by Fiona Faris
“Yes, ye may!” Callum said, taking cognizance of Gretchen’s arrival. The people cheered as the carriage moved from its spot.
The carriage screeched to a halt in front of the village kirk, where people come together to make atonements to God and for worship. It had also been a place where marriage services had been performed. As they both climbed down from their carriage and glanced at the street, it revealed rows of tidy cottages and wells; with people standing nearby to witness the Laird’s wedding.
At the kirk, the priest stood in his priestly attire, with a cross in his hands and an influx of people sat in the rows of long wooden seats. The priest smiled broadly at them as he opened his mouth to talk.
“My laird, sae ye wish tae marry her, do ye?” the priest said, smiling again at them.
“Aye, I want tae marry her,” Callum replied, his face brimming with excitement and anticipation.
“Sae beautiful, my laird, but I must say tae ye, the marriage vow is an irrevocable bond that can ne’er be broken, be certain that yer love is true and then...”
Interrupting what seemed to be a long spate of fatherly advice, Callum said in a clipped voice, “It’s nae an arranged wedding, it’s a marriage of love. Get on with it. And as ye know, it’s bitingly cold. I can’t wait tae have her as my wife and indulge myself in her warmth,” Callum said, laughing as he gazed into Gretchen’s smiling face. Laughter fell over the scene from the congregation of people and the priest.
“The bride is ready too, I love her white heather,” the priest said, smiling and in a swift pace, his face turned serious. “We shall proceed with the wedding now,” he said, and silence fell over the congregation. In front of the priest was the ring, the ribbons, and scrolls.
Gretchen leaned closer to view the ring, which was a gold band of excellent size and pattern. It was so exquisite and delicate that she couldn’t wait for it to be slid onto her finger. Squinting her eyes to have a clearer view of the design, she saw the inscription on it, Tha Gad Agam Ort, which means my love is upon you.
“O wonderous congregation we will have a song from ye now. This would nae be a solemn wedding,” the priest said with determined cheer.
Gretchen and Callum stared at the church with a narrowed gaze, while the congregation and the assigned minstrels crooned in a practiced harmony
“Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June
Oh my love is like a melody
That’s sweetly played in tune
As fair art though, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am i
And I will love thee still my dear
Till all the seas gang dry
And the trees wither by and by…
Listening to the congregation and the minstrels with glowing pride, the priest waited until the last drawn-out note was finished, and then he praised them lavishly. He turned to the couple and said: “I must ask ye this, are ye both ready tae proceed tae the next step?”
“Yes!” they chorused.
“Pick up the ring and place it on yer lass’s finger, an’ match yer hand tae hers,” the priest said.
Gretchen felt queer and light-headed as she stood, facing Callum. The moment he slid the ring onto her finger, her heart began beating much too fast, setting off reckless currents of something that seemed like eagerness and fear, or maybe something of a new emotion that heightened her senses unbearably. There was no word for it, this feeling. Tension gripped her while the pounding of her pulse refused to abate; their hands flattened together, his fingers much longer than hers, his palm smooth and hot.
Callum’s head inclined slightly, his face covering hers. Although he looked expressionless, a hint of color glazed the high planes of his cheekbones and crossed the bridge of his nose, and his breath was faster than the usual. Surprised by the realization that she had come to know something as intimate as the normal rhythm of his breathing, Gretchen averted her gaze, she saw the priest taking a length of white ribbon from the table, and she flinched a little as he looped it firmly around their joined wrists.
A wordless murmur tickled her ear, and she felt Callum’s hand come up to the side of her neck, stroking her as if she were a nervous pet. She relaxed at his touch, while his fingertips moved over her skin with sensitive lightness.
The priest busily wrapped the ribbon around their wrists.
“Now we shall tie the knot,” he said, doing it with a flourish.
“Repeat after me, my lady... I dae take thee tae my husband in sickness, in sorrows, in joy, in health, in gladness, and in loss. Till death dae us part.”
“I dae take thee tae my husband…” Gretchen said
“My laird?” the priest prompted.
Callum looked down at her, his eyes cool and diamond bright, revealing eagerness and love.
His voice was low and quiet. “I dae take thee tae my wife….”
The priest smiled in satisfaction as his voice rang out to the nooks and crannies of the kirk. “Before God an’ these witnesses, I declare ye tae be married persons whom God hath joined. Let nae man put asunder. If ye sae wish, my laird, ye might kiss yer bride,” the priest said, and the church roared in happy wailings and applause as Callum smiled and stepped forward and captured her lips with his. After some minutes, he halted the kiss and leaned his mouth close to Gretchen’s ear. “I love ye!” he said and kissed her again.
On getting back to the keep, Callum carried Gretchen over the threshold as the tradition entailed. It was necessary because it was generally believed that evil spirits inhabit it. Lifting the bride over the doorstep meant the bride had been lifted away from the grasp of the evil spirits.
