“You’ve all been very kind to me,” she said. “Thank you.”
Kind as they were, she wished her sisters were here. She had never imagined she would marry without a single member of her family present.
***
Rory smiled to himself as he dressed in his best saffron shirt and plaid for the ceremony. There could be no changing their course regardless, but his heart was glad that Sybil wanted to be his wife.
When he started to fasten the plaid over his shoulder with his broach, Malcolm shook his head and took it from him.
“Ye must wear this one now.” Malcolm held out a familiar silver broach worked in the image of a stag’s head, the symbol of the chieftain of the MacKenzies.
“Where did ye find it?” Rory narrowed his eyes at him. “This disappeared just like my father’s sword did when he died.”
“I put them away for safekeeping until we had a chieftain worthy of your father and grandfather’s legacy.”
“Ye should have given them to Brian,” Rory said.
“I’d not let them fall into Hector’s hands so long as I have breath in my body,” Malcolm said. “And ye know damned well that’s who would have them now if I hadn’t protected them.”
Rory hated the thought of Hector wearing the broach and sword that had been his father’s most prized possessions. And Malcolm was right. Hector would have used these revered symbols of the chieftainship to help legitimize his claim.
“You were wise to hide them,” Rory said. “I shall try to be worthy of them.”
“I’ve no doubt ye will.” Malcolm was quiet a long moment. “Are ye not being a bit hasty with taking Sybil as your wife before the whole clan?”
“Ye advised me to act decisively, and so I have.”
“That’s what I advised about claiming the chieftainship, not a wife,” Malcolm said. “Ach, you’re as rash about rushing this wedding as your father was about marrying your mother.”
Rory grinned. “I’d say that portends well for our future.”
“That’s what my wife says,” Malcolm said with a long-suffering sigh. “But what about the Grants? They’ll not take this well. Not well at all.”
Malcolm was right about the Grants. But Rory would worry about the Grants and his many other troubles another day.
Today he was celebrating.
***
When Sybil entered the hall, the room fell silent except for the intake of a hundred breaths, including his own. Rory found her beautiful in a filthy gown with her face smudged with mud and her hair in tangles, but she was utterly magnificent as a bride. The rich blue color of the gown matched her eyes, and her shining black hair was set off with his mother’s jeweled silver combs.
The gown shimmered and flowed, making her look like a faery princess as she glided across the room to him. She looked at no one but him, and her smile lifted his heart. He found it hard to believe she was really his.
He took her hands and began his vows.
“I, Rory Ian Fraser MacKenzie, son of Kenneth of the Battle, the 8thof Kintail, and grandson of Alexander the Upright, the 7thof Kintail, take you, Lady Sybil Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of…”
As he recited her name and pedigree, fear flashed in Sybil’s eyes at the realization that every person in the castle now knew who she was. Rory squeezed her hands to reassure her and continued his pledge.
“…to be my wife. Before God and my clan, I promise to protect and keep you and to be a faithful and loyal husband until God shall separate us by death.”
Sybil seemed to pale at the reminder that she was bound to him until death, but she recited her vows to him in a clear voice.
When Rory pulled his dirk, her eyes went wide, and he realized that as a Lowlander she was not familiar with this part. He should have warned her. Praise God she did not scream, for that was just the sort of reaction those who were critical of his choice of a bride expected.
He held her gaze, willing her to trust him, as he turned her right hand over. Sybil did not even flinch as he cut across her palm, leaving a thin line of deep red blood. After drawing the blade across his own palm, he clasped his hand to hers, palm to palm.
As he wound the symbolic strip of linen around their joined hands, he recited the ancient words. He repeated them three times, the number that provided a couple’s bond with magical protection.