Bride of the Beastly Laird – Extended Epilogue
Castle Mackinnon
One month later
Snow had fallen for a day and a night. Now it was not only the mountain tops that were covered in white frosting. As far as Dahlia could see from the battlements, all the land around Castle Mackinnon was covered in snow. She pulled her hooded cloak around her, covering her head, and looked across the magical, mystical landscape.
It was the perfect day for a wedding. The snow was no longer falling and the wind had given up its onslaught. The land lay quiet under its thick white blanket. The only thing moving on the ground below was a squirrel, disturbing the perfect whiteness with his tiny footprints as it darted between the pine trees lining the road.
Soon the peace would be shattered as the servants busied themselves with their preparations and by mid-morning the last of the guests would have arrived, their horses churning the mud and snow on the road.
But, for now she could lose herself in the dreamy vista and contemplate this longed-for day.
Swiveling at the sound of footsteps behind her the breath hitched in her throat at the sight of Arran’s tall figure striding toward her. She smiled. Would she ever get used to the little flurry of desire every time she caught sight of this handsome man?
He clasped her in his arms and she lay her head on his broad chest, tuning her senses to his breath and the steady beat of his heart.
“Me darling, I hope ye’ll nay catch cold up here in this raw weather.”
“Nay. Dinnae fash. ‘Tis gentle and peaceful and I’ve a warm fur cloak tae wrap meself in.” She smiled up at him. Despite the cold, his hazel eyes twinkled, mirroring her excitement.
The quiet was broken by sudden voices from below. A team of servants, armed with shovels, began clearing snow from the courtyard and laying straw to dry the cobbles, ready for the guests who would be arriving before long.
She sighed, giving Arran a cheeky grin. “’Tis time I took tae me chamber, me laird. I have preparations tae make. After all, today I’ll finally be wed tae the Laird of the Mackinnons.” Standing on tiptoe she brushed his cheek with her lips in a quick kiss before darting down the stairs.
Sofia and Catalina were waiting in her chamber with Beattie, while several maids came and went with pitchers of hot water filling a large copper tub in front of the fire.
Catalina chuckled when Dahlia hurried in. “We were thinking that ye’d decided ye didnae wish tae marry and ye’d saddled yer wee mare and ridden away.”
Dahlia tossed her cloak onto the hanger beside the garde robe. “Nay.” She grinned. “I already escaped marriage with two Mackinnon lairds I didnae fancy. Number three is the one I’ve wanted all along.”
Once the tub was filled, she stepped daintily into the water and sank up to her chin in the warm, rose-scented suds. Beattie soaped her back with a special cake of rose-soap and when she was done Sofia washed her hair into a giant lather. It was Catalina’s task to pour warm water from a jug to rinse the long tresses.
They dried her with linen towels before the blazing fire where she took up position in her warm robe while Catalina combed her hair. Once it was dry, Beattie’s nimble fingers formed it into a dozen tiny braids which they threaded with green ribbons and wound around her head in an elaborate coiffure. She studied herself in the looking-glass. Who was this elegant, beautiful lady and where on earth was Dahlia MacLeod?
Beattie slipped the wedding-gown over her mistresses head, taking care not to ruin her elaborate hairstyle. She smoothed the skirt making sure there was no hint of a wrinkle in the delicate fabric. It was made from yards of cream-colored silk trimmed with dark green velvet. It had a deep, flattering neckline, and a full skirt that swayed over her petticoats when she twirled in front of the glass. Just looking at the bonny garment made Dahlia’s head swim and brought a smile to her lips. It was by far the grandest dress she’d ever worn.
Sofia had made her a little circlet of green ivy and scarlet holly berries threaded with green velvet ribbons to match the ones in her hair.
“This will bring ye a long life with a loyal and devoted husband by yer side.”
Before leaving her bedchamber, she looped her hand through the charming wreath and carried it on her wrist.
When she entered the chapel, Sofia and Catalina walking before her as her maids of honor, she looked up to see Arran clad in his new kilt, his long hair combed so that it sat tidily on his broad shoulders. His eyes shone as he gazed at her making her way down the aisle toward him.
And there it was again. That familiar frisson of desire rippling through her at the sight of him, making her smile. In that moment, her most fervent wish was that they were already wed and alone, enjoying the pleasure she knew was in store for them tonight.
Father Deiran officiated and, as they spoke their vows, she caught a glimpse of Emilia wiping a tear from her eye. Then came the exchange of rings. As she slipped the ring over Arran’s finger, the old priest lifted his head calling on heaven to bless their union.
Haldor, Sofia, Ivar and Catalina stepped forward to perform the handfasting, lengths of ribbon in their hands.
Commencing with Haldor, each of them wrapped Arran and Dahlia’s joined hands with a ribbon. As they did so they wished them peace, prosperity and longevity. Then the ribbons were tied together, signifying the joining of the pair in marriage.
Father Deiran stepped forward; his head bent in prayer.
“As these ribbons hold ye bound together, may ye always hold fast tae the vows ye’ve made together this day. Ye’ve journeyed far tae come tae this sacred place, enduring many hardships, anger, fear and threats from wickedness. But yer love has never faltered. I now remove the ties.” He slipped the binding ribbons off their wrists and over their hands.
“Before I proclaim ye tae be husband and wife, ye must kiss three times. One for love, one for a long life and one for luck.”
He stood, smiling, as Arran leaned down to press his lips to Dahlia’s hand, then to her cheek and, finally, he kissed her gently on the lips.
“Now, by the power of the Heavenly Faither vested in me, I declare ye tae be truly husband and wife.”
Dahlia had no idea that such happiness existed as she and Arran walked together, hand in hand through the thronging well-wishers, out of the chapel, through the snowy courtyard and into the keep, their guests forming a cheerful, delighted gathering behind them.
