Page 40 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I tilt my head back to examine the intensity of his gaze. I’m momentarily breathless, as if the air has been stolen from my lungs.

“Wait, you’re saying... get married? Like, right this second?”

That devilishly charming smile spreads across his face. “Aye, right here in this very pub, surrounded by friends and relatives. I cannae think of a more perfect kick-off to our life together.”

“But... our parents... Lila, your brother,” I stutter out, wishing for this moment to unfurl naturally but feeling torn.

Cal gently cups my face with his hands, his touch steadying the thoughts swirling in my mind. His gaze is filled with warmth and reassurance.

“We’ve a whole family back home in modern-day Aven Valley, no question about it. But we cannae get to them yet. And take a look around ye, love. We’ve got ourselves a clan right here.”

I let my gaze sweep over the warm faces of our friends and beam back at them. He’s absolutely right. They’ve all become my family.

“Rest easy about my folks. They’re safe at the farm; I can feel it in my bones, Mills, and I cannae go wrong when I trust my instincts. As for yours, Lila, Cam, they won’t have an inkling that we’ve skipped a beat in time,” he adds softly, assuring no one else can hear our conversation.

At his words, I find myself frozen in place, my mind churning over the reality of our situation. We’re stuck here until the next full moon; there’s no way around it. We’ve been pretending to be married for a month already! And I’m totally, unapologetically in love with this man.

“Besides,” Cal seems to complete my thoughts, an impish sparkle lighting his eyes as his thumb grazes my hand, “I’m eager to call ye my wife in every timeline—in every sense of that word—if ye get what I mean?”

His soft, seductive words linger in the air, heavy and loaded with possibilities. A champagne glass of joy bubbles inside me as images of our potential future together dance like a film in my mind.

I picture us bundled up in ridiculously oversized sweaters, parked on the weather-beaten bench outside our adorable cottage.

We’ll be nursing steaming mugs of coffee, its robust aroma tangling with the crisp morning air.

The dawn sun will paint the dew-kissed flowers with a golden hue as we sit together without needing words.

Oh, and our stolen kisses! They’ll pop up in the most unexpected corners—among pots and pans in his kitchen or hidden under piles of laundry. A quick smooch while pairing socks, a lingering one when we think we’re alone—ordinary chores turning into secret dates.

In this vivid mental movie of mine, kids also make a cameo—two or three, maybe? We’ll pile them into our family wagon, their infectious chatter filling every nook as we navigate through twisting lanes to Aven Valley’s local sports field. I can almost hear their triumphant shouts echoing around me.

Our weekends will be spent at Cameron’s pub, The Tipsy Trow, where the sign is in its rightful place outside, and laughter is still as abundant as the whisky flow.

Cozied up in our favorite corner booth, we’ll swap stories and jokes with friends who feel more like family, their company providing a warmth that beats even the coziest fireplace.

When night falls and moonlight dances on Moray Firth’s tranquil waters, we’ll sneak away for impromptu skinny dips. The shock of frosty water against our skin, coupled with our laughter echoing through the silent night, will spark a rush of freedom in us like nothing else.

This cozy domestic life isn’t frightening; it’s tantalizingly within reach.

It won’t be perfect; oh no, it’ll be messy and complicated and sometimes feel next to impossible. But I know, more than anything, that it’s a life bursting with love and laughter, ripe for the taking. And I’m eager to dive right in with Cal.

I rise onto my toes and meet his lips in a kiss that feels like the culmination of every adventure we’ve shared.

“Let’s do it,” I murmur against his lips. “Let’s get handfasted today.”

As the villagers erupt into more cheers and shower us with flower petals, we’re swept up by a joyful tide of friends and family. The air buzzes with laughter and a chorus of “Slàinte!”—the Highland call for health and good fortune—that fills the tavern.

Cal and I are caught in this vibrant whirlpool, our hands glued together as everyone jockeys for a spot to offer their well wishes. Fi’s infectious grin leads the pack, and she’s the first to wrap us both in a bear hug .

Then, just as we’re catching our breath, Cal is momentarily surrounded by the guys, their hearty slaps on his back so enthusiastic they nearly topple him. Cal swivels to Alistair, a hint of concern furrowing his brow.

“Is there a chance of another attack? Should we be on guard?” he asks, his voice low but urgent.

Alistair strokes his beard before responding.

“Well, ye understand, it cannae be our typical grand spectacle,” he begins, his voice laced with understanding, “but given the recent clan skirmishes, we must remain vigilant. A quaint handfasting ceremony here in the tavern should suffice, as it will allow us to keep a watchful eye. We do no need to make a spectacle around town or march to the church. We’ll stand guard right here while ye make yer vows official.

Why delay when love is in the air, aye?”

As more allies join in the applause, Fi, her sister Elspeth, and a lively group of women eagerly take me aside, their enthusiasm contagious.

“Oh me goodness, Mills! We’ve got so much to do!” Fi exclaims, her eyes sparkling with a playful glint. “We need to prepare ye for yer bridal Foot Washing Ceremony, gather some flowers, and find the perfect dress! But dinnae worry about a thing; we’ll have ye all set in no time.”

Her words spill out like a waterfall, and suddenly, I’m whisked away into the tavern’s kitchen—a domain that reeks more of boiled innards and fermented brew than romance. But hey, Aven Valley Charm would probably sell well as a niche perfume.

While the men contemplate constructing an altar in the tavern and women chatter about local flora, Fi and Elspeth lead a small group of village ladies in converting the kitchen into something that looks like it’s been ripped straight from the pages of Zen Living Monthly .

Okay, so the quinoa dispenser and yoga mat storage are missing. But it’s close!

