Though Rose had just discovered she was once again with child, she refused to miss this most momentous occasion. Much to Ian’s vexation, they had arrived only a few short hours before the ceremony was set to begin. Of course, Ian was usually vexed when it came to his lovely wife. She had that effect on him, and Brogan doubted she would ever change. He also doubted Ian would want her to.

Deep down, Brogan was glad they were here. Were it not for Rose, he would never have met the lovely Mairghread. Although he had fought gallantly against the idea of marriage, once he set eyes upon her, his determination never to marry again began to wane. In less than twenty-four hours, he found himself agreeing to the idea.

As for the rest of his family, none would be able to attend. Undoubtedly, his father and step-mother were only just now receiving word of his upcoming marriage. They lived on the opposite side of the country. And the last he had heard from his father, the Camerons were threatening war again.

Frederick and Aggie were safely ensconced at the Carruthers holding that her blood father had gifted her. Just last week, she had given birth to a son. Her second, Frederick’s first by blood. Their other children, Ailrig and little Ada, were thriving and healthy. Ailrig, under the good care of his parents, was, according to Frederick, growing like a weed and at only two and ten, was only a few inches shorter than he. He has the making of a fine warrior, Frederick had declared in his last letter. And wee Ada? Och! I fear she will be the death of me when she is aulder, fer she is as beautiful as her mum.

Also in attendance were Alec and Leona Bowie, who Rose had championed on their behalf for an invitation. Leona and Rose were cousins, the best of friends, and quite happy to both be with child at the same time. ’Twas all they could talk about that morn.

However, Brogan knew the main reason Rose had championed so vociferously was so that Alec could potentially broker a deal with the Mactavish clan to purchase his barley. Because he had only just arrived himself, he left Alec in the good care of Reginald. The steward would have a much better idea on how much, if any, barley they could purchase. Though in truth, it still amazed him that the Bowies were now living lives as farmers instead of murderous thieves. Oh, how the world sometimes worked and turned in peculiar ways.

Brogan now stood at the altar, with his brother at his side. His stomach was tied in knots, and no matter how many times he wiped his palms upon his trews, sweat continued to form in them. Rarely, if ever, was he this bloody nervous. He certainly had not been this nervous when he had married Anna. Nay, he’d been younger and more arrogant then, and madly in love. He’d gone to that wedding like a proud, puffing peacock. But today? Today was different for a whole host of reasons.

Older than Brogan by only a few years, the priest was short but thin and had light brown hair and hazel eyes. Brogan had only met him moments ago. Now, he stood on the dais, cleared his throat, and gave a quick nod to someone at the back of the kirk. Moments later, the doors opened wide, allowing the sunshine to spill through. A heartbeat later, Mairghread appeared on the arm of Reginald.

* * *

Mairghread was nothing short of a breathtaking vision of beauty. When Brogan first caught sight of her, standing at the entrance to the tiny kirk, she stole his breath away. He heard Ian chuckle when he gasped. Standing taller, he watched as she slowly made her way down the aisle.

The pale green, silk gown clung to every curve. Her auburn hair hung loosely over her shoulders and down her back. Tiny pale blue and yellow flowers dotted her hair, making her appear like a fey creature or a goddess.

But when she drew nearer, on the arm of Reginald, Brogan caught a glimpse of resignation in her emerald green eyes. Resignation and a profound sadness. Then she cast her eyes to the floor, as if she could not bear to look at him.

For a brief moment, he thought of stopping the ceremony and taking her to a private spot so that he might inquire as to why she looked so pensive and distraught. Was it, by chance, simply a woman being nervous on her wedding day? Something niggled at the back of his mind that it was far more serious than that.

She had refused to meet with him after his arrival yesterday. Refused even further to sup with him last night. Nay, that look… that sorrowful glint her in eye was more than just nerves.

When Reginald placed her trembling hand in his, her skin felt cold and clammy. She managed to smile up at him, but there was no warmth in it, no tender regard. ’Twas a forced, indifferent smile. He did not like it one bit.

Before he could stop the proceedings from going further, to take her away and inquire as to her true feelings on this union, the priest began the proceedings.

He only half-listened as the priest blessed the union, so focused he was on the woman who would soon be his wife. She, however, looked only at the priest.

“Please face one another,” the priest directed.

Even after they turned to face one another, Mairghread chose to look down at her feet. Was she refusing to look at him, or was she afraid? The question burned on the tip of his tongue.

“Do ye, Brogan Mackintosh, promise to have this woman as yer wife, fer all the rest of yer days? To protect her, cherish her, and keep yerself only unto her?” the priest asked.

