One year later, Castle MacKenzie, Scottish Highlands
“Ye’ve given me a second chin.”
Hamish glanced up from the parchment spread across his knee. Isobel stood at the solar window with one hand pressed against the small of her back, afternoon light catching the loose dark waves that tumbled past her shoulders.
Her other hand rested on the high curve of her belly—round and full and unmistakable beneath the soft blue wool of her gown.
“That’s meant tae be the shadow beneath yer jaw.”
“Hamish.” She crossed to him slowly, the way she moved these days—careful, deliberate, one hand always bracing the weight of the child that would arrive within weeks. She plucked the parchment from his hands and studied it with the same critical eye she’d used the very first time she’d corrected his grip on charcoal. “That shadow has its own shadow. And why daes me nose look like it belongs tae Lewis?”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Lewis has a fine nose.”
“Lewis has a crooked nose because ye broke it when ye were fourteen.”
“Twelve.”
She handed the parchment back, her fingers brushing his. “Ye’ve been at this fer a year, husband. I’m startin’ tae think yer stubbornness is greater than yer talent.”
“Aye, well.” He set the charcoal down and wiped his blackened fingers on a cloth. “Ye married the stubbornness. Nay talent was part of the arrangement.”
Isobel laughed—that full, unguarded sound that still caught him off guard sometimes. A year into their marriage, it had become the most common sound in his home and his life, and some part of him still couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to hear it every day.
He watched her lower herself into the chair across from him, one hand gripping the armrest while the other cradled her belly. She’d gained weight in all the right places.
Health looks good on her. Happiness looks better.
“Dinnae stare at me like that,” she said, settling back with a sigh that was half comfort, half weariness.
“Like what?”
“Like ye’re tryin’ tae memorize me.”
“I am.”
Her expression softened. She reached across the gap between their chairs and took the parchment from where it rested on his knee. Studied the clumsy lines again—the lopsided eyes, the chin, the vague suggestion of dark hair that looked more like storm clouds than anything attached to a human head.
“Ye ken,” she said quietly, tracing one of the charcoal lines with her fingertip, “the very first time I sat ye down with paper and told ye tae draw, ye looked at me like I’d asked ye tae compose a sonnet in French.”
“I remember.”
“And ye were terrible at it.”
“I remember that too.”
“Ye’re still terrible.” She looked up, and her eyes were bright. “But ye never stopped tryin’. Nae once.”
He held her gaze. “Ye asked me tae.”
“I asked ye tae try. I didnae ask ye tae spend a full year producin’ portraits that make me look like yer braither.”
A laugh escaped him—low and genuine, rumbling through his chest. She grinned at the sound of it, pleased with herself.
This is what we fought fer. This ordinary, unremarkable afternoon wi’ the woman I love.
The solar was warm around them. It smelled of charcoal dust and beeswax candles and the dried heather she kept in a clay pot on the windowsill. Their books sat stacked on the low table—his ledgers alongside sketchbooks she’d filled over the past year.
“The coalition’s holdin’ strong,” he continued. “Alpin wrote that Mhairi’s been workin’ wi’ the clans in the east—findin’ the lasses who were sold there. Gettin’ home who she can.”
Isobel nodded slowly. “She told me in her last letter that one of the women she found—a Cameron lass, barely sixteen when she was taken, is learnin’ tae read now. First time anyone thought tae teach her.”
Something moved behind her eyes. Not grief. Something fiercer and more fragile—the particular ache of someone who understood exactly what the other women had faced, because she’d endured it herself and come out the other side.
“Come here,” Hamish said.
She raised an eyebrow. “I just sat down.”
“Then may I come tae ye?”
Her mouth twitched. “Ye dinnae have tae keep askin’, ye ken,” she said, the same thing she always said.
“Aye,” he replied, the same thing he always replied. “And I’ll keep askin’ regardless.”
He moved to her chair and knelt beside it, ignoring the protest from his knees. This close, he could see the faint scatter of freckles across her nose, could see the tiny scar above her left wrist where a guard’s rope had bitten too deep that terrible night, could see the steady pulse at her throat, calm and even.
Alive. Safe. Mine.
He placed his hand on the armrest beside hers, palm up. An offering. She took it without hesitation, lacing their fingers together with the ease of a gesture repeated a thousand times.
“The bairn’s been restless today,” she said, guiding his hand to her belly with her free one, pressing his palm flat against the taut fabric of her gown. “I think he kens his faither’s been ignorin’ him.”
“He?”
“Or she. Either way, they’ve opinions about yer sketchin’.”
He waited. And then, he felt it—a kick, firm and unmistakable, flat against his calloused palm. Something rolled beneath her skin, a heel or a fist, and Hamish’s breath caught the way it had every single time since he’d felt the first kick three months prior.
“There.” Isobel’s voice had gone soft. “Did ye feel it?”
He couldn’t speak for a moment. Just kept his hand where it was, fingers spread wide, feeling the impossible miracle of life moving beneath his wife’s skin. His child. Their child—conceived in love, carried in safety, to be born into a world they’d both bled to make better.
His vision blurred. He blinked hard, once.
“Aye,” he managed. “I felt it.”
Isobel’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck, her fingers threading through the dark hair at his nape. She pulled him closer until his forehead rested against her belly, and he could feel the baby shift again—restless, impatient, already making demands.
Like yer maither, he thought, and the corner of his mouth curved.
“Hamish?”
“Aye?”
“I want ye tae finish the sketch.”
He lifted his head. “Ye’ve just spent ten minutes tellin’ me how terrible it is.”
“It is terrible.” Her thumb traced the edge of his jaw—following the faint scar there. “But ye drew it. Fer me. And that makes it worth keepin’.”
He looked at her for a long moment. The firelight played across her face, catching the gray of her eyes, turning them silver. Her dark hair spilled across the green tartan draped over the back of the chair. She looked nothing like the starving, terrified woman he’d first seen on that auction platform—hollow-eyed, shaking, stripped of everything but the bare will to survive.
“Then ye’ll have it,” he said simply.
Because she’d asked. And he would always at least try to give her anything she asked for.
He returned to his chair, picked up the charcoal, and bent over the parchment again. Isobel watched him from across the warm space between them—the solar quiet around them except for the crackle of the fire and the scratch of charcoal on paper and, somewhere beyond the stone walls, the distant sound of the clan going about its evening.
“Hamish?”
“Aye, Isa?”
She smiled. “We’re goin’ tae be all right. Arenae we?”
He looked up from the sketch. Met her eyes across the firelit room—this woman who had taught him that tenderness was not weakness, that asking was not cowardice, that the strongest thing a man could do was open his hands and let someone choose to stay.
“Aye, mo chridhe.” The charcoal moved across the parchment, clumsy and honestly him. “We already are.”
Callum’s voice cut through the training yard. Alpin lowered his blade and turned. The look on Callum’s face made his pulse quicken.
“What is it?”
“Inside. Privately.”
Alpin followed him to the solar. Once the door was closed, Callum pulled out a parchment.
“A messenger from our scout near Dumfries. He spotted women being moved through town three days past. Under heavy guard, headin’ north.”
Alpin’s chest tightened. “How many?”
“Five. All young.” Callum unfolded the parchment. “And one matches every detail of Isobel Munro. Dark hair, grey eyes, right age. The scout heard a guard call her by name.”
“He’s certain?”
“He heard them use her first name. Isobel.” Callum pointed to the map. “They’re movin’ slowly, stoppin’ at inns. If we ride hard, we can intercept them before Glasgow. Two days, maybe less.”
Two days. After six months of searching, they finally had a real chance.
“Who’s guardin’ them?”
“Eight men. Professional soldiers.”
“Graham. Even wounded, the bastard’s still movin’ women.”
“Aye. But we ken where they are now.”
Alpin’s mind raced through plans.
They needed warriors, but not too many. A small, fast group that could move quickly and strike hard.
“Gather twenty of our best,” he said. “I want men who can ride fast and fight hard. And I want trackers who ken every road between here and Glasgow.”
“When dae we leave?”
“Tomorrow at dawn. That gives us time to prepare and still reach them before they get tae the city.” Alpin looked at the map again, calculating distances. “Are ye goin’ tae tell Mhairi?”
The question hung in the air.
Tell her now and risk breaking her heart if something went wrong? Or keep it from her until Isobel was safe?
“I’ll tell her,” Alpin said. “She deserves tae ken. Where is she?”
“Last I saw, she was in the gardens with Freya.”
***
Alpin found her in the gardens, walking among the late summer flowers. Six months of marriage had only made her more beautiful.
His wife. And soon, God willing, her sister.
“Alpin!” Mhairi’s face lit up when she saw him. She said something to Freya, who nodded and walked back toward the castle, leaving them alone. “I didnae expect tae see ye until this evenin’. Is everythin’ all right?”
“Better than all right.” He took her hands, pulling her close. “We have news. About Isobel.”
Her breath caught. “What kind of news?”
“A scout spotted a group of women bein’ moved through Dumfries three days ago. One of them matches Isobel’s description perfectly.” He watched her face carefully. “Dark hair, grey eyes, the right age. And the scout heard one of the guards call her by name.”
Mhairi’s hands flew to her mouth, tears already gathering in her eyes. “She’s alive. She’s really alive.”
“Aye.” He pulled her against his chest, letting her cry. “And we’re goin’ tae get her back.”
“When?” The word was muffled against his tunic. “When dae we leave?”
“I leave, tomorrow at dawn with twenty warriors.” Alpin stroked her hair gently. “Ye stay here where it’s safe.”
She pulled back to look at him, her grey eyes fierce despite the tears. “Alpin, nay, I have tae…”
“Mhairi.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I ken ye want tae be there, but it’s too dangerous. There will be fightin’, possibly bloodshed. I need ye here where I ken ye’re safe.”
“But she’ll be frightened. When ye find her, she’ll nae ken who tae trust.”
“Then I’ll tell her I’m yer husband. That ye’re safe and waitin’ fer her.” Alpin touched the ring she’d given him, the one with her family crest. “I’ll show her this. She’ll ken it’s real.”
Mhairi’s jaw was set, clearly wanting to argue, but she nodded slowly. “Ye promise ye’ll bring her home? Nay matter what?”
“On me life, I promise.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. “I’ll bring yer sister home, Mhairi. I swear it.”
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. They stood like that fer a long moment, the garden quiet around them except for the distant sounds of the castle.
“I should let ye go,” Mhairi said finally, though she didn’t release him. “Ye need tae prepare.”
“I have time.” He wasn’t ready to let her go yet either. “Walk with me?”
They walked through the gardens, her hand in his. But Alpin noticed she seemed nervous, her fingers twisting in her skirt.
“Mhairi?” He stopped and turned to face her. “What’s wrong?”
“Naethin’s wrong.” She looked up at him, and there was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read. Anticipation mixed with fear. “I just… there’s somethin’ I need tae tell ye. Before ye leave.”
His heart began to pound. “What is it?”
She took both his hands in hers, squeezing tight. “Dae ye remember when we talked about havin’ children? About buildin’ a family?”
“Aye.” The memory was vivid. Late one night, tangled together in bed, talking about the future they wanted. “Of course I remember.”
“Well.” Mhairi drew in a shaky breath. “I think… nay, I ken… Alpin, I’m with child.”
The world seemed to stop.
Alpin stared at her, his mind struggling to process the words.
With child. Pregnant.
They were going to have a baby.
“Ye’re…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. His throat had closed up with emotion.
“Aye.” Mhairi’s smile was tremulous, uncertain. “About a month along, Donnach thinks. I’ve been… well, I’ve been sick in the mornin’s, and me monthly courses stopped, and the healer confirmed it yesterday.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “We’re goin’ tae have a bairn, Alpin.”
For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only stare at this woman who had given him everything, who was now telling him she carried his child.
Then he swept her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around. Mhairi let out a surprised laugh, her arms wrapping around his neck.
