Page 9 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)
CHAPTER SIX
" Y e look beautiful, me lady. A true Highland bride." Sheena bustled around her, arranging the simple veil and placing a circlet of Highland flowers in her hair.
The morning of her wedding dawned gray and drizzly, as if the Highland sky itself disapproved of the hasty proceedings.
Morag stood before the polished metal mirror in her chamber, staring at her reflection in the ivory silk gown that had belonged to Colin's mother.
The dress fit well enough after yesterday's alterations, but she felt like she was wearing a costume for a play she didn't understand.
Perhaps this won't be so terrible after Colin and I might eventually find happiness together.
"Thank ye fer all yer help. I think... I think today might be a new beginning." Sheena gave a small curtesy, and Morag saw her eyes glisten.
The walk to the small stone chapel felt surreal, her feet moving real anticipation while her mind ran through the memory of last night's gentle conversation in the kitchen.
It seemed like something from a dream—Colin's rare smile, his apology, the way he'd looked at her as if he were truly seeing her for the first time.
I ken there’s a good heart in there.
She remembered how carefully he'd tended her rope burns, how he'd shared stories of his childhood.
Perhaps all that coldness is just protection. Perhaps underneath it all, he's lonely too, and we can comfort each other.
Her feet moved with purpose now, her mind painting pictures of the future.
Maybe we'll have more evenings like last night, talking and sharing stories. Maybe he'll teach me about his clan, and I'll help him see that ruling with kindness daesnae make him weak. Maybe we'll even come tae love each other.
The thought made her heart flutter with hope.
Perhaps beneath the Iron Laird's cold exterior lay a man capable of warmth and understanding.
Perhaps the Colin who'd shared cheese and childhood stories with her was the real one, and all the rest was just armor he wore to protect himself and his people.
Maybe this marriage daesnae have tae be the prison sentence I feared. Maybe it can be something beautiful.
That hope shattered the moment she saw him outside the chapel.
Colin stood near the entrance in his finest Highland dress. It was a sight that should have taken her breath away with his commanding presence and the way the formal attire emphasized his broad shoulders. Instead, what stopped her cold was the scene unfolding before her.
"Move those patrols to the northern border immediately," he was barking at a group of armed men. "I want double watches on all the approaches, and if ye see so much as a Fraser shadow, I want tae ken about it."
"Aye, me laird," one of the soldiers replied.
"Get going. Now," Colin snapped.
Morag stood frozen on the chapel steps, watching her groom dispatch soldiers on what was supposed to be their wedding day.
What kind of man conducts military business moments before his own wedding?
A cold knot formed in her stomach.
When Colin finally turned toward the chapel, his expression was already shuttered, every trace of last night's gentleness erased. He nodded curtly to her as if she were merely another item on his endless list of duties to be completed.
This is how it will be . Last night was an aberration. This coldness is who he truly is.
The skirl of bagpipes echoed across the castle courtyard, with ancient Highland melody that was both haunting and beautiful. The piper, dressed in ceremonial outfit, played a traditional air that spoke of love and new beginnings.
The small stone chapel was packed with Armstrong clan members, their plaids creating a sea of deep greens and blues in the dim candlelight.
Father Ferguson stood before the simple altar, his weathered hands holding the ancient Highland marriage stones—two smooth river rocks that had witnessed countless unions over the centuries.
"We gather today tae bind two souls and two clans in the sight of God and the ancestors," the priest began, his voice carrying the weight of tradition. Before continuing, he lifted his hands and spoke in the ancient tongue:
"Thig crioch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh gaol is ceòl." The world may come to an end, but love and music will endure.
A murmur of approval rose from the congregation at the old blessing.
"Colin Armstrong and Morag MacDuff, step forward and place yer hands upon the stones of binding."
Morag felt Colin's presence beside her as they approached the altar, but when she glanced at him, his jaw was set, his eyes focused straight ahead as if this were a military drill rather than their wedding.
"Colin Armstrong," Father Ferguson intoned, "dae ye take this woman as yer wife, tae share yer name, yer lands, and yer protection? Dae ye swear by the blood of yer clan and the honor of yer ancestors tae cherish and defend her until death claims ye both?"