“Aye, I do so promise,” Brogan answered. His tone was nothing but warm and sincere.

“Do ye, Mairghread Mactavish, promise to have this man as yer husband, fer all the rest of yer days? To honor and obey him, cherish him, and keep yerself only unto him?”

Brogan could barely hear her soft reply.

The priest was satisfied with her answer, but Brogan was not. Far from it. He wanted her to look at him when she said the words. He wanted to know, in his heart, that this marriage was what she wanted.

Tamping down the growing dread, he decided that after the ceremony, he would take her aside and ask her, whilst they were alone. Aye, there was always a bit of uncertainty at times like these, when a marriage is made not out of some great fondness or love for one another.

Nay, they were no’ a love match. There was no great romantic story they could pass on to their children. This marriage was born out of her need to not be forced to marry Claude Courtemanche. Then it hit him, like a large stone thrown at his head. He was simply a means to an end. Nothing more.

But Brogan wanted to be more than that. He needed more. He needed for her to at least look at him when she gave that promise. If not now, then at some time in the very near future. He did not know what he might do if she could never think of him as more than the man she had to marry to save herself from a fate worse than death.

* * *

One brief glimpse into Brogan’s eyes, and she wanted to scream and run from the kirk. Aye, Mairghread saw only kind adoration in his green eyes. An adoration she felt she neither deserved nor wanted.

Had Reginald not been holding onto her, she might very well have collapsed. Or ran. She wasn’t sure which of those inclinations were strongest. Instead, she took in deep breaths and went to her doom. To the altar where she would have to lie to God, to herself, the people watching, and worst of all, to Brogan.

Mayhap she would have been better off marrying Courtemanche? She would have felt no compunction about lying to a man like him. Nay, ’twould have been a lie that would have rolled offer her tongue with ease.

But to lie to Brogan? Nay, such deceit was not fair, nor just no’ right to such a nice man as he.

But lie she did. Right through her teeth. But not to his face. Nay, she could not look him in the eye and say the words the priest demanded. So she kept her gaze on Brogan’s boots.

What made the day even more difficult was the fact that Gertie and Tilda had hidden her whisky. They had allowed her only one small glass of wine to help settle her nerves. Damn them! Damn them and Reginald for talking her into this.

Soon, her only thoughts were of hurrying through the ceremony so that she could go to the feast. Not to eat, but to consume vast quantities of wine. ’Twould be the only thing to give her enough strength to get through the rest of this day.

Then the moment came when the priest declared Brogan could now kiss his wife. ’Twas yet another moment among many that she dreaded.

With her eyes closed, she lifted her chin ever so slightly, and waited.

* * *

If she thought he would kiss her without first looking into her eyes, she’d be waiting a very long time. The uncomfortable silence stretched on and on until he could take no more.

“Please, look at me lass,” Brogan whispered. ’Twas a plea, not born out of desperation, but of something she could not readily identify.

Reluctantly, she drew her eyes upward and looked into his. He smiled. Warmly, thoughtfully, before pressing his lips to hers.

’Twas a warm, sweet kiss filled with tenderness. A tenderness she had not felt in more than three years. It nearly sent her to her knees.

Guilt piled upon more guilt until her eyes were damp. She refused to shed the tears, lest he think they were tears of joy. Remorse, bitter and harsh, began to rise in the form of bile. Not because the kiss sickened her. Nay, ’twas because of what the kiss signified and how it made her heart skip a beat or two.

Thankfully, the crowd erupted into loud cheers right before Gertie, Tilda, and a handful of other women swarmed her. They were overjoyed for their lady, happy she had made such a fine choice in Brogan. None were reluctant to tell her just that.

Having nearly smothered her with hugs, kind words, and giggles, they ushered her out of the kirk and into the keep, leaving Brogan standing alone at the altar with his brother and his men.

* * *

She seemed in much better spirits once the feast began. Brogan and Mairghread sat side-by-side on the dais that took up one entire wall of the gathering room. Reginald sat to her left. To Brogan’s right sat Ian and Rose and next to them, Leona and Alec Bowie.

The rest of the room was filled near to bursting with Mactavish clanspeople.

Brogan and Mairghread barely had a chance to say a word to one another, for they were constantly being interrupted by well-wishers.

Overall, the mood of the people assembled was cheerful as they joyously partook of fine food and drink. In the corner, a group of men -- two playing lutes, one a flute, and another a drum — played one lively tune after another while the guests ate.

