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Mabel pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. “Please stop. Both of ye. I am already terrified of tripping over me own feet in front of the entire clan.”
“Ye look beautiful, Mabel,” Rhea said sincerely, setting the cloth aside. She stood up and walked across the room, the firelight catching the silver object in her hands.
Morag rocked back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest as she inspected the fit of the bodice. She clicked her tongue in approval. “Aye. The ivory suits ye. It brings out the gold in yer hair. Though I still say we should have added more lace to the collar.”
“The collar is fine, Morag,” Mabel said gently, reaching down to squeeze the older woman’s shoulder. She knew Morag’s constant complaining was simply her way of masking her overwhelming relief that Mabel was finally safe and settled. The older woman had been fussing over every single detail, pretending she was only there to stop the others from making terrible decisions.
Rhea stepped in front of Mabel. She held up the circular silver piece. It was a traditional MacAllister sash brooch, forged with the intricate knotwork of her clan and set with a single, deep blue stone in the center.
Mabel’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the cold metal. “Me mother’s brooch.”
“Duncan sent riders to retrieve the last of the heirlooms from the vault before the snow sets in,” Rhea explained quietly. She reached up, carefully pinning the heavy silver circle to the tartan sash draped over Mabel’s left shoulder. “Caelan asked for it specifically. He wanted ye to have a piece of yer family with ye when ye stood before the priest.”
Mabel stared down at the blue stone, her eyes suddenly burning with thick, unshed tears.
Isla stopped kicking her feet, the playful teasing vanishing from her face. Morag stood up, silently brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from the sleeve of Mabel’s gown.
“He loves ye, Mabel,” Rhea said softly, her dark eyes locking onto Mabel’s.
“He makes grand declarations,” Morag sniffe, though the corners of her mouth were turned up in a fond smile. “Shattering tables and throwing threats around the Hall.”
“The grand declarations are easy,” Rhea said, her voice dropping into a quiet, serious tone that commanded the room. She smoothed her hands down the front of Mabel’s bodice. “The shouting, the fighting, the dramatic rescues… those are the moments men live for. But love isnae built on grand declarations, lass.”
Mabel looked up, meeting Rhea’s steady gaze. “What is it built on?”
“Choosing one another,” Rhea answered simply. “Every single day. When the winter sets in and the keep is freezing. When he is exhausted from the borders and ye are tired of the stone walls. When the fear fades and the quiet routine begins. That is when ye must actively choose him.”
Mabel thought of the grounding weight of Caelan’s arms around her the previous morning. She thought of the raw, devastating honesty in his voice when he confessed his deepest fears to her. She thought of the absolute peace she felt simply standing in the same room as him.
A slow, brilliant smile broke across Mabel’s face, chasing away the final traces of her nerves.
“I ken, Rhea,” Mabel whispered, her fingers resting lightly over the silver brooch. “I realized it this morning. I already made that choice long ago. Long before he ever shattered that table.”
Isla clapped her hands together, breaking the heavy emotional tension in the room. “Brilliant! Now that the crying is over, can we please discuss the feast? Because if Duncan tries to serve boiled cabbage at a wedding, I swear I will riot.”
“Put the damn plaid on, Caelan.”
“I am nae wearing that.” It wasn’t the tartan he minded. It was the fuss, the ceremony of it
Duncan let out a long, frustrated breath. He stood in the center of Caelan’s private chambers, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the massive warlord. Dropped unceremoniously onto the center of the mattress was a heavy, brilliantly dyed length of MacCarron tartan, woven specifically for ceremonial occasions.
Caelan stood near the hearth, ignoring his second-in-command. He was fully dressed in his usual dark leather trousers and a simple black linen tunic, unlaced at the throat. He was currently dragging a whetstone down the edge of his broadsword with slow, agonizingly precise strokes.
Rowan leaned heavily against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, shaking with silent laughter.
“It is yer wedding day in less than a week,” Duncan ground out, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a massive headache. “The entire clan will be watching. Gregor MacNab’s men will be watching. Half the neutral lairds in the northern glens are riding in for the feast. Ye cannae stand before the priest looking like ye just crawled out of a trench in the mud.”
“I will wash the mud off me boots,” Caelan replied flatly, not looking up from the blade.
“Ye are impossible,” Duncan growled, snatching the tartan off the bed and shaking it out. “I have prepared ye for ambushes. I have prepared ye for full-scale sieges against the English. I have marched beside ye into burning villages. Why in God’s name is preparing ye for yer own wedding somehow infinitely more difficult?”
“Because in a siege, I am allowed to stab the people annoying me,” Caelan pointed out smoothly. He flipped the broadsword over, running his thumb lightly down the newly sharpened edge. “If I stab ye, who is going to organize the grain shipments?”
Rowan barked a loud, genuine laugh, pushing off the doorframe. “He has a point, Duncan. Leave the man be. If ye dress him up in shiny brooches and brightly colored wool, the entire Highlands will believe the Black Laird has been assassinated and replaced by a traveling mummer.”
Duncan shot Rowan a venomous glare. “Ye are nae helping.”
“I am nae trying to help.” Rowan grinned, walking over to clap Caelan hard on the shoulder. “I am merely observing the absolute collapse of the most disciplined man in the north.”
