Page 7 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Are ye ready?" Ada asked, her voice gentle but knowing.
Erica took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her mother's jewelry at her throat and wrists. "Aye. I'm ready."
The three of them made their way through the corridors of Castle Kinnaird, their footsteps echoing on the stone floors. Erica caught more than one curious glance. News of the laird's sudden wedding had spread quickly through the castle.
As they approached the kirk, Erica could hear voices—low murmurs of conversation, the shuffle of feet on stone. Her heart began to beat faster, and she forced herself to keep her breathing steady.
"Remember," Ewan said quietly, "ye're Lady McLaren. Ye bow to nay one."
She nodded, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders. Whatever happened today, she would face it with dignity.
The kirk doors opened, and Erica stepped inside.
The small stone chapel was filled with people, more than she'd expected. Kinnaird clan members filled the wooden pews, theirfaces turned toward her with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism. She caught a few hostile glances—women who'd perhaps hoped to become Lady Kinnaird themselves, men who questioned the wisdom of their laird's sudden choice.
But most looked at her with polite interest, waiting to see what manner of woman their laird had chosen.
And there, at the front of the kirk, stood Lachlan.
He was magnificent. Dressed in formal Highland attire—a crisp white shirt, a dark green and blue plaid secured with a silver brooch, and a sword at his side. His dark hair was pulled back, emphasizing the strong lines of his face, and then their eyes met across the chapel.
All the angels of the heavens. He is handsome.
Erica tried to repress the sudden flutter in her chest at the sight of him.
He hadn't taken his eyes off her since she'd entered. The intensity of his gaze made her skin warm, and she found herself walking toward him as if drawn by an invisible thread.
The priest, a kindly-looking man with graying hair, smiled warmly as she approached. "Welcome, lass. Are ye ready to pledge yerself to this man?"
"Aye," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.
"And ye, Laird Lachlan?" the priest asked. "Are ye ready to take this woman as yer wife?"
"I am," Lachlan replied, his deep voice carrying easily through the chapel.
When the time came for the binding, Lachlan stepped closer and extended his hands. Erica's breath caught as she placed her palms against his, feeling the calluses from sword work, the warmth that seemed to radiate from his skin.
"Join yer hands," the priest instructed gently.
Their fingers interlaced, and Erica found herself studying the contrast—her slender fingers pale against his sun-darkened skin, her smooth hands dwarfed by his battle-scarred ones. A tremor ran through her at the intimate contact, but it wasn't fear. It was something else entirely.
The priest lifted a length of McLaren tartan that was deep green with threads of blue running through it, like veins of sapphire. The wool was soft against her wrists as he began wrapping it around their joined hands, binding them together in the ancient way.
"This tartan carries the strength of Clan McLaren," the priest intoned, his voice taking on the cadence of ritual. "Generations of warriors, mothers, children—all who came before ye."
Next came a strip of Kinnaird plaid torn from Lachlan's own jacket—darker green shot through with black and silver. As the priest wound it over the McLaren colors, the two patterns seemed to dance together, creating something entirely new.
"And this carries the strength of Clan Kinnaird," the priest continued. "Two bloodlines, two histories, now woven as one."
Erica felt the bindings tighten around their wrists—not uncomfortably, but securely. She was bound to this man now, literally and figuratively. When she looked up, she found Lachlan watching her with an intensity that made her pulse flutter.
"The threads that bind ye are stronger than the individual strands," the priest said, his voice rising to carry through the chapel. "As these tartans are woven together, so too are yer lives, yer clans, yer futures. What God has joined, let no man put asunder."
The words seemed to echo in the stone chamber, settling into her bones. For a moment—just a moment—she could almost forget this was born of necessity. The way Lachlan's thumb brushed across her knuckles, the reverence in the priest's voice, the ancient ritual connecting her to countless Highland brides before her... it felt sacred. Real.
This is me life now. This man, this moment, this choice.
Erica stared down at their bound hands.
