“I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine."
Alasdair’s lips twitched and Isobel could feel the smile that he was concealing.
He had already said his vows, but now it fell to the Laird to answer the question posed by the priest.
“Laird Alasdair MacRaeh, are ye willing to have this woman to be yer wedded wife?"
“Aye.” Alasdair squeezed Isobel’s fingers. His warmth seeped into her hands, making her feel comfortable.
The priest pivoted slightly, allowing his long white robes to flare slightly as he moved to look at Isobel. “And ye, Miss Isobel Graham, are ye willing to have this man as yer wedded husband?”
“Yes.” She tilted her chin upward so that when she accepted him as her husband, she could look directly into Alasdair’s eyes. His grey orbs were brightened by pops of green and blue this morning. As she watched, his eyes roamed over her face, then coasted down her form. Isobel knew that he was admiring her gown. It was a lovely frock, made of soft gold silk. Across her shoulder was draped the Clan MacRaeh tartan, a mirror of his own plaid and kilt.
The priest cleared his throat loudly, then lifted his voice and declared, “In the presence of God and these witnesses I pronounce ye man and wife.” He looked heavenward before narrowing his focus and smiling at Isobel and Alasdair. “For whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
The clanspeople who were congregating in the field cheered. Alasdair leaned forward then and pressed a kiss to her lips. Isobel had not expected him to do as much, but she was glad he did. Her heart leapt for joy as his mouth lingered on hers and when the roaring of the crowd grew louder, it was only then that Isobel and Alasdair pulled apart and smiled at each other.
While her mind had spun frantically just a day before and she’d felt so thrown that only riding out into a storm served to calm her frazzled nerves, she now felt entirely different.
He is my husband and I am his wife. There is nothing he can do that will surprise me now.
* * *
Late that evening, with the hall still faintly loud beneath them and the fire burned low in the hearth, Alasdair sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his hands.
Isobel sat beside him. She did not speak. She had learned when he was finding his way toward something and when that required silence, and she was getting better at knowing the difference.
“I was a walkin’ dead man,” he said. “Before ye came.”
She looked at him.
“I daenae mean unhappy,” he said. “I mean, I had decided that feelin’ less was the same as being stronger. That if I closed things off far enough, they couldnae be used against me.” He turned his hands over. “Me father died. Culloden happened. I took the ring, and I ran the clan. I told meself that bein’ sufficient was the same as bein’ whole.” He looked at her. “It isnae.”
She held his gaze. “No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
“I was cruel to ye,” he said. “Because what I felt when I looked at ye frightened me, and it was easier to be cruel than to be frightened.”
“I know,” she said.
“That’s nae an excuse,” he said. “It’s an explanation. There’s a difference.”
“I know that too,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment. “Ye should be angrier with me than ye are,” he said.
“I am angry with you,” she said. “I’m simply choosing not to deploy it right now.”
“When will ye deploy it?”
“When it’s useful,” she said. “It’s a resource. I don’t like to waste resources.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Of course ye daenae.”
She reached over and took his hand and held it in both of hers and looked at it. His hands were large and scarred. She traced the scar along the knuckle of his ring finger, and he held still and let her.
“Ye’re allowed to feel things,” she said. “Ye’re allowed to feel them and still be a Laird. Those things daenae cancel each other out.”
He looked at their hands. “I’m learnin’ that,” he said.