“We’re havin’ a baby,” he said against her hair, his voice rough with emotion. “God, Mhairi, we’re really havin’ a baby.”
“Aye.” She was crying and laughing at the same time. “Are ye… are ye happy? I ken it’s soon, and with everythin’ goin’ on with Isobel, the timin’ is nae the best, but…”
“Happy?” Alpin set her down carefully, cupping her face so she could see his expression. “Lass, I’m more than happy. I’m…” He couldn’t find words big enough. “Ye’ve given me everythin’. A home. A future. And now a child.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “How could I be anythin’ but happy?”
She let out a sob of relief. “I was so worried ye’d think it was too soon. That ye’d…”
“Nay.” He kissed her fiercely. “Never. This is…” He pulled back to look at her, really look at her. His wife. The mother of his child. “This is perfect.”
“Even with the timin’? With Isobel and Graham and everythin’?”
“Especially with all of that.” Alpin placed his hand gently over her stomach, marveling at the knowledge of what was growing there. “It means we’re buildin’ somethin’ good out of all that darkness. A family. A future. Hope.”
Mhairi covered his hand with both of hers. “I wanted tae tell ye before ye left. So ye’d have another reason tae come home safely.”
“As if I needed another reason,” he smiled, although he understood what she meant.
The stakes had just gotten higher. He wasn’t just a husband anymore. He was going to be a father.
The weight of it settled on his shoulders, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt right.
“Can ye… can ye feel anythin’ yet?” he asked, pressing his palm more firmly against her stomach.
“Nay, it’s too early fer that.” Mhairi smiled through her tears. “But in a few months, Donnach says I’ll start tae show. And then a few months after that, we’ll feel the bairn move.”
A few months.
By then, God willing, Isobel would be home safe. Graham would be dealt with. And they could focus on preparing for their child without the shadow of fear hanging over them.
“Daes anyone else ken?”
“Just the healer. And now ye.” Mhairi bit her lip. “I wanted ye tae be the first tae ken. Properly, I mean.”
“Thank ye.” He kissed her again, slower this time. “Thank ye fer this.”
“Ye’re me husband. The faither of me child.” She touched his face gently.
They stood like that for a long moment, his hand on her stomach, both of them marveling at the life growing there.
A child.
Their child.
Made from love and hope and the fierce determination to build something good.
“Alpin?” Mhairi’s voice was soft. “Promise me somethin’.”
“Anythin’.”
“Promise me ye’ll be careful tomorrow. That ye’ll come back safe.” Her eyes were fierce. “This bairn needs a faither.”
“I promise.” He pulled her close, one hand cradling her head, the other resting protectively over her stomach. “I promise I’ll come back tae ye. Tae both of ye.”
They walked back to the castle together, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting on his chest.
Inside their chamber, they lay together, Alpin’s hand resting on her stomach.
“What dae ye think it’ll be?” Mhairi asked softly. “A lad or a lass?”
“I dinnae care, as long as the bairn is healthy.”
“Ye’ll be a wonderful da, Alpin.”
“I hope so. I want tae give our child everythin’. Safety. Love. A home where they never have tae be afraid.”
“Ye already are. Just by bein’ who ye are.”
Mhairi fell asleep with her head on his chest.
Alpin stayed awake, his mind churning. The following day he’d ride out to rescue Isobel. But he would have even more reason to survive.
Because he was going to be a father.
***
Dawn came rather quickly.
Alpin dressed quietly, trying not to wake Mhairi, but her eyes opened before he’d finished with his sword belt.
“I’m awake,” she said. “I want tae see ye off.”
They walked down to the courtyard together. Twenty warriors sat mounted, horses stamping in the early light. Callum was at the front, his expression focused.
Alpin turned to Mhairi, taking both her hands in his.
“I’ll be back in less than a week,” he said. “With yer sister.”
“I ken.” She rose on her toes and kissed him. “I love ye, Alpin MacDougal. Come home safe.”
“I love ye too.” He placed his hand over her stomach one last time, marveling at what lay beneath. “Both of ye. I love ye both.”
The journey to Buchanan Castle had taken five days, moving slowly to accommodate the entourage necessary for traveling with an infant. Kenina adjusted the soft wool blanket wrapped around her daughter, protecting the baby’s face from the autumn wind while still allowing her to see the world passing by.
“She’s awake again,” Peadar observed from beside her in the carriage, leaning over to peer at the alert gray-green eyes staring up at them. “How daes such a tiny thing sleep so little?”
“She takes after her faither,” Kenina said dryly. “Always watching, always alert.”
Little Eilidh—named for Peadar’s mother and Kenina’s grandmother both—made a soft cooing sound and waved one small fist in the air. Peadar immediately offered his finger, which she gripped with surprising strength. Her blue eyes twinkling at them,
“Strong grip,” he said with unmistakable pride. “She’ll be wielding a sword before we ken it.”
“She’s three months old, Peadar.”
“It’s never too early tae think about training.”
“It’s far too early tae think about training.” Kenina laughed. “Let her learn tae hold her own head up properly first, then we can worry about weapons.”
Peadar grinned, unrepentant, but his touch remained gentle as he stroked Eilidh’s downy dark hair—another trait from his side of the family. The baby had Kenina’s nose and chin, though, and something in her serious expression suggested she’d inherited her mother’s stubbornness along with her father’s vigilance.
God help us all.
The carriage rolled through the gates of Buchanan Castle just as the afternoon sun began its descent. Kenina felt her chest tighten with emotion—not anxiety this time, but anticipation. She’d exchanged letters with her parents throughout the year, their words filled with joy at her survival, gratitude for Peadar’s protection, and desperate longing to see their daughter again.
Now she was returning on her own terms, with a husband who loved her and a daughter they’d never met.
“Ready?” Peadar asked softly, squeezing her hand.
“More than ready,” she said, surprised to find her eyes already stinging with tears. “I’ve missed them so much.”
The carriage stopped. Through the window, Kenina could see her parents—her father looking grayer than she remembered, her mother’s face lined with new worry—standing at the base of the steps. The moment the door opened, her mother let out a choked sound.
Peadar helped Kenina down carefully, mindful of the baby in her arms. Kenina’s feet had barely touched the ground before her mother rushed forward.
“Kenina! Oh, me darling girl!” Lady Morven Buchanan pulled her daughter into a fierce embrace, mindful of the infant between them, her whole body shaking with sobs. “Ye’re here. Ye’re really here. I thought—when they took ye—I thought I’d never—”
“I’m here, Mama,” Kenina whispered, her own tears flowing freely now. “I’m safe. I’m home.”
Her father appeared beside them, his weathered face wet with tears he made no attempt to hide. “Me brave girl,” he said roughly, enveloping them both in his strong arms. “Me brave, clever girl.” His voice broke. “Thank God ye’re safe.”
They stood like that for a long moment, the three of them tangled together, making up for over a year of separation and fear. Finally, Margaret pulled back enough to look at her daughter properly.
“Let me see ye. Are ye well? Did he—did Drummond—” The fear in her mother’s eyes was visceral.
“He never touched me,” Kenina assured her quickly. “Peadar made sure of that. He saved me, Mama. In every way that matters.”
Morven turned to Peadar, who had been standing respectfully back, allowing the family reunion. Her expression transformed into something fierce and grateful.
“Laird MacGregor,” she said, her voice thick. “I owe ye a debt I can never repay. Ye saved me daughter’s life. Ye protected her when we couldn’t. Ye—” She broke off, seeming unable to find adequate words.
“Ye gave her a home and a future,” Kenina’s father, Alasdair, finished. He stepped forward, extending his hand to Peadar. “We ken what ye did. How ye fought fer her. How ye killed that monster Drummond. Protecting our lands. There arenae words enough tae thank ye.”
Peadar took Aladsdair’s hand, his grip firm. “I love yer daughter, sir. Protecting her isn’t something I need thanks fer—it’s something I’d dae with me last breath.”
“Even so.” Alasdair’s eyes were bright. “Ye’ve given us back everything that matters. Our daughter, safe and happy. That’s a gift beyond price.”
“Speaking of gifts,” Kenina said, her voice trembling with emotion and joy, “there’s someone we’d like ye tae meet.” She adjusted the blanket, revealing Eilidh alert face. “Mama, Da, this is yer granddaughter. Eilidh Morvena MacGregor.”
Morven’s hands flew to her mouth, fresh tears streaming down her face. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Kenina. She’s perfect.”
“She has your eyes,” Alasdair said wonderingly, reaching out to gently touch Eilidh’s tiny hand. The baby immediately grasped his finger, holding on with surprising strength. He laughed, the sound breaking. “And yer grip. Strong, just like her maither.”
“Would ye like tae hold her?” Kenina asked her mother.
“May I? Please?” Morven’s hands were already outstretched, trembling with eagerness.
Kenina carefully transferred Eilidh into her mother’s arms. Morven cradled the baby with the practiced ease of experience, gazing down at her granddaughter with such pure love that Kenina felt her heart might burst.
“Hello, little one,” Morven murmured. “I’m yer grandmaither. I’ve been waiting so long tae meet ye. So very long.” She looked up at Kenina and Peadar, her face radiant despite the tears. “She’s absolutely beautiful. Perfect in every way.”
“She takes after her maither,” Peadar said, moving to stand beside Kenina, his arm wrapping around her waist.
“And her faither,” Alasdair added, studying Peadar with new appreciation. “I see strength in her. Protection. She’ll be a formidable woman someday.”
“She already is,” Peadar said proudly. “Barely sleeps, always watching, already has her maither’s stubborn streak.”
“And her faither is overprotective,” Kenina added with a laugh. “He checks on her every hour through the night, convinced something might happen if he looks away.”
“A good faither daes that,” Alasdair said approvingly. “I did the same with ye, Kenina. Drove yer maither mad, but I couldnae help meself.”
Morven laughed through her tears. “It’s true. He spent yer first three months sleeping beside yer cradle, refusing tae let me move ye tae the nursery.” She looked at Peadar with warm understanding. “I suspect ye’ve done the same.”
“Our chamber,” Peadar admitted. “Cradle right beside the bed. Kenina says I’m excessive.”
“Ye are excessive,” Kenina said fondly. “But I love ye fer it.”
They all stood together, watching Eilidh sleep in her grandmother’s arms. They would have time to review alliance terms, share more stories, let Alasdair and Morven continue falling in love with their granddaughter. But right then, they were simply reunited with family, safe and whole, with their daughter sleeping peacefully nearby.
The future stretched ahead—uncertain but bright, full of possibility and promise. Whatever it brought, they’d face it together. As husband and wife. As parents. As part of something larger than themselves.
And that, Kenina thought as Peadar held her close and the stars wheeled overhead, was everything she’d ever dreamed of and more.
Davina sat by the window with her son cradled in her arms. Outside, the keep hummed with quiet preparation, but there there was only the soft rise and fall of her child’s breath and the small, earnest sounds he made as though the world were already a conversation worth joining.
“There ye are,” she murmured, smiling down at him. “Talking already, just like yer faither.”
The baby answered with a pleased little coo, his tiny fingers curling around the edge of her sleeve with surprising determination. Davina laughed under her breath and kissed his dark, downy hair.
“Maxwell,” she said softly, testing the name again as she had done a dozen times already. “Maxwell Kincaid. Today, everyone will know ye by it.”
He blinked up at her, solemn and curious, as though considering the matter.
“The christening is tae take place today,” she went on. “The chapel’s been dressed with flowers, and Mrs. MacLeod has already informed half the castle that she intends tae weep openly. I expect there will be far too much food, and at least one speech that goes on longer than it ought.”
Maxwell gurgled, utterly unimpressed.
“Yes, I thought so, too,” Davina said amusedly. “But it matters. Nae just because of tradition, though yer faither would insist upon that, but because it means ye are welcomed, loved and claimed by more than just us.”
She adjusted him gently, rocking as the light shifted and shadows lengthened. The day would bring voices and ceremony, blessings and expectations. But this moment was quieter. It belonged only to her.
