Page 3 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)
CHAPTER THREE
" H old still, lass, or I'll stick ye with a pin," Ada murmured, her weathered fingers working carefully through Erica's dark hair.
Erica sat motionless in the chair, staring at her reflection in the polished silver mirror. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger—face pale but composed, eyes bright with an emotion she couldn't quite name. Was it fear? Anticipation? Both?
"Ye look beautiful, me lady," Ada said softly, weaving another strand of hair into the intricate braids that would frame Erica's face. "Yer mother would be proud."
At the mention of her mother, Erica's throat tightened. How different this day would have been if her parents had lived to see it.
"Ye're as good as a thousand mothers to me, Ada. I daenae ken what I would have done without ye."
Ada's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "This is the happiest day of me life, watchin’ ye take yer place as a proper lady."
"Tsk, Ada. Ye must remember it's all arranged," Erica said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's nae as if there's any romance expected. This is just... business."
"Och, lass." Ada's hands stilled in her hair. "I saw how handsome yer husband-to-be is. And I caught him lookin' at ye, and it dinnae seem like business to me..." She resumed her braiding with a knowing smile. "Ye never ken what might bloom from practical beginnin's."
"Ada—"
"Hush now. There's nay reason why this cannae become somethin’ more." Ada's voice grew gentle. "Sometimes the heart surprises us, even when we think we have it all planned out. And ye deserve a chance to be happy, lass."
Erica smiled, amused at Ada's romantic insinuations. Lachlan saw her exactly the way she saw him. Business to move their clan’s ambitions further.
"Almost time," Ewan said from his position by the door, his weathered face solemn. He'd been standing guard since before dawn, though Erica doubted anyone would disturb them. Still, his presence was comforting, a familiar constant in this strange new world.
"Where's James?" Erica asked, realizing she hadn't seen the councilman since they'd arrived at Castle Kinnaird.
"Breakin’ his fast with the other guests," Ewan replied. "He wanted to give ye privacy to prepare. Said ye'd need time to gather yer thoughts."
Erica nodded, grateful for the older man's consideration. James had traveled with them from McLaren lands, but he'd made himself scarce after her meeting with Lachlan, giving her space to process what was about to happen.
"There." Ada stepped back, admiring her handiwork. "Perfect."
Erica rose from the chair, smoothing her hands over the gown she'd chosen for this day.
It was her finest dress, made from cream silk.
She'd decided to come with the dress at the last minute, in case the laird wanted to have dinner with her or introduce her to his council for further negotiations. It turned out to be her wedding gown.
The fabric shimmered in the morning light, and intricate gold embroidery decorated the bodice and sleeves. The neckline was modest but elegant, and the fitted waist showed her figure without being improper.
Over it, she wore her mother's ornate silver brooch that had been passed down through generations of McLaren women. The color brought out the darkness of her hair and eyes, and she knew she looked every inch the Highland lady she was.
"Are ye ready?" Ada asked, her voice gentle but knowing.
Erica took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her mother's jewelry at her throat and wrists. "Aye. I'm ready."
The three of them made their way through the corridors of Castle Kinnaird, their footsteps echoing on the stone floors. Erica caught more than one curious glance. News of the laird's sudden wedding had spread quickly through the castle.
As they approached the kirk, Erica could hear voices—low murmurs of conversation, the shuffle of feet on stone. Her heart began to beat faster, and she forced herself to keep her breathing steady.
"Remember," Ewan said quietly, "ye're Lady McLaren. Ye bow to nay one."
She nodded, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders. Whatever happened today, she would face it with dignity.
The kirk doors opened, and Erica stepped inside.
The small stone chapel was filled with people, more than she'd expected.
Kinnaird clan members filled the wooden pews, their faces turned toward her with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism.
She caught a few hostile glances—women who'd perhaps hoped to become Lady Kinnaird themselves, men who questioned the wisdom of their laird's sudden choice.
But most looked at her with polite interest, waiting to see what manner of woman their laird had chosen.
And there, at the front of the kirk, stood Lachlan.
He was magnificent. Dressed in formal Highland attire—a crisp white shirt, a dark green and blue plaid secured with a silver brooch, and a sword at his side. His dark hair was pulled back, emphasizing the strong lines of his face, and then their eyes met across the chapel.
