Page 140 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Mairi fastened Donaldina’s mother’s silver clasp at her shoulder.

“There,” she said, stepping back. “Properly prepared this time.”

Donaldina looked toward the closed doors. “Was I improperly prepared before?”

“Ye allowed armed traitors intae the ceremony.”

“A serious failure of hospitality.”

Mairi gave a soft laugh, though tears already brightened her eyes.

Donaldina’s own reflection watched her from the polished metal looking glass. She wore the same green gown, carefully cleaned and repaired where Cormac’s hand had torn the sleeve. A faint line of new stitching crossed the shoulder. The seamstress offered to conceal it beneath embroidery.

Donaldina refused. She did not wish to forget what the cloth had endured, nor what she had chosen despite it.

Mairi settled Lachlan’s plaid over Donaldina’s arm. The familiar wool was heavy and warm, carrying the faint scent of cedar from the chest in which it had been stored.

“He should have stood beside me,” Donaldina whispered.

Mairi’s hand closed around hers. “Aye.”

Grief no longer struck with the same sharpness it once had. It changed into something quieter and more permanent, a room within Donaldina that would never again be filled, but whose door she could now open without fearing she would become lost inside it.

She touched the edge of the plaid. Lachlan had signed the accord that brought Roy to Dun Ard. He could not have known what would follow: the suspicion, the bloodshed or the long road by which duty became choice.

Yet Donaldina thought he would have understood the end of it. Perhaps he would even have approved. Loudly, inconveniently and only after arguing over every arrangement.

The doors opened, and the hall rose. Donaldina stepped between Mairi and Malcolm, who insisted that, as the senior MacNicol warrior present, the honor of escorting her fell to him. His formal coat pulled badly across one shoulder, and he appeared more frightened by the ceremony than he had beneath Cormac’s blades.

At the front of the hall stood Roy. His injured shoulder remained bound beneath his dark coat. The healer had forbidden him armor, sword practice, and unnecessary movement. Roy obeyed none of those instructions except the prohibition against armor, and only because Donaldina threatened to remove it herself before the entire clan.

He watched her approach. There was no alarm today, no smoke darkened the windows, and no unfamiliar faces waited among the benches. There was only Roy, beneath the joined banners, looking at her as though the rest of the hall had ceased to exist.

Donaldina felt the last of her tension ease. The first ceremony had been arranged for clans, councils and the Crown. This one belonged to them.

When she reached him, Malcolm placed her hand in Roy’s, his fingers closing carefully around hers.

“Any fires?” she whispered.

“Nae.”

“Armed intruders?”

“Hamish searched beneath the benches.”

Donaldina glanced toward the general. Hamish stood beside the altar with an expression of absolute innocence.

Father Maol cleared his throat.

“Perhaps,” the priest said, “we might complete the vows before either of ye invites another disaster.”

A quiet ripple of laughter moved through the hall.

Donaldina looked around. MacIver and MacNicol warriors stood in close proximity. Formerly vigilant of each other with hands near their swords, they now bore similar smoke stains on their formal clothing. An elderly MacNicol woman sat beside a MacIver captain, whose arm stayed bandaged from the attack. Malcolm and Hamish stood on opposite sides of the altar, yet their mutual impatience made them look more alike than either would admit.

The alliance had not been created by the King’s paper. It had been formed through work, danger and the choice to stand together when division would have been easier.

Father Maol lifted his hands. “We gather beneath God and before these clans tae witness the union of Roy MacIver and Donaldina MacNicol. They come before us nae under force, nor beneath threat, but by their own consent.”