Beitris stood beside Alasdair in the small church, her best friend and companion, Elspeth, nearby. She and Elspeth had spent numerous hours after the declaration that she was betrothed to Alasdair Macintyre making adjustments to the dress her deceased mother had worn at her wedding to her father. When she slipped it on this morning and emerged from her bedroom, her father had gasped, his voice choked with emotion.

“Yer as beautiful as yer mother on her wedding day.”

“I wish she were here,” Beitris said softly, her hands skimming over the skirt of her gown. Elspeth had told her what it looked like, how she had updated it even though the pale-yellow color of the fabric had also faded over the years, wrapped in its protective cloth in a chest in Beitris’s room. She told Beitris that nevertheless, the color exquisitely complemented her skin tone.

The underskirt was a basic checked dark blue and black, clan colors of the Boyds for who knew how long. A white long flowy-sleeved tunic was tucked into the skirt. Over that, a tightly fitted cap-sleeved bodice and flowing overskirt of dark velvet green opened at the waist to display the plaid along the front of the skirt.

Beitris didn’t feel like herself. It wasn’t just the clothing. It was everything. She had prided herself on maintaining her emotions, keeping her expression blank as her fingers had skimmed over Alasdair’s face. It wasn’t the scars, those dreadful, deep scars that frightened her nearly as much as had his wide forehead and cheekbones, the seemingly frowning eyebrows and the downturned lips. Except that he hadn’t seemed upset or angry, not by the tone of his voice when they had met yesterday. She had felt no laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and while he tolerated her exploring fingers, she had sensed his stiffness, his… disapproval? He was a big brute of a man, towering over her, her head barely coming up to the middle of his chest.

Standing beside him now, the ringing in her ears so loud she barely discerned the droning intimations and words of the preacher performing the wedding ceremony, she felt his body heat, a whiff of lye soap. She felt overwhelmed, standing beside the stranger who would in moments be declared her husband. A husband she was bound to obey and serve. At least he had bathed, not that he had smelled bad yesterday, just of horse and sheep, of the wild outdoors. Had he shaven those whiskers from his cheeks for the wedding? She had dared not ask Elspeth. She already knew what Elspeth thought. She didn’t like Alasdair. Never had. All she had offered regarding Alasdair’s appearance before they stepped into the small church was a brief description of his own style of dress.

As with Beitris, he had had to make do with what was available, based on Elspeth’s description. Alasdair wore a traditional woolen cloak in his clan colors, a simple red and black check cloak that she said had been modified from the traditional Feileadh Mòr gathered into pleats and secured by a huge leather belt. The upper half of the cloak draped across his left shoulder over a simple white long-sleeved léine or shirt. She whispered to Beitris that the clothing looked somewhat worse for wear, and Beitris wondered if he had worn it when he joined the Jacobites. The cloak stopped at his knees, his calves snuggled in woolen socks with garters wrapped in a crisscross pattern from knee to ankle, his feet tucked into well-worn leather shoes.

“He would be a handsome man if it wasn’t for his fierce expression and those ugly scars,” Elspeth had whispered, finished with her description. “I dinna like him. I dinna trust him.”

What was Elspeth talking about? Was there something she didn’t know? And what was she to do with such information?

“I have no choice!” she hissed back, after which Elspeth apologized profusely, then said nothing more.

She’d had no time to ask any additional questions as they’d been called into the tiny church and the ceremony abruptly began. Informal, private, but a ceremony honored by the church nevertheless. She felt Alasdair take her hand; large, rough, and calloused. Yet oddly comforting while at the same time intimidating. The abrupt movement startled her, almost prompted her to snatch her hand from that of her soon-to-be new husband, but she quelled her fear.

She sensed him looming over her, and though he might very well have been watching the preacher, she couldn’t help but feel as if his gaze constantly studied her, maybe with disdain, maybe with impatience and frustration. Maybe simply in curiosity. After all, he was now saddled with a blind wife. She could imagine how excited he was about that. The thought of him staring at her, watching her, prompted a shiver of dread to run through her body. She listened as his deep voice rumbled the words from the depths of his chest as the preacher asked him a question.

“Aye, I will.”