All the angels of the heavens. He is handsome.
Erica tried to repress the sudden flutter in her chest at the sight of him.
He hadn't taken his eyes off her since she'd entered. The intensity of his gaze made her skin warm, and she found herself walking toward him as if drawn by an invisible thread.
The priest, a kindly-looking man with graying hair, smiled warmly as she approached. "Welcome, lass. Are ye ready to pledge yerself to this man?"
"Aye," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.
"And ye, Laird Lachlan?" the priest asked. "Are ye ready to take this woman as yer wife?"
"I am," Lachlan replied, his deep voice carrying easily through the chapel.
When the time came for the binding, Lachlan stepped closer and extended his hands. Erica's breath caught as she placed her palms against his, feeling the calluses from sword work, the warmth that seemed to radiate from his skin.
"Join yer hands," the priest instructed gently.
Their fingers interlaced, and Erica found herself studying the contrast—her slender fingers pale against his sun-darkened skin, her smooth hands dwarfed by his battle-scarred ones. A tremor ran through her at the intimate contact, but it wasn't fear. It was something else entirely.
The priest lifted a length of McLaren tartan that was deep green with threads of blue running through it, like veins of sapphire. The wool was soft against her wrists as he began wrapping it around their joined hands, binding them together in the ancient way.
"This tartan carries the strength of Clan McLaren," the priest intoned, his voice taking on the cadence of ritual. "Generations of warriors, mothers, children—all who came before ye."
Next came a strip of Kinnaird plaid torn from Lachlan's own jacket—darker green shot through with black and silver. As the priest wound it over the McLaren colors, the two patterns seemed to dance together, creating something entirely new.
"And this carries the strength of Clan Kinnaird," the priest continued. "Two bloodlines, two histories, now woven as one."
Erica felt the bindings tighten around their wrists—not uncomfortably, but securely. She was bound to this man now, literally and figuratively. When she looked up, she found Lachlan watching her with an intensity that made her pulse flutter.
"The threads that bind ye are stronger than the individual strands," the priest said, his voice rising to carry through the chapel. "As these tartans are woven together, so too are yer lives, yer clans, yer futures. What God has joined, let no man put asunder."
The words seemed to echo in the stone chamber, settling into her bones.
For a moment—just a moment—she could almost forget this was born of necessity.
The way Lachlan's thumb brushed across her knuckles, the reverence in the priest's voice, the ancient ritual connecting her to countless Highland brides before her. .. it felt sacred. Real.
This is me life now. This man, this moment, this choice.
Erica stared down at their bound hands.
Erica felt tears prick her eyes. For a moment, she could almost forget this was an arrangement born of necessity. For a moment, it felt real.
"Ye may kiss yer bride," the priest said with a smile.
Lachlan's hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing gently across her cheekbones. The touch was so tender, so different from what she'd expected, that she felt her breath catch.
"Wife," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
"Husband," she whispered back.
His lips met hers, soft and warm, and for a heartbeat she melted into the kiss. It was her first—gentle, reverent, nothing like the violence she'd feared. But then the reality crashed over her like a cold wave. A man was touching her, holding her, and Erica stopped breathing.
Her body went rigid, and she jerked back slightly, eyes wide with panic.
Lachlan's hands immediately gentled, his thumbs stroking soothingly across her cheekbones as he leaned his forehead against hers, creating a small, private space between them despite the watching crowd.
"Breathe, lass," he whispered, so quietly only she could hear. "Just breathe. I willnae harm ye."
His voice was calm, steady, and somehow it anchored her. She drew in a shaky breath, then another, until the worst of the panic subsided. When she looked up at him, there was no anger in his eyes, no impatience—just understanding.
"Better?" he asked, though his tone and eyes remained cool.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Good." He pressed the lightest kiss to her forehead, then stepped back and turned to face the chapel full of people who were cheering and applauding, completely unaware of the small drama that had just played out.
The reality of what she'd just done hit her like a physical blow. She was married. Bound to this man, this stranger, who had already shown her so much tenderness, for the rest of her life.