MacKenzie would become Rowena MacLean. And Constantine would finally have something worth fighting for that went beyond mere survival.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The transformation of Duart’s courtyard was nothing short of miraculous. What had always been a place of stark functionality where warriors trained, horses were groomed, and business was conducted had been softened into something almost ethereal. The stone walkways had been swept until they gleamed, and tartan banners in the MacLean colors hung from every post and archway, their deep blues and greens rippling in the Highland breeze.
Village women had worked through the night weaving garlands of heather and winter roses, draping them along the benches that had been arranged in careful rows. The scent of the purple blooms mingled with the crisp morning air, creating an atmosphere that was both solemn and celebratory.
Candles flickered in glass lanterns despite the daylight, their warm glow adding to the sense that that moment existed outside of ordinary time. The guests were an eclectic gathering, MacLean clansmen stood alongside representatives from alliedclans, their formal dress and serious expressions lending gravity to the proceedings.
Near the front, in a specially arranged chair that allowed him to participate despite his failing health, sat Niall MacLean. The man who had once commanded absolute authority over Duart now appeared fragile and hollow, yet his eyes were alert, fixed on his son.
Constantine stood at the makeshift altar that had been erected at the courtyard’s center, his posture rigid with control. He wore his finest clothes; a doublet of deep blue velvet over a crisp white shirt, his clan colors displayed prominently across his broad shoulders. His dark hair had been tied back with precision, and his jaw was set in the kind of determined line that suggested he was prepared to face whatever challenges the day might bring.
‘Tis finally time.
A hush fell over the assembled crowd as movement stirred at the castle’s entrance. Then Rowena appeared, and the very air seemed to still in reverence.
She moved forward with measured grace. The cream silk of her wedding gown caught the morning light like liquid gold, the delicate embroidery along the neckline and sleeves glinting with each step.
Her red hair had been arranged in an elegant style that left her face unframed, allowing her natural beauty to shinewithout artifice. But it was her expression that truly commanded attention. Serene, determined, and utterly without doubt.
Saints preserve me, there’s naethin’ more beautiful in this world.
Constantine felt his breath catch as she approached, his carefully maintained composure threatening to crack in the face of her radiant confidence. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that, she was his.
When she reached him, they stood facing each other in the morning light, surrounded by witnesses but somehow existing in a space that belonged only to them.
The priest began the ceremony with words that were both ancient and immediate, speaking of duty and love, of commitment that would endure beyond the troubles of the present moment.
“Dae ye, Constantine MacLean, take this woman, Rowena MacKenzie, afore God and these witnesses, tae be yer wife?”
“I dae. I pledge tae keep and protect her, tae share me hearth and me name, tae be true tae her in all things, and tae stand at her side till me last breath.”
“And dae ye, Rowena MacKenzie, take this man, Constantine MacLean, afore God and these witnesses, tae be yer husband?”
“I dae. I pledge tae honor him, tae keep his trust, tae walk beside him in hardship and in plenty till me life’s end.”
The priest bound their hands with a length of MacLean tartan, the silk smooth and warm against their skin. Their kiss, when it came, was neither hesitant nor performative. Constantine cupped Rowena’s face in his hands and kissed her with firm certainty. It was a seal upon their vows, a declaration to everyone present that this union was real, chosen, and unbreakable.
The crowd erupted into applause, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard in a symphony of approval and celebration.
