As Elspeth skips out to get the wildflowers, Fi leans close and murmurs confidentially into my ear: “In our time, lassie, a Foot Washing is more than mere foot hygiene—it’s a ritual cleansing to wash away past burdens and embrace fresh starts with open hearts.”
I stifle a giggle and lean in, whispering, “Oh, doesthat mean I get to pick a shade and maybe some paraffin wax, too? You know, in my time, a pedicure isn’t complete without a color that screams ‘I have my life together’… even if I’m still eating cereal for dinner.”
Fi lets out a belly laugh. “Aye, lass, I’m afraid our selection is a wee bit limited. But I can offer ye a lovely shade of ‘Highland Mud’ with a hint of ‘Wild Thistle Green.’”
“Sounds like the perfect accessory for my next leap into Loch Ness,” I chuckle softly, wiggling my toes in anticipation.
When Elspeth reappears, Fi delicately cascades a blend of warm water, handpicked herbs, and wildflowers over my tired feet. The inviting heat from the water seeps into my skin, effortlessly melting away layers of pent-up tension. I allow my eyes to drift closed, surrendering to the comforting caress of lavender and thistle that envelops me in an aromatic hug. It’s the ideal pre-wedding foot treatment.
Who knew a 17th-century spa day could be so indulgent? And, bonus! Without the hassle of finding parking!
As Fi’ssundial signals it’s five o’clock, candlelight pirouettes across the tavern’s time-etchedwooden tables and rough-hewn stone walls, bathing everything in a golden glow that amplifies the room’s raw beauty.
The air is heavy with the untamed scent of the Highlands—purple heather and thistle. It hits me harder than spotting the bright orange avens flowers my friends have gathered from Moray Firth’s shoreline, and I have to take a breather to choke back euphoric tears.
As the afternoon wraps around us like a soothing lullaby, the minister slides in the back door, flanked by two of Alistair’s strongest warriors standing guard. The weight of reality sets in: this is really happening.
Cal stands beside me at our makeshift altar, his fingers intertwined with mine in an unbreakable bond. He looks as stunning as I feel jittery: clad in a sleek black coat, crisp white shirt that accentuates his sun-kissed skin, and donning Clan MacDowells’ traditional kilt—heirlooms passed down through generations of proud Scottish warriors.
I’m swathed in Fi’s mother’s rosy red wedding gown. Its simplicity belies its elegance; its design flatters my athletic build without overpowering it. It seems to whisper stories within its seams—softly spoken tales of steadfast love from another time.
Our eyes lock as the minister weaves his enchanting words around us. A sense of absolute certainty anchors itself deep inside me. This is exactlywhere I’m supposed to be: standing beside Cal at this altar made of love and promises, ready to tackle any curveballs or adventures life decides to pitch our way.
As we stand before our friends, the officiant presents us with the traditional tartan cloth. We extend our hands, and he deftly wraps the fabric around them, binding us together in a symbolic union.
Once the handfasting is complete, we slip in a few unique pledges of our own, hoping the merry townsfolk, well into their cups by now, won’t notice the oddities.
“Mills,” Cal begins, “I vow to bring home the bacon and brave the morning chill to milk even the grumpiest of cows.”
I bite my lip to stifle a giggle as he adds with a wink, “And I swear to renovate my old cottage so ye won’t be in constant danger of knocking yerself unconscious.”
His tone softens as he continues, taking his time to enunciate each word. “But above all else, I promise to be your partner in crime, your lover in life, and your soft landing when times are tough. My heart will always know your name.”
As he slips the silver band onto my finger, my knees threaten to buckle beneath me. I take a deep breath, pausing to gather my thoughts as I exhale.
“Cal, I’ll be there to catch you when you fall, too.And I commit to writing our extraordinary tale while preserving your reputation.”
“And I solemnly swear not to overindulge in footwear purchases.” I pause and correct myself with a flourish:
“Well... except for an ample supply ofass-kicking boots,” I giggle, mimicking his Scottish accent perfectly.
The crowd cheers as the officiant tells us to seal the handfasting with a kiss, a tradition older than the stone walls around us. Cal grins and sweeps me into his arms, his lips claiming mine in a long, passionate kiss.
As our loved ones erupt into cheers and bombard us with avens flower petals, the music accelerates courtesy of Fergus’ fiddle and Alistair’s drum. Cal seizes my hand, pulling me onto the impromptu dance floor. My dress billows around my ankles as we spin and leap, our laughter blending with the lively fiddle notes and rhythmic foot-stomping. I feel like I’m floating, all my anxieties and uncertainties blown away by the pure joy of this moment.
“So this,” I whisper, “is what bliss feels like.”
The night stretches on, and the energy of the celebration shows no signs of waning. Cal leans closer to me, his warm breath tickling my ear as he murmurs, “What do ye say we sneak away? I’ve got plans for ye that don’t involve an audience.”
A shiver courses through me at his words, mybody already reacting to the seductive spark in his gaze.
“Lead the way, Captain,” I murmur back.
I grip his hand tighter as we slip into our attic bedroom, leaving behind the gradually dimming sounds of festivity.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The modest windowpours a muted glow across the antique floorboards as the moonlight filters through a thin veil of clouds, casting a gentle, silvery sheen over the patchwork quilt draping the bed.
