Page 5 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Dae ye, Ruaridh MacDuff, take this woman tae be yer lawfully wedded wife, tae have and tae hold, in sickness and in health, fer richer or poorer, as long as ye both shall live?"

"I dae." His voice was steady, final. No hesitation, but no warmth either.

"And dae ye, Iona MacNeill, take this man tae be yer lawfully wedded husband, tae have and tae hold, in sickness and in health, fer richer or poorer, as long as ye both shall live?"

She looked into his green eyes, searching for some flicker of the boy she'd known. "I dae."

"Now fer the handfasting," the priest announced, producing a length of ribbon from his vestments.

Iona's breath caught. The ribbon was a deep forest green—not the MacDuff blue she'd expected, but the exact shade that had been her favorite as a child.

She'd worn it in her hair during those long summer days at the castle, insisted on green ribbons for her braids, had even painted her wooden doll's dress that particular color.

Her eyes flew to Ruaridh's face. For just an instant, she thought she saw something flicker there, a brief softening, a hint of memory. But it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.

Did he remember?

The priest wound the ribbon around their joined hands, binding them together with gentle efficiency. "As yer hands are bound together now, so yer lives and spirits are joined in a union of love and trust."

Ruaridh's hand was warm and callused beneath hers, strong enough to wield a sword but gentle as he held her fingers. She could feel his steady pulse through his wrist, proof that beneath his cold exterior, his heart did still beat.

"Above ye are the stars," the priest continued, "below ye is the earth. As time passes, remember: like a star should yer love be constant, like the earth should yer love be firm."

Love. Such a strange word to hear in this context. Duty, protection, political necessity—those she understood. But love? That seemed as distant as the stars the priest spoke of.

"Be close, but not too close. Possess one another yet be understanding. Have patience with one another, fer storms will come, but they will pass."

Patience. Niamh's words echoed in her mind. Perhaps that was all she could hope for—time enough for understanding to grow between them.

"Be free in giving affection and warmth. Have nay fear and let nae the ways of the unenlightened give ye unease. Fer God is with ye always."

The priest smiled as he finished binding their hands. "Ye may now kiss yer bride."

Ruaridh turned toward her, and for a moment they simply looked at each other. His eyes were unreadable, but his hand tightened slightly around hers. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers—brief, formal, the seal on a contract rather than a promise of passion.

But his lips were soft, and warm, and when he pulled away, she thought she saw his breathing hitch just slightly.

"I present tae ye," the priest announced, "Our future laird and his Lady MacDuff."

The small congregation offered polite applause. Niamh stepped forward with tears in her eyes, embracing them both. "Welcome tae the family, me dear," she whispered in Iona's ear. Then Alistair took her in his embrace, welcoming her to the castle and as his new daughter-in-law.

As the ribbon was removed and tucked away, Iona found herself stealing glances at her new husband. The green ribbon had been folded carefully and handed to her—a wedding gift, or simply tradition. But she couldn't shake the feeling that its color had been deliberate.

It was a small thing, perhaps meaningless. But in the careful distance he'd maintained since her arrival, it felt like the first hint that somewhere beneath his walls, the boy she'd known might still exist.

The great hall had been hastily prepared for a wedding feast, though "feast" seemed too grand a word for the simple meal laid out on the long tables.

Roasted meat, fresh bread, and ale—hearty Highland fare that spoke more of necessity than celebration.

The few clan members present talked quietly among themselves, their voices respectful but subdued but her parents-in-law beamed at the newly wed couple from the high table.

Iona sat beside Ruaridh at the high table, acutely aware of the space between them. He'd barely spoken since the ceremony, focusing instead on his food with the kind of concentration that suggested he was avoiding conversation entirely.

"Me lady!" A bright voice called from the hall's entrance, and Iona's heart lifted at the sight of two women hurrying toward them, travel cloaks still dusted with road dirt.

"Morag? Sorcha?" She half-rose from her seat, hardly believing her eyes.

"Did ye think we'd miss yer wedding?" Morag grinned as she approached, her blonde hair escaping from its braids and her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Even travel-worn, she radiated the same irrepressible energy Iona remembered from childhood.

Beside her, Sorcha moved with more measured grace, her dark blonde hair neatly arranged despite the journey. But her smile was just as warm as she embraced Iona carefully. "We rode through the night when we heard. I hope ye dinnae mind uninvited guests."

"Mind? I'm so glad ye came." Iona felt tears prick her eyes. She'd expected to face this new life entirely alone, but here were Ruaridh's sisters—women she'd played with as a child as well, who might become true family.

"Well, someone had to make sure our braither treated ye properly," Morag said, shooting a pointed look at Ruaridh. "From the look of things, we arrived just in time fer the festivities."

Just then, two men entered the hall behind them, removing their travel cloaks and shaking rain from their hair. The taller of the two had dark hair and a commanding presence and moved straight to Sorcha with the easy familiarity of a devoted husband.

"Willelm Comyn," he said, offering Iona a respectful bow before drawing Sorcha close to his side. "Me apologies fer arriving so late tae the celebration."

The second man, stockier but no less imposing, swept Morag into his arms with obvious affection. "Colin Armstrong," he introduced himself with a charming grin, "and I'll echo me braither-in-law's apologies. We rode hard tae get here."

Iona watched the easy intimacy between the couples—the way Willelm's hand rested protectively on Sorcha's back, how Colin's eyes often jumped to Morag's face even as he spoke to others. These were marriages built on love, not mere political alliance.

Ruaridh stood, his expression warming genuinely as he embraced his sisters and clasped hands with their husbands. "I'm glad tae see ye all, but ye shouldnae have traveled in such weather. The roads?—"

"Are perfectly safe when ye have seasoned warriors keeping watch," Willelm interrupted smoothly. "We wouldn't have missed this fer anything."

"Aye," Colin added, his arm still around Morag's waist. "It's an honor tae welcome a new sister tae the family." His smile toward Iona was genuine, lacking any of the reservation she'd sensed from some of the other clan members.

As they settled at the table, Iona found herself studying the easy affection between the couples. Morag and Sorcha seemed genuinely delighted to include her in their conversation, but she could see them exchanging glances when they thought she wasn't looking—glances of concern.

They can see how guarded I am . They're trying tae help, but they ken something's nae right between Ruaridh and me.

The knowledge made her smile feel even more forced, her responses more careful. She wanted desperately to belong, to earn their acceptance, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was an outsider looking in on the warmth of a family she might never truly be a part of.