“And whatever comes,” she whispered, resting her forehead briefly against his, “ye will always ken this, that ye were wanted from the very first moment.”
That was when the door opened softly. Davina looked up at once. Baird stood there, having shed his coat but not the quiet authority that seemed now as natural to him as breath. His gaze went first to her and then, inevitably, to the small bundle in her arms.
“There ye are,” he said, his voice already gentler than it had been all day.
Maxwell chose that moment to make a pleased, bubbling sound, as though announcing himself.
Baird crossed the room in a few long strides and crouched beside her chair, resting his forearms on his knees as he looked at his son with an expression that still caught Davina by surprise. It was wonder softened by reverence.
“He’s been talking,” Davina said, smiling. “I believe he has opinions.”
“God help us,” Baird murmured, reaching out one careful finger. Maxwell grasped it at once. Baird laughed quietly. “A strong grip already, just like his maither.”
Davina tilted her head. “I wasnae aware that was one of me qualities.”
“One of them,” he said, glancing up at her with warmth in his eyes.
He straightened then, leaning closer so that the three of them formed a small, perfect circle. “Everything is ready,” he told her. “The chapel is full. The guests are all here… just as planned.”
She blinked. “Already?”
“Aye,” he said.”
Davina laughed. “Oh, Baird… I am so happy.”
Baird reached up and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “So am I.”
Davina leaned into the touch for a brief, perfect moment until a knock sounded at the door.
She turned and called out. “Come in.”
A guard stepped inside, pausing respectfully just within the threshold. “Me lady, me laird.”
“Aye?” Baird asked, his hand still resting lightly at Davina’s waist.
“There is a guest,” the guard said carefully, “who wishes tae see ye both before the ceremony.”
They exchanged a glance.
“Before?” Davina echoed. “Why such a special request? Everyone will be taegether shortly.”
“Aye,” Baird added, his brow furrowing. “This is hardly the hour fer private audiences.”
The guard cleared his throat, clearly aware of the weight of the moment he was interrupting. “The guest is Ualan Fletcher, me laird. He comes on behalf of Lady Davina’s faither and maither. They were… unfortunately prevented from traveling, as they had already written and informed her some weeks ago.”
She had known her parents would not be there. She had accepted it. Still, the reminder stirred something tender.
She nodded once. “Please,” she agreed. “Let him enter.”
The guard bowed and stepped back to open the door. Davina drew a careful breath and shifted closer to Baird.
“Here,” she murmured, and gently placed their son into his arms.
Baird adjusted at once, cradling the baby against his chest. Maxwell blinked up at him, solemn as ever, then settled with a soft, contented sound.
A moment later, the door opened and Davina’s heart lifted instantly.
“Ualan,” she breathed.
Her cousin stepped into the chamber with a smile that was unmistakably Fletcher: warm, proud and touched with emotion he made no attempt to hide. He looked older than she remembered and a little broader in the shoulders. But his eyes were the same. They were keen and kind.
“Davina,” he said, and crossed the room without hesitation.
She embraced him at once, her arms wrapping tight around him. She felt laughter and tears threatening her in equal measure. “I am so glad tae see ye.”
“And I would nae have missed this,” Ualan replied cheerfully. “Nae fer the world.”
Ualan waited until Davina had stepped back beside Baird before he reached for his satchel.
“I thought it best,” he said gently, “tae show ye what was sent, so ye may ken the care with which it was chosen.”
He opened the first parcel and unfolded the cloth with deliberate reverence. Inside lay a small silver quaich, finely wrought, its twin handles engraved with interlaced thistles and oak leaves. Along the rim ran a line of careful lettering: Fletcher and Kincaid, bound in peace.
Davina inhaled softly. “A cup of welcome,” she murmured.
“Aye,” Ualan said. “Fer when he is grown enough tae understand what it means tae offer and receive trust.”
Baird inclined his head, visibly moved.
From the second wrapping, Ualan revealed a length of tartan, rich and deep in color, the Fletcher pattern woven together subtly with threads of Kincaid green.
“This was commissioned specially,” he explained. “It is nae meant fer wearing, nae yet at least, but fer keeping. May it be a reminder that he belongs tae two histories and need never choose between them.”
Davina’s fingers brushed the fabric. “It is beautiful.”
The third gift was smaller still: a leather-bound prayer book. Its pages were edged in pure gold, and the spine was stamped simply with Maxwell’s name. Inside the cover, a careful hand had written a blessing for strength tempered by mercy.
“Me maither insisted upon that one,” Ualan said with a fond smile. “She said every child should be given words before the world gives him demands.”
Davina felt tears prick her eyes.
Last of all, Ualan drew out a small carved brooch, fashioned of polished antler and silver. It boasted a knot design encircling a single stone of pale green.
“This belonged tae our grandmaither,” he divulged. “She asked that it be given tae the child who would know peace nae as a hope, but as a beginning.”
Baird looked down at Maxwell, then back to Ualan. “These gifts are nae merely generous,” he said quietly. “They are… meaningful.”
“That was the intention,” Ualan replied. “Nay riches alone, but remembrance of what was survived and what is now possible.”
Davina reached for her son, resting her hand lightly over his small back. “He will grow up kenning he was welcomed by more than one hearth,” she said. “Thank ye… fer all of this.”
Ualan smiled. “Then me task is done.”
Outside, joyful bells began to ring, calling them all forward. Davina gathered Maxwell closer with her heart full, knowing that when her son was carried into the chapel, he would not enter it merely as a Kincaid, but as a living promise of peace, held carefully in loving hands.
Castle MacLean, Scottish Highlands, January 1691 – One Year Later
“Would ye take me tae visit Iona Abbey?”
Keane’s quill stopped mid-stroke, ink bleeding into the parchment in a dark starburst. He set the quill down with deliberate care before looking up at his wife, who stood in the doorway of his solar with her fingers worrying the edge of her shawl—that old tell that meant she was nervous about something.
“Why?” The word came out flat. Careful. He kept his hands on the desk, fighting the urge to curl them into fists.
Alyson stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. A year of marriage had transformed her—filled out all the hollow places Campbell’s captivity had carved, brought a healthy flush of color back to her cheeks and light back into her eyes.
But standing in the afternoon light streaming through the narrow window, she looked nervous. Vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in months.
“I want tae see it,” she said softly. “Make a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage.” He kept his tone even, but something cold had settled in his chest. “Ye want tae visit the place ye were fleein’ tae. The place where ye meant tae hide from the world.”
“Aye.” She finally met his eyes, and he saw determination there alongside the nervousness. “Will ye take me there?”
“Alyson.” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk toward her. “If ye’re unhappy here, or with me—”
“I’m nae unhappy.” The words came quick, fierce. Her hand found his chest, palm pressing over his heart. “That’s nae what this is about.”
His hand covered hers, holding it against him. “Then explain it tae me. Because tae me, it sounds like ye want tae visit the life ye almost had. The one ye gave up.”
“I was saved from it. There’s a difference.” Her voice softened. “Please?” Her other hand came up to frame his face, forcing him to look at her.
“When dae ye want tae go?” His voice came out rougher than intended.
“Soon. Before…” She paused, and something flickered across her face—something he couldn’t quite read. “Before winter truly sets in.”
He searched her eyes, looking for the truth behind her sudden request, but found nothing but love and that stubborn determination he’d come to know so well.
***
The journey followed the same route she’d taken a little over a year before, though that time with a full escort of MacLean warriors and her husband riding beside her instead of Grant’s men hunting her like prey.
Alyson glanced at Keane. He’d been quiet since they’d left Castle MacLean, his jaw tight with tension he thought he was hiding. But she knew him now, knew every line of his face, every tell that betrayed his emotions beneath that controlled exterior.
He was afraid. Afraid she was running toward something that would take her away from him.
If only ye kent the truth, dear husband. Blessed Saints, give me the right words tae tell him…
Iona Abbey rose on the horizon just after midday— the ancient stone walls haggard and weathered by centuries of storms, standing in silent sentinel there on the edge of the world. The sight of it made Alyson’s breath catch, memories crashing over her in waves.
She’d been so broken when she’d set out for that place. So desperate for walls thick enough to keep out the world and all its cruelty. Had truly believed that taking vows, locking herself away, was the only path to peace.
I would have withered here…
Keane’s hand found hers where it rested on her saddle. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye.” She squeezed his fingers tenderly.
They left the warriors to make camp at a respectful distance and approached the abbey on foot. Father Domnall, the elderly priest who tended to the small community of monks and nuns, greeted them with genuine warmth.
“Lady Alyson MacDonald as I live and breathe!” His weathered face creased into a smile. “Though I suppose I must call ye Lady MacLean now! I’d heard ye’d married instead of takin’ vows.”
“Have we met?” Alyson blinked at him, surprised.
“Och, nay. Yer braither, Laird Tòrr MacDonald wrote tae me about a year ago, makin’ arrangements fer yer arrival.” His gaze shifted to Keane, shrewd despite his age. “Me Laird. Come, let me show ye the chapel. ‘Tis where most pilgrims find what they’re seekin’.”
The chapel was small and simple—stone walls bare of ornamentation, narrow windows letting in shafts of pale light. The air smelled of candle wax and old incense, and something about the space felt ancient, sacred in a way that had nothing to do with the Church and everything to do with the land itself.
Alyson moved to the altar, her fingers trailing over worn wood smoothed by countless hands. Keane stayed near the door, watching her with those amber eyes that saw too much.
“Father Domnall,” she said softly, “may ye give us a moment alone?”
“Of course, me lady, me laird.” The old priest withdrew, his footsteps fading into silence.
For a long moment, Alyson simply stood there, breathing in the stillness. Then she turned to face her husband.
“A year ago,” she began, her voice steady despite the emotion threatening to choke her, “I would have stood in this chapel and taken vows. Promised me life and me body tae God and the Church.”
Keane’s jaw tightened. “Alyson, ye dinnae have tae—”
“Let me finish.” She crossed to him, taking both his hands in hers. “I would have been safe here. Protected. But I would have been half-alive. I would have spent the rest of me days just… survivin’. Hidin’. Lettin’ fear make all me choices fer me.”
His hands tightened on hers. “Ye dinnae need tae explain—”
“I dae.” She pulled him deeper into the chapel, toward the small altar where candles flickered in their holders. “Because ye need tae understand. This place… it was me destination. But it turned out tae be the beginnin’ instead.”
“I dinnae follow.”
She smiled, tears blurring her vision. “If Grant’s men hadnae attacked that day, if ye hadnae shown up all heroic and saved me, I would have made it here, taken those vows and spent the rest of me life convinced I’d made the right choice. But instead I was ambushed by a monster and saved by a man who showed me what true strength looks like. What true gentleness feels like. What real love is.”
Keane’s breath caught. “Alyson—”
“This place was supposed tae be me sanctuary,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But it turned out ye were me sanctuary all along, Keane. Ye and yer patience and yer fierce protection and the way ye never asked me tae be anythin’ other than what I was. Ye gave me back me life. Gave me back meself.”
“Ye did that yerself,” he said roughly. “I just… stood there lookin’ handsome most of the time.”
Alyson laughed.
“Ye did so much more than that.” She released one of his hands to reach into the pocket of her cloak, pulling out the small object she’d been carrying since the day she’d left Keppoch. A simple wooden cross, carved by hand—the one she’d commissioned when she’d planned to take vows. “I had this made, thinkin’ I’d wear it fer the rest of me days as a reminder of me choice tae leave the world behind.”
She placed it on the altar, a small offering, a symbol of the life she’d almost chosen.
“But that’s nae the life I want anymore,” she said, turning back to face him fully. “I want the life I have. With ye. With our clan. With…” Her breath hitched, and she pressed his hand to her belly, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “With our bairn, Keane.”
The words hung in the air between them, suspended in the sacred silence of the chapel.
Keane went absolutely still. His eyes dropped to where her hand pressed his palm against her stomach, then snapped back up to her face. “What?”
