Page 137 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Donaldina stepped toward him. “Father.”

“I have endured better weddings,” he murmured.

Her mouth trembled with something between laughter and grief.

“So have I,” Roy replied.

Despite everything, a faint sound of amusement escaped Donaldina. The priest’s gaze moved between them.

“The altar remains standing,” he continued. “The vows werenae completed, nor were they profaned by what Cormac attempted. Nae binding can be made beneath violence.”

Roy looked toward Donaldina. Father Maol followed the exchange.

“If ye both still choose it,” he said, “the marriage may proceed.”

The words settled between them. Men around the courtyard kept carrying water. Prisoners were made to kneel near the western wall. Beyond the garden, a roof beam collapsed, sending sparks flying. Guests gathered under the covered passages, their wedding clothes stained with smoke and blood.

It was not the ceremony they had prepared. Nothing remained untouched.

Donaldina reached for Roy’s hand. Her fingers closed around his, steady despite the soot upon them.

“We still choose it,” she said.

Roy looked down at her. The green gown was torn. Blood marked her mouth where Cormac had struck her. Smoke caught in her hair, and tears stood in her eyes without falling. She had never looked more certain.

“Aye,” Roy confirmed.

Father Maol bowed his head. “Then it will be done.”

“Today?” Hamish asked from behind them.

The priest gave him a weary look. “Unless ye intend tae invite another army tomorrow.”

Hamish glanced toward the ruined hall. “I would prefer a smaller gathering.”

Donaldina’s fingers remained intertwined with Roy’s.

“First,” she said, looking toward the eastern garden, “I need tae see what remains.”

They went to the garden while the last buckets were still being carried away. Roy kept Donaldina on the side farthest from the damaged wall, though she noticed and said nothing. Their hands remained joined until the path narrowed between the rosemary hedge and a patch of soaked earth.

The final flames had been extinguished. Smoke curled upward from the ground in pale, twisting tendrils. The rosemary on one side was charred, releasing its sharp aroma under the heat and water. Broken frames were scattered across muddy pools, their combs shattered into amber ruin.

Honey covered the earth like a glaze, shimmering in spots beneath the ash with a dark, blood-like hue. Bees moved slowly across the ground; some crawled over broken wood, their wings weighed down by water. Others hovered above the destroyed hives in swirling, erratic patterns, repeatedly returning to their crumbling homes.

Donaldina stopped. Roy watched the strength leave her face by degrees. She endured a blade against her throat without pleading. She watched Cormac die and walked through a hall filled with blood. Yet the sight of the broken garden struck a quieter wound, one no sword could defend against.

The oldest hive leaned near the far wall. Its roof had burned through. One side collapsed inward, and the timber Lachlan helped her shape years before split beneath the heat.

Donaldina crossed toward it. Roy followed but did not touch her.

She crouched beside the box and laid one hand upon the scorched wood. Soot blackened her fingers. For several moments, she said nothing.

Roy knew what the hive contained for her. Not merely wax, honey and bees, but a brother’s clumsy hands, an afternoon of laughter and a time when Dun Ard had not yet learned how completely grief could alter its rooms.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

Donaldina closed her eyes. “So am I.”