Page 118 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

“Now ye listen for his steps outside the door.”

Donaldina turned toward her. Mairi did not retreat. Years of friendship made her resistant to most forms of intimidation.

“Ye are different,” she continued softly. “Nae weaker. Nae less yourself. Only… less alone within yourself.”

The words struck too accurately. Donaldina looked toward the window. Somewhere beyond the western wall, Roy would be inspecting the watch or arguing with Hamish over some danger neither wished to name before the wedding.

He arrived beneath the authority of a King. For weeks, Donaldina feared that marrying him would mean yielding to a bargain made without her consent. She imagined the vows as another form of surrender, dressed in fine cloth and witnessed by men who called duty honor because they were not the ones required to submit.

Yet, she was no longer preparing for a stranger. She was preparing for the man who trusted her judgment in council, the man who carried her through fire, placed honey beside his reports, and refused to confine her even when danger gathered beyond the walls.

She was not being delivered into an alliance. She was choosing one. She was choosing him.

Donaldina drew a slow breath. The certainty settled through her, quieter than excitement and stronger than fear.

“The green gown,” she agreed.

Mairi glanced toward the bed. “I told ye.”

“With me mother’s clasp and Lachlan’s plaid near the altar. The MacNicol and MacIver banners at equal height.”

Mairi nodded.

“And honey from the oldest hive,” Donaldina continued. “Nae the new one.”

“Because Lachlan helped ye build it?”

“Aye.”

Mairi returned to the table and picked up the list. “What of the vows?”

Donaldina looked once more at her reflection. Her face remained her own. The room remained hers. Beyond the door waited a castle she protected, a clan she served and a future no royal document could now claim to have decided for her.

“The traditional words,” she urged. “But Father Maol is tae leave space for us tae speak our own.”

Mairi’s smile appeared slowly. “Roy kens this?”

“He will.”

Mairi chuckled. “That poor man.”

Donaldina took up the quill again. Her hand no longer trembled.

“Now,” she said, drawing the final line beneath the arrangements, “let us ensure he has a wedding worth surviving.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Dun Ard rarely contained so much purposeful disorder. There were servants crossing the passages carrying folded linen, benches and armfuls of winter greenery. There were also warriors who ordinarily handled swords with confidence struggled beneath rolled tapestries and accepted correction from older women with the meekness of defeated men.

Roy moved through it all beside Donaldina. They inspected the guest chambers first. Fires had been laid in each hearth, the shutters repaired, and MacIver plaids placed beside MacNicol wool upon the beds. Donaldina adjusted one folded blanket by the width of two fingers.

“It was crooked,” she said when she noticed him watching.

“It was cloth.”

“It was offensive cloth.”

Roy inclined his head. “Then Dun Ard is fortunate ye discovered it before the ceremony.”