“I’m with child.” Joy and tears and overwhelming love flooded through her.
His knees buckled. He actually staggered, catching himself against the nearest pew, his face going pale, then flushing with color. “A… bairn? Ye’re… we’re…”
“Aye.” She moved closer, framing his face with her hands. “We’ve made a wee one, Keane.”
“Mo chridhe.” His voice broke on the endearment. His hands cradled her face. “Ye’re certain?”
“Aye.”
“And ye’re… ye’re happy about this?” The vulnerability in his voice nearly undid her. “I ken ye never planned fer children. I ken the things Campbell did tae ye made ye afraid—”
“Och, aye, I’m terrified,” she admitted. “Terrified somethin’ will go wrong. Terrified I willnae be a good maither. Terrified this bairn will somehow be tainted by all the darkness I’ve endured.” She pressed her forehead to his. “But I’m also happier than I’ve ever been. Because this is proof that light can come from darkness. That love, true love, can heal what cruelty tried tae destroy.”
Keane’s arms went around her, crushing her against his chest with a fierceness that spoke of emotions too big for words. She felt him trembling, felt the wetness of his own tears against her hair.
“I love ye,” he rasped. “God, Alyson, I love ye so much. And I’m goin’ tae protect ye both with everythin’ I have.”
“I ken ye will.” She pulled back just enough to kiss him—soft and sweet and full of promise.
They stood there in the chapel for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the ancient stone walls bearing witness to their joy.
Outside, the world continued—waves crashing against distant shores, wind singing through heather, life moving forward in its endless dance.
But in that moment, in that sacred space, there was only them. Only love. Only the absolute certainty that they’d found exactly what they were meant to find—not sanctuary in stone walls, but sanctuary in each other.
“Ye ken Boyd’s goin’ tae be insufferable when we he finds out,” he said as they approached the camp.
Alyson laughed. “He’ll probably try tae take credit fer it somehow.”
“Aye, I can hear him already, ‘I told ye tae stop broodin’ and just get tae it!’,” Keane mimicked Boyd’s voice, earning him another laugh. “Ye just wait and see, that’s exactly what he’ll say.”
“Then we’ll let him have it.” She squeezed his hand. “Because he was right, wasnae he? All those months ago when he told ye tae stop fightin’ what ye felt.”
“Aye.” Keane stopped walking, pulling her close. The sunset painted her face in golden light, turned her eyes to sapphires. “He was right about everythin’.”
They reached the camp to find Boyd organizing the evening meal, his scarred face brightening when he saw them. “Well? Did yer lady find what she was seekin’ at the abbey?”
“Aye,” Keane said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “She did.”
Boyd’s eyes narrowed, reading them both with the keen perception of a man who’d known Keane for decades. “There’s somethin’ ye’re nae tellin’ me.”
“Aye,” Alyson agreed, her hand finding Keane’s. “But ye’ll hear about it soon enough.”
“Secrets?” Boyd shook his head, but he was grinning. “I dinnae ken how I’ve put up with ye two fer this long.”
That night, lying beside Alyson in the tent they’d erected, Keane’s hand rested on her belly—still flat, showing no sign yet of the miracle growing inside.
“I cannae believe that I’m goin’ tae be a faither,” he whispered into the darkness.
“Aye.” Her hand covered his. “And ye’re goin’ tae be wonderful at it.”
“I dinnae ken how tae be a faither, Alyson. Mine was—”
“Ye ken exactly how tae be a faither,” she interrupted gently. “Ye’ll just be everythin’ yers wasnae.”
They fell silent, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the wind singing outside their tent. The next day they’d ride for home, would share their news with the clan, would begin preparing for the child that would arrive with summer.
But that night, beneath ancient stars and blessed by the same winds that had brought them together, they simply held each other. Two people who’d been broken by different kinds of cruelty, who’d found healing in unexpected love, who’d built something beautiful from the ruins of their pasts.
Isla looked up from the herbs she was cutting to see her four-year-old son, Ewan, racing across the garden with something clutched in his pudgy fist. His dark hair, so like his father’s, was wild with running, and his grey eyes sparkled with excitement.
“What is it, love?” She set down her knife as he skidded to a stop beside her.
“A beetle! A great big one!” He opened his hand to reveal a rather ordinary garden beetle. “Can I keep him?”
“Beetles need tae live outside where they can find food and shelter, remember? But ye can watch him fer a bit before ye let him go.”
“But Mama.”
“Ewan Cameron, what did yer faither tell ye about arguin’ with yer maither?”
Isla looked up to see Seoc approaching with their three-year-old daughter, Catriona, perched on his shoulders. The little girl had her mother’s dark hair and her father’s stubborn chin, and she was currently yanking on Seoc’s hair with gleeful abandon.
“Da said I should always listen tae ye,” Ewan admitted reluctantly. “Even when I think I’m right.”
“That’s because yer maither usually is right.” Seoc lifted Catriona from his shoulders, setting her on the ground despite her protests. “Now, what’s this about keepin’ beetles?”
While Ewan launched into an elaborate explanation of why this particular beetle deserved to live in his chamber, Isla felt a familiar flutter of contentment. Five years of marriage, two beautiful children, a clan at peace, sometimes she had to pinch herself to believe it was all real.
“Me lady!” A breathless servant appeared at the garden entrance. “Riders approachin’ from the south! Fletcher colors!”
“About time. Ye’ve been watchin’ that road fer three days.” But he was smiling. “Come on, wee ones. Let’s go greet our guests.”
“Is it Uncle Ualan?” Ewan asked, bouncing with excitement.
“Aye, and yer grandparents, and probably a few others as well.” Isla smoothed her skirts, suddenly nervous. “Dae I look all right? I’ve been in the garden all mornin’.”
“Ye look beautiful.” Seoc caught her hand. “Now stop fussin’ and let’s go see yer family.”
They reached the courtyard just as the Fletcher party rode through the gates. Isla scanned the riders, her eyes immediately finding her father’s golden hair, now streaked with grey, and her mother beside him. But it was the tall young man riding at her father’s right hand that made her breath catch.
“Ualan?”
He’d been nearly ten the last time she’d seen him, still gangly and boy-shaped. Now he was fifteen, tall and broad-shouldered, looking so much like their father it made her heart ache. He dismounted with the easy grace of a trained warrior and strode toward her.
“Isla.” His voice had deepened, roughened. “God, ye look exactly the same.”
“And ye look completely different!” She threw her arms around him, not caring about dignity or propriety. “When did ye get so tall? Ye’re taller than me now!”
“Been taller than ye fer two years.” But he hugged her back fiercely. “I’ve missed ye, sister.”
“I’ve missed ye too. So much.” She pulled back to look at him properly. “Look at ye. Ye’re practically a man grown.”
“Practically?” He grinned, the expression so familiar it made her want to cry. “I am a man grown. Faither’s already got me leadin’ patrols and sittin’ in on council meetings.”
“Has he now?” She turned to find her parents had dismounted and were waiting patiently. “Maither. Faither.”
Her mother embraced her first, holding tight. “Me sweet girl. Let me look at ye.” Jane stepped back, her eyes bright with tears. “Maitherhood suits ye. Ye’re glowin’.”
“That’s probably sweat from chasin’ after these two all day.” But Isla smiled as Ewan and Catriona peeked out from behind Seoc’s legs. “Come here, darlings. Meet yer grandparents.”
Ewan, ever bold, stepped forward immediately. “I’m Ewan Cameron. I’m four years old and I can count tae twenty and I ken how tae ride a pony all by meself.”
“Can ye now?” Alistair Fletcher knelt to the boy’s level. “That’s very impressive. And who’s this shy one?”
Catriona pressed closer to Seoc’s leg, one finger in her mouth.
“This is Catriona,” Isla said. “She’s three, and she’s nae shy once she gets tae ken ye. She’s just careful at first.”
“Like her maither was at that age,” Jane observed. “I remember ye hidin’ behind me skirts whenever strangers visited.”
“I did nay such thing.”
“Ye absolutely did.” Her mother moved to Catriona, crouching down with a gentle smile. “Hello, sweet one. I’m yer grandmaither. Would ye like tae see what I brought ye?”
Catriona’s eyes widened as Jane produced a small wooden doll from her bag. “Fer me?”
“Fer ye. And I have somethin’ fer yer braither too.”
“What is it?” Ewan was immediately distracted from the beetle still clutched in his hand.
“Why dinnae we all go inside,” Seoc suggested diplomatically, “and we can dae proper introductions over refreshments? The journey from Fletcher lands is nae a short one.”
They moved into the great hall where servants had already laid out food and drink. The children were settled with their grandparents while Ualan attached himself to Isla’s side.
“Tell me everythin’,” he demanded. “Yer letters are good, but they cannae tell me everythin’. What’s it like, being lady of a castle? Dae ye get tae make all the decisions? Does Seoc let ye carry a sword?”
“Slow down!” Isla laughed. “One question at a time. Being lady of the castle is… complicated. I make many decisions about the household, the supplies, how things are organized. But it’s nae like I’m in charge of everythin’. Seoc and I work taegether.”
“That’s nae how Faither and Maither dae it. Faither makes all the big decisions.”
“Well, that’s nae how we dae things here.” She glanced across the hall where Seoc was showing Ewan how to properly hold a practice sword—wooden, sized for a small child, but still making her son’s face light up with joy. “We’ve learned that we’re stronger taegether than apart.”
“Sounds strange tae me. But then, everythin’ about married life sounds strange.” Ualan made a face. “Faither keeps hintin’ that I should start thinkin’ about marriage. I’m only fifteen!”
“Aye, ye have time yet.” She studied her brother’s face, seeing both the boy he’d been and the man he was becoming. “But ye’ll find someone eventually. Someone who makes ye want tae be better than ye are.”
“Is that how ye feel about Cameron?”
“Every day.” She watched as Seoc caught Catriona when she tried to climb onto a chair that was too tall for her, swinging her up into his arms with practiced ease. “He makes me want tae be braver, kinder, stronger. And I like tae think I dae the same fer him.”
“Ye dae.” The voice came from behind them. They turned to find their father standing there, a cup of ale in his hand. “Seoc Cameron was a good warrior when ye married him, but ye’ve made him a great laird. Everyone can see the change in him.”
“That’s nae all me daeing, Faither. He was always capable. He just needed tae believe it.”
“Perhaps. But ye gave him that belief.” Alistair settled into a chair beside them. “Ualan, go see tae yer maither. She’s tryin’ tae manage both yer niece and nephew at once, and she could use help.”
“Aye, Faither.” Ualan squeezed Isla’s hand before departing.
“He’s grown so much,” Isla said softly. “I’ve missed it all.”
“That’s the cost of makin’ yer own family. Ye miss the growth of the one ye left behind.” Her father’s expression was understanding. “But ye’ve built somethin’ good here, daughter. I can see it in every corner of this castle.”
“Thank ye, Faither.” She felt tears threatening. “I ken this marriage wasnae what either of us wanted initially.”
“But it became what ye both needed. I can see that now.” He took a sip of his ale. “When we first arranged the betrothal, I worried we were sacrificin’ yer happiness fer political gain. But ye’ve found both. That’s a rare gift.”
“It is.” She watched as Seoc caught her eye across the hall and smiled, that private smile meant only for her. “I’m happier than I ever imagined I could be.”
“Good. That’s all yer maither and I ever wanted fer ye.” He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Now, shall we join the others? I want tae hear more about me grandchildren’s adventures.”
The afternoon passed in a blur of conversation and laughter. Ewan demonstrated his sword skills for his grandfather, still clumsy, but enthusiastic. Catriona sat in her grandmother’s lap, playing with the wooden doll and asking endless questions about Fletcher lands. Ualan regaled Seoc with stories of his training, clearly hoping to impress his brother-by-marriage.
It was late afternoon when Isla found herself alone with her mother in the solar, both children napping after the excitement of meeting their grandparents.
