by Emma Prince
The great hall was filled with a surprising number of MacVale clanspeople. It seemed word had spread quickly that their Laird was to be wed. They, too, had begun shifting restlessly. They eyed the handful of MacDonnell warriors who stood stoically in their midst, clearly eager to be done waiting.
What if she doesnae come?
Fillan was being foolish and weak-minded, he knew, yet he could not stop the thought from surfacing.
When he’d helped her down from her horse in the courtyard, he’d felt her tremble slightly. Was she afraid of him? Afraid of what it would mean to marry him? Mayhap she was repulsed by him, and she’d shuddered at his touch—and the prospect of sharing so much more in the marriage bed.
Aye, and mayhap she would find a way to convince her father to call off this madness. Mayhap she was speaking to him at this moment, pleading not to be married off to a cripple, or weeping at the thought of having to endure the sight of his mangled foot for the rest of her life. Mayhap—
Just then, a swell of murmurs rose at the edge of the crowd closest to the stairs. His clanspeople parted, and there she was, descending like a swan.
Her arm was looped with her father’s. The Laird wore a frown, but he appeared more baffled than angry at the prospect of escorting his only daughter toward her wedding.
Fillan only spared him a glance before shifting his gaze back to Adelaide. Her hair had been partially pulled back and plaited so that the braids formed a honey-brown crown around her head. The rest of her locks fell in a rich cascade down her back.
There were no flowers to be had at this time of year, but some thoughtful servant—Gretha, most likely—had gathered together a bundle of ribbons that had been tied to look like blossoms. Adelaide held the bunch of colorful ribbons in a hand that shook slightly.
She wore the same light blue wool gown as she had before. No jewels sparkled at her neck, nor had she been bedecked in fine silks and brocades.
She didn’t need any of that. Unadorned, her pure, glowing beauty shone like a candle in the dark. She was the most arrestingly beautiful sight he had ever seen.
Distantly, he registered the murmurs of pleasure and awe traveling through the hall as she made her way slowly toward him. It seemed his people were as taken with his bride as he was.
As she and Laird MacDonnell drew closer to the dais, she kept her head modestly dipped. MacDonnell halted at the base of the dais, releasing her arm and placing a peck on her cheek. He cast a lethal glance at Fillan before helping Adelaide step up to his side.
When he took her hand from her father’s and guided her before the priest, only then did she lift her eyes, soft as a doe’s, to him. She was nervous. He saw it in her gaze and felt it in the tremor of her hand.
The knowledge of her trepidation sank like a stone in Fillan’s stomach. Of course she was afraid. Today would mark a turn in her life, binding her to a man who was warped, both inside and out, by the darkness of his birthright.
He had been alone for so long. His mother, who was said to be a kind, gentle soul, had died giving birth to him. And until three years past, he’d had no knowledge of his half-brother Reid. All he’d had in the whole world was a cruel, menacing father who’d bent Fillan to his will with brute force.
He’d been born with a deformed foot. Still, it seemed almost a sign of the warping his soul would undergo beneath the boot heel of Serlon MacVale. For though the man was dead, his words still haunted Fillan.
He was weak. Unworthy. Worthless.
How could he expect aught but Adelaide’s revulsion and distress at being yoked to him?
As Father Dorian began the ceremony, Fillan stood woodenly next to Adelaide, her hand still lifted in his but only the pads of his fingers touching her. They each said their vows, their voices drifting over those gathered. When it came time to place a ring on her finger, he produced a simple golden band that had once belonged to his mother and slid it in place.
“Ye may now kiss yer bride.”
Father Dorian smiled at Fillan, but it took a moment for his words to sink in.
A murmur of anticipation stole over those gathered. Fillan met Adelaide’s gaze. A blush bloomed in her cheeks as she waited, her deep brown eyes revealing uncertainty.
Shameful fear spiked in his veins then. What if she truly was dismayed at having to marry him? What hope could they have for a happy future if she found him lacking, or worse, revolting?
He would never force his affections on her. If it was his misshapen body that offended her, he would simply have to keep his distance, never letting his own longing for her go untethered.
