It was a Yuletide wedding, and Evermyst’s great hall reeled with happiness. Although Rhona might never become accustomed to the feeling of family around her, she found also that she cherished it like none other. Anora and Isobel stitched her wedding gown themselves, laughing at every foolish stage and drawing her into the joy of their reunion. Meara and the kitchen staff argued relentlessly over who would care for Catty and Edwina, and Lachlan ‘s kindred arrived by the score to tease and bully and congratulate.
Master Longshanks rode Knight Star alone from Nettlepath to give his blessings, for the baron had passed on, leaving the manor to her by the king’s decree. His gigantic, flop-eared hound circled the tables, growling at Lachlan when they happened upon each other.
Catherine and Edwina played hoodman’s bluff with their new found cousins. They remained quiet and shy, but their faces were no longer gaunt and the haunting fear was gone from their eyes.
Along the far wall, beside the wassail tree, a group of overly enthused youngsters performed the mumming, acting out skits to the crowd’s delight, and near an iron bowl of heather ale, the brother rogues gathered.
Even from a goodly distance, Rhona could see mischief in their eyes.
“So,” said Gilmour. “Shall I assume that I was correct? She is a woman?”
Lachlan took a sip from his horn cup and let his gaze skim from his brother to his bride. Happiness was his in such a vast degree that sometimes it felt all but impossible to believe. “Assume what you like, Mour,” he said.
“Ho!” crowed Gilmour to Ramsay. “Mayhap our wee brother has tastes we know nothing about.”
“Watch your mouth, Mour,” Ramsay said. “The lass is armed.”
Gilmour nodded, took a drink, and narrowed his eyes as he glanced at the newest Fraser bride. “Aye. She is that, but I believe me own Bel be the most dangerous of the three once her temper’s up.”
Ramsay thoughtfully rubbed an aging wound. “You have met Nora, haven’t you?”
“Is it a wager you’d have than?” Gilmour asked. “Methinks we may have enough wagers already.”
“Ahh Ram, ever the cautious one. And what of you, Lachlan? Are you game for some sport?”
She was watching him, staring across the crowd with those mercurial eyes. The eyes of a warrior, the eyes of an angel, the eyes of his wife. His chest swelled.
” Lachlan,” Gilmour said, and elbowed him. “What of a wager?”
She was coming toward them now, making her way through the mob. Gowned in blue velvet, she looked like a Highland queen. Regal and strong and so bonny it all but stole the breath from his chest.
” Lachlan!”
“I think he may have other things on his mind just now,” mused Ramsay.
“Aye, it might well be,” agreed Mour, “and I can well understand his enthusiasm, but I hate to see the lass disappointed.”
And then she was there, beside him, filling his senses like a fragrant draught of wine. “Champion,” she murmured. “I have missed you.”
Their hands met. Their fingers twined. Lightning sizzled up Lachlan ‘s arm, searing his thought. “Mayhap we have spent enough time among the rabble,” he suggested.
Her lips lifted in impish agreement, but Gilmour spoke up.
“Nay, you must stay. The king and queen of bean have not yet been chosen.”
“I have me king,” Rhona murmured, and Lachlan leaned close. Her lips felt soft as a prayer against his.
“The wassailing has yet to begin,” said Mour, and raised his cup. “You’ll miss a good deal of drinking.”
“You can have me share,” Lachlan murmured. Gilmour scowled. “Listen, lass,” he said. “I do not mean to be the harbinger of ill news, but… ‘tis your wedding night after all, and I feel I should prepare you for the ordeal ahead.”
They turned to him in unison, their arms brushed.
Lightning struck again, burning pleasantly.
Gilmour shook his head sadly. “Our Lachlan,” he began. ”Aye, it’s built like a minotaur, he is, and he’s a fair hand in a battle. In truth, I admit I’d rather have him or me side than against me, but…” He sighed with long suffering drama. “As you may have heard, great fighters are not oft great lovers and since you have agreed to wed him I assume you have not tested that theory, but I fear you will not be pleased with his ability in-”
But in that moment she kissed Lachlan again and every dram of his attention was drawn away, pulled to her, captured by all that she was-strength and softness, wit and kindness.
“Come,” she whispered. “Your brother is rambling, and I feel a need to do that which you do best.”
“I am yours. Forever and always for as long as I draw breath,” Lachlan vowed and, lifting her against his chest, headed for the stairs.
“Damn,” mused Ramsay solemnly, “unless she speaks of arm wrestling, I think you lose the wager, Gilmour.”
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