Page 52 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

One week later

“Are ye ready fer this, mo chridhe ?”

Rhona’s hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the intricate Celtic knots woven through her dark ginger hair, each twist and turn a symbol of the new life she was about to embark on.

The polished metal mirror reflected both their images back like a promise – Ian standing behind her, resplendent in his finest Highland dress, the Wallace tartan draped across his broad shoulders perfectly, secured with an ancient silver brooch that had belonged to his grandfather.

Just look at ye, me husband… in just a few hours, ye’ll truly be me husband.

Her heart did that familiar flutter as she took in the sight of him.

The magnitude of it threatened to overwhelm her. After months of captivity, of slowly learning to trust, of fighting for their love against political schemes and clan prejudices, they had finally reached the moment where they were free to choose each other without reservation.

“As ready as a lass can be fer bindin’ herself tae a stubborn Scottish laird,” she said. The smile that spread across her face felt like pure heavenly light – warm, brilliant, and absolutely wholehearted.

I’m marryin’ this wonderful man, I’m choosin’ him, choosin’ us.

The past week had flown by in a whirlwind of preparation that would have challenged even the most experienced clan matriarchs.

Three clans coming together meant three sets of traditions to honor, three sets of relatives to accommodate, and enough political maneuvering to make a royal court jealous.

But through it all, one truth had remained constant – her absolute certainty that it was right.

“Ye look radiant’,” Ian murmured, his hands settling gently on her shoulders, and Rhona felt her breath catch at the reverence in his voice.

The wedding dress had been Isolde’s gift – a deep blue silk with intricate silver embroidery that shimmered in the morning sunlight.

The MacAlpin colors blended seamlessly with the Wallace clan symbols, a visual representation of the union they were about to formalize.

But more than that, it made her feel beautiful, cherished, worthy of the love shining in Ian’s mossy green eyes.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Isolde swept in with a rustle of silken skirts, her face glowing with happiness for her sibling. “Ready?” she asked, her eyes taking in every detail with the satisfaction of a woman who’d helped plan this moment down to the smallest ribbon.

“Isolde,” Rhona said softly, reaching out to clasp her sister’s hands. “I cannae thank ye enough fer travelin’ all this way and helpin’ us prepare fer the ceremony here at Castle Wallace. ‘Tis more than we could have hoped fer.”

Isolde’s eyes sparkled with warm affection as she squeezed Rhona’s hands.

“Och, dinnae be daft,” she said with a dismissive wave, though her smile was friendly.

“Where else would we be on such a day? After everythin’ ye and Ian have been through, we wanted tae make certain ye had all the family support ye needed fer a proper celebration. ”

“Thank ye.”

“The guests are assembled and awaitin’ yer presence.

Faither’s been pacin’ like a caged bear, Ciaran’s tryin’ tae keep the MacCraith warriors from startin’ drinkin’ contests with the Wallace men, and Lorna’s somewhere sketchin everythin’ fer posterity.

” Isolde’s smile widened. “Just another perfectly normal Highland weddin’. ”

Rhona laughed, the sound chasing away the last of her nervous butterflies. “Well then, let’s nae keep them waitin’ any longer.

The great hall of Castle Wallace had been transformed into something magical, draped with the colors of all three clans and lit with enough candles to rival the stars themselves.

Ian stood at the front, near the massive hearth, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched clan members file in wearing their finest tartans.

She chose this, She chose me freely, chose us, chose tae build a future together.

But even with that knowledge firmly lodged in his mind, the magnitude of what they were undertaking threatened to overwhelm him.

This wasn’t just a marriage – it was the foundation of a new political alliance, a symbol of peace between clans that had spent generations at each other’s throats. This is bigger than the two of us.

“Breathe, lad,” Allistair MacAlpin said quietly, appearing at his elbow with the measured step of a man who’d given daughters away before. “She’ll be here.”

“I ken she will,” Ian replied, though his voice came out rougher than intended. “’Tis just… all of this. Are we mad tae think we can make this work?”

“Love always requires a wee bit of madness,” Allistair said with a slight smile. “But I’ve watched ye both these past days. They way ye look at each other, the way ye work taegether tae solve problems… aye, I think it will work. Now, excuse me while I fetch me daughter.”

