Extended Epilogues

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Six years later

The great hall of Mackintosh Castle had been transformed into a living tapestry of tartans, laughter, music, and heat. Lanterns flickered along the stone walls, casting golden halos on faces flushed from wine and dancing. The scent of roasted venison, buttery bannocks, herb-stewed hare, and honeyed apples drifted like a warm embrace through the air.

Sofia paused at the entrance, taking it all in—not just the feast, but her family.

All of them. A sight she had never imagined she would see within these walls.

“Will ye stand there glimmerin’ in the doorway like a lost star,” Tòrr called across the room, “or will ye join the rest o’ us mortals?”

Sofia laughed, her heart swelling. Tòrr pushed through the crowd with the unstoppable force of a man who had never been small a day in his life. His wife Liliane followed, elegant even as she tried to catch their son’s sleeve to keep him from diving under a table.

Tòrr wrapped Sofia in a bear hug that lifted her clear off the ground.

“Braither…” she wheezed, patting his shoulder. “I dae need tae breathe.”

He set her down, unrepentant. “Well, ye’re married tae a Mackintosh now. Ye’ll need lungs strong enough fer shoutin’ and bairn-raisin’.”

“Or running from yer jokes,” Sofia teased.

Liliane hugged her next, soft and warm. “Ignore him. He’s been impossible all day. He cried when he saw everyone.”

“I didnae cry,” Tòrr objected. “It was just the smoke.”

Liliane rolled her eyes affectionately. “Mmh. Very thick, emotional smoke.”

Before Sofia could reply, two small bodies collided with her legs, each trying to outdo the other in volume.

“Auntie Sofia!”

“Ye look like a princess!”

“Uncle Logan says papa cried today!”

“Nay, I didnae cry!” Tòrr sputtered.

Sofia laughed so hard she had to grip Liliane’s arm for balance.

Michael arrived next, a child swinging from each arm. He put them both down as he approached, and they rushed off, chasing each other around the great hall, instantly followed by their cousins.

“Michael.” She reached to kiss his cheek. “How are the bairns?”

A loud crash rang out behind him. Isabeau—Michael’s graceful, composed wife—whipped around just in time to catch a serving tray before it toppled completely. Behind her, the children scattered like startled quail, fleeing in opposite directions.

“Better than usual,” Michael said dryly. “Nay fires yet.”

Isabeau approached breathlessly, her dark curls askew. “I swear they were angels this morn.”

“An’ demons by noon,” Michael finished.

“They get it from ye,” Sofia teased.

Michael placed a hand over his heart. “I am wounded.”

Before Sofia could respond, Alyson rushed in with Keane, her hand closing over her mouth when she saw her. “Dare I say it, Sofia, ye look positively… radiant.”

Sofia flushed. “It’s the lanterns.”

“It’s the pregnancy,” Alyson said, raising a pointed eyebrow. “It suits ye.”

Smiling to herself, Sofia placed a hand over her growing belly. She could not wait for another addition to her own little family and the extended family, another cousin for the children to get to know.

And if there was one thing she knew about her baby, it was that it would be loved.

Catherine and her husband Aidan joined them next. Catherine’s eldest son barreled toward them with a handful of pebbles.

“Mama! Watch how far I can—”

“Dinnae throw those indoors,” Catherine ordered sharply. “What did I say?”

The boy looked crestfallen. “That I should only throw things when ye’re nae lookin’.”

Aidan groaned, a hand brushing through his hair. “I’m pretty sure that’s nae it, lad.”

Catherine rubbed her forehead. “We are daein’ wonderfully as parents,” she muttered.

By the large table in the middle of the great hall, Daemon’s children were tugging on his trews as Raven, his wife, tried to get their attention. The children all circled one another like puppies meeting for the first time—curious, nudging, then immediately forming alliances for mischief.

But it wasn’t until Logan ran into the hall that all the children rushed to greet him, united in their purpose. Logan crouched low and looked at them with wonder as they all shouted together, all of them trying to tell him something. His own two children threw themselves into his arms, while the others fought for a place on his lap.

“Alright,” Sofia said with a sigh. “I’d better save the poor man.”

She crossed the hall toward him, laughing as the children gathered around her legs.

“Mo ghraidh,” he said softly when she reached him, taking her hand.

The sound melted her. “Logan.”

Daemon cleared his throat loudly. “Remember she’s our sister in public, Mackintosh.”

Logan raised a brow. “I’ve nay intention o’ kissin’ her in front o’ ye, MacDonald.”

“Ye’d better nae,” Michael muttered.

Tòrr added, “If ye dae, at least have the decency tae warn us so we can look away.”

Sofia groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Please stop talkin’.”

Logan smirked and kissed her hand deliberately, staring right at her brothers.

“I said warn us!” said Tòrr.

“I’m goin tae start sharpenin’ somethin’,” Daemon.

“Make it dull. It’ll hurt more,” suggested Michael.

And Sofia whacked all three of them lightly. “Enough!”

As they all settled around the able, children ran between their legs, chasing each other. Aidan scrambled to prevent one from climbing a tapestry. Isabeau yelped as two attempted to swing from a chandelier. Meanwhile, Raven tried her best to feed them all, passing bannocks around for them.

