Two Weddings
The next day, Ewan stood before the minister in the chapel, but all his attention was on the smiling woman whose warm hand he held. His gaze wandered up her slender arm, tightly clad in fabric that exploded in a puffy riot at her shoulder. Strangely, it drew the eye to the décolletage that provided a tantalizing glimpse of pouting breasts he hoped soon to be suckling.
The fitted bodice clung to her shapely figure then flared into copious skirts that seemed to float as she walked.
He couldn’t have named the fabric used to fashion her luxurious gown, but the vibrant reds and golds matched the fire burning in his heart.
He thanked whatever force of nature had deterred him from offering marriage to Kathleen.
At the risk of offending Shona’s clan, he’d decided to wear a Mackinloch plaid. He was marrying a MacCarron and would strive to heal the deep divisions between their clans, but Mackinloch blood ran in his veins and they would have to accept that. His bride and her uncle supported his decision.
The significance of Walter’s stalwart presence at his side wasn’t lost on anyone. Only he and Ewan knew the history of the plaid he wore.
Fynn and Jeannie also stood before the minister. Ewan could scarce believe this was the same rough and ready farmer who’d accompanied him from Roigh. A casual visitor might have mistaken him for a proud Macintyre laird. The smiling woman responsible for the transformation looked radiant in a green gown. To Ewan’s eye it was nearly identical to Shona’s, except it revealed less of her bosom—as was perhaps fitting. Fynn was likely pleased since his bride had kept her girlish figure despite her appetite.
Another unforeseen miracle was David’s presence as Fynn’s second. Two men who’d set out with little in common, not even mutual respect, had forged a unique bond.
The minister cleared his throat. Ewan nodded his readiness to repeat vows he was contentedly certain he would keep.
He looked into the green depths and saw his own soul. “I, Ewan Mackinloch…take thou, Shona MacCarron…to my espoused wife…as the law of the Holy Kirk requires…and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
His bride tightened her grip on his hand, took a deep breath and repeated her vows. “I, the said Shona MacCarron…take ye, Ewan Mackinloch…to my espoused husband…as the law of the Holy Kirk requires…and thereto I plight to thee my troth.”
The sincerity in her steady gaze told of vows honestly spoken. Ewan had an urge to strut about the church like a rooster. His wife loved him despite the foolish trick he’d set in motion to avoid marrying her. She’d seen strengths in him he hadn’t seen in himself. Of course, she’d conspired to trick him as well. He chuckled inwardly, grateful the Fates had persevered to bring two reluctant soul mates together.
*
Shona flounced out of the chapel like the Queen o’ All Scots. She was regally dressed—after all a lass only got married once, so what was the point in scrimping on a gown—and the king of her heart was her escort.
The brief physical liaison they’d shared still evoked tingles in unmentionable places and promised a marriage bed filled with sublime delights.
The most wonderful day of her life might never have happened if her scheme to avoid marrying a Mackinloch had worked. Fortunately, the Fates had thwarted the plan and she’d shared the ceremony with her beloved aunt, thus doubling her happiness.
All that remained now was the banquet, about which she had mixed feelings. The castle was agog, but the excitement had more to do with the venison than the happy event. Fynn had confidently taken Jeannie to wife without blinking an eye, but questions about the roasting of the stag seemed to render him a nervous wreck with a stammer to rival David’s.
Those fortunate to sample the pies served at David and Moira’s wedding plagued others with tales of the mouth-watering treat in store.
Able to walk now with the aid of two arm crutches and the ever-faithful Donald, Kendric led the wedding procession into the hall and took his rightful place at the head table. Beaming, he gestured Ewan and Shona to sit to his right, and Fynn and Jeannie to his left.
Folk applauded as they took their places, but the cheering rose to a crescendo when Walter led in Ruadh and ushered him to a blanket in front of the head table. Everyone acknowledged the dog had earned the right to the first morsels of venison.
He sat regally, tongue lolling.
“Look at him,” she whispered to Ewan, “eyeing his court as if he’s King of the Castle.”
They both chuckled when he yawned, evidently bored when the minister appealed to everyone to bow their heads and thank God for His goodness.
Instead, the hound looked with anticipation to the kitchens as servants emerged bearing serving trays.
