Penelope stood in the small stone chapel on the MacLeod lands, looking out at the rolling green hills from her dressing room window. The early fall air was crisp and clean, wafting in, cooling her in her bridal gown. She was thankful for the breeze, as her nerves made her feel rather hot and stifled.
“Penelope, may I come in?” Charlotte asked, opening the door a crack.
She turned, smiling as her friend entered, a basket tucked in the crook of her arms and a bundle in her hands. “Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t finish dressing for my wedding without you.”
“Especially since I’ve brought the heather.”
Penelope went to her, peeking in at the blankets, gazing down to the angelic face of the newest MacLeod. “And how is baby Alec?”
“Finally asleep. The little man isn’t the easier to soothe, sometimes. Now, sit down so I might do your hair and you can hold the baby. I’ll need my hands free.”
Penelope cradled the little boy, watching as his rosebud lips opened and shut in a dream-like state. “He is a handsome little thing.”
“He is.” Charlotte began picking the pins from Penelope’s hair.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re in Scotland now, marrying a Scottish man. You’ll look like a Scottish bride.”
“So this is why you’ve brought the baby—so I can’t fight you off?”
Charlotte grinned, draping the loose locks around Penelope’s face. “You know me so well. But, I must ask, this isn’t the same wedding dress you left Theodore Harrison in, is it?”
Penelope laughed. “Goodness, no! I bought this off the rack at my father’s store. It’s not as if I had the time to get a specially made dress from Paris again. Mother wanted me married off straight away.”
“With this fine lace and low neckline, I don’t think Drummond will have a problem with it not being designed just for you.”
“How funny this is,” she said, watching Charlotte as she braided heather and orange blossoms into her hair, making a leafy crown.
“What?”
“Before your own wedding, I was helping you dress when, all the while, you were plotting like a little sneak to get Drummond and I together. And now, here I am, you assisting me as I go to meet him at the altar.”
“I know you better than anyone and I knew you wouldn’t do with some silly fop with powdered gloves, as much as you claimed.”
“You do.” Penelope carefully dislodged one hand from under the sleeping babe, placing it upon one of Charlotte’s. “Thank you, truly, for bringing him to me.”
“Oh, posh,” Charlotte giggled, pinning a sheer veil to Penelope’s floral crown.
Penelope handed Alec back to Charlotte, looking forward to a time when she could hold her own child in her arms. Drummond had gone to the Highlands ahead of her, to prepare their Scottish home for the start of their married life, and Penelope couldn’t wait to get her hands on him. The idea of him cradling his own child brought tears to her eyes.
“Oh, don’t start to cry!” Charlotte’s voice warbled. “If you start, then I’ll start, and then Alec will start, and the morning will be spoiled.”
Penelope laughed, brushing away the tears. “Then let’s get me to the altar before we both fall apart.”
She grabbed her bouquet of roses, heather, and orange blossoms, gripping them tightly to control the shaking of her hands. While Penelope wasn’t nervous for married life, the trembling came from the poignant excitement she felt. In less than an hour she would be not an English miss, but a Scottish wife to the finest man she had ever know. Drummond had practically rushed her to marriage and, for that, she was grateful. He had planned the entire ceremony, only asking that she come as soon as she was able.
Charlotte left Penelope with Baron Elmsly, going in to take her seat.
“Dear, you look marvelous,” Edmund muttered with a sigh. “I’ve never seen a more perfect bride.”
“Thank you.” Penelope peeked into the church. “Is it time yet?”
Edmund chuckled. “So eager! Thank goodness.”
“I am. I really just want to marry him, Father.”
“Then let’s go.” He held out an arm, knocking on the door of the church to call the harpist’s attention to begin the “Wedding March.”
Penelope could hear her heart thumping against her breastbone and wondered, as she entered the church, if the guests could hear it, too. She peered through her veil at Drummond, but the fabric made him hazy and hard to make out. But she could spot his towering, red and black tartan-clad figure in any crowd. She hoped he was as happy as she.
When the pair passed Cecily at the front of the aisle, her mother let out a shrill wail of glee at seeing her daughter a bride. A stern Charlotte, who pointed to the baby in her lap, hushed the sound and the woman’s cries turned to quiet sobs, muted by a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Flora, who sat to her left, grinned widely, dramatically clasping her hands together and causing a short giggle to fall from Penelope’s lips.
“Who gives this woman to be married?” the priest asked.
