Page 135 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

It was overwhelming, his sweeping love, one that caused pain to ping in his chest when he thought of her. When he thought of the child she was carrying—his child—he wanted to fall to his knees and weep, to bless the God who had made this all possible.

And then all thoughts of weeping and God were whisked away as she stepped into view.

His Isobel.

His woman.

And she was splendid. Swathed in an exquisite white gown studded with pearls, she floated down the aisle toward him. He knew the moment she took in his attire, the Sinclair dress kilt. She nearly stumbled, but her father’s hand on her arm kept her steady.

She smiled at him, though, with such elation, such gratitude, it made him feel humble.

What had he ever done to deserve this? This joy? This gift? This woman?

He didn’t know, but he knew he would spend the rest of his life making up for it. Somehow.

She came to stand beside him, and it took an effort for him to rip his gaze from her luminous face to shake her father’s hand. Fortunately, in this moment, Andrew Lochlannach was patient.

“Be good to her,” he said in a low growl that was almost a threat.

“Aye,” Nick said, returning his gaze to hers. “I shall.”

The rest of the ceremony was a blur. It was a miracle he remembered his vows, though they were written on his heart.

His voice cracked a little as he said them, but he meant them, every word.

“With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He shivered when she spoke her vows, staring into his eyes.

And when the archbishop pronounced them man and wife, he was swept away with a delight unlike anything he had ever known.

“We’re one now,” he whispered to her, before the kiss.

“Aye,” she said. “We are one.”

* * *

Isobel tried her hardest to memorize every detail of the wedding, but her mind was in a whirl. She did, however, remember the kiss. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever felt.

After the ceremony, she was whisked away from her new husband—which was vexing—and taken to the Moncrieff mansion and changed into her ball gown.

They assured her, as they plied her with supper, that she would be with Nick again soon, but in Isobel’s eyes, it would not be soon enough. She wanted to spend every moment with him from now on, and the delays were not acceptable.

One delay she disliked intensely was the fact that now, as Countess Stirling, she had to stand in the receiving line as hundreds of members of the haute ton filed into the ballroom for the celebration, shaking their hands and being complimented on her beauty and other such folderol.

“It will be over soon, darling,” Nick whispered into her ear at one point.

“Will it? It occurs to me that we have many receiving lines in our future.”

He laughed at her disgruntlement.

She had no idea why he laughed. It was hardly a laughing matter.

She didn’t really mind so much, being a countess, especially now that she’d gotten used to the idea, but the burdens of the station were still that.

“I promise, I shall make it up to you.” He winked. “Later.”

She frowned at him. “You’d better.”