“Why are all MacDonald bairns feral?” Malcolm questioned, dodging one of the boys as he barreled past.

***

Later, when the hall had grown thick with heat and laughter, Sofia slipped outside to the balcony overlooking the moonlit loch. The night air cooled her flushed cheeks, and she inhaled deeply—the scent of heather and pine so familiar now.

Soon, footsteps approached softly. Logan draped his plaid around her shoulders, wrapping her in his warmth.

“Are they too much?”

“Nay. They’re perfect,” she said truthfully. “They make this castle feel like home.”

He pulled her against him, arms cinching around her waist. “An’ dae I make it feel like home?”

Sofia turned within his embrace, her hands resting over his heart. “Ye and the our bairns are me home.”

Logan’s breath caught and he cupped her cheek gently. “Sofia… I never imagined me life would become what it is now. Ye an’ our bairns an’… an’ even yer fools o’ braithers, ye all make me feel like—”

Logan didn’t finish his sentence, but Sofia knew what he meant to say. All his life, he had feared being abandoned. All his life, he had thought himself unlovable, but now here he was, surrounded by love and family.

“I ken, Logan,” she assured him. “I ken. Ye dinnae have tae say anythin’.”

The kiss Logan gave her was slow, deep, and full of promise. His hands slid into her hair; hers gripped the back of his tunic, and Sofia never wanted it to end.

When they finally parted, he asked, “Ready tae return?”

“Only if ye promise I get the next dance.”

He smiled softly. “I promise ye every dance, fer the rest o’ our lives.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the warmth, the music, and the beautiful, chaotic tangle of two clans becoming one.

The End.

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One year later

The scream that tore through Dunvegan Castle made every warrior within hearing distance freeze mid-stride.

Euan took the stairs four at a time despite the lingering stiffness in his shoulder, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d been in the council chamber discussing grain shipments when the sound reached him—Moyra’s voice, raw with pain and effort, coming from their chambers above.

The birth. Saints, the birth was happening now.

“Me laird!” Niall caught his arm at the top of the stairs. “Brighde said ye’re nae allowed in there until—”

“Like hell.” Euan shook him off, reaching for the door.

It opened before his hand touched the latch. Brighde stood there, her sleeves rolled up, hair escaping from beneath her cap. Behind her, he could hear Moyra’s labored breathing, could see Catriona moving around the bed with clean linens.

“Absolutely not.” The healer blocked his path with surprising strength for someone half his size. “Ye’ll only distract her, and she needs tae focus. The bairn’s coming fast, and I’ll nae have ye making things harder by hovering.”

Another scream cut off his protest.

“She’s strong,” Brighde said more gently. “Stronger than ye give her credit fer. Now get out of me way and let me dae me job. I’ll call ye the moment it’s safe.”

The door closed in his face with decisive finality.

He turned to find half his household crowded in the corridor—servants trying to look busy, guards pretending to patrol, Niall hovering with poorly disguised concern.

“Well?” Niall asked. “Any news?”

“She’s nae letting me in.” Euan dragged a hand through his hair. “Says I’ll distract Moyra.”

Niall’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get ye a drink afore ye wear a hole in the floor with yer pacing.”

He dragged Euan to the great hall despite his protests, pressing whisky into his hands while servants bustled around preparing what looked like a feast. Word had spread quickly—the Lady MacLeod was delivering the heir, and the entire castle hummed with anticipation.

The hours crawled past with agonizing slowness.

“I should be up there,” he said for the hundredth time. “What if something goes wrong? What if she needs me?”

“Then Brighde will come get ye.” Niall refilled his cup. “Until then, ye’re staying here where ye cannae accidentally cause problems by being an overprotective husband.”

Another hour passed. Then another. The sun set, and servants lit torches throughout the hall. The crowd of well-wishers grew larger—villagers who’d come to celebrate, refugees who’d settled permanently at Dunvegan, even a few former MacKenzie warriors who’d sworn fealty to Moyra personally.

Then Catriona appeared at the top of the stairs, her face flushed and her smile bright enough to light the castle.

“Me laird!” Her voice carried across the hall. “Ye have a son!”

The room erupted in cheers.

Euan was moving before conscious thought caught up, taking the stairs three at a time despite Niall’s shouted warning about his shoulder. He burst through the chamber door to find Moyra propped up in bed, exhausted and radiant, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in MacLeod plaid.

“Euan.” Her voice came hoarse but joyful. “Come meet yer son.”

He crossed to her on trembling legs, hardly daring to breathe as she carefully transferred the bundle into his arms. The baby was impossibly small—barely the length of his forearm, with a cap of dark hair and a scrunched face that looked vaguely offended by his sudden existence outside the womb.

“He’s perfect,” Euan managed, his throat tight. “Ye’re both perfect.”

“He has yer stubborn chin.” Moyra’s hand found his, squeezing gently. “And he screamed loud enough tae wake the dead when he arrived. I think he’s going tae be trouble.”

“He’s a MacLeod. Of course he’s going tae be trouble.” Euan couldn’t tear his eyes away from his son—from the tiny fingers that wrapped around his thumb with surprising strength, from the way the baby’s face relaxed from offended to peaceful as he settled against his father’s chest.

