Page 92 of Taken By the Brutal Highlander
But it was Kieran she sought first.
He was standing just a few paces away, leaning lightly on a cane though his eyes were steady and bright as they met hers. The weight of the last weeks seemed to vanish the moment their gazes locked. Her lips curved into a trembling smile, and without thinking, Lydia ran to him.
“Kieran!” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He caught her immediately, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world—and to him, she was. He lowered his face, brushing his lips against hers, a soft, lingering kiss full of relief, love, and all the unspoken fear that had haunted them. Lydia’s hands pressed to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, grounding her in the here and now.
“I… I daenae even ken how to thank ye,” she breathed, resting her forehead against his.
“Ye daenae need to,” he murmured, voice hoarse but steady. “I just… I love ye, Lydia. I’ve always loved ye, and I always will.”
She pressed another kiss to his lips, fierce and tender all at once. “I love ye too, Kieran. Always.”
Around them, the murmurs of the guests faded to a hush, the kirk quieting. Iris and Elijah stood a little apart, smiling, their hands clasped, while the rest of the people beamed from the pews. The sun poured through the tall windows, lighting the dust motes that danced in the golden shafts like tiny stars.
Lydia let herself pull back just enough to look at Kieran, brushing her hand against his cheek. He held her hands in his, their fingers entwining.
“Everything’s right because ye’re here,” he said, his voice steady, full of warmth. “Because we’re together. And nothin’ can take this away from us.”
They leaned their foreheads together, closing their eyes in the quiet of that golden morning, hearts beating in unison.
Lydia’s heart swelled as she stepped forward, hand in hand with Kieran, into the small, sunlit space at the front of the kirk. The wooden beams overhead cast warm shadows, and the scent of fresh flowers from the side tables mingled with the faint,lingering aroma of beeswax from the candles still burning in the tall iron sconces.
The priest, a kindly older man with silver in his beard, gestured for them to stand on the small woven rug, its deep reds and golds contrasting with the pale stone floor. Kieran squeezed Lydia’s hands gently, and she felt the familiar steady warmth of his grip grounding her nerves and excitement.
“We gather here,” the officiant began, his gentle voice carrying across the quiet kirk, “to celebrate the bond that is nae only of flesh and blood but of spirit and devotion. Today, we witness the renewal of vows, the joinin’ of two hearts in the sight of God and of those who love them.”
Kieran looked down at Lydia, his dark eyes soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. “Lydia, I—” he started, but she pressed a finger to his lips, smiling.
“I ken,” she whispered.
The priest lifted a braided cord, richly colored with gold and crimson threads. “As I wrap this cord around yer joined hands, remember that it is a symbol of yer devotion, yer protection, and yer unwaverin’ presence for one another.”
Kieran and Lydia leaned their hands together, palm to palm, as the priest wrapped the cord around them. The thread was soft but firm, snug around their wrists, linking them together in an unbroken circle. Lydia felt the warmth of Kieran’s skin under hers, the steady beat of his pulse.
“With this handfastin’,” the priest continued, “ye are bound in heart, mind, and spirit. May yer days be long, yer trials few, and yer joys many.”
Lydia squeezed Kieran’s hand, leaning close so her cheek brushed his. “I will cherish ye, Kieran,” she whispered though she knew the words were as much promise to herself as to him.
“And I will keep ye safe, Lydia. Always,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion yet firm with certainty.
The officiant loosened the cord slightly but left it resting over their joined hands as a symbol of the bond that could not be broken by time or storm. Around them, murmurs of approval and smiles of joy spread through the kirk, and Lydia felt a deep, unshakable peace.
As Kieran bent his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, Lydia closed her eyes, savoring the warmth, the love, the life they had fought to preserve. The handfasting tied them together, but the battles, the fears, and the storms they had weathered had already bound their hearts in ways that no cord could match.
And in that sunlit kirk, surrounded by all that mattered, Lydia knew, with a happiness that made her heart ache with relief, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
“I love ye, Kieran,” Lydia said again, softly, just for him.
“And I love ye, Lydia,” he replied, voice deep, steady, full of everything he had fought for.
The End?
