Page 92 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

EPILOGUE

"Come on, husband!" Morag grabbed Colin's hand, practically bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Everyone's waitin' fer us! Remember, the first dance is fer the laird and his lady!"

She'd spent hours that afternoon being pampered by Sheena and the castle's maids, luxuriating in hot baths scented with lavender oil and rosemary, having her hair braided and twisted into an elaborate Highland style. The sky-blue silk gown Colin had commissioned fit her like a second skin, the white Celtic embroidery catching every flicker of torchlight. Matching ribbons woven through her hair completed the transformation from Highland lass to noble lady.

The great hall of Armstrong Castle had been transformed for their first clan festival since Fraser's defeat. Banners in Armstrong colors hung from every beam, tables groaned under the weight of Highland delicacies, and the air thrummed with anticipation. But instead of following her eager pull toward the dance floor, Colin stopped dead in his tracks.

His hands captured her waist, drawing her against him with possessive tenderness. "Nae yet," he murmured, his voice rough with admiration.

"Colin, what are ye⁠—"

He silenced her with a kiss that made her toes curl in her silk slippers. Deep, lingering, thorough—the kind of kiss that made the great hall fade away until there was nothing but the taste of him and the warmth of his hands spanning her corseted waist.

When they finally broke apart, Morag's cheeks were flushed and her carefully arranged hair ribbons had come slightly askew.

"I've never seen anyone so beautiful," Colin said quietly, his dark eyes drinking her in. "Ye take me breath away, lass."

Morag smoothed her hands over the silk of her gown, feeling the whisper-soft fabric beneath her palms. "Ye like it then?" she asked, though his expression had already given her the answer.

"Like it?" Colin's voice dropped to that intimate tone that never failed to make her pulse race. "Morag, ye look like a Highland queen."

"And ye look like a king," she replied, admiring how the deep red of his formal doublet brought out the bronze in his skin. The white shirt beneath was pristine linen, and his clan colors were proudly displayed in the plaid draped across his shoulder. "Though I suspect ye're more interested in what's underneath this gown than the gown itself."

Colin's eyes darkened. "Guilty as charged. But first, we have a celebration tae attend."

They stepped into the transformed great hall, and Morag marveled at the spectacle before them. Long tables had been arranged in a U-shape around the central dance floor, laden with traditional fare. Whole roasted stags turned on spits over the great hearths, their rich aroma filling the air. Massive wheels of aged cheese sat alongside bannocks still warm from the ovens, while clay jugs of heather ale and Highland whisky promised libations for all.

"Àrd-rìgh agus ban-rìgh!" someone called out from the crowd. "High laird and lady!"

The shout was taken up by dozens of voices, and Morag felt her heart swell with pride and joy. These people—their people—were celebrating not just victory, but hope for the future.

"The music's startin'," she said, though she made no move to step away from his embrace.

"Aye." Colin's thumb traced the curve of her cheek. "Ready tae show them how it's done?"

"Always."

They stepped onto the polished floor as the great war pipes began the opening notes of "Highland Wedding." The piper, old Hamish MacBride, stood proud in his formal clan regalia, the ancient instrument's silver mounting gleaming in the torchlight. Behind him, the bodhrán drum keeper began the steady rhythm that would guide the dance, while a fiddler added the sweet high notes that made Highland hearts soar.

Colin's hand was warm and steady at her waist as he guided her through the first steps of the traditional dance. His other hand held hers with gentle strength, and Morag marveled again at how this man could be both the Iron Laird who commanded armies and the tender husband who made her feel cherished.

"Look there," Colin murmured as they turned in perfect unison. "Yer braither's arrived."

Morag's face lit up as she spotted Ruaridh near the high table, resplendent in dark blue velvet. He caught her eye and raised his cup in salute, his grin wide enough to split his face.

"Slàinte mhath, mo phiuthar!" he called out. "Good health, me sister!"

"He looks proud," Colin observed as they moved through the intricate steps.

"He should be. The MacDuff-Armstrong alliance has brought prosperity tae both our clans." Morag spun gracefully under Colin's raised arm. "Though I think he's more pleased that his sister has found happiness. But dinnae let it go tae yer head, husband."

Colin laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Too late fer that, wife."

As the dance reached its crescendo, Colin lifted Morag high, her silk skirts swirling around them like Highland mist. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, and when he set her down, she was breathless with exhilaration.

"Ceòl agus dannsa!" the cry went up. "Music and dancing!"

The great hall exploded into motion as couples formed sets for Highland reels, but Colin kept Morag close, unwilling to share her with other partners just yet. Instead, they moved through the crowd together, accepting congratulations and renewing bonds of friendship.