“What will ye name him?” Brighde asked from where she was tidying away supplies. “The clan will want tae ken.”

Euan looked at Moyra, seeing his own emotions reflected in her green eyes—wonder and joy and fierce protective love for that tiny person they’d created together.

“Tavish,” he said quietly. “After the guard who died defending her when she was taken. And Murtagh, after me faither who died so I could live.” He touched the baby’s downy hair. “Tavish Murtagh MacLeod. Our son.”

“Perfect.” Moyra’s smile made his chest ache. “Now give him back before ye drop him from exhaustion. Ye look ready tae collapse.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ye’re dead on yer feet.” She took the baby carefully, cradling him against her chest with the natural ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “Go tell everyone the good news. Let them celebrate. We’ll still be here when ye’re done being laird fer a few minutes.”

He kissed her forehead, then the baby’s, before forcing himself to leave. Downstairs, the great hall had filled to capacity—warriors and servants and villagers all waiting with barely contained excitement.

“Tavish Murtagh MacLeod!” Euan’s voice carried across the crowd. “Me son. The heir tae Clan MacLeod.”

The roar of approval shook the rafters.

Someone thrust a cup into his hands. Someone else started a song—one of the old Highland ballads about heroes and homecomings. The feast Euan had noticed earlier was brought out in full force, tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats and fresh bread and honeyed cakes.

Niall found him in the chaos, grinning like a fool.

“A son!” Niall clapped his shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Saints, but ye work fast. Married barely a year and already producing heirs.”

“Shut up.” But Euan was grinning too, unable to contain the joy bubbling through his chest.

“What’s he look like?” Niall asked. “Daes he favor ye or Moyra?”

“Both. Neither. I dinnae ken.” Euan shook his head. “He’s tiny and perfect and I’m terrified I’m going tae break him somehow.”

“Ye’ll be fine.” Niall’s face had gone soft. “Ye’ve got good instincts. And Moyra’s the cleverest woman in the Highlands—between the two of ye, that bairn will be fine.”

The celebration continued long into the night. Songs were sung, toasts were made, warriors competed to tell the most outrageous stories about Euan’s exploits. Someone started a betting pool on when the next child would arrive. The whisky flowed freely, and laughter echoed off stone walls that had seen too much war over the past year.

But eventually, Euan extracted himself from the chaos and climbed the stairs back to their chambers. He found Moyra awake despite the late hour, the baby nursing contentedly while she hummed one of the old lullabies her mother had taught her.

“Ye should be resting,” he said quietly, settling beside her.

“I am resting.” She leaned against him, careful not to disturb their son. “Just… looking at him. Making sure he’s real.”

“He’s real.” Euan’s arm came around her shoulders. “We made him. Taegether. Despite everything trying tae tear us apart, we built this.”

“Aye.” Her voice went soft. “A year ago I was a prisoner in an English dungeon. Now I’m sitting here with me husband and our son, listening tae our clan celebrate below. Sometimes I still cannae believe it’s real.”

“Believe it.” He kissed her temple. “This is yer life now. Our life. And it’s only going tae get better.”

After the baby finished nursing his eyes drifted closed. Moyra shifted him carefully, settling him in the cradle Euan had spent weeks carving—Highland stags and clever heroines decorating the sides, a reminder of fairy tales read in firelight and love found in the most unlikely circumstances.

“Come tae bed,” she said, reaching for him. “Before someone else comes up wanting tae talk about the heir.”

They settled together, Moyra curled against his good shoulder, both of them watching the cradle where their son slept peacefully. Outside, the celebration continued—music and laughter drifting up through stone walls. But there, in their chambers, the world had narrowed to just the three of them.

“I love ye,” Euan said into the quiet. “Both of ye. More than I ever thought possible.”

“I love ye too.” Moyra’s hand found his over the blankets. “Me stubborn husband who saved me from dungeons and me faither and gave me everything I never knew I wanted.”

Together, they were unbreakable.

Together, they could survive anything.

Together, they were home.

The End.

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I would love the next book I read to be about... *

• A widowed Highland laird’s quiet life unravels when a cynical London songwriter moves into his guest cottage and teaches him that love can strike twice.
• To escape an unwanted marriage, a desperate lady proposes to a proud laird who needs a bride—and their convenient union soon burns into something far less practical.
• A carefree laird’s casual fling with his best friend's sister spirals into something deeper, forcing him to choose between freedom and the only woman who truly knows him.
• When a duty-bound laird asks his best friend’s fiery sister to help him attract a wife, he never expects the only woman he wants will be her.

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• The Broken Laird – scarred by war and loss, he’s sworn never to love again… until one woman makes him believe in forever.
• The Charming Rake – a scandalous laird with a wicked smile and a reputation to match, who finally meets the one lass immune to his charm.
• The Stoic Protector – silent, steady, and bound by duty, he’ll do anything to keep his clan safe—even if it means denying his own heart.
• The Reluctant Heir – a free-spirited Highlander forced to take his father’s title, who must learn what it means to lead… and to love.

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Four months later

The clang of steel still rang in Evander’s bones as he left the yard, sweat cooling fast on his skin beneath the autumn wind. The men had scattered already, some laughing, some limping, each dismissed with a word and a clap to the shoulder. Training had been fierce that morning, his blade arm aching from hours of drilling, but he found no peace in it. His body was spent, aye, but his mind had wandered elsewhere every chance it got, back to the healer’s chambers, to the lass he had not seen since dawn.