“I do,” Edmund replied, lifting Penelope’s veil and kissing her cheek before going to join Cecily in the pew.
Penelope finally turned to Drummond who looked more handsome than she thought possible, standing tall before his family and friends. He grinned widely, his vibrantly green eyes sending chills up her spine as he took in her gown, and the bare skin it displayed. Charlotte hopped up, taking Penelope’s wedding bouquet to free her from the cumbersome bunch.
The priest cleared his throat before beginning. “Before the four points o’ the Earth. Before the sun, the wind, the air, the water, the ground. Before the people o’ England and the people o’ the clans. Before the God and the ancient ones that came before. This man and this woman are enterin’ into the bonds of matrimony to become one mind, one soul, one body, one heart.”
Penelope started, confused. She’d never heard a priest speak such vows before. But as she gazed up at Drummond, his expression one of pure, open love, she assumed what was taking place was something perfectly commonplace in Scotland. She was, as Charlotte had told her, a Scottish bride.
Drummond took her hands in his, his right with her right and his left with her left, their interlaced arms making a cross. He gripped her fingers in reassurance. “We’ll be havin’ a symbolic hand fastin’,” Drummond whispered. “A blendin’ o’ two worlds, aye?”
Penelope nodded, not taking her eyes off of her future husband.
“Drummond MacLeod MacGregor, do ye enter into this hand fastin’, and o’ this marriage, of your own free will, for no’ the entirety o’ a year and a day, but for the rest o’ this life and the next?” the priest asked seriously, taking a length of MacGregor plaid from the altar.
“I do,” Drummond answered.
The old priest turned to her. “Penelope Katherine Elmsly, do ye enter into this hand fastin’, and o’ this marriage, of your own free will, for no’ the entirety o’ a year and a day, but for the rest o’ this life and the next?
“I do.” Her voice was barely more than a breath.
He addressed Drummond, winding the strip of tartan tightly around their clasped hands. “Do ye promise to live for this woman as your true wife, forsakin’ all others?”
“I do.”
The old man wound the cloth in another ring. “Do ye promise to live for this man as your true husband, forsakin’ all others?”
“I do.”
“Do ye promise on sword and life to protect and provide for this woman and all those who come from this union?” the priest asked Drummond. “To fight, reap, and sow in her honor?”
“I do.”
He held the final piece of plaid and turned to Penelope. “Do ye promise on home and hearth to care and provide for this man and all those who come from this union? To bear bairns, reap, and sow in his honor?”
“I do.” Penelope held in a cry of happiness as the fabric was knotted firmly over their hands, signifying the finality of their union.
“Now ye are as husband and wife in this life, and the next. Live in God’s love and may your marriage be as strong as the bond that now ties ye together.” He took their hands and smoothly drew each from the tartan, incredibly keeping the knot securely tied. “Now MacGregor will give her the ring and the colors o’ his name.”
Drummond pulled a gold band from his sporran. “Penelope, I stand before ye as your husband, vowing to love ye, care for ye, and give ye the home and family ye deserve. I’m luckier than most to have found a wife so kind and beautiful who saw me as a good investment for, God knows, ye’ve a good lot o’ work before ye.”
“I love you just as you are,” Penelope promised as the wedding band encircled her left ring finger. She welcomed the new addition.
The priest stepped back and Conner took his place, holding a large piece of MacGregor plaid. Drummond stared at Penelope, not breaking their gaze, and took the fabric from his hand. Tenderly he brushed the blonde curls away from her right shoulder before putting the tartan over it.
Once again reaching into his sporran, Drummond produced a silver pin. It was a delicate thing of two intertwined hearts, topped with a crown that held five small amethysts at their peaks. She recognized it as a Luckenbooth broach—the sign of a newly married woman. He fastened it to the two sides of the plaid, fixing them upon her left hip. She stroked the soft fabric, loving the feel of the MacGregor colors against her skin.
Drummond and Penelope drew together, finally a wedded pair with nothing to separate them. Penelope eyed her husband, devastatingly handsome with strong arms to hold, and protect her, from all they would face. When their lips met to indicate the beginning of their married life, Penelope felt a sense of peace and warmth wash over her. The feeling magnified when Drummond pulled her to his chest, burying his face in her flower-filled hair.
“Mo anam buin ri sibh,” he murmured, his voice filled with emotion.
Penelope smiled. “My soul belongs to you.”