"I dae so swear," Colin replied, his voice clear and formal, carrying no more warmth than if he were reciting patrol schedules.
"Morag MacDuff, dae ye take this man as yer husband, tae share his burdens and his joys? Dae ye swear by the blood of yer clan and the honor of yer ancestors tae stand by his side until death claims ye both?"
"I dae so swear," Morag whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of her own heartbeat.
"Then let the binding be sealed with the ancient rites." Father Ferguson lifted a length of cloth. "Join hands now, and let us bring this union."
Colin took her hand, his touch impersonal and businesslike, as if he were helping her mount a horse rather than binding himself to her for life. His fingers were warm but rigid as Father Ferguson wound the soft wool around their joined hands.
"Gus am bris an là agus an teich na sgàilean," the priest continued in Gaelic. "Until the day breaks and the shadows flee away. What God has joined, let no man put asunder. What the clan has witnessed, let no enemy tear apart. Ye are one flesh, one name, one destiny."
The priest's voice rose as he spoke the final blessing.
"May the Highland winds carry yer happiness and may the mountains themselves guard yer union.
" As tradition demanded, Colin's sword was laid before them on the chapel floor.
"Step over the blade together," Father Ferguson instructed, "leavin’ yer old lives behind and entering yer new one as man and wife. "
They stepped over the sword in unison, and for a brief moment, Morag's heart fluttered with the symbolism of it—crossing into their new life together.
She turned to Colin, hoping to see some echo of that significance in his face, only to find his expression neutral as carved stone. The flutter died instantly.
Old Mairi Campbell stepped forward with a piece of oatcake blessed by the clan mothers. "Share this bread," she said gently, "that ye may never ken hunger while ye're together."
Colin took a small piece and offered it to Morag, their fingers brushing briefly as she accepted it. The oatcake was sweet with honey, but it tasted like ash in her mouth.
A cheer went up from the assembled clan, but it felt forced, uncertain.
Morag felt the weight of their stares as Colin unwound the plaid from their hands with mechanical efficiency.
When tradition demanded he kiss his bride, his lips barely brushed hers.
It was a cold formality that left her feeling more alone than if he hadn't touched her at all.
"Let it be known," Father Ferguson announced to the congregation, "that Laird MacDuff has sent wedding gifts tae honor this union as his daughter becomes an Armstrong this day!"
Several ornate chests were opened to reveal fine weapons, bolts of rich fabric, and bags of silver coins—a generous offering that earned appreciative murmurs from the Armstrong clan members.
The sight of them made her chest tight. It reminded her that she was as much a political transaction as the gifts themselves.
As the bagpiper struck up a celebratory tune and the congregation began to file out toward the great hall, Morag's eyes met Colin's.
For just a moment, she saw his features soften into what seemed like affection.
Her heart began to race and she smiled at him.
Instead of the response she expected, the warmth she had seen disappeared so quickly she might have imagined it, replaced once again by the impenetrable mask of the Iron Laird.
"Me lady," he said quietly, offering his arm with the same courtesy he might show any guest. "Shall we proceed tae the celebration?"
Lady Armstrong. That’s who I am now. But I’m still a stranger tae me own husband. This is how it will be , Last night was an aberration. This coldness is who he truly is.
In the great hall, the wedding feast spread before them on long wooden tables. There was roasted meat, fresh bread, and enough ale for the day’s cheer. But the conversations around them were muted, voices carefully lowered as if the guests feared speaking too loudly might disturb something fragile.
"Tae the bride and groom!" Jamie called out, raising his cup with forced cheer.
"Aye, tae our laird and his lovely bride!" echoed Duncan MacLeod. His eyes darted nervously between the newlyweds.
Colin lifted his cup in acknowledgment, even managed what might pass for a smile. "Me thanks," he said formally, then immediately turned to discuss patrol schedules with the man on his other side.
Morag had been raising her cup toward her new husband, but when he turned from her, she froze with her own cup halfway to her lips. The chair next to hers might as well have been empty for all the notice Colin took of her presence.
"Me lady," Sheena approached with a plate of honeyed cakes. "Cook made these especially fer ye."
"How thoughtful," Morag replied, forcing brightness to her voice. "Please thank her fer me."