He didn’t sound at all enthusiastic or excited. His voice sounded subdued. More like a tone of dread. And then it was her turn.

“Beitris Mary Boyd, do ye take Alasdair Macintyre to be yer lawfully wedded husband?”

She tried to speak, but no words came out. She quickly moistened her lips, worked up enough spit to swallow, and then croaked out her answer. “I do.”

And then it was over. No kiss. No cheers or congratulations, but then, why should there be? The ceremony had been private, Beitris’s father and Elspeth the only guests.

“Well then, that’s done,” her father said.

He sounded relieved, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. He placed his hands on Beitris’s shoulders, gave them a squeeze, and then kissed her quickly on the cheek.

“Godspeed to ye, lass,” he said.

Before she could say anything, before she could cry out for him to wait, not to leave her, she heard his footsteps receding down the aisle toward the church doors.

Moments later, the door opened and closed softly. She stood, frozen, fear holding her in place. The preacher awkwardly cleared his throat, wished them well, and also left the church, though his footsteps were not as rushed as her father’s had been. That left her, Elspeth, and Alasdair standing alone at the altar.

Alasdair cleared his throat and spoke. “I’ve arranged to have yer belongings brought to the stone house on the moor by the lake later this afternoon.”

She nodded and then turned her face toward Elspeth, eyes wide with worry. She gasped and for the first time realized that she might lose Elspeth, that her new husband would certainly not want—

“Elspeth!” she croaked, reaching for her friend.

Elspeth’s fingers clutched her forearm as she too suddenly seemed to realize the ramifications of the marriage. Beitris’s heart pounded, and true fear snaked through her. Elspeth had been her friend and companion since they were little girls. The thought of being without her now filled her with a sense of dread and more fear than she had felt in a long time. She clutched her friend’s hands in hers and as she turned to the looming shadow hovering above her, around her, surrounding her… she felt stifled and panicked at the same time. She also knew that what Alasdair said was law. She could argue, she could cry, she could beg, but she had learned long ago that she was subject to a man’s wishes, whether that man be her father or her new husband.

Warm tears brimming in her eyes, determined not to cry just yet, she looked upward, hoping that her eyes somehow made contact with those of her new husband, that he was even looking at her.

“Alasdair,” she said, as calmly as she could, striving to keep the tremble from her voice. “I know it’s—”

“Ye want Elspeth to come with us.”

His voice sounded wooden, emotionless, and yet he had known what she wanted. Would he send Elspeth on her way? Would he laugh at her? Would he—

“Elspeth, do ye wish to accompany Beitris to her new home?”

Beitris’s heart skipped a beat and hope surged through her, a smile of relief, and even gratitude playing around her mouth. He was considering it! She turned toward her friend, wishing more than anything she could see her face, could see Alasdair’s face as just the three of them stood in the church, alone, negotiating.

“Beitris and I have been friends since we were children,” Elspeth said, her voice cool.

Would Elspeth refuse? Did she dislike Alasdair so much that she would refuse her wish? Nay, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t—

“I cannot formally pay ye to be her companion.” He paused, then continued. “I can provide ye with a roof over yer head and food on the table, but I will tolerate no interference on yer part when it comes to my relationship with Beitris. She is my wife; I am her husband. Is that understood?”

Silence. Beitris’s heart pounded. She felt Elspeth stiffen, heard the rustle of cloth beside her. She knew that Elspeth had a temper, as she brooked no insolence or arrogance from anyone. Yet she so desperately wanted her friend to stay with her, to guide her through these early days and months of her marriage that she turned her friend, whispered a soft, barely audible plea. “Please.”

Finally, Elspeth replied, her tone icy. “I understand. I’m to mind my own business.”

“Good,” he said. “Ye may come along then.” He paused, then spoke again. “Ye will leave Beitris to our privacy tonight. Ye may come to the stone house tomorrow. I’ll have a wagon sent over to transport what ye need.”

Beitris breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short when Alasdair grabbed her hand and started down the short aisle of the church. Then she realized what he’d said. She and Alasdair were to spend the night alone in the stone house. Her heart beat with renewed dread, her relief gone, her head pounding apace now with her heart. If Alasdair didn’t have such a tight grip on her hand, she felt sure she would have collapsed to the floor.