The Intended

Chapter 1-2

Blades of golden light from the small slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense. At the altar of the Priory chapel, in the sight of a congregation filled with islanders and family, the bride and groom exchanged expectant glances, and listened to the ancient priest who stood at the altar with his back to them.

They made a magnificent pair. She, young and beautiful, her pale skin glowing—the light gleaming off the golden threads that were woven with the white flowers into her dark hair. In her hands, gilded branches of rosemary—symbols of love and fidelity—were intertwined with prayer beads, while her white gown shimmered in the golden shafts of light.

And he, too, radiated the magnificence of the moment. A ribbon of gold bound his long brown hair at the nape of his neck, and the ornate broach that designated his position as chief of the powerful MacLeod clan held in place the tartan that crossed the flawless white of his silk shirt. As he turned slightly to look at his bride, the dark plaid of his kilts moved over high, soft boots. Seeing her blush slightly at his glance, Malcolm smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile and turned back to the priest.

Behind them, the gathered throng stirred restlessly in the little chapel, waiting in anticipation for the exchange of vows. The people of Skye were well represented, with members of both MacLeod and MacDonald clans, all decked out in their most colorful finery, constituting most of the assembled crowd. But the Macpherson clan also stood out prominently among the group in the chapel. Alec Macpherson, former laird of these lands, stood beside Malcolm and looked on with a fatherly affection at the young man he and his wife Fiona had raised as their own.

The priest’s voice rose and fell in the measured cadences of the mixed Latin and Gaelic. From behind the grate of iron bands to the right of the altar, the sound of women’s voices—the nuns of the Priory—could be heard responding to the prayers.

The priest raised up his hands in offering, and then turned and preceded his acolytes down from the altar. It was time, and the young laird turned to face his bride. Her black eyes shone with excitement. They were misty, reflecting her joy in their imminent union. Malcolm took her hands in his.

The priest paused for a moment, and the congregation seemed to hold its breath. The chapel’s silence was profound, so silent in fact that Malcolm’s eye was drawn upward at the crackling hiss of a candle on the far wall. The incense curled upward in a lazy spiral, and the young laird’s mind raced at the thought of the step he was taking. An important step, and one he knew was long overdue. Nay, he thought. For every purpose, there is a season. He looked back into the beautiful face of his bride.

The candle on the far wall flickered again, and Malcolm became aware of a sound at the entrance to the chapel. Turning his head, he could see the great oak door had swung partially open, but he could not see who was entering—only that the folk by the door were backing away with looks that changed rapidly from mere surprise to shock.

And then he saw a young woman step uncertainly into the chapel, her wedding gown glittering in the light of the thousand lit candles. Like everyone else, the young laird stood, immobile, stunned by the sight of the beautiful woman whose face now grew bloodless, nearly matching the whiteness of her elegant garment.

* * * *

She couldn’t stop her body from quaking. Clasping her hands tightly at her waist, Jaime rested her weary frame against the door. Her legs now seemed to function of their own accord, for she couldn’t manage to make them either hold her weight or propel her back out the door. Every eye in the hall had turned, and she felt them burning into her. Painfully, she swallowed her tears, fighting back the anguish that threatened to burst her heart into a million pieces. Once again her eyes followed the open path from where she stood to the altar, where he stood hand in hand with another.

“I hate you, Malcolm MacLeod,” she whispered. “To the day I die.”

Finding her legs at last, Jaime yanked at the door and lurched out of the chapel.