“This is a lovely room,” Jane said, running her fingers over the embroidered cushions. “Did ye dae this work?”
“Some of it. Though most I learned from Seoc’s mother’s journals. She had wonderful ideas fer makin’ a cold castle feel warm.”
“Ye’ve certainly succeeded.” Her mother settled into a chair by the window. “Tell me truly, daughter. Are ye happy? Nae the happy ye show everyone else. The real happiness underneath.”
Isla considered the question carefully. “Aye, Maither. I truly am. It wasnae always easy. Those first weeks were difficult, and the battle…” She shuddered at the memory. “But we Seoc and I came through it. Taegether. And now…” She gestured around the solar. “This is me home. These are me people. This is where I belong.”
“I can see that.” Jane’s eyes glistened. “Ye’ve found what I always hoped ye’d find. A partnership. Someone who sees yer worth and values it.”
“The way Faither values ye?”
“Aye. Though it took him years tae realize that me counsel was just as valuable as his warriors’.” She smiled. “Seoc seems tae have learned that lesson much faster.”
“He had good motivation. The clan was failin’ under his faither’s leadership. He needed tae try somethin’ different.”
“And he chose tae trust ye. That shows wisdom beyond his years.” Her mother leaned forward. “Are ye… is there…” She gestured vaguely at Isla’s stomach.
“Am I with child again? Nay. At least, nae that I ken of.” Isla smiled. “Why? Are ye eager fer more grandchildren already?”
“I’m eager fer ye tae have whatever makes ye happy. If that’s more children, wonderful. If nae, that’s wonderful too.” Jane’s expression grew more serious. “Ye’ve given the clan an heir and a spare. That’s all anyone can demand. Dinnae let pressure from the Council make ye feel otherwise.”
“The Council here is actually quite supportive. They see how hard Seoc and I work fer the clan, and they respect that.” Isla paused. “His faither used tae be the problem, but he retired tae Glen Orchy a years ago. Things have been much easier since then.”
“I’m glad tae hear it. Every young couple needs space tae find their own way without interference from the older generation.” Jane stood, moving to embrace her daughter. “I’m so proud of ye, Isla. Of the woman ye’ve become, the maither ye are, the lady this castle needed.”
“Thank ye, Maither.” Isla held tight, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender that had always meant home. “Thank ye fer everythin’.”
Jane pulled back, cupping Isla’s face. “Now, shall we wake those children and see about gettin’ everyone fed? I imagine yer husband will want tae take yer faither on a tour of the defenses.”
“Probably. Men and their walls.” But Isla was smiling as they left the solar together.
That evening, the great hall was filled with laughter and music. The servants had outdone themselves with the feast, and the Fletcher party seemed delighted with the welcome they’d received. Isla sat beside Seoc at the high table, watching as Ualan taught Ewan a simple dance step while Catriona tried to copy them.
“Thank ye fer this,” she said quietly to her husband.
“Fer what?”
“Fer invitin’ them. Fer makin’ them feel welcome. Fer…” She gestured at the hall full of happy people. “Fer all of this.”
“They’re yer family. Which makes them me family too.” He caught her hand under the table, lacing their fingers together. “Besides, I like seein’ ye this happy. Ye’ve been glowin’ all day.”
“That’s what Maither said.” She leaned against his shoulder. “I love ye, Seoc Cameron.”
“And I love ye, Isla Cameron.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “More with every passin’ year.”
“Even when I’m difficult?”
“Especially then.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Where would be the fun in a docile wife?”
“Naewhere, I suspect.” She smiled as Ewan successfully completed the dance step and pumped his fist in triumph. “Our son has yer determination.”
“And yer stubbornness. God help us all.”
They sat together, watching their children play, surrounded by family and friends and the life they’d built together. Outside, night was falling over Cameron lands, stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky.
But inside the great hall of Loch Lochy, there was only warmth and light and love.
And as Isla looked around at everything they’d created—the clan at peace, the children healthy and happy, the castle thriving—she thought about that frightened girl who’d been handed over at Glen of Leny five years prior.
That girl had been so certain marriage would be a prison. Instead, it had become freedom. The freedom to be fully herself. To love and be loved. To build something lasting and precious.
And she wouldn’t change a single moment of the journey that had brought her here. Not one.
The great hall buzzed with activity as Mirren entered, her eyes immediately seeking Niel among the crowd. She found him near the massive hearth, resplendent in his finest Highland dress – deep blue and green tartan, silver brooches gleaming at his shoulders, his dark hair neatly tied back to reveal the strong lines of his face.
He’s nervous.
She realized he was nervous, noting the tension in his shoulders despite his carefully composed expression.
Their eyes met across the hall, and a dashing smile spread across his face. He moved toward her with that fluid grace she’d come to love, his hand finding the small of her back in the possessive gesture that had become second nature to both of them.
“Ready?” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
“Are ye?” she countered, tilting her head to study his expression.
“Ask me again in an hour,” he replied with that crooked grin that made her heart flutter. “When we see if yer braither’s brought his dirk tae dinner.”
The great doors swung open with a resonant boom that echoed off the ancient stones, and Mirren felt her breath catch as her brother strode into the hall with all the confidence of a man who’d never met a challenge he couldn’t conquer. Behind him came his lieutenants – men she’d known since childhood, warriors who’d sailed the western seas and fought on countless battlefields.
But they’re nae here tae fight today.
She saw they’d left their weapons with the guards at the door and the respectful way they waited for Finlay’s lead.
“Sister.” Finlay’s voice carried easily across the hall, rich with warmth and something that might have been relief. His green eyes – so like her own – swept over her with the protective assessment she remembered from childhood, cataloging every detail to ensure she was well and happy.
“Braither.” She stepped forward, acutely aware of every eye in the hall watching the historic moment. “Welcome tae Castle Campbell.”
The words came out steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Here was her past walking into her present, her blood family meeting the new family she’d built through trial and fire and love.
Finlay closed the distance between them in three long strides, sweeping her into an embrace that smelled of home. For a moment, she was just a little sister again, safe in arms that had protected her through every storm of childhood.
“Ye look well, mo piuthar,” he murmured against her hair, using the Gaelic endearment that made tears prick her eyes. “Happy. Content.”
“I am,” she whispered back, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
When they separated, Finlay turned to face Niel with the gaze of a man taking the measure of his sister’s husband. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring, charged with the weight of history and the promise of a different future.
“Campbell,” Finlay said finally, inclining his head with careful respect.
“MacDonald,” Niel replied in kind, and Mirren could see the effort it cost him to keep his voice level and diplomatic.
They’re both tryin’ so hard tae be civilized. Like two kittens tryin’ their best tae be fierce.
“I bring greetings from Laird Lachlann MacDonald,” Finlay continued formally. “And his gratitude fer the protection and care ye’ve given his daughter.”
“Lady Mirren is me wife and me partner,” Niel replied, his hand finding hers and squeezing gently. “Her welfare is me greatest concern and me highest honor.”
Something flickered in Finlay’s eyes – approval, perhaps, or recognition of sincerity when he heard it. “Aye. So I can see.”
The tension began to ease as other introductions were made, voices gradually rising as men who’d spent years as enemies discovered they had more in common than they’d expected. Stories were shared, whisky was poured, and slowly the hall filled with the sound of genuine laughter rather than forced politeness.
This is what peace looks like.
Mirren marveled, watching a Campbell warrior demonstrate a particular sword technique to one of Finlay’s men while others debated the merits of different fishing grounds.
Nay grand treaties or royal decrees, but just… people choosin’ tae see each other as humans instead of enemies.
“Ye’re glowing, sister,” Finlay’s voice startled her from her reverie. He’d moved to stand beside her near the windows, where the late afternoon light streamed through diamond-shaped panes. “There’s somethin’ different about ye. Somethin’ I cannae quite put me finger on.”
Mirren’s heart lurched.
He kens. Of course he kens. He’s always been too observant fer his own good.
“Different how?” she asked carefully, hoping her voice didn’t betray the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach.
“Content, aye, but more than that.” His green eyes studied her with the intensity that had made him such a formidable strategist. “Ye have the look of a woman with secrets. Good secrets.”
Now or never.
Her hand moved instinctively to rest over her still-flat belly.
“Finlay,” she said softly, glancing around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “There’s somethin’ I need tae tell ye. Somethin’ wonderful.”
His eyebrows rose, and she could see him putting pieces together with the quick intelligence that had always impressed her. “Mirren… are ye…?”
“Aye,” she whispered, unable to keep the joy from blooming across her face like Highland heather in spring. “I’m with child. About three months along, if Una’s calculations are correct.”
The silence that followed was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. Finlay stared at her, his expression cycling through surprise, concern, and something that might have been wonder.
“A child,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the words. “A Campbell-MacDonald child.”
“Aye.” She lifted her chin, preparing to defend her happiness if necessary. “The first of what I hope will be many bridges between our clans.”
Please dinnae be angry. Please understand what this means fer all of us.
Then Finlay’s face split into a grin so wide and genuine it transformed his entire appearance. “Och, sister, that’s…” He pulled her into another fierce embrace, laughing with pure delight. “That’s the most wonderful news I could have hoped fer.”
“Ye’re nae angry?”
“Angry?” He pulled back to look at her with amazement. “Why would I be angry? Ye’ve just told me I’m tae be an uncle. That the next generation will grow up kennin’ peace instead of war.” His voice grew serious. “That’s a gift beyond price, Mirren.”
Tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over, born of relief and joy and the overwhelming love she felt for that brother who understood her heart so completely.
“Daes yer husband ken?” Finlay asked gently.
“Nae yet,” she admitted, glancing toward where Niel was engaged in animated conversation with one of Finlay’s lieutenants. “I wanted tae tell ye first. Tae make sure…”
“That I’d welcome the child?” Finlay’s voice was soft with understanding. “Mo piuthar, any child of yers will be cherished by the MacDonalds. Campbell blood or nae.”
Campbell blood or nae.
The casual acceptance in those words made her heart soar. This child would grow up knowing both sides of its heritage, claiming the strength of sea and mountain both.
“Speaking of yer husband,” Finlay continued with a mischievous glint in his eye, “when exactly were ye plannin’ tae tell the faither he’s goin’ tae have an heir?”
“Taenight,” she promised. “After the feast, when we’re alone.”
“Good.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “Because if that man’s expression is any indication, he’s already half-mad with worry about what I might dae tae him. Best tae put him out of his misery with some happy news.”
Mirren glanced over at Niel and had to smother a laugh. Her husband was indeed looking rather like a man walking on unstable ground, his shoulders tense despite the convivial atmosphere around him.
“Well, it turns out this is perfect timing,” he said. He reached into his leather pouch and withdrew something small, wrapped in soft cloth. He pressing the item into her hands. “Faither sent this fer ye, but now I think it serves a better purpose. Yer husband willnae ken what hit him.”
Mirren unwrapped the gift carefully, revealing a tiny silver rattle engraved with both MacDonald and Campbell crests intertwined. Her breath caught.
“He had it made?” she whispered.
“The moment he received the royal decree,” Finlay grinned. “Said he was too old tae wait fer nature tae take its course. Apparently, he was right tae be optimistic.”
“Finlay,” she said suddenly, struck by inspiration, “would ye… would ye be willin’ tae help me tell him? I have an idea.”
Her brother’s eyes lit up with interest. “What did ye have in mind?”
As she explained her plan, Finlay’s eyes lit up with mischief.
The feast that evening was a revelation in the truest sense of the word. Mirren watched in amazement as men who’d spent years trying to kill each other shared bread and salt, swapped stories of battle and glory, and discovered the common ground that lay beneath their clan colors.
This is how it should have been all along, this is what our child will inherit – a world where MacDonald and Campbell means strength, nae division.
When the meal was finished and the whisky was flowing freely, Finlay rose from his seat at the high table. The hall gradually quieted as men sensed the importance of the moment.