His decision made, he ducked his head toward her. But instead of taking her lips with his, he bowed over her hand. He brushed a kiss onto the cool metal of the ring he’d just placed on her finger, hoping the gesture appeared like a gallant display of his commitment to the vows they’d just made.
But his lips also grazed one of Adelaide’s soft, warm knuckles. He straightened so as to break the contact. Adelaide gasped, her eyes rounding, then her brows pinching together in distress.
If she had so strong a reaction even to a glancing touch, what must she feel at the prospect of the marital bed they would share later that night? The thought made Fillan’s heart wither inside his chest. He wouldn’t terrorize her nor coerce her into accepting her role as his wife. Nay, he would rather sleep in a cold, empty bed for the rest of his life than hurt her in any way.
The gathered MacVales clearly found the peck he’d placed on her hand disappointing. A weak applause rose, but no cheers or shouted felicitations joined it.
Still, he’d made the right decision, he told himself grimly, if her reaction to the brush of his lips on one knuckle was any indication.
This cold union would test him like naught before, but he vowed silently to keep his distance. For her sake.
Chapter Eight
“I must admit, MacVale. I am…impressed.”
Fillan was jerked from his dark thoughts later that evening by MacDonnell’s grudging words.
“It seems ye lead a hardscrabble but happy lot of MacVales here,” he continued, looking out at the merry gathering in the hall. The tables and benches had been pulled out and a simple feast of roasted meat, vegetable stew, fresh bread, and plenty of ale and wine lay before them.
For all the clanspeople’s revelry, however, the high table had been somber and mostly silent all evening. Fillan sat between MacDonnell, who’d held his tongue until now, and Adelaide, who sat rigid and still as a stone statue on his other side.
“Aye,” he said to MacDonnell, his thoughts returning to Adelaide once more.
But it seemed that with a full belly, MacDonnell’s tongue had loosened. “No’ that I trust ye completely,” he added. “But now that I see with my own eyes that the clan has come together to embrace a path of honor…”
Fillan tried and failed to focus on MacDonnell’s words. They were important, he knew, for MacDonnell was finally warming to him, which meant a more meaningful peace could be on the horizon for their clans. Yet he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting to Adelaide.
From the tightness around her eyes to the stiffness of her shoulders, he suspected that he’d done something wrong. More likely, she was nervous about what lay ahead of them that evening.
As MacDonnell paused in his musings about the MacVales to take a sip of wine, Fillan took the opportunity to lean toward Adelaide.
“I have already spoken with Father Dorian,” he murmured, quiet enough for only her ears. “He understands ye are a shy maiden. There willnae be a bedding ceremony.”
Even without the taut unease hanging between them, he would have seen that the bedding ceremony be called off. Their consummation—if it were to ever happen—would be a private matter between himself and Adelaide.
“And…” He hesitated before continuing, but the memory of her trembling hand and the way her eyes had clouded when he’d kissed it returned, urging him on. “And dinnae fash over consummating our vows this
eve—or ever.”
Her gaze snapped to him, Confusion filling her eyes. “What?”
“We neednae…join physically. I will honor ye as my wife in every way, and no doubt will ever fall on ye, but we dinnae need to become…intimate.”
Some unreadable emotion flooded her eyes for a heartbeat before she lowered her head. Fillan would have assumed to see relief there, but it looked strangely more like…hurt.
“Aye,” she whispered, her gaze fixing on her knotted fists in her lap. “If that is what ye wish.”
Once again, the fleeting feeling that he’d done something wrong rippled over his skin, but before he could analyze it, a voice rose from one of the tables below the dais.
“What’s this I hear from Father Dorian?” One of the MacDonnell warriors, a hulking block of a man, rose from his seat. “There isnae to be a bedding ceremony?”
Those around him made good-natured objections, which brought a lopsided grin to the MacDonnell warrior’s face. “It is tradition, is it no’?”