It was foolish. He knew it even as he stripped the padded vest from his chest, as he slung it careless over the fence rail. They had been wed only four months, and still he carried himself like a lad chasing his first sweetheart, missing her after only a handful of hours apart. He’d kissed her forehead in the hall that morning, watched her slip off with Kenina to her duties, and now it felt as though half the day had passed in shadow without her near. What had she done to him?

His boots carried him quicker than his thoughts did. When he reached the healer’s door, he slowed, breath easing into something quieter. He meant only to lean in, to catch a glimpse before she noticed him, to let the sight of her settle whatever restless coil wound tight in his chest.

But the door was ajar, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Marian stood in the middle of the chamber, her back half-turned to him, skirts brushing the rushes. Kenina was in her arms, the older woman holding her tight, her mouth moving low against Marian’s hair as though speaking some blessing. Marian’s head was bowed, her eyes closed, her hands gripping Kenina’s sleeves with a reverence that made Evander’s heart stutter.

He frowned, pulse quickening. What in God’s name—?

He pushed the door open with his shoulder. The wood groaned, both women turning toward him at once. Marian’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter than usual, and Kenina’s expression shifted quick as a hawk’s, sharp and assessing.

“What’s this, then?” Evander asked, his voice easy, though the tightness in his chest betrayed him. He looked from one to the other, brow cocked. “I leave ye two alone a morning, and already secrets are bein’ kept from me?”

“Naething’s wrong,” Marian said at once, too quickly, her smile tugging at her lips as if she meant to soften the words. She smoothed her skirts, chin lifting. “Truly, Evander. It was only—”

Kenina cut her off with a snort, bustling toward the shelves as though neither of them existed. “Och, ye’ve nay need tae explain tae him, lass. The man’ll learn soon enough. Now off wi’ ye both—I’ve herbs tae sort, and I’ve nae patience fer lairds hoverin’ like restless bairns.”

Evander blinked, baffled, his gaze darting between them. “Learn soon enough? What in God’s name is that meant tae mean?”

Kenina ignored him flat as stone, her hands already buried in a basket of dried roots.

Marian’s laughter bubbled up then, soft and mischievous, and it hit him square in the chest, stealing whatever indignation he’d meant to muster. She shook her head at him, her braid slipping loose over one shoulder, her eyes alive with something he could not read. “It’s naething, Evander. Truly.”

He stepped closer, crowding her gently, his brows knit. “Dinnae tell me it’s naething when I saw ye weepin’ in Kenina’s arms.”

Her cheeks warmed, her smile deepening. “I wasnae weepin’. And it’s nae trouble, I promise.”

“Then what was she whisperin’ tae ye? I heard it clear—sounded like a blessin’ tae me ear.”

Marian only laughed harder, her hand brushing at his damp tunic as though to chase him out. “Ye’re too curious fer yer own good.”

Evander scowled, though the edge of it faltered when she looked at him like that, eyes bright, lips curved. God, she could unman him with naught but a smile. Still, he wouldn’t let it go. His chest was already tight with wondering, his mind turning restless circles.

“Marian.” His voice dipped low, firmer now. “Tell me what it is.”

She tugged his hand toward the door, her skirts swishing, her braid catching light as she moved. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go where nay one’ll overhear.”

His boots followed before his mind caught up, his thoughts spiraling fast as a hawk in storm winds.

He watched her hips sway as she led him down the stairs, her fingers light in his but her step quick, and he near cursed aloud. She was torturing him, and she knew it. She glanced back at him, her grin wicked, her cheeks flushed

He let her lead, though every step twisted his gut tighter. Down the passage, up the stair, until they reached their chamber. She pushed the door closed behind them, and he was grateful for the thick oak that barred the world away.

The room was still as ever, yet the air felt charged, as though some unseen current had shifted the ground beneath his feet.

She turned to him, her hands folded before her, and for one wild instant he thought she meant to tell him she regretted the vows they had spoken. His throat closed at the thought, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might split his ribs.

“Tell me,” he demanded, harsher than he meant.

Marian tilted her head, her smile tugging like a secret she savored. “I’ve decided something.”

He frowned. “What thing?”

She drew a breath, steady, certain. “I’m quittin’ me apprenticeship.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water, rippling out in his chest. Quitting? He blinked, sure he’d misheard. “Ye’re… stoppin’? The herbs, the healings, all o’ it?”

“Aye.”

He shifted, unsure what he felt—confusion, aye, but also the strange urge to laugh at himself. All his spiraling, all his fear, and this was what had her whispering with Kenina? “Marian, if that’s what ye want, then it’s well enough. Ye’re a laird’s wife now. Ye needn’t work another day in yer life, if ye dinnae wish it.”

Her lips curved, that teasing smile back again. “Och, Evander, ye didnae even ask why.”

The breath caught in his throat. A cold prickling ran down his spine. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion rising fresh. “Why, then?”

She bit her lip, laughter spilling in her eyes, and said softly, “Because I’m carryin’ a bairn.”

