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“Aye,” she says, a laughing light in her eyes as she tries on the word for the first time. It sounds lovely coming from her lips.
“And do you love me too?”
“Aye. I do.”
A welling in my chest makes it hard to speak. “Does this mean you’ll finally sleep in my room instead of retreating back to yours every night?”
“I’d like to keep the room for bit. If that’s okay. A girl can get used to having her own private bathroom and I’d like a little space sometimes.”
“You can have anything you want.”
“I’d like Eamon to move back in. I don’t want him thinking for a second that I’m pushing him out of your life, out of his house.” I shrug. “Besides, I really like him being around.”
“Aye, me too.”
“So did you really leave to sell a horse, or could you just not bear to see me pack?” she asks.
I drop down onto one knee. I take the Strawberry Grass and the rose from her hands, placing them carefully on the ground at her feet. I grab both her hands in mine.
I stare up into those lovely brown eyes I fell in love with the moment I saw them. “I did have a horse to sell. And I used the money to buy a ring.”
I slip the simple solitaire diamond ring from the breast pocket of my shirt.
“Catherine Townsend. My Kitty Cat. Will you marry me?”
She holds out her shaking left hand to let me slip the ring on her finger. “Oh my gosh. It’s so beautiful.” She tilts her finger, watching the diamond sparkle under the sunlight.
“It that a yes?”
“Aye! Of course it is. Now get up here so I can kiss you.” She tugs on my hands, pulling me to my feet.
I wrap my arms around her, giving her the kiss she desires. I pull away, warm and happy. “So now that I’m going to be your husband, I’m going to be your boss.”
“Fat chance.” Her eyes shine. “It’s just the games we play. Any real man knows it’s the woman who’s in charge.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kitt
Turns out women are allowed in the Kings Castle after all. If you’re marrying the head of the family and demand the gorgeous, renovated meeting space for your wedding reception.
I apologized profusely to the girls about the porta-potty situation, but the women of the island were so thrilled with getting to see the inside of the cathedral, they didn’t care.
We’ve changed some things around to prepare for the celebration. And we need all the space we can get; these Scots love to party.
The pews no longer sit in aisles, but their wood has been shined to a gleam as they lean against the walls, sashes of flowers and pink ribbons lovingly tied to their arms, creating a space in the center of the room, a resting place for dancers and the elderly to watch the ceilidh as it gathers energy.
Sun shines through the brightly colored stained-glass windows, lighting the festive place. We’ve set up bar-top tables with sets of barstools, creating spaces for couples to canoodle. There are large circular tables with chairs set for dinner, and a makeshift bar’s been set up, all covered with soft pink linens—courtesy of Fiona, my decorator.
I’m getting pretty good. Eamon’s been teaching me. Learning the steps is one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. Eamon says at weddings, almost all the dancing is in groups, the steps known to everyone. I can’t wait to put all my practice to use tonight.
There’s one difficult conversation I have to get out of the way before I can enjoy this magical celebration.
I find my mother by the bar, ordering a Champagne. “Mom. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“There she is! My lovely bride.” She pulls me in for a hug. “You looked so gorgeous up at that altar. You and your handsome groom. What a pair.”
“Thanks.”
