Céilí brayed indignantly.
“I don’t think she’s happy we’re getting married,” Aisling said as she stood in the master bedroom, which she would soon be sharing with Ronan.
“She’s just helping you stay humble,” Bríd said, sweeping into the room like a general surveying a battlefield. Her hair was perfectly pinned up, and she wore a bright teal dress that somehow looked regal and mischievous at the same time.
"God forbid I get too full of myself on my wedding day," Aisling muttered.
From the kitchen, someone dropped a tray of scones with a crash.
Aisling closed her eyes and took a slow breath. “This is fine. Everything’s fine. I’m sure there is plenty of food.”
“You’re marrying a Gallagher,” Bríd said, adjusting Aisling’s veil. “Chaos is part of the package. Like goats. And grandmothers signing dubious betrothal contracts.”
“And punching your new husband if he so much as hints at combining lands.”
Bríd laughed. “Exactly.”
Outside, a rowdy crowd was gathering. The house would be brimming with the people in town, and even outside, they had a pavilion for guests. It seemed that the entire town wanted to attend their big day.
Mountshannon had treated the wedding like the social event of the decade. Paddy closed the pub for the day (a first in recorded history), the farmers lined the streets with their finest sheep (clean for once), and there was even a brass band that suspiciously sounded like three teenagers with kazoos and a borrowed snare drum.
Declan, yes, even Declan, was here, sulking in the back like a rejected soap opera villain.
Michael was not invited. That bridge had not only been burned but also napalmed.
Aisling stood at the top of the grand staircase, her heart rattling like a drum against her ribs. Down below, she could see the crowd, the music swelling, the ridiculous yet heartwarming chaos of Mountshannon in full display.
At her side, her father, Patrick Wright, adjusted his tie with trembling fingers.
When the music started, an enthusiastic, slightly off-key version of "The Wild Rover,” Aisling braced herself.
"You ready, sweetheart?" Patrick asked, voice thick with emotion.
She looked up at him, seeing not the man who hadn't been there for her childhood, but the man who had chosen to be here now when it mattered most. The man who made it very clear that he wanted to be a part of her life.
"Ready as I'll ever be," she whispered. “Thank you for doing this.”
“I’m honored. I’m your father,” he said protectively.
He offered his arm. She took it.
Step by step, they descended the grand staircase together, past old family portraits and centuries of O’Byrne and Gallagher history. The guests turned, smiling, whispering, and gasping.
On the other side of the room, Ronan waited.
Dark unruly hair tied slightly askew, suit looking indecently good on his broad frame. His smile wasn’t cocky tonight. It was raw. Full of something that made her heart stutter and soar at the same time.
She walked toward him, the ancient stones echoing her footsteps. Every face in the crowd blurred except his.
Patrick leaned down as they reached him. He placed her hand in Ronan’s and said, loud enough for only the two of them to hear, "Take good care of her, son. Or you'll answer to me."
Ronan didn’t flinch. He nodded, solemn. "I swear it."
Aisling squeezed both their hands.
Then she let her father go and turned fully toward the man who’d somehow, against all odds and goat disasters, captured her heart.
He leaned in and whispered, "Last chance to run."