Every head followed Ruadh’s lead and not the minister’s.
“He isna the only one salivating,” Ewan pointed out as they sat.
Though Shona’s chair was four removed from Fynn’s, she sensed his nervousness. Jeannie leaned forward to exchange an exasperated glance with her niece.
Seated at a table with his new bride’s family, David fixed his worried gaze on the servants as they delivered trenchers of meat and vegetables to the head table and one to Ruadh.
The dog got to his feet and made short work of the treat, then wagged his tail, lapping up the loud cheering.
Fynn and David unclenched their jaws.
“Seems Ruadh approves,” Kendric shouted over the din. “The festivities can begin.”
*
Ewan savored the venison, but particularly enjoyed feeding his new bride the best morsels from his trencher. It took resolve not to lick the juices from her tempting lips and kiss her senseless. He suspected the crowd half-expected him to do so. A hush fell over the gathering every time he leaned towards her.
He’d readied himself for some antagonism among Shona’s clan. After all, he was a Mackinloch and had just played a role in the deaths of MacCarron kinsmen. There were a few scowling faces, mostly among the more elderly folk but, all in all, he was confident the majority favored the marriage, if grudgingly.
He deemed it fortuitous that much of the attention had shifted to Fynn whose culinary triumph had made him famous. The majority of the raucous toasts were offered to him and his helper, and to the dog. Opinion was unanimous it was the best venison anyone had ever tasted. The man responsible steadfastly refused to reveal his secrets.
“There’s a lesson to be learned here,” Ewan whispered to Shona.
She turned to listen. The happy smile, the wide-eyed innocence, the blush spreading across her breasts caused him to lose track of what he planned to say next. His cock ruled his thoughts.
“A lesson,” she prompted, eyeing him curiously.
“Er…aye. The way to a clan’s heart is through its belly.”
She nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t seem to appreciate the witticism. He took a quick swig of the wine to hide his disappointment.
The blackberry wine was excellent, rich and fruity, but he didn’t intend to over-imbibe and was glad Shona took only the occasional sip.
Kendric, however, drank heartily. Jeannie and Shona both cautioned him softly that laudanum and wine could be a potent mix. He waved away their warnings. “If a mon canna celebrate the wedding of his niece and sister on the same day…”
A fit of hiccups followed, causing Jeannie to slap him heartily on the back.
He belched, then continued. “Anyway, I sipped only a wee dram o’ dwale today so I didna have to worry about the laud’num.”
Shona gasped, but Ewan gently restrained her when she tried to get out of her seat. “Leave him be. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“But dwale,” she protested. “He’s determined to stick with old ways and doesna realize it can be more dangerous than laudanum. Cook has had more to worry about than how much henbane he put in the dwale.”
He patted her hand. “He’ll suffer for it on the morrow, but I’ll warrant his worst affliction will be a pounding headache.”
A few minutes later he hoped he was right when Kendric struggled to his feet, swayed alarmingly on his crutches and raised a goblet. “Falls to me to say a few words about…”
He scanned the hall, seemingly recollecting his thoughts until his gaze settled on Ewan. “About this union of our feuding clans.”
The smile faded from Shona’s face as a knot of apprehension tightened in Ewan’s gut.
“Aye,” Kendric continued, “all o’ ye gathered here well remember what happened at the Battle o’ the Ninth Inch.”
Utter silence reigned.
Ewan felt sure everyone else must have noticed the drunken slip of the tongue that had rechristened the North Inch.
Only Fynn shrugged as they exchanged an amused glance.
If anyone else caught the error, they apparently decided to overlook it in favor of resurrecting old grudges.
Frowns replaced smiles. Eyes narrowed. Jaws clenched. Ewan shifted uncomfortably in his chair when Shona’s fingernails dug into his thigh. Surely the laird wasn’t going to drag up a battle between the Mackinlochs and the MacCarrons that had taken place three hundred years before—definitely not in living memory.
“Aye,” Kendric declared, “when our clans refused to settle the dispute, the trial by combat was decreed by King Robert hisself. He was there, ye ken. Witnessed the bloody massacre of MacCarrons by the cursed Mackinlochs.”