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“He takes after his father, I must say.” He quipped to disguise the direction of his conjectures.
“Here is breakfast.” Invited Gracie as everyone sat around the coarse table, the waft of fresh bannocks appetising.
“May Sam stay here for a while after the wedding?” Taran inquired before drinking his ale.
“Of course.” Gracie answered.
“When is it, father?” His red brows pleated.
“Tomorrow.” He already sent word to the priest.
“In a hurry, are we?” Seamus interposed. “Is she with child?”
A ruddy colour surfaced in Taran’s rugged features with the possibility of him making a wee bairn with her. Many bairns.
“Too early to say, you dim-wit!” Gracie jabbed her husband.
“I do not want this to come out and risk a skirmish with the McKendricks.” Not in a thousand years would he confess to a different reason.
“Clever move.” Approved Seamus.
Breakfast over, Taran looked at his son. “Time to go, Sam.”
The boy followed him to the door.
“I expect to see you in the church tomorrow.” Taran invited the couple.
“We would not miss it even for the best whisky from your distillery!” Joked Seamus.
~.~.~
Next morning came with rain pouring from the sky in sheets and cold temperature to match. Taran did not mind it. His blood ran heated. His best tartan lay on his bed, the one the buidseach would warm tonight. The one in which they would wake up in tomorrow.
Bathed, clean shirt, neat cravat, coat, carefully pinned tartan over his shoulder, hose, sporran, polished shoes. It had been a long time he did not dress this formally. The village’s and his manor’s social gatherings did not demand such full attire.
Head dress adjusted and sword on his waist, he headed for the manor’s chapel. And waited.
The priest, Father Robert, stood there, too. The short, bald man in his sixties presided in the village for the best part of three decades.
On the front pew, sat Seamus, Gracie and Sam, the only people in attendance. A quiet ceremony seemed the best choice.
The door opened to reveal Aileen. The most beautiful bride in the Highlands. She dressed formally, as well, lace trimmed underdress, green and black plaid spencer, head dress over hair falling to her shoulders, round neckline, eyes sparkling on a solemn demeanour.
Tonight, after the hastily assembled wedding feast, they would quench that thirst, he affirmed keenly, impatience thrumming every single muscle.
Slowly, she glided through the aisle, no flowers in her hands or her head. When she approached, he offered his arm, which she touched lightly, and they came before the priest.
Foreword spoken, Father Robert proceeded to the wedding vows. “Lady Aileen, do you take Taran McDougal as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to obey and to cherish until death do you part?"
Aileen, turned to him and looking him hard and deep in his eyes, said, “No.”
The whole universe seemed to go still. Nothing moved. Silence befell everyone in cavernous space. A bird chirped outside on a tree. Rain spattered the windows. Wind swished the trees. A candle flame quivered.
The spell broke when Aileen fisted her hands on her slim waist. The world awoke anew.
Father Robert showed a frump. Gracie gasped. Seamus silenced. Sam hid a knowing smile.
And Taran scowled, his blood rushing in his veins boiling and fast.
