Page 5 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Laura lowered her gaze, her lips pressed tightly together. She prayed no one would notice how her knees quivered beneath the weight of vows she could not truly give.
“Bradley Knox, Laird McCormack,” the preacher intoned, “do ye swear before God and clan to keep, protect, and cherish this woman, to be her shield and her strength?”
Bradley straightened, his chest rising. “Aye, I swear it. She is mine, and I’ll guard her with blade and blood, with hearth and heart.”
His words rang strong, yet they felt more like a claim of possession than a promise of love, and Laura’s stomach clenched at their sound.
Then the preacher turned to Laura. “Laura Gilmour, do ye swear before God and clan to honor, keep, and cherish this man, to be his comfort and his crown?”
Her throat tightened, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Aye… I swear it.”
The lie stung on her tongue, yet the preacher nodded solemnly, accepting it as truth. Her guilt swelled so thick within her that she feared she might collapse there before the altar.
The preacher raised his hands over them both. “By the bindin’ of this cloth, and the words ye have spoken, I pronounce ye man and wife, blessed under heaven.” The gathered folk erupted in cheers, clapping and calling out blessings, though Laura heard them as though from a distance.
She kept her eyes fixed upon the floor, praying silently for forgiveness, wishing her soul could fly free of the chains that bound her. Her chest ached with the weight of vows made not from love, but from fear and necessity.
Bradley wasted no time, tugging her close, his hand firm at her waist as his lips pressed upon hers.
The kiss was not tender but filled with command, leaving her breath caught in her chest.
When he drew back, his smirk curled wickedly, and his voice dropped low for her ear alone.
“I cannae wait for the weddin’ night, lass. Ye’ll ken soon enough what it means to be mine.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bradley’s dark eyes lingered on Laura as they stepped from the kirk into the bright field, the sounds of celebration surrounding them. Her cheeks burned with a faint blush, the color climbing high across her pale skin, and he felt a grim satisfaction curl in his chest.
She was bonnie; that was undeniable. Tall and slender, her large brown eyes were wide and guarded beneath her delicate brows. Her long black hair, braided in intricate patterns and adorned with small white flowers, framed her face and fell past her shoulders like midnight silk.
He noted every detail, the way her hands clasped nervously, the slight tremor in her frame, and he allowed himself a small, dark grin. Yet he had no intention of touching her, not yet. He was no monster, despite the sternness and fire in his nature. The marriage had been a necessity, a show to the clan that an heir would come in time.
“Smile and show our clan ye have joy in yer heart for being a McCormack,” he said to her.
“Aye, as ye wish,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. However, she did turn and smiled brightly.
He led her through the castle corridors, past guards who bowed their heads respectfully, and into a hall that had been prepared for a cèilidh. The room was long and lined with high-backed chairs, the tables laden with the bounty of the McCormack lands. Flickering candles cast warm light across the oak beams, glinting off polished pewter plates and carved wooden cups. Musicians were in place at the far end, fiddles and pipes ready, their tunes already filling the space with lively anticipation.
“Look upon the bounty of McCormack,” he said as he waved his arm over the many tables. He felt pride as her eyes grew wide, looking at the decorative room.
The feast itself was a testament to the clan’s seaside wealth and pride. Platters of roasted fish, waterfowl, and the bounty of the sea lay steaming, their herbs and spices mingling in the heavy, sweet scent. Loaves of fresh bread were stacked in baskets, alongside bowls of butter churned from the castle’s own dairy. Stew of root vegetables and thick gravy bubbled in cauldrons, the savory aroma mingling with the honeyed scent of oatcakes.
Wine and mead flowed freely, poured into cups of silver and wood alike, as laughter and chatter grew louder with each passing moment.
He seated Laura beside him at the head table, his hand resting lightly on her hand on the table. Every glance he cast toward her was measured, showing command but restraint, as though to remind both her and the watching clan that he alone held this day in his grasp.
Clan members raised toasts, calling blessings over the newlyweds, their voices warm and spirited, though Bradley kept his expression controlled.
The music swelled, and some of the younger folk clapped along, their shoes tapping on the polished floorboards. The air was thick with heat and perfume, the smells of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and burning candles mingling in a heady, intoxicating haze. Bradley allowed himself to observe Laura as she watched the dancers. His gaze softened slightly, admiring her even as he maintained control, the blush on her cheeks, the rise of her bosom with every breath.
He wondered at the contradictions within her—her fear, her resistance, and yet the undeniable grace she carried even in her discomfort. For now, he would bide his time, let the cèilidh pass, and maintain the order expected of a laird who had just claimed his bride.
He watched as she turned in her chair to speak with the young lass who had tugged at her dress to gain her attention.
Bradley’s gaze flicked to the man seated to his right, the flickering candlelight catching the sharp angles of Alan’s face. The younger man-at-arms leaned back slightly, a careless grintugging at his lips as he lifted a mug of mead. Unlike Bradley, Alan carried a looseness in his posture, a rakish freedom that often made him seem unconcerned with the weight of duty.
“Ye see the clan,” Bradley began, his voice low but firm, “they’re still in shock over the death of me faither. Many daenae ken how to act, and some would sooner challenge me than follow.”