Fillan had anticipated this. Once the revelers got into their cups a wee bit, there would naturally be some protestations about curtailing the ancient tradition of the guests carrying the bride and groom to their bedchamber, then waiting outside—probably banging on the door and shouting encouragement—until the groom emerged to chase them all away.
When a caring husband opted to shield his modest bride from the tradition, he was expected to make a concession—to throw one of the bride’s stocking garters to the crowd, thus satisfying their enthusiasm for a wee taste of the impending bedding while protecting the bride from further embarrassment.
He looked askance at Adelaide, who nodded almost imperceptibly. A roar of approval went up among the crowd, and the tables were hastily cleared to make room for the guests who would vie for the scrap of material, which was said to bring good luck.
“Is it no’ also tradition that the bonny bride give whoever secures her garter a kiss?” the MacDonnell warrior asked, much to the amusement of those gathered.
“Careful, Hagen,” Laird MacDonnell growled from the dais. “My daughter may be a MacVale now, but she is still a lady. It is tradition for her to give her favor to the man who prevails—she will choose what that is.”
The warrior, Hagen, wasn’t apparently dissuaded by his Laird’s words. He and several of the other MacDonnell warriors crowded into the space in the middle of the hall that had been cleared, each elbowing each other for the best position. More than a dozen unwed MacVale men joined them, jostling with the genial edge that came to the surface when men competed.
Fillan pushed his chair back. Then, with the help of his cane, he lowered onto one knee before Adelaide. He looked up and caught her eye, waiting until she gave another small nod before reaching for the hem of her dress.
As his hand disappeared beneath the wool, several of those gathered shouted bawdy encouragements, making the others laugh and cheer their Laird onward.
He tried to avoid touching her, but when his fingers brushed her stocking-covered calf, Adelaide jerked. Silently cursing himself, he ventured higher, until he passed her knee. Then he couldn’t help but lay a gentle hand on her thigh in order to find the garter.
She stiffened again at his touch, and he glanced up to find her face blazing with a flush, her eyes averted. Loathing himself for making her endure his attentions, however brief, he made quick work sliding the garter down her leg.
When the scrap of embroidered ribbon appeared from beneath her skirts, the crowd roared and called out their support for the waiting bachelors.
Fillan hoisted himself to his feet by his cane. Lifting the garter, he tossed it out into the cluster of men.
They were surprisingly rowdy as they scrambled to secure it. Thomas, the MacVale blacksmith, dove forward to catch it, but no sooner had his hand closed around the bit of material than a MacDonnell elbowed him in the stomach and snatched it from him, much to the crowd’s entertainment.
“Ye ken what is also tradition…” Laird MacDonnell watched the mock battle unfold, but he spoke to Fillan. “They say that when the husband is the one to secure his bride’s garter, it is a sign that he will remain faithful to her.” MacDonnell’s gaze slid to Fillan, one of his brows lifted.
It was clearly a challenge. A test. And not just to prove that Fillan would keep his word to be a devoted and committed husband to Adelaide, but that he would remain true in his dealings with MacDonnell as well.
Damn it all. Fillan would never be able to compete with the braw warriors jockeying in the hall given his clubfoot. He was no warrior-Laird, and he never would be.
But he had to at least try. It would be a way for him to show Adelaide that even though he may be physically malformed, he would always strive to be an honorable husband to her.
As he awkwardly stepped from the dais, Hagen managed to wrestle the garter from one of his fellow MacDonnells. A MacVale tried to seize it from him, but Hagen, who stood a head above even the biggest among the men, batted the man away like little more than a midge.
The crowd applauded, seeming to accept Hagen as the victor, but the cheers began to die down as Fillan approached slowly.
Hagen turned to eye him as he hobbled closer. “Can I help ye, Laird MacVale?”
“Aye. Ye can give me my wife’s garter. Or I can take it from ye.”
That earned a rumble of approval from the MacVales in the hall.
Hagen, however, was unimpressed. “I have never struck a Laird, nor have I stooped to beating cripples. I dinnae wish to start either now.”