“I came here today tae see fer meself how me sister fared,” he began, his voice carrying easily through the vast space. “Tae judge whether the peace between our clans was built on solid ground or shiftin’ sand.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Finlay held up a hand fer silence.
“What I’ve found exceeds me wildest hopes,” he continued, his eyes finding Mirren’s across the room. “I’ve found a sister who’s nae just survived but thrived. I’ve found a braither-by-marriage who treasures what he’s been given. And I’ve found men on both sides willin’ tae choose friendship over ancient feuds.”
He raised his cup high, whisky catching the firelight like liquid gold.
“So I propose a toast,” he declared. “Tae the future – may it be brighter than the past.”
“Slàinte mhath!” the hall erupted as every man raised his cup, MacDonald and Campbell voices joining in harmony that would have been impossible six months ago.
As the celebration continued around them, Mirren caught her brother’s eye and nodded slightly. It was time.
She went over to Niel and told him she was tired and wanted to retire. They made their excuses and slipped away from the festivities, Finlay following at a discreet distance. The corridors were quiet after the chaos of the great hall, filled only with flickering shadows and the distant sound of laughter.
“That went better than I dared hope,” Niel said as they climbed the stairs toward their chamber.
“What did ye expect?” Mirren asked, amused.
“Fer him tae run me through with a dirk at the first opportune moment,” he admitted with a rueful laugh. “Instead, I find meself actually likin’ the man.”
“He likes ye too,” she assured him. “Which is good, because he brought ye a gift. A congratulatory present of sorts.”
Niel raised an eyebrow. “Congratulatin’ me fer what?”
“Well,” Finlay said, appearing from the shadows with that theatrical timing he’d always been fond of, “fer stealin’ away the most precious lass in all the Highlands, of course.”
“Finlay,” Niel said warily, “what are ye up tae?”
“Nothing sinister, braither,” Finlay replied, though his grin suggested otherwise. “Just deliverin’ something Faither insisted ye should have.” He nodded to Mirren. “Go on, sister. Give him his gift.”
Mirren’s heart hammered as she withdrew the small, wrapped item from her sleeve. “Close yer eyes, mo chridhe.”
“Mirren–”
“Trust me. Please.”
With obvious reluctance, Niel closed his eyes and held out his hand. Mirren carefully placed the tiny rattle in his palm, then stepped back beside her brother.
“Open them.”
Niel opened his eyes and stared down at the small silver object, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What is it?”
“Look closer,” Mirren whispered.
As understanding dawned, Niel’s face went through a series of expressions – confusion, shock, wonder, and finally pure joy. His hand trembled as he held up the rattle, seeing the intertwined crests gleaming in the candlelight.
“This is… this means…” He looked up at her with eyes bright with unshed tears. “Mirren, are ye tellin’ me…?”
“Aye,” she said softly. “Come spring, that rattle will have someone tae shake it about, makin’ us all wish we were deaf.”
The silence that followed was broken by the soft thud of Niel sitting down heavily on a nearby bench, still clutching the rattle like it was made of precious gems.
“A child,” he breathed. “Our child.”
“A grandchild fer our faither tae spoil,” Finlay added helpfully. “He’s already plannin’ tae teach the wee one proper seamanship before it can even walk.”
Niel’s laugh was shaky with emotion as he pulled Mirren into his arms, the rattle still clutched in one hand. “When? How long have ye kenned?”
“A few weeks,” she admitted against his chest. “I wanted tae be certain afore I told ye.”
“And she wanted her braither’s blessin’ first,” Finlay said with satisfaction. “Which she has, along with her faither’s. That rattle’s his way of sayin’ welcome tae the family, Campbell.”
As the three of them stood there in the corridor, Finlay cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Well then,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I think I’ll leave ye two tae… discuss the future arrangements. I need tae get back tae the feast afore me men drink all yer whisky, Campbell.”
He clapped Niel on the shoulder with genuine warmth. “Welcome tae the family, braither. Properly this time.”
After Finlay disappeared down the corridor with a satisfied chuckle, Niel pulled Mirren into their chamber, still holding the precious rattle.
“I cannae believe it,” he said wonderingly, sinking into a chair and pulling her onto his lap. “We’re going tae be parents.”
“Aye,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Terrifyin’, isn’t it?”
“Terrifyin’,” he agreed, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “And wonderful.”
“Me faither apparently has already started plannin’ the child’s education,” Mirren said with a laugh.
“Well,” Niel said, holding up the rattle and watching it catch the light, “it’ll certainly nae want fer teachers. Campbell strength and MacDonald cunnin’ – the Highlands willnae ken what tae make of it.”
As they sat there in the candlelit chamber, Mirren felt the last piece of her world click into place. She had her husband, her friend, her brother, and now a child on the way who would grow up in a world where love had conquered ancient hatred.
This is what happiness looks like, this is what it means tae build somethin’ beautiful from the ashes of war.
Those were the thoughts that ran through her mind, one hand resting on her belly where the future was growing, the other clasped tightly in her husband’s strong grip. The child she carried would never ken the fear of clan warfare, would never have tae choose between family loyalties and personal love. They would be raised with MacDonald stories and Campbell strength, with sea songs and mountain ballads, with the knowledge that they were born of a love strong enough tae transform enemies into the deepest kind of kin.
And that, Mirren knew, was the greatest victory of all.
The light in the east chamber was soft and golden, slanting through the high windows to fall across shelves of herbs and rows of eager faces. Fifteen students crowded the benches before her, each with a bundle of parchment, quills, and a scattering of dried plants that perfumed the air with rosemary and thyme. Their chatter quieted when she moved to the front, skirts brushing the flagstone, her satchel slung heavy on her shoulder.
“Right,” Vivienne said, setting the satchel on the table and opening the flap. “Let’s see what ye’ve remembered from last week.”
A ripple of nervous laughter ran through them. They were young, some barely past childhood, but their eyes shone with something she recognized—hunger for knowledge, for the tools that mended instead of broke. She felt it down to her bones every time she stood before them.
She pulled a small jar from the satchel and held it up, amber liquid catching the light. “Tincture o’ willow. What is it fer?”
A boy in the back half-raised his hand, then dropped it again as though afraid of the sound of his own voice. Vivienne caught his hesitation and tilted her chin, encouraging. “Go on, lad. Out wi’ it.”
“Pain, me lady,” he said, cheeks red. “It eases fever too, if ye brew it long enough.”
Vivienne’s mouth curved despite herself. “Aye. Well done. Remember that. It’s the bark, nae the leaf, that holds the salicin. The leaf will sour the stomach. If ye forget that, ye’ll have a patient doubled over wi’ cramps instead o’ sleeping through the ache.”
They laughed, but they were listening. She could feel their focus, their keen minds, and she loved it. She moved along the table, unrolling a strip of linen, setting out herbs and jars one by one as she spoke. “Honey, fer wounds that willnae close. Thyme, boiled intae steam fer the lungs. Yarrow, crushed fer bleeding. And dinnae forget comfrey. It knits bone, but only if ye use it sparingly. Too much, and it can trap rot inside.”
Hands shot up with questions. She answered them all, her voice low but firm, her hands never still as she demonstrated poultices, stitched a scrap of leather to mimic skin, ground dried leaves into fine powder. Time slipped away unnoticed, her body moving with the muscle memory of years, her heart swelling with the pride of it.
She didn’t see him at first.
She was bent over the table, showing one girl how to bind a bandage tight without cutting the blood from a limb, when the air shifted. A weight pressed at the edge of her awareness, steady and unmistakable. She looked up—
And her breath caught.
He stood in the archway, broad shoulders filling the frame, one hand braced against the stone. Sunlight struck across his face, catching silver in his eyes, gleaming on the scar at his temple. His plaid was draped loose, his sword belted at his hip though the hall behind him was quiet of war. Gavin.
Her husband.
Two years, and still he undid her. Two years, and still her stomach flipped like a girl’s at the sight of him. How could she still ache this way, as though every glance were the first? His hair was still short, brushed back neat, but a lock had fallen loose across his brow, and she wanted nothing more than to push it back with her fingers.
Her chest swelled with a fierce, foolish joy. Laird Keith. Her laird. Her storm. Her peace.
He said nothing, only watched her, his silver eyes never wavering. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, though she tried to hide it.
“Enough fer today,” she told the class, her voice steady though her pulse raced. “Ye’ll brew a simple fever draught afore next time. Bring it tae me, and I’ll tell ye if it will heal or kill ye. Dinnae poison me.”
The students laughed, gathering their things with cheerful noise, their chatter spilling bright as birdsong as they filed out. They bowed as they passed Gavin, some casting quick, nervous glances at the laird who filled the archway like a shadow made flesh. He gave them nothing but a curt nod, but Vivienne saw the way their backs straightened under his gaze, the respect he commanded without a word.
The room emptied. Silence pressed in with the scent of herbs and the soft scrape of the last quill packed away. Vivienne’s fingers lingered on the edge of the table, her breath unsteady as the door closed behind the final student.
Then he moved. Slow and measured, his boots whispering against the stone. Her heart thudded harder with every step. When he reached her, he lifted his hand, rough palm cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. The callus caught on her skin, familiar, grounding, and still she trembled like it was the first time.
“Ye’re flushed,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “From teaching—or from me?”
Her lips curved despite herself. “Both, perhaps.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, before his gaze darkened again. He tilted her face up, his eyes devouring hers. The way he looked at her—like he’d never tire of her, like the two years had done nothing to dim the hunger that burned between them.
“Come,” he said simply. “Walk wi’ me.”
Her throat tightened. She could only nod.
He let his hand slide from her face to her fingers, twining them tight with his, and together they stepped out of the chamber.
The corridors were quieter than usual, the hum of the castle softened by distance. Gavin’s hand enclosed hers, rough and certain, the warmth of him steadying her as they walked side by side. She glanced up at him, catching the rigid line of his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed to bow beneath some thought still pressing at him. He had not come to the east chamber for nothing.
When they reached the outer doors, he pushed them open, and a rush of cool air swept in. The gardens spread wide before them, the last of summer’s roses clinging stubbornly to bloom, the trees heavy with green that would soon turn to gold. Sunlight slanted through the branches, dappling the stone path, painting his plaid with shifting shadows.
Vivienne drew in a breath of heather and damp earth, her chest easing. She had spent so much of her life in dark rooms with wounded men and endless fear that the peace of this place sometimes startled her still. But more startling than any garden, any quiet, was him—always him.
He led her down the path, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, silent for longer than she could bear. At last she tilted her head, breaking it. “Ye’ve the face o’ a man carrying news. Out wi’ it, Gavin. I ken that look.”
His mouth twitched, though it was not quite a smile. “I came from the Council.”
She arched a brow, bracing herself. “And?”
“They spoke o’ the stores,” he said, his voice low, measured, the voice of a laird. “The granaries are fuller than they’ve been in a decade. The herds have doubled. Trade wi’ Galbraith grows stronger each season. The men are well-fed, the women are nay longer begging fer bread, bairns are born fat and loud instead o’ starved and silent. Even the smith claims he cannae keep up wi’ orders. Keith has prospered more than I ever thought possible.”
Vivienne’s throat tightened as he spoke, the litany of gains rolling out in that unflinching way of his, as though he were reciting battle statistics instead of hope itself. She remembered the Keith she had first seen, with thin-faced children, walls that seemed to sag under the weight of despair, a laird who lived more in shadow than in light. And now, this. Life where there had been only survival.
Pride swelled in her chest, so fierce it nearly stung. But instead of tears, laughter bubbled up, soft at first, then spilling free before she could stop it.
He stopped walking, his head turning sharply toward her. His brows pulled low, puzzled in that blunt, boyish way of his that always made her want to kiss him until the furrow smoothed. “What in God’s name is funny about that?”
She pressed her lips together, trying to stifle it, but the joy was too much. Her shoulders shook, her eyes bright. “Naething, me laird. Naething at all.”
