Page 130 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

She wore deep green, the color of rain-darkened hills, with her mother’s silver clasp bright at her shoulder. Lachlan’s plaid had been folded over one arm. Winter heather threaded through her dark hair, though no ornament could soften the certainty with which she crossed the hall.

She did not look like a woman being surrendered beneath royal decree. She looked like the mistress of Dun Ard approaching a future she had judged and chosen.

The knowledge struck Roy more deeply than the beauty of her gown or the softness of the candlelight upon her face.

She had chosen this. She had chosen him.

Her gaze found his. Everything within Roy quieted. He had seen her furious, wounded, and smoke-stained. He had held her while she trembled and watched her command men twice her age without raising her voice. Yet the sight of her walking toward him struck some unguarded place beneath his ribs.

For years, he believed peace was merely the absence of fighting. Donaldina approaching beneath the joined banners made him wonder whether peace might instead be something a man had to dare accept.

She stopped beside him. Their hands brushed.

“Still time tae flee,” she whispered playfully.

“Ye would only follow and correct me route.”

“I would have tae. Ye would choose the most difficult road.”

Father Maol cleared his throat with priestly disapproval. Donaldina’s mouth softened. Roy turned toward the altar before the entire hall witnessed him smiling.

The priest lifted his hands. “We gather beneath God, before kin and clan, tae witness the joining of Laird Roy MacIver and Lady Donaldina MacNicol. They stand here beneath the agreement of the Crown, but also by the consent of their houses and the choice freely given between them.”

The last words entered Roy with quiet force.

Choice freely given.

Donaldina’s fingers shifted closer to his. Father Maol reached toward the ceremonial cord resting upon the altar, but then, a horn sounded outside. One blast, then another. The sound cut through the hall.

The doors near the lower tables opened, and a guard stumbled across the threshold, breathing hard.

“Fire!”

Voices rose at once. Roy turned toward the narrow eastern windows. Smoke climbed beyond the wall, thick and black against the pale sky. It was the direction of the garden and the hives.

Donaldina’s breath caught. Roy’s hand closed around hers before she could move.

“Hamish,” he ordered. “Twenty men tae the garden. Malcolm holds the hall.”

Warriors surged from the benches.

“Remain calm!” Malcolm shouted. “Nae one leaves without instruction.”

The hall ignored him. Guests rose. Women pulled children toward the walls. Several men demanded weapons while others pushed toward the doors to see the fire. Benches scraped across stone. Cups overturned. The musicians retreated against the western hearth, clutching their instruments as though wooden pipes might offer protection.

Donaldina pulled once against Roy’s hand. “Those are me hives.”

“I ken.”

“The old hive⁠—”

“I ken.”

The pain on her face nearly made him release her. Suddenly, another horn sounded from the battlements. Beyond the eastern treeline, a second column of smoke appeared, followed by a third. Roy sensed the approach of the attack before the steel emerged.

“He is drawing us outward,” he said.

Hamish stopped halfway toward the doors.