Page 8 of Highlanders for the Holidays
Before the ink was even dry, Laird Gille stood at the table to preside over the rite, and the hall again hushed.
“Join your right hands,” he directed.
Sir No?l faced her and clasped her right hand, which felt dwarfed within his. She could feel the calluses that marked it as the sword hand of a seasoned warrior. His palm was warm and dry. She feared her own was sweaty. Yet there was something reassuring in his grip.
“Here,” her sister offered, tugging a long scarlet ribbon out of her hair and passing it forward. “To make it fast.”
Her father wrapped the ribbon around their joined hands, binding them loosely together.
Then she lifted her face to look at her bridegroom. She was startled. In the low light, she’d assumed his shadowed eyes were brown. But standing this close, she could see they were actually blue—a blue as deep as the ocean, as dark as the falling night. For a moment, she only stared at him, lost in the heaven of his gaze.
And then she saw he was waiting uncertainly as the silence dragged on.
“Say your piece, lad,” Laird Gille urged.
A tiny furrow formed between No?l’s brows. Ysenda realized he didn’t know the vows for a handfasting. They probably had no such thing in France. It was up to her then.
Her voice shaking, she began. “I, Lady Ysen-” Heat flooded her cheeks as she recognized her blunder. She coughed to cover the mistake, whispering to No?l, “Forgive me. I’m a wee bit anxious.” Then she cleared her throat and began again. “I, Lady Cathalin ingen Gille, Maid o’ Rivenloch, take ye, Sir…No?l de Ware…to my wedded husband, till death parts ye and me. And thereto I pledge ye my troth.”
She gulped. That hadn’t been so difficult. And yet those simple words held such great weight.
His voice sounded much surer than hers. “I, Sir No?l de Ware, take ye, Lady Cathalin ingen Gille, Maid o’ Rivenloch, as my bride—”
“To my wedded wife,” she corrected in a murmur.
“To my wedded wife…till death…comes...”
She fought back a giggle. “Till death parts ye and me.”
“Till death parts ye and me…”
“And thereto I pledge ye my troth,” she prompted.
“Aye,” he said, finishing with a triumphant smile. “And thereto I pledge ye my troth.”
“’Tis done then,” her father said in satisfaction, clapping the matter from his hands.
Ysenda hardly heard him. Her attention was riveted on the man before her—the man who had somehow, improbably, just become her husband. A warm twinkle glimmered in his eyes. His smile was captivating. And the thumb he stroked softly over the top of their joined hands sent a curious tingle through her veins.
The laird raised a cup of ale in salute, and the clan followed with cheers.
But No?l wasn’t finished. He held his hand out to the man on his left, who placed a gold ring in his palm. Unwinding the handfasting ribbon to free her hand, No?l then gently slipped the ring onto Ysenda’s third finger.
She stared down at it. It was heavy, carved with the figure of a wolf’s head.
“’Tis the great Wolf o’ de Ware,” he told her.
She bit her lip, troubled by its scowling face. The ring was loose on her finger. She hoped that it wouldn’t slip off, that she wouldn’t lose it, for it rightfully belonged to Cathalin.
He bent his head down to murmur, “I vow, my lady, from this time forward, ye shall have the protection o’ the Wolf.”
For one foolish moment, she wished that could be true. She wouldn’t mind having an army of fierce wolfish knights at her beck and call.
She gave him a faltering smile, which he returned with a wide grin that made her heart skip. But this was Cathalin’s husband, not hers. And part of her burned with envy at that truth.
He was still clasping the fingers of her right hand when he lifted his left hand to cup her cheek. He tipped her head up, commanding her gaze. His dark eyes sparked at her like a smoldering coal. She had trouble drawing breath. His thumb brushed at the corner of her mouth, coaxing her lips apart. In a sensual daze, she let her jaw relax as her eyes lowered to his tempting mouth.
He was going to kiss her.
