Page 68 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

"The letter." A small, unsteady smile was building at the corner of her mouth, equal parts nerves and something warmer. "It tells Fearchar I've chosen this. Chosen ye. Nae the Accord, nae obligation, nae anyone's arrangement but my own. I wrote it myself, this morning, after I'd finally stopped arguing with my own fear long enough tae hear what I actually wanted underneath it."

"Are ye certain?" It came out rougher than he intended, disbelief and hope tangled too close together to separate. "Neilina, ye ken I'll hold ye tae naething. If this is⁠—"

"I'm certain." She held his eyes, steady, unwavering. "I want ye, Marcas MacKinnon. Nae the version of this the Accord wrote for us. Ye. I've kent it for longer than I've been willing tae admit, if I'm honest, and I'm done being careful about saying it."

He was across the room in an instant, his hands cradling her face as though he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. When he kissed her there was nothing careful about it.

She kissed him back with the same abandon, her hands fisting in his hair. The last week’s fear and want and grief seemed to pour into that single kiss, his arms banding around her waist to draw her flush against him, hers winding around his neck to hold him there.

"I want tae marry ye," she said again, breathless, against his mouth, as though she needed to say it a second time to fully believe it herself.

"Say it again," he murmured against her lips. "Say it as many times as ye need. I'll nae tire of hearing it."

"I want ye," she said, laughing now, breathless and bright. "I want this. Whatever it costs either of us tae hold ontae."

He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring it, one hand sliding into her hair while the other pressed flat against the small of her back. The world outside that room fell away entirely, leaving nothing but the two of them and the plain, overwhelming relief of finally, finally arriving somewhere they'd both been circling toward since they’d met.

"Laird." A servant's voice, apologetic, from the doorway. "Forgive the interruption, the midday meal is being served, and Lachlan asked me tae fetch ye both."

Marcas drew back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathless, and let out a low, unsteady laugh.

"I'm beginning tae think this household has a talent for interrupting me at the worst possible moments."

"Or the best ones," she said, "depending on how ye look at it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The council had barely let the first course settle before Baird found his opening again.

"And if Fearchar Chisholm refuses tae honor the match," Baird said, not quite looking at Marcas directly, addressing the table at large the way he did when he wanted an argument to sound like simple prudence rather than a challenge, "what then, laird. Does the Accord still bind him, or does yer generosity extend tae letting the whole arrangement collapse rather than pressing the claim properly."

"The Accord binds whether he honors it graciously or nae," Marcas said, keeping his voice level, though he felt the old, weary tightness gathering in his jaw. "That's a discussion for another⁠—"

"With respect, laird, it isnae another discussion. It's this one. The clan's asked ye plainly more than once now what happens tae MacKinnon standing if this match falls through, and ye've yet tae⁠—"

"It willnae fall through."

Neilina's voice cut across the table, clear and steady, and every head turned toward her at once, including his own, his fork stilling halfway to his mouth.

She set down her own cup, unhurried, and looked along the length of the table with a certain gaze.

"I'll say this once, plainly, so there's nae further need tae discuss it over supper as though I'm nae sitting here tae answer for myself." Her voice carried the length of the hall, and the room had gone properly silent now, even the servants along the far wall pausing mid-step. "I am marrying Marcas MacKinnon. Nae because the Accord requires it. Nae because my brother arranged it, or because any man at this table has decided it serves the clan. I am choosing it, of my own will, with a clear head, and I'll thank ye all tae stop discussing my future as though I'm a line in a ledger tae be balanced rather than a woman sitting directly in front of ye."

The silence that followed her words had a different quality than the one she'd left behind weeks ago when Marcas had announced their marriage without her consent. This one held was pure astonishment, Baird's mouth actually falling open a fraction before he caught himself, old Ionmhainn's brows climbing toward his hairline.

Marcas said nothing. He couldn't have, in that moment, if his life had depended on it.

She's said it in front of the whole hall. Every man who's ever doubted this match, every man who's ever wondered aloud whether she'd bolt at the first opportunity, she's just told them plainly, tae their faces, that she's chosen him.

He knew, with a certainty that settled deep and warm in his chest, exactly what that had cost her. A woman who'd spent her whole life having choices made for her and announced on her behalf, standing up in a room full of strangers and claiming this one, publicly, unflinchingly, as entirely her own.

Under the table, her hand found his.

He looked down at it, then at her, and found her watching him with something soft beneath the steel she'd just shown the whole council, a question in her eyes that had nothing to do with the argument she'd just won.

He closed his hand around hers and held on, tight, and didn't care in the slightest who at that table noticed.

"Well," Lachlan said, into the lingering silence, unable to help himself, "I believe that settles the matter rather more thoroughly than any of us managed, Baird."