The wedding service was all Isabella might have dreamed it could be.
It was the first of February, the morn after the new moon, when she and Murdoch were to exchange their vows. The morning dawned crisp and clear, the sky cloudless with nary a breath of wind. Moira pronounced the weather a good portent for the match, although Isabella needed no such warranty.
Kinfairlie’s keep had been noisy these past weeks in preparation for Isabella’s nuptials. Madeline and Rhys were already present, of course, which was fortunate for they lived at the greatest distance. Vivienne and Erik had journeyed south from Blackleith, their young daughters racing through Kinfairlie’s hall each day until they dropped with exhaustion. Roland was enchanted with his cousins, and – even better – Eleanor’s stomach ha