For a moment the world stopped. No sound, no air, nothing but her words echoing through him. Carryin’ a bairn.

He stared, struck dumb. His knees near buckled beneath him, his chest seizing with a fierce joy.

“A bairn?” His voice was hoarse, unbelieving. “Our bairn?”

Her laugh broke free then, sweet as bells. “Aye, Evander. Our bairn.”

The sound that left him was half laugh, half groan. He caught her up in his arms, crushing her to him as though he might never let her go. His mouth found hers, frantic, grateful, desperate, kissing her with every bit of love that thundered through him.

She clung back, her hands warm on his shoulders, her laughter muffled against his mouth.

When he drew back, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice broke low, rough with wonder. “Saints above, Marian. I cannae believe it. Ye’ve given me more than I ever thought tae ask.”

Her eyes shone, wet with tears, though her smile never faltered. “It’s true. I fainted this mornin’, mixin’ the potions, and Kenina guessed at once. She checked me herself. Said it was certain.”

He cursed soft and fierce, his hand cupping her cheek. “Fainted? Saints, lass, ye shouldnae be standin’, never mind workin’ wi’ herbs. Ye’ll need tae rest. Bed, every day. I’ll bring ye breakfast mesel’ if I must. Nay—Noah can fetch it. And ye’ll nae be climbin’ stairs or—”

“Evander.” Her laughter broke through, shaking against him. “I’m wi’ child, nae stricken wi’ plague.”

But he only scowled, his mind racing too fast, already counting dangers. “It changes everythin’. Ye’ll nae lift a basket, nae go out in the frost. I’ll speak tae Katriona—nay, tae Kenina—ye’ll have broth and bread by yer bedside each mornin’, and if—”

She kissed him quick, cutting him off, her smile pressed warm to his lips. “Hush. I’ll be fine.”

He groaned, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in as though it might calm the storm in him. “I’ll nae be fine, lass. I’ll be a wreck till the day I see ye holdin’ the bairn in yer arms.”

Her hand rubbed soothing along his back, her voice low and amused. “Then ye’ll learn patience, husband. I told ye—it’s a good thing. The best thing.”

He pulled back, cupping her face in both hands, searching her eyes as though to see the truth written there. He found it, shining bright as the dawn. His heart almost broke from the sheer force of it.

“I am tae become a faither,” he whispered again, awed.

She nodded, tears slipping free down her cheeks. “Aye.”

He kissed them away, one by one, his hands trembling though he tried to hide it. “God help me, Marian, I dinnae ken what tae dae wi’ all this joy.”

Her laughter shook with tears, her arms winding round his neck

He pressed his brow to hers and he kissed her again, slower this time, reverent, as though sealing a vow.

When they parted, she leaned into him, her hand resting against his chest where his heart still thundered. “We’ll be all right, Evander. Kenina said so herself.”

He let out a long breath, his smile breaking through at last. “Kenina says many things. I’ll nae believe it till I see our bairn in yer arms. But till then, I’ll guard ye as if the whole world sought tae steal ye from me.”

Her eyes softened, her lips curving with love. “And I’ll remind ye every day I’m stronger than ye think.”

He laughed then, low and fierce, and pulled her against him once more. “Aye, but I’ll never stop me tryin’ tae shield ye. That’s the curse o’ lovin’ ye this much, lass.”

Her smile trembled, tender as she whispered, “And the blessing.”

He held her there, the world narrowed to the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart against his. For years he had fought battles, borne wounds, carried weight enough for ten men. But this was the fight he wanted, the weight he welcomed. To be her husband, to be the father of her child.

It was more than he’d ever dreamed he’d be given. And by God, he would make himself worthy of it every day.

The End.

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A Few Years Later

“They’ll be at this all day,” Iona murmured, her voice light, as she turned to Ruaridh, who stood beside her. He had one arm propped up against the stone, his other hand resting in his pocket. His eyes followed the children with a quiet, tender gaze.

The garden buzzed with the carefree energy of children, their laughter like music in the soft afternoon sunlight. Iona leaned back against the stone wall, the warmth of the sun settling on her skin as she watched Alistair and little Nia run across the green grass, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust.

“They are growin’ fast,” he said, his voice a soft rumble, filled with an emotion Iona could only describe as pride and wonder. “Seems like just yesterday I was liftin’ them up on me shoulders.”

“Almost,” Iona replied, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Though ye still try tae pick them up every chance ye get.”

Ruaridh chuckled, his eyes flicking over to her, then back to the children. Nia, a few years younger than Alistair, had already formed an unlikely bond with a new friend, a lad from the neighboring clan who had been visitin’ for the week. The two of them were now lying on the grass, heads tilted toward the sky, deep in conversation about something only they could understand.

“Look at Nia,” Iona said, raising an eyebrow. “Already got a friend who hangs on her every word.”

“I think she’s in love,” Ruaridh teased, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “We might have another childhood romance on our hands.”

Iona laughed, a bright sound that seemed to float through the air, carried on the breeze. “Ye think? They’ve only known each other fer a few days.”

“Well, I ken how these things go.” Ruaridh’s grin was playful. “They’re bound tae get intae mischief, just like we did.”

“Ye were the mischief-maker,” Iona shot back, mock-serious. “I was just the innocent bystander.”

