Page 63 of The Rogue's Bride
MacKinnon nodded, as if the matter was settled, before he crossed his arms and turned to face Alasdair. “I hear there’s to be a wedding here tomorrow.”
Alasdair’s mouth quirked. “Aye … I’m sure ye are invited.”
“I don’t care if I am or not,” MacKinnon replied with a snort. His gaze narrowed then. “I take it the lady is willing?”
Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Of course … I’d not force Caitrin to wed me.”
“Good to hear,” MacKinnon grunted.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Vows
“YE ARE BLOOD of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.” Alasdair MacDonald’s voice echoed through the silent chapel. “I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.”
Caitrin held his gaze as he spoke. Her skin prickled at the words; they were the same ones she’d heard Lachlann Fraser say to her sister in Duntulm kirk barely ten months earlier.
Adaira had wept as Lachlann made his vows—but Caitrin was dry-eyed. She’d never wept easily in front of others. She was too private, too proud. A small group had gathered behind them in Dunvegan’s chapel: her father and Una, her brother, Iain, Rhona and Taran, and Alasdair’s men.
Caitrin had been aware of their gazes upon her as the ceremony had started, but as Alasdair finished his vows, and she began hers, she forgot they had an audience.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Alasdair’s; the intensity in his peat-brown eyes made the rest of the world fade. The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten.
“Ye are now man and wife,” the priest announced when Caitrin had completed her vows. He was smiling as he unwrapped the length of plaid that bound their hands. The priest met Alasdair’s eye briefly. “Ye may kiss yer bride now.”
Caitrin’s breath stilled when Alasdair stepped close, gently cupped her chin, and raised her face to his. He then gave her a soft, slow, lingering kiss that made the small party watching the ceremony cheer.
Alasdair pulled away, favoring Caitrin with a sensual smile that made her pulse quicken.
“Come, wife,” he murmured. “Take my arm.”
Alasdair held out his elbow to her, and she took it. Together they walked down the aisle and out of the chapel.
The wail of a highland pipe echoed through the Great Hall of Dunvegan, accompanying the handfasting feast. The noise inside the hall was so great that Caitrin could barely hear herself think. In truth, she preferred the lilting music of a harp to the screech of the highland pipe, yet with the feasters making such a noise, the gentler sound of the harp would have been drowned out anyway.
Before her lay a great spread of pies, cheeses, fruit, and oatcakes dripping in butter and honey. The large pies were filled with left-over meat, vegetables, and boiled eggs, and topped with a thick suet and oaten crust. The cooks, Fiona and her daughter Greer, had done well at such short notice, especially since they’d had to prepare another feast just two days earlier.
The aroma filling the hall was divine, and unlike at the last feast, Caitrin actually had an appetite for the fare before her. It was hard to believe only two days had passed since she’d sat here, her stomach in knots, dreading having to choose a suitor.
None of the three men were at the feast. MacKay had left in a rage shortly after he’d stormed from MacLeod’s solar. MacNichol and Campbell had both left at dawn the morning after.
“Wine, Caitrin?” Alasdair leaned forward, raising his voice to be heard over the din. He held up a ewer of spiced bramble wine.
Caitrin nodded, smiling. “Thank ye.”
They sat together at the center of the table upon the dais. Alasdair’s elbow brushed against hers as he bent forward to refill her goblet. Before them sat a platter of two different pies; it was tradition for husband and wife to dine off the same platter at their wedding feast.
Caitrin was reminded then of her handfasting feast to Baltair. They too had been wed in the chapel at Dunvegan, as her father had wished, and the feasting had gone on late into the night. She’d been happy that day, glowing with hope and pride at her handsome husband. Yet that glow had only lasted a short while. Later, when Baltair took her maidenhead, her happiness shattered. Even then, knowing it was her first time, he’d been brutal.
“Ye seem pensive, Caitrin,” Alasdair observed. The din in the hall was such that he had to lean close to speak to her. The scent of leather and clean male skin enveloped her, and she breathed it in. “Is something amiss?”
Caitrin shook her head, pushing aside her memories of the past. Baltair was dead; she would keep him that way. He had no place at this table.
“Just reflecting a little,” she replied, taking a sip of wine, “and getting used to the idea of being a wife again.”
Alasdair’s gaze fused with hers then, and just like during the wedding ceremony, their surroundings disappeared—even the wail of the highland pipe and her father’s booming voice.
“Baltair was a fool,” Alasdair said, his expression turning fierce. “He didn’t know how lucky he was.”