His grip on her hand tightened. “Vivienne.” His voice carried warning now, stern, as though she were one of his men refusing to answer direct. “Tell me.”
She looked up at him, still smiling, her heart hammering wild. She had held the secret for days, waiting, wondering when it would be right. And here, in the garden where he had once told her she was his peace, it seemed the only place.
“It will grow more,” she said softly.
His frown deepened, confusion darkening his eyes. “More?”
“Aye.” She stopped walking, turned to face him fully, her free hand sliding to rest against her belly. Her pulse roared, her knees weak, but her smile widened. “Because I’m carrying yer child.”
The silence that followed was complete. Not even the birds dared break it. Gavin stood utterly still, his breath halted, his eyes fixed on her hand where it pressed to the flat of her gown.
Then his chest rose sharp, his breath tearing back into him as if he had been drowning. “Vivienne,” he rasped, her name raw on his tongue.
She laughed again, tears stinging her eyes now. “Aye, Gavin. It’s true. I’m wi’ child.”
His hand shot out, covering hers where it lay against her belly, the sheer force of his grip trembling. His eyes lifted to hers, silver burning bright, wider and softer than she had ever seen them. For the first time since she had known him, the laird, the beast, the storm, was struck speechless.
Her throat closed. “Are ye pleased?” she whispered, though she could see the answer plain on his face.
“Pleased?” His voice broke, rough and shaking, the word torn from him. He caught her face between his scarred hands, his mouth claiming hers before she could say more. The kiss was fierce, desperate, his lips trembling against hers. When he broke away, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged. “Vivienne, ye’ve given me more than I ever thought I could hold. A wife, a clan whole again… and now this.” His thumb brushed her cheek, his voice dropping to a hoarse vow. “Our child.”
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now, but her smile trembled bright through them. “Our child,” she echoed, her hand clutching his where it still pressed against her stomach.
He groaned low in his chest, dragging her against him, his arms crushing her close as though he could shield both her and the tiny life inside from the whole world. She melted into him, her face buried in his shoulder, breathing the scent of leather and steel and Gavin until she thought she might drown in it.
When he eased back, it was only far enough to look at her again, his eyes devouring her face as though he could not believe she was real. “How long?”
“Two months, perhaps three,” she admitted, her lips curving. “The signs were faint, but I ken me own body. And I ken the way me heart beats differently now.”
His laugh was rough, almost disbelieving, his thumb brushing her lip as if to steady himself. “Saints preserve me, Vivienne. I thought battle near broke me, but this—ye’ve undone me more than any blade could.”
She caught his hand, kissed his palm, her voice soft. “Good. Then we’re even.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, lingering, reverent. His mouth moved over hers as though each brush of lips was a prayer. When he pulled back, his gaze swept over her, fierce and tender both. “Ye’ll rest more. Ye’ll eat better. I’ll nae have ye exhausting yerself in the healer’s chambers all day.”
Her laugh broke wet and fond. “Already commanding me, me laird? Ye’ll smother me before I even swell.”
His jaw flexed, stubborn as stone. “I’ll smother ye wi’ protection, aye. I’ll nae risk ye.”
Her heart swelled so full it hurt. She tipped her head, her smile soft but steady. “Then we’ll make a pact. I’ll mind me health if ye mind that stubborn pride o’ yers. I’ll nae raise this bairn alone because ye bled yerself tae death playing the beast on some border skirmish.”
His eyes darkened, but not with anger. With love. With the weight of everything they had survived, everything still ahead. “A pact, then,” he said hoarsely. “Though ken this, Vivienne—there’s naething in this world, nay clan, nay war, nay ghost o’ the past, that could take me from ye now.”
She kissed him for that, slow and sure, her hand pressed between them where their child would grow.
The garden swayed gently in the breeze, blossoms nodding, banners snapping faintly from the walls beyond. Somewhere, laughter rose from the training yard, the sound of men drilling, life continuing. But here, in the circle of his arms, Vivienne felt only the future. A future born not of war, not of ruin, but of love fierce enough to break curses and heal scars.
She drew back just enough to whisper against his lips, her voice trembling with joy. “We’ll have a family, Gavin. Our own. And they’ll never ken hunger, nor fear, nor shame. Only love.”
His answer was another kiss, deep and claiming, sealing the vow.
For the first time since she had stepped onto Keith land, she felt not only peace but the promise of joy that would last beyond them both.
And as Gavin Keith lifted her into his arms, carrying her back toward the castle with a smile breaking through the storm of his face, Vivienne Keith knew she had found her forever.
A low, quiet heat that curled between her ribs before she had even opened her eyes. It wasn’t sunlight—though that too had begun to bleed faintly through the shutters—but something deeper. A weight pressed against her spine, a slow, steady breath behind her ear. And arms. One banded beneath her ribs, the other curled loosely around her waist, fingers resting just at the edge of her hip. She could feel his calluses. His heartbeat.
Mairead kept still for a moment, just breathing it in. The smell of ash and wool. The faint scent of pine oil in his hair. The way his chest rose and fell behind her like a rhythm older than speech.
A shift behind her, and then a murmur—low, half-slurred by sleep. “Ye’re awake.”
She tilted her head back slightly. “So are ye.”
Raghnall’s face was hidden against her shoulder, but she felt his smile. “Ye were breathin’ too fast. Gave yerself away.”
“I was thinkin’.”
“Dangerous, that.” He nudged her gently with his nose, then pressed a kiss just behind her ear. “What were ye thinkin’ about, wife?”
That word still made her chest ache. In the best way.
She turned toward him, shifting so that their legs tangled again beneath the blanket. Her hand found his chest, fingers curling lightly in the dark hair there. “I was thinkin’ I dinnae want tae move.”
His eyes were barely open, blue-gray and soft with morning light. “Aye. Let’s nae.”
A long pause passed between them. The kind where nothing needed to be said, but everything could be. She could feel the sun rising behind her. The fire had gone out hours ago, but his warmth wrapped around her like a second skin. They had somewhere to be.
“Raghnall,” she said quietly. “We’re goin’ tae be late.”
He groaned into her neck. “Let’s let the priest start without us.”
“It’s a celebration,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “They rebuilt the whole thing. Fer all o’ Glen Lyon. Ye’re the laird.”
He lifted his head finally, blinking at her. “Nay. I’m yer husband.”
Her cheeks flushed. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her brow.
“Want tae stay a little longer?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Just kissed her again, slower this time, with the kind of patience that came from knowing they had the rest of their lives. His hand ran down her side, a slow arc of heat, and she shivered despite herself.
They stayed that way for a few more minutes, just breath and skin and silence.
Eventually, Mairead pulled away, groaning as she sat up. “If anyone dares make me speak today, I’m blamin’ ye.”
“Fair,” he muttered, already stretching out in the space she’d left behind, the covers slipping low on his hips.
She tried not to look but failed.
“I’ll go first,” she said, voice a little higher than she meant. “Or we’ll never leave this room.”
She dressed quickly, cheeks still warm, hair half-pinned and slightly tousled from his hands, but he didn’t comment—just watched her with that quiet, amused reverence that made her hands shake for no good reason. When she was done, she helped him with his belt, swatted his hand away when he tried to lace his boots wrong, and laughed when he kissed her just beneath the jaw and said she looked like a queen. And then, with fingers linked and hearts steadier than either expected, they stepped out of the keep and into the morning.
The courtyard was already full when they arrived.
Sunlight slanted down in rich gold over the newly swept stones, catching in the threads of banners strung from the battlements. Mairead paused at the top of the steps, fingers tangled lightly in Raghnall’s as her eyes swept across the gathered crowd.
Everyone was there.
Children wove between the legs of their parents, chasing each other with wild laughter. Donnan stood near the steps, balancing a tray of what looked like oatcakes and calling out instructions to a cluster of younger lads carrying benches. Cairbre had a mug in each hand and was already deep in what appeared to be a very animated discussion with Ruaidhri. And near the eastern wall, just beneath the shadow of the chapel, Father Peter stood quietly, his hands folded, his face calm.
Mairead’s gaze lifted to the building behind him.
It was smaller than the one they’d lost. Just a single nave, one narrow spire, a cross carved from Glen Lyon stone mounted in its place of honor. But it was beautiful. The stones had been washed clean. The wood beams were fresh-hewn and polished. A pale blue cloth had been strung across the door, a sign of peace and new beginnings.
And it was finished.
She swallowed thickly.
“Ye built a church,” Raghnall said behind her, his voice low.
“Nae alone,” she said. “But… aye. I did.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, soft as breath.
They descended the steps together, greeted with a round of nods and cheers. Someone clapped Raghnall on the back. Someone else handed Mairead a ribboned garland, which she accepted with flushed cheeks.
It was strange, in a way, being seen. Not as a prisoner. Not as a missionary. But as someone who belonged. Someone who had stayed.
Kirsteen found her a moment later, arms full of sweet bread and an expression of mock indignation. “Ye’re late.”
“Speak tae yer laird,” Mairead teased, ducking the bread she nearly got swatted with.
They laughed together, and for a moment, it felt like everything had always been this way. As if the pain and fire had only been a prelude to the joy that now wrapped itself around the village like spring mist.
Father Peter stepped forward.
“Lady mac Anndra,” he said, with a small bow.
“Faither,” she answered, dipping her head in return.
“We were just about tae begin the blessing.”
“Lead on,” she said softly.
As the crowd shifted, forming a gentle arc around the chapel doors, Mairead felt Raghnall’s hand press lightly to the small of her back. She turned and looked at him. He didn’t smile, not quite. But his eyes were warm, his gaze steady.
And in that moment, she felt it again. The same thing she’d felt in the ruins, when he’d touched her cheek through the veil of smoke. The same thing she’d felt on their wedding night, when he had kissed her with every scar laid bare.
That she had not just been saved. She had been chosen.
She turned to him.
Raghnall was still watching the children, a faint smile caught at the corner of his mouth. She watched him for a moment, watched the line of his jaw, the soft ripple of sunlight across his brow, the ease that had crept into his shoulders when he wasn’t looking. And she thought of all the versions of him she had known—the storm, the silence, the shield. The man who once could not bear the thought of faith and now stood before the church he’d helped raise from the bones of the old.
“Raghnall.”
He turned to her.
Her fingers grasped his. “Thank ye.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Fer what?”
“Fer all o’ this,” she said. “Fer fightin’ tae keep me. Fer buildin’ this place, even when it went against everythin’ ye once believed. Fer stayin. Fer choosin’ us.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her, as if memorizing her face again. Then he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Come,” he said. “Ye should see it from the inside.”
She followed him across the green. The crowd was still gathered, laughter ringing through the courtyard, but they slipped away through a smaller side door, unnoticed, or perhaps simply left alone. The hallway was cool, the stone still fresh with the scent of mortar and lime, but there was something warm beneath it. Something living.
And when they stepped through the final arch, into the new nave of the church, Mairead’s breath caught.
It was beautiful.
Not grand, not gilded, but holy in its own way. The floors had been swept clean, the benches carved by hand. Ivy wrapped gently around the wooden beams overhead, and between them, colored glass caught the light in quiet ribbons of blue and red and gold. The altar was simple, a polished stone slab beneath a carved cross, and behind it, the arch of the window framed the glen like a painting.
She stepped forward slowly, her footsteps soft against the flagstones. Her eyes flicked over every detail—the woven hangings at the side, the braided candles, the small vase of wildflowers someone had placed at the foot of the pulpit.
“I ken it’s nae what ye’re used tae,” Raghnall said, almost hesitantly.
She turned. “It’s more than I ever dreamed.”
He watched her cross to the center of the room. Watched her stand there in the soft light like something consecrated. And then he moved to her side, wrapping his arm gently around her back.
She let her head rest against his shoulder.
“I used tae wonder if I’d ever find a place that felt like mine,” she whispered. “Fer a while I thought it would be the convent. Then the mission. Then… it was just the want o’ bein’ good. O’ belongin’ somewhere.”