“Ah, innocent, were ye now?” Ruaridh’s voice dropped to a teasing tone, his green eyes sparkling. “Ye were the one who climbed the highest tree in the garden. I was terrified.”

Iona smirked. “I did it fer ye,” she said, her voice light but carryin’ a hint of nostalgia. “Ye wouldnae have dared unless I did it first.”

“True,” he admitted with a sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Cannae deny that. But look where we ended up.” He turned to look at her fully, the love in his eyes unmistakable. “Ye always did have a way of getting me intae trouble.”

“Maybe that’s why I married ye,” Iona teased, nudging him back with her shoulder. “Tae keep ye on yer toes.”

From the other side of the garden, Niamh and Alistair appeared in the doorway of the house, the quiet pair watching their family. Niamh smiled at the sight of her son and his wife, the joy in her eyes clear as she watched her grandchildren play. Alistair, with a fond, knowing look on his face, had his hand casually around her. “Isnae it wonderful?” Niamh said, her voice soft with affection as they joined them by the stone wall. “They remind me so much of the two of ye.”

Iona turned to Niamh and Alistair, her heart swelling with the warmth of family. “Dae ye think they’ll be as mischievous as we were?”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Niamh replied with a wink. “And I’m certain they’ll find plenty of trouble, just like their parents.”

“Aye,” Alistair rumbled, his gaze fixed on the children. He clapped Ruaridh on the shoulder. “They’ve got their mother’s charm, lad, and their father’s stubborn streak. A dangerous combination, that.”

Ruaridh laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, but his gaze lingered on the children, a proud smile tugging at his lips.

“I just hope their trouble’s a little less dangerous than ours,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Niamh laughed softly. “It’s the ones that come after that make the world go round, dear. And I can already see that they’ll be just as full of spirit as ye two were.”

Iona caught Ruaridh’s eye, her heart swelling with love. It was moments like that that reminded her how much they had grown together. They they had built something even more beautiful: a family, a home, and a future.

“Maybe history will repeat itself after all,” Iona murmured, her voice soft as she leaned into him.

Ruaridh wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. “If it daes, let’s make sure it’s even more beautiful than the first time,” he said, his voice rich with promise.

In the distance, the children’s laughter rang out again, and Iona couldn’t help but smile as she watched them, a new generation of mischief and love unfolding right before her eyes.

“Uncle Gordon!” Alistair suddenly shouted, his voice high with excitement, as he sprinted toward his father’s friend. Nia, too, squealed in joy, her little legs racing to join her brother.

Gordon jogged in the opposite direction. His hearty laugh echoed through the garden just as and Nia caught up with him.

Gordon bent down with exaggerated effort, making a show of pretending to be tired from his run. “Well now, ye’ve caught me!” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m too old tae be runnin’ like that!”

“Ye’re nae old!” Alistair retorted, laughing as Gordon swept both of them into the air. Ruaridh and Iona laughed at their friend’s antics. He was so good with the children.

Gordon grinned, his eyes twinkling as he reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out wooden soldiers, spinning tops, and candy wrapped in colorful paper. The children’s faces lit up even more, their excitement palpable.

“I thought ye might fancy a bit o’ fun,” Gordon said, handing them each a treat and tossing the toys onto the ground. “Always bringin’ something to keep ye entertained.”

“Candy!” Nia’s voice was filled with awe as she clutched her piece tightly. Alistair, his face splitting into a grin, eagerly started spinning a wooden top across the garden.

Gordon straightened up and stretched, looking around the garden with an almost exaggerated sense of admiration. “This garden,” he said with a sigh, as though he had never seen anything so magnificent. “I swear, I could live here. It’s like somethin’ from a dream.”

Iona raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Aye? Live here, ye say?”

“Aye. I may just plant me own garden. Maybe add a tree or two,” Gordon mused, looking around as if imagining it. “Aye, I think I’d plant a whole grove. Nothing fancy, mind ye, just somethin’ tae make the place look even better.”

Ruaridh chuckled, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “A whole grove? Ye’d be the one tae try it.”

Iona leaned in, her tone teasing, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, after ye plant yer grove, what ye’ll need next is a wife tae enjoy it with ye. A garden is all well and good, but it’s nae much fun on yer own, eh?”

Gordon’s eyes widened for a moment, before he let out a loud, booming laugh. “A wife, eh? I’ll think on that. Not sure who’d want tae marry a fool like me.” He glanced toward the children, who were already lost in their game, their joy infectious.

Iona exchanged a knowing look with Ruaridh, her smile softening slightly as she watched Gordon’s interaction with the kids. The way he gave them his full attention, his eyes warm and unguarded, was a testament to the deep affection he had for them.

Gordon’s voice dropped, a playful edge still in it but with a touch of something softer. “Ye’ve built a fine family here, the two of ye. And I—well, I dae envy it, a bit.”

Iona noticed the slight shift in Gordon’s tone, the way he glanced at the children, his smile lingering a little longer on them. For all his laughter, there was something quieter, more reflective in him that day.

She reached out and gave his arm a gentle nudge. “Ye’ve built a family o’ yer own here, Gordon,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth. “A different kind, but just as real.”