At that, Fillan’s step faltered. He ground his teeth as disbelieving murmurs traveled over those gathered. It was no secret that his foot was misshapen. But all in the clan knew not to comment on it. His people understood it was a sore spot for him.
Fillan had worked hard never to show feebleness before the clan. His father had engrained a fear of weakness too deeply in him to root out. He could not simply stand aside now and let Hagen claim victory over him.
“Come, Laird,” Hagen said, his coarse features curving in a smile. “Let me have a wee kiss from yer bride. Ye neednae embarrass yerself by trying to fight me. And I promise to be gentle with her.”
Och, Fillan was going to best him. And he would enjoy it.
Fillan shuffled forward until he was just beyond Hagen’s long-armed reach—but close enough to touch Hagen with his cane if he stretched out. A little space cleared around them, as if all those watching sensed that this was more serious that the earlier good-natured scramble for the garter.
There was no way he could beat Hagen with brute force alone. He was no match for the giant warrior physically. But years of suffering under his father’s cruel reign had taught Fillan the value of using his wits over mere brawn. When Hagen impatiently waved Fillan on, he’d already formed a plan.
Bracing both legs, Fillan made as if to swipe a hand at the scrap of material in Hagen’s grasp. Hagen lifted his fist high, easily avoiding Fillan’s grab. Yet in doing so, he left his middle exposed.
With a swift jab, Fillan drove the end of his cane into Hagen’s stomach. The giant wheezed in surprise and doubled over. Fast as lightning, Fillan spun his cane and cracked Hagen over the knuckles with the wood. Hagen hollered, his hand reflexively opening. The bit of fabric fluttered to the ground between them.
While Hagen fought to regain his breath and nurse his sore knuckles, Fillan bent and scooped up the garter. When he straightened, he brandished the cane in front of him like a longsword in case Hagen thought to retaliate, but the warrior held up his hands in surrender.
“Ye win, Laird,” he said with another grin, though now it was rueful rather than arrogant.
This time when those gathered roared their approval, it was so loud as to be nigh deafening. Fillan turned and made his way back toward the dais to return the garter to Adelaide. He found her wide-eyed gaze locked on him as he approached, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed.
“Kiss!” someone shouted
from the crowd.
“Aye, kiss yer bride, Laird!”
“Give him a kiss, milady!”
To Fillan’s surprise, Adelaide held up a tentative hand. Instantly, the hall fell silent to hear her.
“I will honor tradition and give a favor to the victor,” she said. “He may claim a kiss…if he wishes to.”
Her gaze ducked from his then, and her cheeks grew even rosier.
Bloody hell. If he wished to, she’d said. She would acquiesce to this public display, but from the burn in her face and her downcast eyes, she wasn’t doing so willingly.
His mind raced for a way to give her an out.
“I stole a kiss from my lady wife before we were married,” he said slowly, loud enough for all in the great hall to hear. He held up the garter, then bowed, extending it toward her and placing it on the dais at her feet. “Let my thievery be forgiven and my debt wiped clean with this.”
At least he’d saved her this time from having to kiss him in front of everyone in the clan.
His people were clearly disappointed, for they grumbled quietly about his chivalrous gesture. He ignored them, for only Adelaide’s comfort mattered. If their displeasure was necessary for her peace of mind, so be it.
But when he caught her eyes, expecting to see relief, he found them brimming with tears instead.
“P-please excuse me,” she mumbled, shooting to her feet and rushing toward the stairs.
Fillan stared after her as she fled, utterly baffled. He’d done everything he could to ease her discomfort at the prospect of being married to him. Yet he’d still managed to fail her somehow.
MacDonnell chuckled softly, drawing his attention. “Verra well fought, MacVale, and well won. Hagen’s hand will be sore for a sennight. Mayhap that will give him pause with that overly bold tongue of his.”
Fillan nodded in acknowledgement, but he only gave the Laird half his attention as he struggled to understand where he’d gone wrong with Adelaide.
“Ye seem determined to be a good Laird—and a good husband,” MacDonnell continued grudgingly. “But take a wee bit of advice from me when it comes to Adelaide.”
