Page 75 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Abigail beamed at them both before throwing her arms around them, squeezing tightly. “A family of storytellers and warriors, then,” she teased.

Freya chuckled, resting her head against her sisters. “Aye. And I wouldnae have it any other way.”

Michael had faced battle, stood against enemies who wished him dead, and survived betrayals that would have broken lesser men. But as he stood at the front of the great hall, waiting for Freya to walk toward him, he felt his chest tighten in a way he had never known before.

The air was thick with the scent of heather and candle wax, the great stone walls draped in tartan and fresh greenery. The hall was filled with the murmurs of kin and clansmen, the soft rustle of silk and wool as people shifted in anticipation. But Michael heard none of it.

Because the moment Freya appeared, he forgot how to breathe.

She stepped forward, her gown a vision of cream and gold, the fabric flowing around her like mist curling over the Highlands. The pearls at her throat gleamed in the candlelight, but it was her eyes that held him captive. Deep and steady, brimming with something that made his heart clench.

Michael swallowed hard.God above, she’s bonnie.

She moved toward him with quiet grace, her sisters at her side, her chin lifted with that same stubborn pride he had come to love. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his entire body taut with the need to reach for her, to pull her close.

When at last she stood before him, the world shrank to just the two of them.

He leaned in slightly, his voice rough with emotion only she could hear. “Ye are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

A flush rose on her cheeks, but her eyes never wavered from his. “And ye are the most stubborn man I have ever met,” she whispered back, lips curving into the faintest smile.

He chuckled, the warmth of it settling deep in his chest. Then, gently, he reached for her hands, his roughened fingers closing over hers.

The elder began to speak, his voice carrying through the hall, but Michael barely heard the words. All that mattered was the woman before him, the steady weight of her hands in his, theway her breath hitched ever so slightly when he ran his thumb over her knuckles.

The ceremony followed the old ways. Their hands were bound together with the MacEwan tartan, the colors of his clan wrapping around them, binding them not just in vows but in blood, in history, in something unbreakable. Torches flickered over the guests and the gathered clansmen, warriors standing shoulder to shoulder with kin and allies.

As was custom, a length of braided ribbon was brought forth and the elder took their hands, wrapping them together in the sacred binding of marriage.

“With this cord, ye are joined, heart to heart, hand to hand, and soul to soul,” he entoned. “Before all gathered here, ye vow to stand beside one another, in darkness and in light, in strength and in sorrow.”

Michael’s fingers tightened around hers.

“I swear it,” he said in a deep voice.

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with equal certainty. “And I to ye.”

The elder tied the final knot. “Then by this bond, let none divide what is now made one.”

He made a simple gesture, one that was immediately understood and a ceremonial quaich was passed between Freya and Michael, the shared drink symbolizing trust. Michael lifted it first, drinking deep before offering it to his bride. She accepted without hesitation, the fire of the whiskey obviously warming her throat, but he knew she would never let it show.

This was more than more tradition. It was a promise, one of duty, of strength, bound by love.

The elder then addressed everyone else, with his raised hands. “Let this man and this woman be bound in love, loyalty and in blood. May yer days be long, yer battles few and yer love be as fierce as the storm.”

The hall erupted into cheers as their hands were unbound and the final blessing spoken. Michael wasted no time. He pulled her into his arms, cupping her face as he claimed her lips in a kiss that sealed what had already been written in his heart long ago.

His wife. His Freya.

As his clan roared their approval, as the pipes sang and the celebration began, Michael held her close and whispered against her temple. “Ye were always meant to be mine.”

She smiled at him, her eyes filled with love. In the celebration that followed, she had barely left his touch, and he had no intention of letting her go. A grand feast had been laid out, tables overflowing with roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet honeyed cakes. The scent of spiced ale and burning peat filled Michael’slungs as he sat at the head of the table, his wife—hiswife—by his side.

He barely paid attention to the toasts being made, to the well-wishes and bawdy jests thrown his way. He only had eyes for Freya. She was radiant in the firelight, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the hall, her laughter rich and full as she indulged Cody and the girls, who were gleefully retelling some tales of mischief.

Michael smirked, shaking his head as Marissa launched into an exaggerated version of the time Freya had bested a man in a climbing race up the walls of a nearby hill.

“I tell he, ye nearly broke his neck tryin’ to keep up with Freya!” Marissa declared. “She reached that top like a squirrel!”