Gordon’s smile faltered for a moment, then he shrugged, his usual boisterous self returning. “Aye, I have. But I enjoy me ways far too much fer any change.”

Ruaridh stepped forward, clapping Gordon on the back with a grin. “And we never thought we’d get here, either. But look at us. A family, aye?”

Gordon looked at him for a moment, his expression a mixture of affection and something more unreadable. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Look at ye.” Then, with a wink, he added, “Well, I’ll be back soon with more sweets, then.”

As Gordon moved toward the children, Iona and Ruaridh exchanged a glance, the unspoken understanding between them clear. Their family had grown, but so had Gordon’s place within it, even if he still hadn’t quite found the kind of peace they had.

Iona’s voice was soft as she turned back to Ruaridh. “He’s nae a fool, is he?”

“Nay,” Ruaridh replied quietly. “He’s just waiting fer the right thing tae come along.”

The sound of Gordon’s laughter, ringing out once more, mingled with the children’s joyful shouts, filling the garden with a kind of warmth that felt timeless. The circle they had once feared would never close now felt complete.

After Gordon had gone, Iona and Ruaridh walked away from the children, their laughter still ringing in the air. They found a quiet corner beneath a tall oak tree, where the shade offered cool relief from the warmth of the day.

Ruaridh leaned against the rough bark, arms folded across his chest as he glanced over at Iona, who sat down on a stone bench nearby. The peacefulness of the moment settled around them, but there was an unspoken heaviness between them, a weight of reflection that had been building over the years.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” Iona said softly, her eyes following the movement of the children in the distance.

Ruaridh smiled, though there was a quiet sadness in his eyes. “Aye, we have. Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago, and other days, it feels like we’re still fighting our way through.”

Iona nodded. “The first year was… harder than I ever thought it would be. The fear, the uncertainty. Ye, me… all of it.” She smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. “But we’ve built something beautiful, Ruaridh. I know the road’s been hard, but we’ve made it. Together.”

He kissed the top of her head gently, the comfort of their shared silence wrapping around them. They had fought to be here, to create that life together. And no matter what came, they would face it the same way they always had—together.

As the evening began to settle, the warmth of the day slowly receded, and the family gathered around the long wooden table in the dining hall. The children, still brimming with energy, had long since finished their food and were now running around the room, chasing each other and laughing. Iona watched them with a smile, her heart full as she noticed how easily they seemed to move between moments of wild play and quiet moments of connection.

Ruaridh sat beside her, his hand resting on her knee as they both watched their children, their minds heavy with thoughts of the future.

“Look at them,” Iona said, her voice soft as she watched Nia and Alistair play near the fire, their faces lit with joy.

“Aye,” Ruaridh agreed, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “The way they look at each other, the way they just… ken what tae dae.”

Iona smiled, her gaze shifting to their children. Alistair was helping Nia with a game, showing her how to balance a coin on her elbow, their shared laughter echoing across the room. “Dae ye think they’ll follow our path? Find their own love story, just like we did?”

Ruaridh chuckled softly, a warmth in his eyes. “I hope so. And I’ll always be here to make sure they don’t get into too much trouble.”

Iona looked back at their children, a quiet ache settling in her chest. “I think… I think they’ll be just fine. Maybe better than we were.”

A brief silence passed between them, a knowing understanding settling into the space. Life had changed, but in some ways, it was always the same. The seasons would pass, their children would grow, and history would repeat itself.

The warm glow of the fire flickered in the background, casting dancing shadows across the room. Time moved on, but some things—love, family—remained constant. And for the first time in years, they both felt the weight of their past lift, leaving only hope for the future.

The End.

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Two Years Later

The sun poured through the windows of the solar, casting soft golden light across the stone floor and warming the thick rugs laid out beneath the chairs. Summer had arrived in the Highlands, gentler that year than most, and the castle seemed to hum with the kind of quiet that only came after months of storm.

Ailis knelt in front of a small oak stool, smoothing the wrinkles out of a soft green dress.

“Sit still, me heart,” she said, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her daughter’s face.

The little girl grinned up at her, eyes the same pale green as hers, framed by the almond shape Ailis knew had come from her own mother. Her cheeks were flushed from sitting that morning in the orchard to watch the ducks, and her nose was dusted with freckles earned under the summer sun.

“Duh-duh!” said the young girl with all the enthusiasm that her age afforded and the ducks deserved.

Ailis laughed softly. “I thought ye wanted tae wear yer special ribbon.”

The child’s face brightened at that as Ailis held up the ribbon for her to grab with her little hands; a deep blue silk ribbon, the same shade as the one she had worn around her neck the day she became Lady Caithness. She tied it gently around her daughter’s hair, forming a loose bow just above her braid.

Malcolm leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a look that turned Ailis’ heart to honey.

“She’s nae goin’ tae sit still, ye ken,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. He had been laughing all afternoon as Ailis chased Eilidh around, trying to get her ready. “She’s got more spirit than both o’ us combined.”

“She’s one, Malcolm,” Ailis said with mock sternness. “Let me pretend fer five minutes that she’ll act like a noblewoman.”

“O’ course she will, me love,” Malcolm said, pushing off the doorframe and crouching beside Ailis and Eilidh, taking the child in his arms. “Ye’ve got royal mischief in yer blood, dinnae ye?”