She looked up at him.
“But now I ken. This is it. Ye are it.”
Something shifted in his eyes. A kind of awe, as if her love still startled him.
She turned into his arms then, both hands settling on his chest. And when she lifted her gaze again, it wasn’t with fear, or hesitation, or doubt. It was with the quiet certainty of a woman who had walked through fire and come out with something worth burning for.
“There’s somethin’ I have tae tell ye,” she said.
He stilled, brows dipping just slightly. “What is it?”
She reached for his hand, then guided it gently to her stomach.
It took a moment.
Then his eyes widened.
“Mairead—”
She nodded, tears rising unbidden. “Aye.”
He didn’t speak. Just dropped to his knees before her, one hand still on her belly, the other catching at her waist like he needed to hold on to her or he might fall through the floor. His forehead pressed to her stomach, and when he finally lifted his face again, his eyes were glassy.
“A bairn.”
“Aye,” she said again, laughter breaking through her tears. “A bairn.”
His hands moved, slowly, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly. He kissed her just above the fabric of her gown, then looked up at her like she had become the answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.
“I dinnae have words,” he said.
“Then dinnae speak,” she whispered, cupping his face. “Just hold me.”
He rose, gathering her into his arms like something precious, and she let herself be wrapped in it—in him. In everything they had survived, everything they had fought for. And when he kissed her, it was different again. No longer fierce with longing, or tender with thanks. But full of promise.
For the child who would come into the world with a legacy forged in fire and rebuilt in peace. For the woman who had chosen faith, and then chosen love, and found that both could live in her at once. And for the man who had once stood in ruin, and now stood there, whole.
They stood in the center of the church long after the bells had stopped ringing. Long after the laughter outside had faded into music. Long after the sun dipped past the high windows and lit the altar in gold.
The hills of Normandy unfurled like velvet beneath a sky the color of old parchment, the kind of gold-streaked hue that made memory feel tangible.
It had taken them a day to cross the Channel, in a blend of sea salt and sun-warmed air, and then it had taken a week of winding carriage rides and careful directions through the French countryside. But now, standing at the gates of the old Beaumont estate, Odette felt something ancient stir within her. Time folded inward like parchment being creased, layers of her childhood pressing into the present.
The air smelled of loam and lavender, a heady perfume that nestled in the bones and coaxed breath into something slower, reverent. The wind danced gently through the tall grass, brushing the hem of her travel gown, tugging playfully at her veil. She stood still, holding Gregory’s hand tightly, as though grounding herself in his warmth might steady her through what was to come.
The wrought iron archway loomed before them, still shaped like climbing vines. A faded ‘B’ crowned the gate, tarnished now, but familiar. Achingly familiar.
The caretaker had given her a key when they had passed by his cottage. The house had been maintained at a bare minimum, for Sheona had withheld most of the money her father had allotted for it for upkeep after his death. But it had never been fully abandoned and still stood proud, if tired.
The garden was overgrown, tangled in silence.
Wild roses had claimed the walkways like conquerors. Ivy strangled the old arbor where she used to sit with her governess on warm afternoons. Stone benches were hidden beneath thick blankets of moss, and the central fountain—a swan with wings curved in marble grace—was cracked and dry, its basin filled with leaves and forgotten petals.
Odette exhaled slowly. Her voice came out hushed. “This used to be beautiful.”
Gregory squeezed her hand and looked around. “It still is. It just needs coaxing. I could hire someone today, if ye’d like. A whole crew. It’ll be humming wi’ life by week’s end.”
She turned to him, heart swelling with affection. “You would do that?”
“Fer ye,” he said, “I’d restore the entire world.”
She leaned against him, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. The ache inside her, the one she had feared would return when she stepped back into France, was gentled by the steady rhythm of his presence. Her fingers curled more tightly into his.
“I want to see the house,” she said.
They climbed the wide steps together. The marble was stained by decades of rain and sun, and the once-white columns were streaked with gray. She paused at the grand doors, white with bronzed filigree handles shaped like lilies. Her hand hovered at the knob, fingers brushing its cool metal.
Her heart pounded. Her mother had once passed through these doors every morning, dressed in silk. She had watched from the window when Odette danced on the terrace. Her father’s voice had thundered in the halls just beyond.
She closed her eyes, then turned the knob.
The door creaked open slowly, the sound reverberating through the hollow stillness. Dust lifted like ghosts from the air, shimmering in the sunlight as they drifted past the chandelier above.
The entry hall greeted her like a breath she hadn’t taken in years. The checkered marble floor bore faint outlines where rugs had once lain. The chandelier, once a crystal bloom, was dulled by cobwebs. Her mother’s mirror still hung above the console table, catching light just enough to reflect Odette’s silhouette back to her.
She stepped inside.
“It’s exactly as I left it,” she whispered, each word trembling.
Gregory didn’t speak. He followed her, quiet, reverent.
They wandered slowly through the estate, her memories guiding each turn. In the drawing room, faded curtains billowed slightly in the breeze. The scent of dried roses lingered beneath the dust. Her mother’s harp stood in the corner, its strings loose but unbroken. Odette reached out, her fingers brushing one softly. A faint note sounded—fragile, but still there.
Her throat closed.
In the dining room, the long table still stood proud, flanked by velvet chairs. She ran her hand along its surface, remembering the echo of porcelain teacups and the soft clicking of her mother’s ring against the rim. The candlesticks were tarnished but upright.
They ascended the grand staircase, her hand sliding along the worn banister. In the hallway above, shadows moved with them like memories come to watch.
Her father’s study was unchanged. The curtains were drawn, but she opened them slowly. Light poured in, revealing shelves of ledgers, a leather-bound chair by the hearth, and a coat—his coat—still hanging near the door. The globe stood mid-spin, caught in stasis from a moment long ago.
“I never liked this room,” she murmured.
Gregory took her hand, didn’t ask why.
She guided him onward, and they stepped into the hallway,
The library door creaked open.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, bathing the room in gold. The shelves towered to the ceiling, their spines faded but present. Dust coated everything, but her fingers found their way without hesitation. She crossed to the back wall, knelt slightly, and pulled a slender book from the lowest shelf.
It was pale green, the leather worn.
“These,” she said, holding it close. “These were mine. The poetry books.”
Gregory knelt beside her. “The poetry ye read in secret?”
“You remembered,” She smiled faintly. “I would sneak down here after everyone had gone to bed and read by candlelight. I memorized whole passages.”
Gregory reached for a volume beside hers and opened it at random. “Ye wanted tae be a poet?”
“Sometimes. Other times I wanted to be a teacher. Or a painter.”
He grinned. “And instead ye ended up married tae a Highland laird.”
She laughed. “Yes. A fate I never would’ve guessed.”
Gregory traced a finger along the edge of the page. “But it suits ye. Because ye never stopped dreamin’. Nae even when the world tried tae silence ye.”
She looked at him, eyes shimmering. “You see all of me, don’t you?”
“Aye,” he said. “Every inch. And I love every version o’ ye. Past, present, and the ones still tae come.”
She closed the book and held it to her chest. “I feel like a ghost, being here.”
Gregory moved behind her, arms wrapping gently around her waist. He rested his chin against her shoulder.
“We get tae decide what lives again,” he whispered.
They stood there in silence, surrounded by pages and breath, in the house that had shaped her and the man who would help her shape what came next.
After a long pause, she exhaled.
“There’s one more room,” she said. “I saved it for last.”
Gregory kissed her temple. “Then take me there, mo chridhe.”
She rose, fingers curled around the green book and turned toward the corridor.
At the end of the hall, the door waited—small, painted in faded lavender, the way it had always been.
Her childhood room.
The lavender door yielded softly under her hand.
Odette crossed the threshold slowly, the familiar scent of lilac and dust wrapping around her like a forgotten lullaby. Golden shafts of late afternoon light filtered through the sheer lace curtains, painting delicate shadows across the floorboards. For a long moment, she stood still, her fingers still on the knob, overwhelmed by a rush of memories too immense to voice.
The room had remained untouched by time.
Pale blue walls, bordered with ivory trim, retained the softness of her girlhood. The carved vanity by the window was scattered with combs and a small porcelain tray, edges chipped but still lovely. Dolls lined the mantle—faded, but their button eyes gleamed with silent witness. On the far wall, her earliest watercolors still hung slightly askew, curling at the edges, the paper warped with age. The past had waited patiently for her return.
“This is where I imagined I ruled the world,” she murmured, stepping deeper inside.
Gregory stood at the doorway, quietly observing her with a reverence that made her throat tighten. As he crossed the threshold, each of his movements seemed imbued with care, as if afraid to disturb the sacred quiet.
She turned toward him with a small smile. “If I wore my mother’s gloves and my favorite tulle skirt, I truly believed I was a queen.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Ye always had that look about ye. Still dae.”
Odette let the sound of her laughter warm the space before drifting to the wardrobe. The hinges groaned in protest as she pulled it open. Inside, small dresses hung in neat rows, adorned with satin ribbons and lace overlays. She reached out to grab them, her fingers trembling.
“My mother made many of these,” she said quietly. “Each one for a different occasion. She used to say that beauty mattered, even if no one saw it.”
Gregory ran a thumb along one sleeve, marveling at the craftsmanship. “They’re beautiful. But they’re… a wee bit small fer ye now, I think.”
Her lips curved, a blush coloring her cheeks.
She turned, hesitating for a breath. “Oh. No. They’re not for me.”
Gregory tilted his head. “Nay? Then who are they fer?”
Odette’s hands curled around the edge of a dress as she looked at him, eyes glimmering.
“Our child,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
The words fell into the stillness like a blessing. Gregory stood frozen, eyes fixed on hers. Then his lips parted, and his breath caught.
“Ye’re…”
She nodded, her eyes brimming. “I wanted to tell you when the moment was right. I wanted us to be here. Where it all began.”
He crossed to her in two steps, gathering her into his arms. She laughed, tears mingling with joy, as he lifted her and spun her lightly. When he set her down, he held her as if anchoring himself in something holy.
“Are ye certain? Truly?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
He dropped to his knees before her, his hands sliding gently to her waist, his cheek pressing against her abdomen.
“Hello, little one,” he whispered, eyes closed. “It’s Da. Ye’ve already changed everything.”
Odette tangled her fingers in his hair, tears trailing down her cheeks.
They settled on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked beneath them, same as it always had. Her hand guided his to her stomach, pressing it there with quiet reverence.
“It’s early,” she said, “but I feel it. I already know.”
Gregory’s thumb stroked the soft fabric. “Will it have yer eyes?”
“And your impossibly stubborn jaw,” she replied with a smile.
He groaned playfully. “A Highland-French whirlwind. We’re in trouble.”
They both laughed.
Then he sobered, his gaze steady. “Odette, I swear tae ye, I will be the faither this child deserves. I’ll teach our bairns tae be brave and kind, tae fight when they must and love without fear. Just as I learned from ye.”
She pressed her forehead to his.
“And I’ll teach them to dream,” she said. “To love stories, to cherish silence, to find beauty in small things. I’ll show them this place and tell them who their mother was before she became their mother.”
He nodded, eyes gleaming. “We’ll raise them between two countries. Let them walk the green hills and speak with fire in their voice. Let them belong tae both lands.”
“We’ll give them names that mean strength. That carry memory.”
“Aye,” he whispered. “And hope.”
She kissed him then, full of light and longing and quiet joy. Her hands framed his face, and his arms circled her waist, grounding her. They stayed like that, suspended in the moment, in a room where every ghost had been turned into something soft.
When they parted, golden light filtered in long beams across the floor. Dust motes swirled like confetti in celebration.
Odette looked around the room. The toys, the books, the colors of her past all whispered promises.
“I want to restore it all,” she said. “The house, the garden. I want our children to visit here, as often as they’d want.”
Gregory squeezed her hand. “Then that’s what we’ll dae. Every wall, every window. Whatever it takes.”