By dawn, all feasting and dancing had subsided, and there were just Gretchen and Callum lying tired on the huge bed in Callum’s room, gazing and smiling affectionately at each other.
“My lady, dae ye know I daenae want tae say tae ye ‘until death dae us part’?” he paused and smiled. “because if I had a thousand lifetimes, I’d want them all tae be with ye. Isn’t that what our souls should share? Love that lives on past these mortal bones. I love ye sae much from the depths o’ my heart!” Callum said slowly, easing himself over Gretchen’s body and brushed his mouth over hers.
He raised himself up to draw her nightdress up by the tips of his fingers, sliding beneath her creamy folds and his other hand, rolling on the covered hardened nipples of her breast.
“Ah! My laird-d. I-I love ye t-too, sae… much,” Gretchen managed to say, as her body felt the hard tip of Callum’s manhood, entering her.
“Ah! My laird! Ah! Ah! Oh my God! Awwhhmm! Maaaw! “
Callum drew Gretchen close to him, his hands stroking her shoulders in a gentle caress as they both lay on the bed. She felt the change in his body, the relaxing of tension, his shoulders, curving around her as if he could draw her into his body. Whispering her name, he brought her hand to his face and nuzzled ardently into her palm, his lips brushing the warm circle of her gold wedding band.
"My love is upon ye," he whispered.
This almost perfect, passionate, extraordinary man was hers, his heart given entirely to her safekeeping. It was a trust she would never betray.
Overwhelmed with relief and tenderness, Gretchen clung to him while a teardrop slipped from the corner of one eye. Callum wiped it away with his thumb, staring into her upturned face, and what she saw in his glittering gaze stole her breath away.
"I love ye, Callum!" the words slipped softly from her lips as she eased her head on the center of his chest.
"I will forever love ye, Gretchen. Ye will always be my lady," he replied, his hands smoothing her hair.
The end?
Extended Epilogue
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Afterword
&n
bsp; Thank you for reading my novel, Highlander’s Honorable Oath. I really hope you enjoyed it! If you did, could you please be so kind to write a review HERE?
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Do you want more Romance?
Turn on the next page to read the first chapters of my latest best-selling novel: Her Broken Highlander
This is a story about a broken Scotsman and a lass that is desperately trying to find her true family...
* * *
Her Broken Highlander
Prologue
Dunkeld, Scotland, Perth Goal, October 1689
The whispers and speculation in the gaol were enough to drive Gavin mad. Everything hurt, but he was determined, even in the pitch black, to open his eyes.
“They’re movin’ us tae a work camp.”
“Nay, surely they’ll treat us tae th’ end of a rope.”
“Aye, instead of wastin’ good food and coin keeping’ us alive.”
He felt for his weapon but wasn’t surprised when his hands came up empty. He often forgot he was in hell, unarmed. He looked over at his cellmate. Barely making out the delicate features of Tristan Cabduh. The lad was weak, much weaker than Gavin. Gavin couldn’t fathom why he had even been at the battle. Everyone knew Tristan had a delicate constitution; since birth, he had been sickly and weak.
“Holy hell…” he muttered, trying to sit up. He drew his hand up to his throbbing head and felt the beginnings of what was sure to be a right, large bump. He used his tongue to check that he still had all his teeth. He did. He had hoped the rumors were wrong, not for himself but for his cellmate. There was no way Tristan could survive the rigors of prison or a work camp. Both were riddled with disease and other untold horrors, mostly at the hands of their bastard English guards.
The coppery taste of dried blood met him as he fondled what seemed like a rather large split in his bottom lip.
“Surely they will nay hang us?” Tristan asked, pure fear in the whites of his eyes.
“Nay, Tristan, they will nay hang us. We’ve done nothin’ wrong. Ye’ve no need tae worry. Drink yer broth.” Gavin nodded at the chipped cup in the lad’s hands and hoped Tristan believed his lies. He had spent the last three months doing his best to keep Tristan and the other lads’ spirits up, often enduring the wrath of the guards for his wit and jokes. He knew the guards hated him for it, but he didn’t care. They wanted their Jacobite heathens to brood, Gavin thought. He’d be damned if he gave them the satisfaction.
More than once, he’d suffered for his insolence, but it didn’t stop him. He would gladly continue to take the beatings if it meant the men around him didn’t wallow in the darkness of their new home. These highlanders were his friends, his brothers in arms against the English. He would not let their captors break him. If only he could stop the throbbing in his head. It was last night’s fresh beating he was dealing with now.
“But we hae done wrong, Gavin. We rebelled against the English. We lost. We’ll pay with our lives.” Gavin supposed he was right. He wasn’t a stupid man. But still, he wanted to ease Tristan’s double mind. “Mayhap, friend. But we are alive today. Besides a work camp may not be so bad. Fresh air, out of doors. Ye could dae worse.”
