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Who would have imagined that Moira would get married in a perfectly balmy day in May? The blue sky and the mild sun forecast a lovely time for celebration. Full bloom trees and flowers peppered the church garden, adding to the light mood.
Most of the revellers dressed in their usual McKendrick or Darroch colours. But Laird Taran and his wife Aileen wore the red, black and white of the McDougals. Discretely peering around, Moira hoped not to see her uncle. No doubt he got word of the wedding, but with a little luck he would not show here.
“I expect you’re not already regretting marrying this blackguard,” Taran ripped her from her restless musings, probably reading her distracted expression.
She turned a quick smile at him. “I’m sure I’ll have no cause for that, Laird McDougal,” the answer came cheerfully. There would be no regrets since she knew what awaited her.
His usual stern countenance gave way to an amused look. “Call me Taran, we’re family now. Good to hear it,” he answered.
“Don’t go getting too familiar with my bride, McDougal,” jested Lachlan.
“He won’t, I assure you!” Aileen said in a warning tone while her husband directed a heated look at her, causing a blush.
“Not even remotely,” Taran answered. “The Darrochs deserve every ounce of respect.”
“But a comely lass deserves even more praise,” interjected Fingal, earning a hard stare from his wife. But when he smiled lovingly at her, she broke a smile back.
Fingal almost got into fisticuffs with Lachlan when the younger man took Catriona on an innocent ride. The lass, though, stopped their silliness.
“We just want you to remember we’re here for you,” The Lady McKendrick offered.
Drostan looked at her adoringly before turning to the bride and groom. “She’s right. And, by the way, your maid, Mary, is safely tucked away in our lands,” he reiterated.
A Darroch called at Moira, diverting her attention from her new husband’s family. But it did not escape her that The McDougal and The McKendrick talked in low tones, probably about what transpired so far in her clan.
The free-flowing McKendrick’s whisky and the music from the bagpipes and drums soon had everyone dancing and cheering.
Late that night, Moira, in her unfashionable night rail, lay in her canopied bed, looking at the tired fabric over her head. The feast still raged in the chapel grounds prone to last into the early hours. Discretely, she left while Lachlan sat and talked with the lads.
Lachlan’s siblings and spouses returned to the McKendrick manor and their children at sunset. Taran and Aileen would travel to their home next morning.
It had been a merry day despite the circumstances. A timely break from the chores, the ones she would resume tomorrow. Which should account for her sleeplessness, but somehow, she did not believe it to be the cause.
She awoke at sunrise a maiden and came back to her chambers a married woman. A married woman who hungered inconveniently for her husband. The one who had yet to return since no noise came from the other chamber. He would not spend his wedding night with another woman; or would he? With the low expectations she harboured about the man, she would consider it possible.
The mere possibility squeezed her insides to a chocking point. It would not do to live her life haunted by the ghosts of infidelity, she would go crazy. Sucking in a deep breath, she veered her mind to the tasks she must do at daybreak.
She was about to turn to the other side to get a modicum of rest when a noise at the door caught her attention. The only light in the room came from the fireplace as her gaze flew to the source of the noise. The McKendrick monument was in the act of clicking the wooden panel shut.
Hazel irises widened on him at the same time her heart gave a galloping start. “What are you doing here?” Instead of indignant, her voice came breathless, almost eager.
Those solid legs prowled to her. “A husband has the right to visit his wife’s chambers.” The low tones bathed her in warm Athol Brose.
A suspicious slackening of her muscles consumed her. “We won’t have this kind of marriage.”
“Says who?” At the foot of her bed, he braced his legs and crossed his arms.
The breeze had mussed his luxuriant hair, but his impeccable tartan and white shirt were still in place.
Memories of him interacting with the guests in the feast popped in her mind. He had smiled and listened to everyone with consideration and regard. His politeness had extended to young and old alike even if the lasses had stars in their eyes. Side by side, she was certain they would form the right team to take care of the clan.
“We never talked about…about any intimacy.” Not that she did not want, or rather crave it. The problem being she might become an addict, her focus addled by the husband she did not consider worth the position.
One masculine brow lifted. “No need, the marriage understanding implies this.”
She studied his magnificent frame as weakness undermined her. “Meaning your husbandly rights,” she interpreted.
His undivided attention fell on her face. “That, and a wedding requires consummation,”