Flowers were placed on every conceivable space. They even hung from the chandeliers and the massive beams overhead. Bouquets of them lined each table. Even the backs of the chairs on the dais had been draped with sweet-scented blooms.

Mairghread’s spirits seemed to lift as she ate and drank the seemingly endlessly flowing sweet wine. He drank only cider, watching the feast and revelry with clear, sober eyes. After a time, his new bride actually smiled at him and even agreed to a dance or two. Not only with him, but she also agreed to dance with Henry and Comnall, as well as Ian. Brogan was intelligent enough not to allow jealousy rear its ugly head when she danced with his men. And he knew Ian was too much in love with his own wife to do anything untoward.

Much relieved to see that sorrowful look of regret removed from his bride, the worries he’d had at the altar earlier faded away. He could honestly say, that he was the happiest he had been in a very long while. ’Twas with great anticipation that he looked forward to leaving the grand hall and taking his bride above stairs. His fingers all but itched with the anticipation of divesting her of her green gown and finding the paradise that surely lay under it, and within her.

After their third dance, they returned to their table where Mairghread picked up a pitcher of wine and poured herself another cup. “Here,” she said, pouring wine into an empty mug and offering it to Brogan. “More wine fer me new husband!”

He chuckled, accepted the mug, and placed it on the table without taking so much as a sip. Mairghread was too busy drinking her own to notice. Then Reginald drew her attention away. Brogan didn’t mind, for her mood had changed for the better since the ceremony.

Ian leaned in to speak to him. “Does she no’ ken?” he asked. There was no need for Brogan to ask what his brother was referring to.

“Nay,” he said. “But there will be plenty of time on the morrow to tell her.” Aye, on the morrow they would discuss why he never imbibed strong drink.

He chanced a glance at Rose. She bore an odd expression on her face as she watched Mairghread take to the dance floor once again. Concluding she was tired from the long journey as well as from being with child again, he decided against asking her how she fared.

* * *

As the hours wore on, Mairghread became more inebriated. So much so that even his men noticed her slurred words and glassy eyes, and they had been drinking just as much as she. Brogan supposed she was not used to consuming so much wine. She’d simply gotten carried away, along with everyone else around her.

When she swayed in her chair, holding on to the table for balance, he decided mayhap ’twas time to retire. Though ’twas still light out, the sun just beginning to set.

“Mairghread,” he said through smiling lips. “I think it be time to retire.”

She threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Och! The night still be young, like we!” she said as she spread her arms wide and looked up at the ceiling.

Her declaration made him chuckle. Aye, she was a free spirit, deep down. He was going to enjoy that about her. He’d not quash it, not tell her to behave like a proper lady. “Aye, we be young, lass.”

Grabbing a mug, she gulped down more wine, and slammed the empty mug on the table. “More wine!” she declared with a giggle. “More wine fer all!” she called out as she jumped to her feet. Unfortunately, she’d drunk too much wine and had stood so quickly that it made her dizzy.

Brogan caught her around the waist before she could fall to the floor. She let out an ‘oomph’ when he swooped her up into his arms. Ian jumped to his feet as well, looking quite concerned for his new sister-by-law. “Is she well?” he asked.

Before Brogan could respond, Mairghread looked up into Brogan’s eyes. “Och!” she said with a smile. “Me champion.”

When she rested her head against his chest and sighed, Brogan could not resist smiling. A fast moment later, he felt her go limp in his arms.

He gave a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. The passionate wedding night he had imagined was no longer possible. His bride had passed out in his arms.

* * *

Brogan had carried his wife above stairs and took her to her — now their — bedchamber. Her head lolled from side to side, a sure sign she was indeed passed out. With great care, he laid her upon the bed. As he was deciding how to remove the pretty gown, Gertie and Tilda appeared at the door.

“Is all well, m’laird?” Gertie asked with a voice laced with concern.

Brogan looked up and gave her a warm smile. “’Tis naught to be concerned with,” he said. “She will no’ be the first bride to drink too much at her weddin’ feast. She’ll be right as rain on the morrow.”

The two women were much relieved. “Would ye like us to help ye?” Tilda asked, with an inclination toward her lady.

He had divested more than one woman of her clothing in his lifetime. But usually, that was during a passionate moment. He accepted their help gratefully. In short order, they had Mairghread down to her chemise and under the covers.

The women had been unusually quiet during the process, which Brogan found exceedingly odd. Thinking they were worried only for their lady’s well-being and safety, Brogan said, “Do no’ fash yerselves. Yer lady’s virtue and well-being is safe. I shall let her sleep this night.”

He received no thanks of relief from either woman. They left without uttering so much as good eve.