Margaret poured the tea, steam curling from the delicate cup. “Now, let us speak plainly,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “Connor told me that yer weddin’ clothes have arrived.”
Eva’s cheeks warmed. “Aye, they have. I like them very much. Brawna did an excellent job.”
Margaret smiled. “I am pleased to hear it. A bride should feel proud in her dress, and ye will look well, I am certain.”
Eva took a sip of her tea, trying to calm the flutter in her chest.
“We should discuss the foods to be served at the weddin’ as well,” Margaret continued, setting down her cup. “Connor hasideas, but I wish to hear yers. Ye are to be Laird McLaren’s bride, after all.”
Eva hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Aye? I thought a roasted ham, root vegetables, fresh bread, cheeses… and perhaps some sweet treats for the children, like little tarts and spiced buns.”
Margaret’s eyes twinkled. “A fine choice, lass. Simple yet hearty, like a true Scottish feast. The people will be satisfied, and it suits the occasion.”
Eva felt a little surge of pride. “Connor will be pleased, I hope,” she said softly.
Margaret chuckled. “He will be, but now we must speak of the clans attending. We shall have the MacGregor and the Stewart families… and a few of the smaller neighboring clans. The village is buzzin’ with the news that the Laird is marryin’ one of their own, instead of some spoiled daughter of another laird.”
Eva blinked, a warmth rising in her chest. “The village… it feels like family to me. They have always been so kind and welcomin’.”
Margaret nodded approvingly. “That is good to hear, lass. A bride who respects her people will be loved in turn. Ye are learnin’ well, and I am proud of ye already.”
Eva exhaled, a little of her nervousness ebbing away. “Thank ye. I only hope I do well enough to honor Connor and the McLaren name.”
Margaret reached across the table, placing a steady hand over Eva’s.
“The Laird chose ye for reasons beyond mere appearances. He sees yer heart, and it is strong and true.”
Eva felt her cheeks warm again, and she tried to hide the small smile tugging at her lips.
“I hope he kens how grateful I am… for all he has done, and for… everythin’.”
Margaret chuckled softly. “Aye, he does. But ye must also ken, child, a laird’s wife carries duties. Ye will be expected to host, to attend to the people, have heirs, and to keep the household runnin’ smoothly. Yet I have nay doubt ye will manage, for ye have the right spirit.”
Eva nodded solemnly, feeling the weight of responsibility but also a quiet excitement. “I will do me best. I truly will.”
Margaret smiled, lifting her teacup. “Then we shall toast to that, lass. To yer weddin’, and to the happiness ye shall bring to the clan.”
Eva lifted her cup as well, the warm tea filling her palms and grounding her.
“To the weddin’… and to servin’ the people of the clan well,” she said, her voice steadying.
Margaret leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Now, let us speak more of the guest list. The MacGregors will arrive at dawn the day of the weddin’, and the Stewarts are sendin’ their chieftain. We must ensure all have proper lodgin’ and that the feasts are plentiful.”
Eva listened intently, jotting down mental notes. “I will make sure everythin’ is ready. I want them to feel welcome… as if they are visitin’ their own home.”
Margaret nodded in approval. “Aye, that is the heart of a true Lady McLaren. Ye think of others before yerself, and that will be remembered long after the weddin’ day. Now, tell me more about the decorations. Ye were sayin’ something of garlands and flowers?”
Eva brightened, leaning forward with excitement. “Aye! I thought of wildflowers from the village, daisies and lavender, and ribbons in the clan colors. They will be woven along the railings and tables, and perhaps tied in me hair.”
Margaret clapped her hands softly, delighted. “That is perfect, child. Simple, yet beautiful. Ye have a good eye, and the people will see that the bride herself cares for the details.”
Eva felt her chest lift with pride, a warmth spreading through her as she imagined the wedding day arriving, surrounded by family, friends, and Connor. She realized, in that moment, that she truly belonged, not just to the castle, but to the life she was building there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Connor walked slowly through the gardens with his grandmother at his side, the late summer air carrying the scent of herbs and damp stone. Margaret’s arm was looped through his, light but steady, her pace unhurried as if she knew he needed the calm. He cleared his throat, jaw tight, and finally spoke of the letters Fergus had shown him, the ones thick with sour pride and wounded vanity from the other Lairds.
“They’re affronted I dinnae pick one of their daughters,” he said flatly, gaze fixed on the gravel path beneath his boots.