Bowls filled with steaming water are lined up like soldiers. The rising steam twirls seductively in the air. Dried lavender and aromatic herbs hang from the rafters.

“Welcome to your Foot Washing!” Fi announces with a grin.

I chuckle as she and Elspeth perch me onto an improvised throne—basically just a burlap sack flung over a robust wooden chair.

With my feet hovering just above the floorboards, Fi and her brigade roll up their sleeves, gearing up to pamper me as if I’m some sort of Early Modern era princess.

As Elspeth skips out to get the wildflowers, Fi leans close and murmurs confidentially into my ear: “In our time, lassie, a Foot Washing is more than mere foot hygiene—it’s a ritual cleansing to wash away past burdens and embrace fresh starts with open hearts.”

I stifle a giggle and lean in, whispering, “Oh, does that mean I get to pick a shade and maybe some paraffin wax, too? You know, in my time, a pedicure isn’t complete without a color that screams ‘I have my life together’… even if I’m still eating cereal for dinner.”

Fi lets out a belly laugh. “Aye, lass, I’m afraid our selection is a wee bit limited. But I can offer ye a lovely shade of ‘Highland Mud’ with a hint of ‘Wild Thistle Green.’”

“Sounds like the perfect accessory for my next leap into Loch Ness,” I chuckle softly, wiggling my toes in anticipation.

When Elspeth reappears, Fi delicately cascades a blend of warm water, handpicked herbs, and wildflowers over my tired feet.

The inviting heat from the water seeps into my skin, effortlessly melting away layers of pent-up tension.

I allow my eyes to drift closed, surrendering to the comforting caress of lavender and thistle that envelops me in an aromatic hug.

It’s the ideal pre-wedding foot treatment.

Who knew a 17th-century spa day could be so indulgent? And, bonus! Without the hassle of finding parking!

As Fi’s sundial signals it’s five o’clock, candlelight pirouettes across the tavern’s time-etched wooden tables and rough-hewn stone walls, bathing everything in a golden glow that amplifies the room’s raw beauty.

The air is heavy with the untamed scent of the Highlands—purple heather and thistle. It hits me harder than spotting the bright orange avens flowers my friends have gathered from Moray Firth’s shoreline, and I have to take a breather to choke back euphoric tears.

As the afternoon wraps around us like a soothing lullaby, the minister slides in the back door, flanked by two of Alistair’s strongest warriors standing guard. The weight of reality sets in: this is really happening.

Cal stands beside me at our makeshift altar, his fingers intertwined with mine in an unbreakable bond.

He looks as stunning as I feel jittery: clad in a sleek black coat, crisp white shirt that accentuates his sun-kissed skin, and donning Clan MacDowells’ traditional kilt—heirlooms passed down through generations of proud Scottish warriors.

I’m swathed in Fi’s mother’s rosy red wedding gown. Its simplicity belies its elegance; its design flatters my athletic build without overpowering it. It seems to whisper stories within its seams—softly spoken tales of steadfast love from another time.

Our eyes lock as the minister weaves his enchanting words around us.

A sense of absolute certainty anchors itself deep inside me.

This is exactly where I’m supposed to be: standing beside Cal at this altar made of love and promises, ready to tackle any curveballs or adventures life decides to pitch our way.

As we stand before our friends, the officiant presents us with the traditional tartan cloth. We extend our hands, and he deftly wraps the fabric around them, binding us together in a symbolic union.

Once the handfasting is complete, we slip in a few unique pledges of our own, hoping the merry townsfolk, well into their cups by now, won’t notice the oddities.

“Mills,” Cal begins, “I vow to bring home the bacon and brave the morning chill to milk even the grumpiest of cows.”

I bite my lip to stifle a giggle as he adds with a wink, “And I swear to renovate my old cottage so ye won’t be in constant danger of knocking yerself unconscious.”

His tone softens as he continues, taking his time to enunciate each word. “But above all else, I promise to be your partner in crime, your lover in life, and your soft landing when times are tough. My heart will always know your name.”

As he slips the silver band onto my finger, my knees threaten to buckle beneath me. I take a deep breath, pausing to gather my thoughts as I exhale.

“Cal, I’ll be there to catch you when you fall, too. And I commit to writing our extraordinary tale while preserving your reputation.”

“And I solemnly swear not to overindulge in footwear purchases.” I pause and correct myself with a flourish:

“Well... except for an ample supply of ass-kicking boots ,” I giggle, mimicking his Scottish accent perfectly.

The crowd cheers as the officiant tells us to seal the handfasting with a kiss, a tradition older than the stone walls around us. Cal grins and sweeps me into his arms, his lips claiming mine in a long, passionate kiss.

As our loved ones erupt into cheers and bombard us with avens flower petals, the music accelerates courtesy of Fergus’ fiddle and Alistair’s drum.

Cal seizes my hand, pulling me onto the impromptu dance floor.

My dress billows around my ankles as we spin and leap, our laughter blending with the lively fiddle notes and rhythmic foot-stomping.

I feel like I’m floating, all my anxieties and uncertainties blown away by the pure joy of this moment.

“So this,” I whisper, “is what bliss feels like.”

The night stretches on, and the energy of the celebration shows no signs of waning. Cal leans closer to me, his warm breath tickling my ear as he murmurs, “What do ye say we sneak away? I’ve got plans for ye that don’t involve an audience.”

A shiver courses through me at his words, my body already reacting to the seductive spark in his gaze.

“Lead the way, Captain,” I murmur back.

I grip his hand tighter as we slip into our attic bedroom, leaving behind the gradually dimming sounds of festivity.