Page 44 of The Cruel Highlander's Bride
When her hair was done, Susanna helped her into her dress, and Ciara found herself struck by what she saw in the mirror. It was still her, but with this dress and the elaborate braids, she looked very different.
Ciara looked like a bride, which was a sight she had never expected to see. A maelstrom of feelings swelled within her as she looked at herself—nerves, anticipation, uncertainty… excitement.
“I wonder what me weddin’ will be like.” Lana sighed dreamily, also watching Ciara in the mirror.
“Perfect, I’m sure, with lots of flowers and a man who adores ye,” Ciara replied cheerily, smiling at her sister through the mirror.
“I hope so,” Lana breathed.
It was the reminder Ciara needed. Part of why she’d agreed to this wedding in the first place was so that Lana could have somethingmore, so she could have that fairytale wedding she had always dreamed of.
Her sister’s wistful expression as she just thought about that possibility was enough for Ciara to straighten her shoulders and give a real smile. She turned to face the other women, feeling lighter than she had all morning.
“I believe it is time for that weddin’ of yers,” her mother said, clapping her hands together.
* * *
Magnus sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of himself in formal attire. He never wore these clothes, and the sight reminded him far too much of his father, or at least the version of him in the portrait that hung in the Great Hall.
When he first took over as Laird and saw the thing, he wanted to rip it off the wall. But his position as a usurper was tenuous at best. So instead, he avoided it as best he could, not wanting the reminder of the man who sired him.
It was impossible to fully escape, though, and what he did see of it seemed seared into his memory.
From the portrait, he got the sense that his father reveled in the attention of others. Whether it was admiration or fear, he didn’t care.
It was in the way he had the artist paint him, larger than life, and the fact that he wore his best finery for what must have been hours as the thing was painted. And lest his people forget who he was, the clan’s tartan was wrapped around him like a sash. Just the same as the one Magnus was wearing now.
When Magnus realized the resemblance, his fingers itched with the urge to tear the whole thing off, but instead, he appeased himself by unbraiding his hair. His shoulder-length hair fell loose, and the sight soothed him just a little. Finally, he forced himself to move away from the mirror.
Ewan would be serving as his best man today, due to Magnus not having other friends, but his man-at-arms had other duties to carry out this morning, so Magnus was alone in his chambers.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and slumped into the chair facing away from the mirror. He needed to calm his racing mind before the ceremony, and if there was one thing that would lift his spirits, it was thoughts of Ciara. Hoping the start to her day was going much smoother than his, he let himself indulge in his memories of her.
Visions of her pink cheeks and swollen lips flashed in his mind. He imagined the breathy sounds she’d made as he kissed her and the way her soft skin had felt underneath his palms. He longed to have her back in his lap again, the way she’d been by the lake.
Not tasting her lips since that time by the lake felt like such a tragedy, especially now that he knew her reactions were just nerves, not fear. Hopefully, he would be able to rectify that today, and he would finally be able to kiss her again.
The thought sent a shudder through him, and he tightened his grip around his whiskey glass.
His thoughts were interrupted by a short, heavy knock at the door. Only Ewan knocked these days. Magnus called out for him to enter.
“Ye look good, Me Laird,” Ewan complimented as he strolled into the room. “Like yer faither.”
Magnus gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to throw his man-at-arms out of the room. He had finally replaced thoughts of his father with far more pleasurable ones of Ciara. But now… Now, he was right back where he started, wishing he had someone else’s face.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, and with one last forlorn look at himself in the mirror, he and his best man headed down to the Great Hall… for his wedding.
Elspeth, Olivia, and Ciara’s male relatives were already in the room. Magnus watched as Olivia attempted to strike a conversation with Ciara’s older brother. The man’s brow was furrowed as he looked down at her as if he didn’t quite understand where she’d come from.
The whole thing calmed Magnus some and put a small smile on his face. It wasn’t until he approached the group and both men turned towards him that the smile fell from his face.
“A word,” Laird Gunn uttered tersely.
The tone had his man-at-arms stiffening at his side, but Magnus waved him off and followed Ciara’s father a few paces away.
“We dinnae ken a lot about each other,” Laird Gunn began. “And that’s primarily me fault. I should have sought ye out to end the feud when we heard ye’d taken over.”
Magnus began to interrupt, but the other man raised his hand in the air.
