Page 85 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

Sebastian stood at the center of it all with Alba’s hand already resting in his, waiting for the moment the priest would bind them together in more than name. She was radiant, and he found himself completely held by her face unable to break free long enough to properly attend to the man’s opening words.

“We are gathered here,” the priest began, lifting his voice just enough to carry over the last of the courtyard’s chatter, “beneath open sky, as our Fathers were gathered, and their Fathers before them, to witness the binding of Laird Sebastian MacGregor and Lady Alba MacLaren, that their two Houses might become one, and their two lives might become one also.”

A ripple of silence spread through the crowd, the kind that happens when even restless men remember to keep their voices down for something important. A hush had fallen over every corner of the courtyard by then; the rare kind of quiet that settles over a crowd when they sense history taking form in front of them.

Before the vows themselves were spoken, the priest lifted a small silver quaich between the couple, filled with whisky dark as peat smoke, and held it out first to Sebastian, then to Alba, each of them drinking in turn.

“Let this cup mind ye both,” he said, “that what is shared willingly tastes sweeter than what is taken alone. Ye’ll share yer table, yer troubles, and yer triumphs from this day onward, the same as ye share this cup now.”

Sebastian took a lingering sip, the whisky burning warm as it slid down his throat, and passed the quaich to Alba. She drank deeply, unbothered by its burn, drawing a low murmur of approval from more than one watching Highlander who clearly had not expected a Lady raised soft to manage it so easily.

A few of the older Lairds nearby raised their own cups in reply, a low chorus of approval rolling through that corner of the crowd before the priest cleared his throat pointedly to reclaim the ceremony.

“Sebastian MacGregor,” the priest said, turning to him, “do ye come here freely, of yer own will, with nay chain upon ye but the one ye choose?”

“I do,” Sebastian said, and the words came out steadier than he expected, given how shaken he felt standing this close to her.

“And do ye vow to protect this woman, to honor her counsel, to stand beside her in war and in peace, in hunger and in plenty, until the last breath leaves yer body?”

“I vow it.” He locked his eyes on Alba’s as he said it. He did not think he could do otherwise, even if the whole of Kerr’s army had come marching back through the Gates behind him.

The priest turned to Alba next, and something in his weathered face softened slightly.

“Alba MacLaren,” he said, “do ye come here freely, of yer own will, with nay chain upon ye but the one ye choose?”

“I do.” Her voice did not waver either, though her fingers tightened faintly around his.

“And do ye vow to stand beside this man, to speak yer mind plainly to him always, to share in his burdens as ye would have him share in yers, until the last breath leaves yer body?”

“I vow it, aye.” A faint, private smile crossed her mouth. “Though I make nay promise about the speakin’ part bein’ gentle.”

A low ripple of laughter moved through the nearest rows of guests, and even the priest’s mouth twitched before hecontinued, clearly not the first unconventional vow he had presided over in his years.

“Then let their hands be bound as their lives are now bound, each to the other, from this day until their final day.”

He produced a length of plaid, MacGregor green woven through with a thread of MacLaren blue. Alba was fairly certain Margaret had insisted on it. He carefully wound it around their joined hands, once, twice, a third time, murmuring words in the old tongue that Sebastian only half followed, though he caught enough to know they spoke of binding, of hearth, of two houses becoming one that could not easily be unmade.

The knots themselves were plain, unremarkable work, and yet Sebastian found himself watching the priest’s hands with more focus than he had given anything in weeks, as though the binding might somehow slip loose if he looked away too soon.

“What is bound here,” the priest said, tying the final knot, “let nay man unbind; and let nay distance, nay quarrel, nay hardship pull apart what has been woven together on this day.”

The plaid settled warm around their joined wrists, and Sebastian looked up at her again. He really looked at her, past the crowd, past the priest, past the noise of an entire Clan holding its breath around them. He realised that the rest of the world had lost its weight somewhere in the last few minutes without knowing exactly when.

“Ye are me home now,” he said, low enough that it was meant only for her, though half the front row likely heard it regardless. “Wherever ye are standin’. That’s the whole of it. That’s all home ever needed to mean.”

Alba’s breath caught, her eyes becoming bright and shaken in a way she’d fiercely deny on any other day of her life.

“Well,” she managed, her voice rough, “ye’ve a strange way of admittin’ ye needsomebody, MacGregor.”

“I never said I needed ye.”

“Kiss me before ye ruin it with more arguin’.”

He did.

The courtyard erupted the instant their lips met, a wave of rejoicing and whistling roaring, and someone—likely Hamish—bellowing something unintelligible over the noise. The pipes struck up a fast, joyful tune that nearly drowned out the cheering.

And then, cutting clean through it all, high and carrying and utterly without shame, came Brian’s voice.