The villagers came rushing in, taking their seats on the benches in the great hall ready to partake of the feast and to drink the health of the laird and his bride.
Their new laird’s wedding was a great celebration. Not only because they wished Arran and Dahlia well, but because they, too, were looking forward to a time of peace and prosperity. No longer would Bairre and his men terrorize the village. Men and women alike could now go about their business without fear.
The troubadours and jongleurs moved among the crowd, adding to the jolly atmosphere and heightening the festivities.
Seated beside Arran, in the center of the high table, Dahlia soaked in every little detail. Even the dogs lurking under the table begging for a piece of roast lamb or venison, made her smile. She wanted to remember this day forever.
“Are ye as happy as I am,” she asked.
“Aye. ‘Tis great happiness. Yet—.” Fer an instant sadness flickered in his eyes.
“What is it, me love?”
“I’d always thought Craig would be at me side when I was wed.”
She squeezed his hand, understanding the loss and his grief at Craig’s betrayal.
He gazed down at her, his green-gold eyes shining with love. “But there is naught that will disturb me happiness tonight.”
Tomorrow there would be talks between Arran and her brothers, discussions concerning lands and tithes and her dowry, but tonight Dahlia merely wished to luxuriate in the glorious sense that she was, at last, wed to Arran, and that their happiness was only just beginning
The musicians moved to the center of the hall and a space was cleared for dancing. As they struck up, she followed Arran to the center of the floor for the wedding cèilidh. They took up their position and, as the first notes rang out, they were joined by Dahlia’s brothers. Haldor took Sofia’s hand, Ivar was ready to spin Catalina into his arms and Arne, smiling for once, entered with his laughing toddler son, Thorsten. The wee lad, clad in his first ever kilt, joined hands with his proud father for the first round. Soon the hall was filled with wild laughter and whooping cheers.
By the time the musicians took a break, Dahlia was out of breath and her legs were almost giving way.
Arran escorted her back to their table. “Methinks it is time fer us tae leave our guests. They can enjoy the night without us,” he whispered, squeezing her hand.
She nodded “I wish fer naething more than tae share yer bedchamber with ye this night.”
After farewelling their guests, they quietly took their leave, their departure hardly noticed by the throng participating in the boisterous dancing.
Once they’d arrived at Arran’s quarters, he pushed open the door. She peeped in, curious to see the place where she would be spending her nights and many of her days from now on. It all seemed so strange and new. Arran’s rooms were far more spacious than hers. Having taken over the suite that had belonged to the lairds who came before him, including, of course Bairre, James and his own father, he’d taken great care to remove all traces of the rooms’ previous occupants. There was fresh, bright paint on the patterned walls and he awaited new tapestries to arrive from France.
Dried rose petals had been strewn across the rush floor and over the Persian carpets and a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. On a small table was a flagon of wine and two goblets inviting them in.
But before she could step into the room, he hoisted her in his arms.
“’Tis me greatest joy tae take me bride in me arms across the threshold of yer new dwelling place.”
She wound her arms around his neck as he slipped through the doorway. “And mine tae be taken.”
“Ah lass, I didnae believe we would ever arrive at this place. It was more than I could have ever hoped fer. That we were wed this day is me greatest joy.”
He kicked the door closed behind them and, as he lowered her to the floor, holding her as if he’d never let her go, he took her mouth in a long-awaited kiss.
She sighed, melting into him, her body turning to liquid at his touch.
When it became necessary for them both to gulp in a breath, she looked up at him through long dark lashes. “Ye dinnae ken how long I’ve waited fer such a kiss.”
“The first of many such exquisite dalliances,” he said, chuckling. He led her across to the fire, looking her up and down. “Ye were by far the finest lady in the hall this night, wife. And the bonniest.” He took up position in the large over-stuffed armchair and pulled her onto his knee.
“’Tis a bonnie gown if a tad uncomfortable. Would ye nae prefer tae have me take it off ye?”
She laughed as his fingers busied themselves with the laces that fastened the front of her dress. It fell away and he wasted no time in pushing down the gown and sliding her stays so that they pushed up her naked breasts making it easy for him to apply his fingers, his mouth and his tongue.
Moaning as he cupped her round breasts and took a hard nipple between his forefinger and thumb, she sank lower in the chair, leaning back against him.
He nuzzled her neck, breathing in the fragrance of roses and musk tormenting his senses. While one hand was busy with her rosy nub the other hand ruffled her skirt up over her knees, stroking the smooth softness of her thighs as he went.
She moaned again, shifting her position, parting her thighs so his clever fingers could gain access.
He slipped his middle and forefingers between her damp folds, stroking the slick flesh, causing a deep guttural sound to escape her throat. “Aye. That’s what I’ve been aching fer.”
As he caressed her swollen quim she squealed, writhing and gasping under his hand.
Almost overwhelmed by their passion he groaned. “Mistress Mackinnon, dinnae ye ken what I’ve been aching fer?”
She gave a soft laugh and trailed a hand over his thigh, pushing up the hem of his kilt so that she could easily take his granite manhood in her hand.
He threw his head against the high-backed chair, and closed his eyes. “Och!” he exclaimed. “I am suffering something fierce, needing tae slip inside ye.”
She shifted again, and he lifted her thighs so that her legs opened wider. He pressed each of her knees across an arm of their chair, stretching her, so that what he wished for was wide-open to his gaze. Then he raised her so that his manhood was poised at her entrance.
“D’ye wish me tae be inside ye, wife?”
Her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. “’Tis all I wish fer, husband.”
With one thrust his hardness slid inside her. With a moan she raised her buttocks to better let him enter. Then he thrust again and they soared into their very own slice of paradise, somewhere between heaven and hell, where everything fell away except their own glorious ride.
The End.
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