“I hear the pipes, Arran,” Margot said.

“Aye.” He signaled Sweeney to wrangle Cailean. The wedding party was nearing the great hall.

“We didn’t have a procession for our wedding,” Margot mused as the doors swung open and the first of the revelers entered.

“Would you like a procession, then, mo gradh? I’ll give you one.”

“What I would like is for this child to proceed to be born,” she said with a sigh, and rubbed the bottom of her belly. “She’s a hellion, always kicking.”

“Patience.”

“That’s quite simple for you to say, isn’t it, a man quite at his leisure without a small piglet in his belly?”

He squeezed her hand fondly. “Uist, now, the bride and groom are coming.”

The bride and groom entered the hall behind the standard bearer, the groom dressed in a plaid and standing very tall, a head taller than anyone, and the bride in a wreath of flowers and a sash of plaid. “I don’t believe it!” Margot exclaimed. “She wore the plaid!”

“Did you think she’d no’?” Arran whispered.

“No! Nell is quite opposed to Scottish customs, you know,” she said. “She says they are for heathens, and that Jock is the biggest heathen of them all.”

“Aye, that he is,” Arran agreed. “But a gentle heathen. And she doesna seem unhappy.”

“No,” Margot said, smiling fondly. “On the contrary, she seems indescribably happy.”

It was true—Nell was beaming. And so was Jock. Arran had never seen a smile as wide as the one he wore now.

They reached the dais, and Jock bowed to Arran. Arran stood up to receive the couple and bless their union. He stood aside as the vicar received their vows and proclaimed them husband and wife. He turned them back to the crowd gathered and pronounced them as Mackenzies of the clan, and the round of toasts, as was the clan’s custom, began.

Margot touched his leg.

“One moment more—I must give the final toast, aye?”

“You’d best be quick about it,” she said.

“I know you’re uncomfortable, but we must let them have their day.”

“Of course. But someone else is going to have her day, too.”

Confused, Arran glanced down. Margot arched her brow and pointed at her belly.

Vivienne Mackenzie was born twelve hours later, her little wails so loud that the crier was not needed. When Cailean was brought in to see his baby sister for the first time, he said, “Leamsa.”

Margot didn’t understand at first. Arran told her that the word that sounded like loomsa meant mine in English.

“Oh no, she is not yours, my love,” Margot said, catching Cailean’s little hand before he could grab the infant’s hair.

“Leamsa, leamsa!” he crowed.