23
The day of the wedding arrived, and Willow’s stomach was a mess of swooping butterflies. The nerves were enough to make her vaguely nauseated, and her fingers trembled as she stood before the long mirror that had been brought into her room.
“Ye look so verra bonny, me lady.” The servant, Aileen, smiled at her through the reflection, and Willow’s heart fluttered harder in her chest. “The color looks so fine against yer skin.”
Willow studied herself and the gorgeous gown that had been procured by a seamstress in the village outside the castle specifically for this occasion. There had been the mention of a dress for her wedding to the MacMillans, but it had been suggested—by Magnus, of course—that Willow should simply wear her best one.
It was not uncommon, but something about the fact that she wore a dress made for her for this ceremony made it all the more special. A combination of white and pale silver fabrics thatshimmered in the light were used to construct the gown, and the full skirt was silken and smooth to the touch.
“Thank ye, Aileen. I feel…well, I’m nearly ready to burst from all the emotions in truth.” The two of them chuckled. “Still, I remember a poem I’d been told a few months back. Married in white, and I have chosen right. Married in gray, and I shall go far away. It appears that the dress kenned of the situation without even being told.”
Silence swelled, and Willow’s eyes burned as she stared into the mirror. She did feel like she was making the “right” decision, and still, Willow would also be living far away from where she imagined.
Life was an odd thing, it seemed, particularly for her.
“Och, daenae fash, me lady. I have also heard that green means that ye’ve stained yer dress rolling in the fields with a lover.” Aileen waved the notion off. “I’ve seen many a woman married in the color, and I ken that each of them retained their virtue. Much like yerself.”
Willow smiled, grateful for the comment. “You’re verra kind, Aileen. I am glad to have ye here.”
It was the truth and more. The lass had been incredibly welcoming of Willow. She’d never made mention of the rumors about Keegan’s having tarnished her purity, which Willow was exceedingly thankful for with each curious look that was cast in her direction.
“Och, but we must be gettin' ye to the carriage so that ye daenae keep the priest waitin'.” Aileen scurried over to the wash basin behind them and returned with a long, thin veil, which she pinned over Willow’s face. “Ye daenae want the faeries stealin' ye off for yer finery.”
Willow wasn’t as familiar with this particular tradition, but all Scots were notoriously stubborn about what they did to honor them, and she wasn’t looking to cause a commotion when she needed this wedding to go successfully. It was her only means of protection, after all.
The next few hours before the ceremony when by in a blur. Willow had been shepherded down through the castle to the carriage that would take her to the church. As she stepped inside, Aileen threaded a piece of white heather through her hair, and then called out to Willow as she was carried off in her separate coach ahead of the others.
“Pray ye daenae see a funeral or pig!”
Willow chuckled, but luck for now was on her side. There were no such bad omens on the way to the church, and she gave out a coin and a sip of whiskey to the young man who happened to be the first person they encountered on their way.
He would follow along behind the final carriage until dismissed, and Willow only hoped that Rodrick and the others would havemercy on the young man and allow him to get back to his day quickly.
They were at the church before she knew it, and Willow was taken off to the side so that Keegan and the others could stand just to the side of the door and ready themselves to lead her inside.
Dear Lord, me heart is going to burst. Breathe, Willow. Come now.
She sucked in the fresh air as she watched the other stand near the door, and then, at last, Keegan appeared. He was dressed in his finest plaid, the traditional Brahanne tartan pattern draped around him in beautiful swaths of fabric. His kilt pleats were crisp, and his hair had been combed back off his forehead.
He looked…beautiful.
Willow was presented to him, and she watched with a grin as his jaw dropped slightly before he clamped his mouth shut again.
“Is there something wrong, Keegan?” She whispered in teasing.
He narrowed his eyes, smirking. “Ye look…lovely, Willow. I’ll admit that ye’ve stolen me breath.”
Warmth flooded through her, and they were standing before the priest, ready to offer their vows to each other.
“I offer ye this sheaf of wheat,” Keegan said, taking the stalk from Rodrick and handing it to her, “to symbolize how I will provide for ye and our people.”
Willow accepted the token and turned to Lilith, who stood next to her with the woven cloth Willow had been working on for the past few days. She took it and faced Keegan, offering it out to him.
“I offer ye this cloth. A symbol of me pledge to care for our home and our people.”
Their hands were bound with a smooth white chord after that, and Keegan produced his dirk to quickly nick the inside of their wrists, pressing them together.
“I give unto thee me blood,” Keegan held her stare, intense and unblinking, “as a symbol of me devotion to offering up whatever is necessary to protect ye. I shall be a shield for yer back as ye are for mine. As a light to the eye, as bread to the famished, as bliss to the heart, may ye always be with me ‘til death comes to part us. Ye are of me blood from this day forward, Willow Fiona Flanagan.”