Moira had held true to only one wish for their wedding; it had to be small.

“I do not know what I would do, all those eyes upon me,” she’d whispered in his ear the night they’d decided to be wed, while the other women of the house had chattered on about wedding plans.

“Ye dinna wish to have it in the church, in the village?”

She’d shook her head. “Please, no. I would rather have it here, with just the household. We never did attend church services, though I would not object to a priest coming to the house for us.”

“I’m certain there would be no protests,” he’d assured her, though he had not been as convinced at the time. “I would deny ye nothing, lass. It’s best ye learn that now.”

And so, after much convincing on Padraig’s part, the village priest had agreed to perform a wedding ceremony in the great hall of the Anderson home. Fergus held a sly suspicion that his friend had made a generous donation to the church as a result, though Padraig had sworn he’d done no such thing.

The one other wish in his beloved’s heart had proven more difficult to grant. A wish she had not voiced, but one which he knew took space in her heart nonetheless.

She’d wished for the twins to be present.

In order for that to happen, Fergus had reasoned, Kin Reid would need to be aware of the upcoming ceremony. He would not allow them to take his sons so far from home simply for a visit—especially with their sister, who he more than likely had not forgiven for running away from her escorts.

The complications this would create seemed insurmountable, and likely to soil the happiness of their day.

Even so, Fergus had a plan in mind, one which he’d discussed with Padraig. The thought of it brought a smile to his face as he waited for his bride to appear.

The banquet table was already set with the finest items of the house, gleaming silver and rich silk. The lasses of the household had been in a frenzy for days, bringing in armfuls of pine branches, heather and bluebells, which they’d woven into garlands and strung up along the walls and the edges of the table.

With the candlelight glowing and the fragrance of the flowers surrounding him, he might have believed himself part of a happy dream.

His entire life seemed like a happy dream as of late.

All thanks to the young woman who entered the room on the arm of Padraig Anderson.

His heart leaped with joy at the sight of her in the blue silk gown Sorcha and the others had created especially for her. It matched the bluebells woven into her shining hair, wound in a mass of braids high on her head. She carried an armful of heather which she handed to Caitlin upon reaching the place where Fergus waited alongside the priest.

He took her trembling hand in his, and the quaking stopped. A radiant smile spread across her face, transforming her into the loveliest thing Fergus had ever seen. He would never forget how magnificent she looked, how it felt to hold her hand in his in the moments before she became his wife.

“This is a bit unusual,” the wizened old priest admitted with a chuckle, “but from what I understand, the story of the young man and woman standing before me is unusual as well. For ye were pledged in marriage by your clans before ever meeting, and then decided to wed of your own accord. Such matches are truly made in Heaven, overseen by our Lord.”

While Fergus did not strictly subscribe to the sentiment, there was something about it which rang true. For their love was meant to be. Something had brought them together and kept them together until their stubbornness had melted and given way to love.

There was no other way in which it could have come about, he decided.

The priest blessed their rings—simple bands, as they both desired—and tears glistened on Moira’s cheeks as she slid his home.

The soft weeping of the women filled the room as Fergus’s throat felt dry and eyes itchy.

He hardly heard the words the priest spoke over the beating of his heart. She was his, really and truly and always. The one thing he’d never known he wanted until she was there, in front of him, and then he’d questioned how he’d ever lived without her.

“As a sign of the sealing of your vows, you may now kiss your bride,” the priest murmured.

Fergus took her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes for a moment, hoping to never forget the hope and love in his heart as he looked down at her.

His bride.

His fine, fierce, courageous bride.

“There will be no fighting this time around, I hope,” Brice laughed from his place further down along the table, referring to the last feast Padraig had held.

“I rather enjoyed it,” Quinn argued, his wife lovingly swatting his arm in response.

Moira blushed. “So long as my husband does not choose to surprise me as he did that night, I think we can make it through the feast without a quarrel.”

Fergus held up his hands. “I will do what I can, though I canna make any promises.” Laughter rang out in response.

They filled the feast with more than food, though Sorcha and her lasses had done themselves proud. They filled the evening with stories. Memories. Tales of their journeys together, of the adventures they’d shared.

He realized then that they were a family—somehow, over the years, their lives had wound together as vines from different plants might curl around each other. They’d formed something new, something stronger than any one of themselves.

And they were growing. In the month since he and Moira had arrived, Ysmaine had announced she was expecting. Young Elizabeth and Gavina both slept in their mothers’ arms.

Would it be their turn one day? He hoped it with all his heart and knew whenever he caught his wife gazing at the bairns that she wished it, too.

At the end of the feast, as the others left the table and wished the happy couple sweet dreams—with more than a few half-concealed grins from the men—Padraig motioned for them to linger.

“Thank you for everything,” Moira whispered when she reached him, kissing his cheek. “I never imagined anything this lovely, and you made it so. I could never repay you.”

“Ye will never need to,” he assured her with a smile. “It was a pleasure to see ye looking so happy today, and to know Fergus here will stop grousing about in a foul temper.”

Fergus scowled, not at all serious.

Padraig continued. “I wished to let ye know that I have a gift in mind for ye.”

“A gift?” Moira’s eyes widened. “You shall do no such thing, as you’ve done quite enough already. Some would say too much! Offering to take me into the household if we decide to live here, your generosity today…”

“Just the same.” He patted her hand. “Your husband and I have worked it out, and I shall leave the telling of it to him.” He flashed Fergus a brief smile before making a hasty exit.

“What was he talking about?” Moira looked up at him, both curious and skeptical. “What have you been working out behind my back, husband?”

Rather than reply, he took her waist in his hands and pulled her closer. “Say it again.”

“Husband?” Her face softened. “Husband. Husband. Husband. It sounds so strange.”

“I hope that is only because of the word, not because ye use it to describe me.”

She giggled. “No. You’ll not be distracting me with that charm of yours, Fergus MacDougal. Tell me. What were the two of you planning that you did not see fit to share with me?”

There was no harm in telling her, now that Padraig had confirmed they could go through with it. If anything, the timing was perfect.

“How would ye like to take a ride with me? A rather long one.”

“Where?”

He could hardly hold back his smile. “I was thinking… Banff.”