Page 2 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

"Or ye'll both be too stubborn tae bend, and ye'll spend the rest of yer lives circling each other like a pair of Highland cats," Ruaridh said cheerfully.

"That's helpful, braither dear," Morag said dryly.

"I live tae serve."

A horn sounded from the courtyard—three long blasts that meant her escort was ready to depart. The sound seemed to suck all the air from the great hall, leaving behind a silence heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears.

"Well then," Niamh said briskly, though her voice was rougher than usual. "I suppose it's time."

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Morag felt her chest tighten, and without thinking, she grabbed Sorcha's arm and pulled her aside, away from their parents' watchful eyes.

"Sorcha," she whispered urgently, "I wish—och, this sounds mad, but I almost wish someone would kidnap me on the road. Anything tae avoid this marriage."

Her sister's hazel eyes widened, then softened with understanding. "Morag, love, I ken ye're frightened, but it willnae be as terrible as ye think. And getting kidnapped..." Sorcha's voice took on a wry note, "well, I ken it sounds romantic tae have a happy ending with the laird that kidnapped ye, but it daesnae always turn out as well as it did fer me."

Morag sighed, remembering her sister's own dramatic courtship. "Aye, I ken that. But Sorcha, I've never heard a single good thing about Colin Armstrong. With a name like the Iron Laird, I ken he rules his clan with an iron grip. What kind of marriage can I expect with such a man? What kind of life?"

Sorcha reached out and squeezed her sister's hands. "Listen tae me, mo peata. Sometimes the strongest men need the gentlest touch tae soften them. Give yer marriage a chance and it may turn out much better than ye expect."

Sorcha pulled Morag into a tight squeeze which was interrupted when their mother appeared at her elbow, moving with that silent grace that had always unnerved her children. Niamh's green eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her voice was steady as stone.

"Morag." She pressed something small and cold into her daughter's palm. "Take this."

Morag looked down to see a small but deadly sharp dagger, its handle carved with intricate Celtic knots. The blade gleamed like silver in the firelight.

"Ma, I⁠—"

"Keep it close tae yer body," Niamh said firmly, her fingers closing over Morag's. "The land ye're going tae is made of steel, lass. The people, the very air—everything is harder there. Be prepared fer anything that comes yer way."

Morag nodded, her throat tightening. "Ma, what if he daesnae want me? What if this marriage⁠—"

"Listen tae me, mo chridhe." Niamh's voice dropped to barely a whisper, meant for Morag's ears alone. "When I wed yer faither, I thought me life was ending. I kent nothing of him save his name, and I was so frightened I could barely speak me vows." Her green eyes softened with memory. "But sometimes, lass, the marriages we fear most become the love stories we treasure. Yer faither and I... we found our way tae each other. And ye will too."

"But ye and Da, ye were lucky⁠—"

"Nay." Niamh shook her head. "We worked fer it. Every day, we chose tae see the good in each other. That's what makes a marriage, Morag—not the grand gestures, but the small choices tae build something together."

"Thank ye," Morag whispered, tucking the dagger into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress. For just a moment, she caught something in her mother's green eyes— a kind of hope born from her own experience.

"Time to go, lass," Alistair called from the doorway, though his voice was gentler than usual.

The final farewells were a blur of fierce embraces and whispered blessings. Ruaridh lifted her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug, muttering threats against anyone who dared harm her.

Sorcha kissed both her cheeks and pressed a small bundle of lavender into her hands. Their parents each held her close one last time, and then suddenly she was walking across the courtyard toward the waiting carriage, her legs feeling strangely unsteady.

The carriage door closed with a final, echoing thud, and Morag MacDuff began her journey toward an uncertain future—and a man whose heart was made of iron.

The carriage wheels found their rhythm on the worn stone road, and for the first day Morag almost managed to forget where she was headed. The Highland countryside rolled past the small window in waves of purple heather and emerald glen, familiar and comforting as a lullaby.

"Look there, m'lady," said Isla, her maid, pointing toward a cluster of red deer grazing near a burn. "They say it's good luck tae see the hart on a wedding journey."

Morag glanced at the girl's plain face—barely seventeen, with mousy brown hair and nervous hands that never seemed to stop fidgeting with her apron. Isla jumped at every shadow, but she had willingly volunteered for this journey, which had earned Morag's grudging respect.

"Aye, well, I'll take all the luck I can get," Morag replied, though her fingers unconsciously found the dagger hidden in her dress. "Though I reckon I'll need more than deer tae help me survive this marriage."

Outside, she could hear the steady hoofbeats of their escort—three MacDuff soldiers her father had insisted upon. The captain was a grizzled veteran who'd served her grandfather. The other two rode with the easy confidence of men who'd never known real defeat.

Yet, Morag thought grimly.