Page 77 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“Looks like me horse is safe,” Ersie whispered, but Doughall was not listening.
Even Adam looked at ease as he guided Freya the rest of the way down the aisle and put her slightly shaky hand into Doughall’s.
“Be good to her,” he said quietly. “Take care of her and cherish her, as I cherish me Emily, and I’ve nay doubt that ye’ll be better off for havin’ her at yer side.”
Doughall bowed his head to his friend, his hand tightening around Freya’s in the hope of making it stop shaking. Surely, she wasn’t still afraid of him. After last night, it could not be possible… could it?
“Ye’re late,” he said, resisting the urge to lift her hand to his lips.
She shot him a mock withering look. “I am nae.Yemust have been early.”
“Ye look… like ye belong to yer title,” he continued, wishing they were alone so he could tell her with his actions, if not his words, how beautiful she was.
He was about to elaborate when he noticed the necklace around her neck. His heart clenched at the sight of it. It had been twenty years since he had seen that emerald. In truth, he had thought it was lost. Unable to help himself, he reached out and touched the sparkling jewel, ignoring the appreciative sounds that rumbled through the chapel.
“Isla insisted that I borrow it,” Freya said anxiously. “If ye dinnae want me to wear it, I can take it off. I tried to refuse, but?—”
“It’s perfect,” he cut in, feeling for a moment that his mother was there with them, watching the proceedings, no doubt glad that her son had finally found himself a wife. “And it’s yers, Lady MacGordon.”
The vicar coughed into his fist, leaning in. “Nae just yet, M’Laird. Ye have to let me do me part first.”
Doughall shot the white-haired man a sharp look that made him quake in his vestments, clasping his hands together as he hurried to welcome the congregation.
As the old man warbled through the beginning of the ceremony, Doughall returned his attention to his bride, feeling the tremors in her hand cease. Her warm brown eyes looked at him with affection, her smile relaxed and true, her cheeks colored with the faintest dusting of pink.
The longer they gazed at one another, the more the rest of the chapel began to fade away. If he had his way, there would havebeen only a few guests, to make the occasion more private, but Isla and Moira had insisted on making it more of a spectacle. He had worried about that, but his worries vanished as he took hold of her other hand, as calm with her as he was on a battlefield before he called for his soldiers to charge.
He was so lost in the peace between them that he did not hear the vicar approach, holding a length of twine in his hand. Although Doughall’s people followed the religion of the land, all marriages among his clan gave a nod to their old traditions, the handfasting more symbolic than it was necessary.
“With this rope, I bind ye,” the vicar said, looping the twine around their joined hands. “This man and this woman, joined together in a holy union that cannae be broken.”
Freya beamed from ear to ear as Doughall went a step further, interlocking his fingers with hers.
The vicar continued to speak, but Doughall drowned him out, concentrating solely on his bride, until the time came for him to say his vows. He recited them by rote, listening intently as Freya recited her vows to him in kind, knowing that the moment would soon be upon them when they were truly bound together.
“In this holy place, beneath God’s eyes, I now pronounce ye man and wife, the Laird and Lady of Clan MacGordon,” the vicar concluded, and though it was not customary for a husband to kiss his wife at that moment, Doughall could not let his vows go unsealed.
Stepping toward Freya, their hands still bound, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. The fierce and fiery kiss he wanted to press to her lips would have to wait, and though he was still keeping his promise not to lie with her, he was already thinking of the myriad other things he could do to pleasure her on their wedding night. Things that would satisfy her enough that she would not tempt him into breaking his promise.
The congregation erupted in cheers and bawdy whistles, some guests breaking into song as Doughall weaved his wife’s arm through his and led her back up the aisle.
Heading out together into the hazy sunshine, the congregation followed behind their Laird and Lady, until a great crowd was making their way up the hill to MacGordon Castle, where the real festivities were about to begin.
In the Great Hall, accompanied by the giddy tune of even livelier musicians, Freya could hardly catch her breath as Doughall whirled her around the dance floor. There was no one else dancing, the tune reserved solely for them, but she had expected something more restrained—certainly not a vigorous reel that had her head spinning as fast as her body.
She twirled away from him, gasping as he pulled her back against his chest—apparently not quite aware of his strength—and slid his arm around her waist, bringing her even closer. His other hand clasped hers, and just like that, pressed to oneanother, he whirled her around and around until the rest of the room became a heady blur.
I always dreamed of a moment like this, but I never thought it would happen for me outside of me books.
She threw her head back and let go of her last inhibitions, laughing delightedly at the ferocity of the dance as she clung to his shoulder, safe in his embrace. For a moment, she wondered if this was what it felt like to fly, to be as free as the birds in the sky.
At length, Doughall slowed their spinning, giving his cue to the musicians to slow their enthusiastic playing. And in that lull, he leaned in and whispered, “I command ye to enjoy yerself this evenin’.”
“That shouldnae be too difficult to obey,” she replied, breathless.
“But if I see ye dancin’ with another man, I cannae be held responsible for me actions.”
She chuckled. “I’ve promised Ersie a dance. Does that count?”