“Gavin, why’re ye give th’ lad such reassurance,” someone called from a cell down the corridor.
“Yea, we’re all dead!” Another voice chimed in.
“Quiet Down! Quiet Down! Or I’ll make ya quiet!” one of the guards, roused from his drunken stupor, shouted from the guard post. Another guard got up from where he sat and wandered down to Gavin’s cell. He was missing all but two of his teeth, and the rot on his breath could not be hidden no matter how much whisky the man drank, but Gavin stood tall.
“Ya shouldn’t lie to th’ man, Highlander,” the guard spat. “Tomorrow yer all headed to the camps, by yer leave.” His eyes were glassed over, and as he laughed at Gavin and Tristan, small flecks of whatever he had eaten for dinner flew from his mouth. Yet, Gavin would not back down, he simply stared at the guard. The camps were not a threat. He knew men died there, but for Gavin, it would be different. The transport offered an opportunity. He relished the idea. Tomorrow he would finally have his chance at escape.
* * *
“I’ll only slow ye down Gavin,” Tristan leaned against the wall, his head hanging low. “Ye must go without me.”
Gavin scowled at the younger lad; he was not going to let Tristan’s fear slow them down. This was their chance. There weren’t enough guards to stop them, and if he could cause a large enough distraction, they might have a chance.
“Even if we weren’t locked in this hell hole together Tristan, I wouldnae leave ye. Yer stronger than ye ken. Together we’ll be free.”
“I wish I had yer confidence, MacGille.”
“It’s good then that I hae enough for us both.” He managed a grim smile, hoping Tristan believed his lie. Both men coached down as a line of carts came rolling toward the prisoners. He picked up a stone, throwing it at the first horse in line, hitting the poor beast between the eyes. As much as he hated hurting the animal, he knew his aim startled the horse more than injured it. It achieved the desired result; the animal reared up, giving a loud whinny.
The guards rushed away from the line of prisoners to see what had distressed the horse, and Gavin yanked hard on the chains keeping him and Tristan locked together, breaking the weakened metal, and shoving Tristan forward into a run toward the crowded village center. Tristan looked shocked, despite Gavin having explained the plan to him just moments before. He would break the chains, and they would run towards the crowd, hoping to blend into the mass of people on the streets until they could find a safe place to hide until nightfall.
“Go on, run, man!” Gavin shouted. Tristan snapped back into himself before the guards managed to turn their attention back to the prisoners. Shite! They weren’t distracted long enough. If he didn’t run now, two of the four Englishmen would rush him, and he would be in chains faster than he could blink.
Gavin turned and made his way quickly toward the crowd, away from the line. If he broke into a run, they would surely notice, but perhaps if he moved with purpose and kept his head down, he would blend in. A piercing scream took his attention away from the task at hand. Gavin turned back toward the prisoners and guards. The same horse he had hit with the stone was bucking wildly, the animal spooked beyond comprehension. The other two horses were now also stirred, and the men were quickly losing control of them.
For a moment, Gavin thought the heavens must be smiling down on him. He had his chance. As if drawn up from thin air, a figure appeared in front of the beasts, catching his attention. The figure was slight, and a long dark cloak hid them from Gavin’s full view. Fool, idiot, anyone would know better than to get in the way of an out-of-control animal, yet the figure stood still as stone, either oblivious to the danger they were in or frozen in terror. Either way, it wasn’t Gavin’s problem; their stupidity would be his salvation.
Then before he could turn away, the hood of the cloak slid away, and hair fell around the figure’s face. It was curled slightly at the ends and was the color of gold spun in sunlight. The cloaked figure was a woman, and she was terrified. And there was no way Gavin could leave her to be hurt, not when it was his fault the animals had bucked, to begin with. His feet carried him to the lass with a swiftness he had almost forgotten locked up in the English prison.
“Och, lass, watch out!” he bellowed, frantically trying for her attention. It worked; she turned and looked directly at him as he closed the distance between them and grabbed her up into his arms. He dropped them both immediately into a roll away from the spooked horses, holding her tight to protect her from the worst of the damage.
He brought the woman up on top of his chest as he sat, breathing heavily. She was slight, to be sure, but his heart
still raced in his chest. She looked up at him, and a shock of awareness rushed through his blood. Her eyes arrested him. He had never seen eyes as blue as ice frozen over a loch in the winter. The woman held his gaze, her own breath coming fast.
“Are ye hurt?” he ran his hands up and down her arms, searching for injury. She simply shook her head. “What’s yer name, lass?”
“Amelia.” English. Gavin could hear it in her voice. He should push her off him, move away quickly. She could be nothing but trouble, was already trouble, yet he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. “Amelia…” he repeated.