Within minutes, the bagpipes began their haunting melody, and conversation died around them as every head turned toward the entrance.

Ian’s breath caught in his throat as Rhona appeared in the doorway, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm, looking every inch the Highland noblewoman she’d been born to be.

She moved toward him with the grace of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to claim it. Her blue eyes never left his face, and in them he saw now doubt, no hesitation – only love and determination and the promise of a future worth fighting for.

When she reached him, Allistair placed her hand in Ian’s with formal ceremony. “Take care of her, lad,” he said quietly. “She’s the heart of our clan.”

“Aye, I will.” Ian promised, his voice thick with emotion. “With me life.”

The handfasting ceremony began with Gaelic words older than memory, spoken by the clan elders in voices that carried the weight of tradition. But Ian barely heard them, lost in the wonder of Rhona’s face turned up toward his own, and in the way her fingers trembled slightly in his grasp.

“D’ye, Ian Wallace, take this woman as yer wife, tae honor her above all others, tae protect her with yer life, and tae cherish her until death claims ye both?”

“Aye, I dae,” Ian said, his voice carrying clearly across the hall.

“And dae ye, Rhona MacAlpin, take this man as yer husband, tae stand beside him in all things, tae share his burdens and joys, and tae love him until death claims ye both?”

“Aye, I dae,” Rhona replied, her voice steady and sure.

The clan tartans were brought forward – Wallace blue and black, MacAlpin green and gold, MacCraith silver and red – and woven together by the elders into a single cord. As they bound Ian and Rhona’s joined hands with the braided cloth, the symbolism was clear to everyone present.

“What God has joined, let no man put asunder,” the elder intoned. “What the clans have witnessed, let is stand fer all time. By the ancient laws of Scotland and the sacred traditions of the Highlands, I now pronounce ye husband and wife.”

The cheer that erupted from the assembled crowd was loud enough to shake the ancient stones of the castle walls.

Ian pulled Rhona into his arms for their first kiss within the holy bonds of matrimony, and the world narrowed to just the two of them – the moment that made everything they’d endured worthwhile.

“Lady Wallace,” Ian murmured against her lips.

“Och,” she whispered back. “I dae like the sound of that!”

The kiss that followed sealed more than just their vows before God – it sealed a promise of the life they would build together.

When they finally broke apart, the cheer that erupted from the assembled crowd was loud enough to shake the ancient stones, and Rhona thought her heart might burst from the sheer joy of it all.

She found herself swept from group to group, accepting congratulations and well-wishes until her cheeks ached from smiling.

Hours passed in a blur of dancing and toasts and stories that grew more outrageous with each telling.

She watched with delight as Aileen taught a gruff Wallace warrior the steps of a traditional MacAlpin dance, as Lorna sketched the festivities with artistic precision, as Isla challenged a group of young Wallace men to a drinking contest that had them all roaring with laughter, and her father who shared war stories with Ian’s men like they’d been allies for decades rather than enemies for generations.

She was in the middle of accepting congratulations from a jovial MacCraith cousin when she heard Ciaran’s voice cut through the revelry with sharp authority.

“Form up! Royal guard approachin’!”

The great hall fell silent as a tomb, as if someone had dropped a shroud over the celebration. Rhona felt Ian’s hand find hers immediately, his fingers strong and steady as tension rippled through the guests.

The massive doors swung open to admit a contingent of royal guards in their distinctive red and gold livery, followed by a figure that made every person in the hall drop to one knee in respectful acknowledgement.

King Charles II of Scotland entered with the casual confidence of a man accustomed to having his presence change the atmosphere of any room. He was younger than Rhona had expected, perhaps thirty years old, with intelligent dark eyes that missed nothing as they swept over the assembled clans.

“Rise,” he commanded, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “We are after all here on a matter of some urgency.”

Ian and Rhona exchanged glances as they rose with the rest of their guests. This was either very good, or very bad news, and given their recent history, Rhona was inclined to expect the worst.

“We have received most disturbing reports,” the king continued, his gaze settling on Ian with uncomfortable intensity, “regarding the conduct of certain Highland lairds. Reports of unlawful military action, of political instability, of...” his eyes flitted to Rhona, “questionable alliances formed through questionable means.”