Page 86 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“Does this mean I have to call her Ma now, or just Auntie Alba, who kisses Uncle Sebastian a lot?”

The kiss broke apart.

Sebastian’s forehead dropped against Alba’s with a short, helpless laugh he could not have stopped if he had tried. Alba’s own laughter came out in a startled, undignified burst, while pressing a hand flat over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

Around them, the entire courtyard abandoned any remaining pretenses of formality and burst into loud, roaring laughter. Fergus doubled over completely, one hand braced against Sebastian’s shoulder for support, Margaret laughing so hard that Isobel had to steady both her and Lily, even the silver-haired priest pressing a fist briefly to his mouth to hide his own grin.

Nearby, an older woman neither of them seemed to know, judging by the polite, uncertain nod Sebastian caught passing between her and Alba a moment earlier, pressed a handkerchief to her own eyes, already dabbing at tears despite the ceremony being barely half finished.

“Brian.” Philomena’s voice, mortified and delighted in equal measure, cut through the noise as she hauled the boy back by the collar of his tunic. “Ye cannae simply ask a lady that in front of the whole clan!”

“Why nae? It’s an honest question.”

“It’s an honest question for a quieter moment, lad.” Isobel, still laughing quietly beside Margaret, shook her head at the boy with open fondness. “That bairn will be the death of every solemn occasion this family ever hosts.”

“He’s got the right of it, though,” Fergus called out, still wheezing with laughter. “Best decide now, MacGregor, before the boy starts introducin’ her as Auntie-who-kisses-a-lot at every gatherin’ from here to the Coast.”

“Ma will do fine,” Alba said, crouching slightly despite her skirts to look Brian properly in the eye, still fighting down the last of her laughter. “If ye’ll have me for it.”

Brian considered this with a certain seriousness only a six-year-old could summon amid utter chaos. “Aye. I suppose that’ll do.”

“High praise,” Sebastian murmured, pulling Alba back up against his side, the bound plaid still warm around both their wrists.

“The highest he’s got to give, apparently.”

“Best decision he’s made all year,” Hamish called out from somewhere in the crowd, cup already raised. “Second best bein’ lettin’ me choose the whisky for tonight’s feast.”

Around them, the courtyard surged forward all at once, well-wishers and kinsmen and half the assembled Lairds of the Highlands pressing in with congratulations and cups raised high.

Sebastian kept one arm locked firm around Alba’s waist through all of it, the plaid still binding their hands together exactly as the priest had promised.

Unbroken, unmade, and entirely, finally mine.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The celebrations below still thundered through the corridors with music, laughter, and enough whisky to drown half the Highlands by the time Sebastian finally managed to drag Alba away from the Great Hall. Her hand caught firm in his, the bound plaid still looped loose around both their wrists where the priest had left it.

“Where are ye takin’ me?” she laughed, breathless, stumbling half a step behind him as he pulled her toward the Tower Stairs, skirts bunched in her free hand to keep from tripping on the worn stone.

“Somewhere quieter before Fergus starts singin’ again.” He did not slow down. “The man is three cups past the point where anyone should let him near a fiddle.”

“He’s only ever three cups past that point.”

“Aye, and tonight I have nae the patience for it.”

She laughed again, nearly stumbling on the last turn of the stairs, catching herself against his shoulder as he pushed open the chamber door above them, the sound of the celebration below fading to a low, distant hum through the thick stone walls.

The room was still almost empty. Whatever furniture had once stood there had been cleared out days ago at Alba’s insistence, and in its place, thick blankets covered the floor near the hearth, a few furs piled carelessly alongside a scatter of cushions, the fire already burning low and steady, casting the whole room in a warm, shifting gold glow.

Sebastian slowly shut the door behind them, the latch clicking into place with a quiet, final sound, then turned to look around the space with mock pride, one hand still holding hers.

“Ye planned this,” she accused, glancing at the neatly stacked furs, the fire already built up and waiting. “Ye had someone set this room before the ceremony even finished.”

“Philomena, actually. Threatened her with extra kitchen duty if she didnae have it ready by the time I got ye up here.”

“Ye bribed me own maid against me.”

“I bribed yer own maid for ye. There’s a difference.” He tugged her closer by the loosened plaid still looped around both their wrists. “Ye’re welcome, by the way.”