Arianna laughed nervously. “I feel as though all of Scotland will be starin’.”
“Aye, near enough,” Melissa replied with a grin. She reached for the heavier wool gown, pale cream with embroidered borders. “Clans have come from far valleys,” she continued, “McLeod, Fraser, Grant, and more besides.”
Arianna’s stomach fluttered at the thought of so many witnesses.
The gown settled over her shoulders, weighty and warm. Her mother laced it carefully, tugging just enough to shape without pain.
“This sash was stitched by McGuire women,” Melissa said, “each thread a wish for prosperity.”
Arianna swallowed, moved by the unseen hands that had worked for her.
The sash, deep green, edged with silver, was beautiful. Melissa draped it across Arianna’s shoulder and pinned it at her hip. “Green for growth, silver for endurance,” she murmured. Arianna touched it lightly, feeling the weight of meaning in the cloth.
Her mother watched quietly, eyes shining. “Ye look like a bride,” Eilidh said softly.
Arianna met her gaze in the mirror. “I feel like one now,” she admitted, her voice barely steady.
Melissa brought forth a small cloak, light but finely made. “This ye’ll wear after the vows,” she explained, “when ye leave the kirk as a McGuire.”
Arianna’s chest tightened at the words. “A new name,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
“A new beginnin',” Melissa said kindly. She adjusted the flowers in Arianna’s hair and stepped back to inspect her work. “The clans will see strength in ye,” she added.
Arianna straightened her shoulders at that, drawing courage from the thought.
As the final pins were set and the folds smoothed, the sounds of the castle drifted in from beyond the door. Footsteps echoed, voices murmured, and somewhere a piper practiced a low, steady tune. Arianna’s heart raced, yet a strange calm settled over her. Wrapped in tradition, cloth, and quiet care, she felt herself becoming the woman she was meant to be.
Arianna stood at the Kirk doors with her heart pounding, the weight of the day settling upon her shoulders. Cold stone rose around the entrance, softened by garlands of pine, white heather, and trailing ivy woven along the arch. Candles flickered in iron sconces, their glow warming the grey walls. The air smelled of wax, evergreen, and fresh flowers crushed underfoot.
Inside, the Kirk had been transformed beyond anything she had known. Long benches were dressed with ribbons in the colors of both clans, green and deep blue twined together. White cloth draped the altar, embroidered with ancient Celtic knots meant to bind souls and fortunes alike. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, catching dust motes that shimmered like blessings.
Arianna drew a slow breath, steadying herself. She stepped forward, aware of every eye turning toward her. Her heart beat fast as awe filled her, for it was the most beautiful wedding she had ever seen.
Then she saw him. Ian stood near the altar, broad-shouldered and unmoving, as though carved from the stone itself. He wore dark formal garb trimmed with deep green and silver, his clan colors resting across his chest. His long black hair was bound at his neck, his beard neatly kept, and the eyepatch only made him look more formidable.
As she walked toward him, Arianna could not deny how handsome he seemed. His brown eye followed her every step, sharp and intent, yet something unreadable flickered within it. Scars marked his face, telling silent tales of violence and survival. Her pulse quickened despite herself, unsettled by the pull she felt. She noticed how his broad shoulders strained his shirt, and a brief feeling of desire filled her chest. She quickly pushed the thought aside, but the flush flooded her cheeks regardless.
They met before the pastor, the space between them closing at last.
Ian inclined his head slightly, his voice low. “Ye look… steady,” he said, as if that were the highest praise he could offer.
Arianna lifted her chin. “And ye look ready,” she replied, refusing to sound afraid.
The pastor raised his hands, his voice carrying through the kirk. “We gather this day before God and clan,” he said, “to bind Arianna Mullen of clan McDonald and Ian Bell, the Laird of clan McGuire, in lawful marriage.” He looked from one to the other,solemn and sure. “This union is sworn in word, in witness, and in handfastin’, as our forebears have done.”
A length of braided cord was brought forth, woven in green, silver, and white. The pastor took their hands, placing Arianna’s smaller one atop Ian’s scarred palm.
“Hands that will work together,” he intoned, “and stand together in peace and war.”
Arianna felt Ian’s grip tighten slightly, grounding and warm.
“Do ye, Ian Bell, take this woman as yer lawful wife,” the pastor asked, “to honor her and protect her as long as ye both shall live?”
Ian did not hesitate. “Aye,” he said firmly, his voice echoing. The word seemed to seal itself into her bones.
The pastor turned to her. “Do ye, Arianna Mullen, take this man as yer lawful husband,” he asked, “to stand beside him and uphold his house?”
Arianna swallowed, then spoke clearly. “Aye,” she said, surprised by her own strength. The cord was wrapped around their joined hands, binding them fast.
