One year later
The warmth came first, as always.
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.
And for once, she wasn’t afraid.
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