Eilidh giggled and leaned into him as if she could understand what he was saying, clinging to the edge of his tunic. With a sigh, Ailis sat back and watched them both with her hands on her hips, wondering why either of them thought it was a good idea to get their very young daughter to sit for a portrait.

“We should have waited,” said Ailis. “At least until she can sit still.”

“Ach, but we want tae remember her just like this,” Malcolm said, stroking Eilidh’s cheek. “Forever. Even when she’s a lady in her own right.”

“That willnae be fer a while still,” Ailis reminded him, taking the child from him to hold her in her lap as if to protect her from that very fate. She wanted nothing more than to watch Eilidh grow up and thrive, but the mere thought was enough to choke her, to fill her with a kind of bittersweet feeling that repeatedly brought tears to her eyes.

Malcolm chuckled, wrapping an arm around Ailis’ waist and pulling her close. “Ye’d be surprised how fast daughters grow. I swear she was only a tiny thing just yesterday an’ look at her now.”

Ailis did look at her and found nothing but a tiny thing in her lap. But before she could point that out, a soft knock echoed on the chamber door.

“Enter,” she called.

Master Edric stepped inside, the same painter who had painted her two years earlier. His hair had greyed at the temples, but his eyes still held the thoughtful kindness Ailis remembered well. His satchel hung over his shoulder, and in his hand, he held a narrow wooden case.

“Me lady,” he said with a small bow. “Me laird. An’ this must be the wee lady I’ve heard so much about.”

The girl peered at him with curiosity for a moment, before she erupted into giggles again. She reached for the man with her small hands and Edric tapped the tip of her nose with a finger, causing Eilidh to laugh again, her entire body shaking with mirth.

“Is the wee lady ready fer her portrait?” asked Edric and Ailis nodded, standing with the child in her arms. She took her to the little chair set up by the window, fluffed the hem of her dress, and straightened the ribbon once more. Eilidh wiggled a bit, but sat like a queen in Ailis’ lap, her chin up, looking at Ailis with a grand smile.

“She looks like ye,” Edric said as he prepared his tools. “Such a bonnie wee lass deserves a bonnie portrait!”

“She’s the best thing we’ve ever done,” Ailis told Malcolm.

Malcolm looked over to her. “Aye. An’ we’ve done some fine things.”

They watched their daughter as Edric began his sketch—Eilidh blinking up at the sunlight, reaching for the dancing motes in the air. At one point, she yawned dramatically and leaned against her mother’s chest, content to simply watch the birds fluttering outside.

Malcolm’s hand moved, almost absentmindedly, to stroke Ailis’s back.

“Ye look so bonnie like this,” he said quietly, his voice for her alone. “Ye look very happy.”

She turned her face slightly to him, smiling. “That’s because I am.”

He kissed her temple, tender and reverent, and Ailis leaned into him, the quiet joy between them as steady and warm as the light on their daughter’s face.

“Dae ye remember the locket?” she whispered.

“How could I forget?”

“Well,” she said, eyes misting as she looked at their child, “I think we gave her one, too.”

Malcolm glanced at her, surprise and softness mingling in his gaze.

“Someday,” Ailis added. “When she’s older. So she can carry this moment with her. So she kens where she came from.”

Malcolm nodded quietly, a smile spreading over his lips. “Aye. An’ that she was born out o’ love.”

Edric’s brush moved steadily over the canvas, capturing Eilidh as she was in that moment—bathed in golden light, held in the love of her parents, knowing only gentleness. And Ailis knew, as she looked from the child to the man beside her, that this was the legacy they were building—not castles, not a bloody history, but love, plain and simple.

The End.

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Two Years Later

Morag stretched languidly in the pre-dawn light filtering through their chamber windows, her body warm and sated from Colin’s loving attention. Beside her, her husband slept peacefully, his arm draped possessively across her waist, his breathing deep and even. No nightmares haunted his rest anymore—hadn’t for over a year now. The sleeping draught that had once been his nightly necessity sat forgotten in Tasgall’s stores.

“Colin,” she whispered, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder. “Wake up, me love.”

“Mmm.” He pulled her closer without opening his eyes. “Too early. Come back tae sleep.”

“I cannae sleep.” Morag traced lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertip. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Dangerous occupation fer a lass,” Colin murmured, though she could hear the smile in his voice.

“I’d like tae visit me family. It’s been too long since we’ve seen them, and I miss them terribly.”

Colin’s eyes opened then, dark and alert as he studied her face. “Of course. When would ye like tae go?”

“Soon. Before…” She placed her hand over her still-flat stomach, and Colin’s gaze followed the movement with wonder that hadn’t dimmed despite this being their second child.

“Before ye’re too heavy with our daughter tae travel comfortably,” he finished with a grin.

“Daughter?” Morag raised an eyebrow. “What makes ye so certain it’s a lass this time?”

“A man can hope. Though another lad like our Alasdair would be a blessin’ too.”

As if summoned by his name, the sound of small feet running down the corridor reached them, followed by Sheena’s harried voice calling, “Come back here, ye wee terror! Yer parents are still abed!”

The chamber door burst open, and their two-year-old son barreled in like a tiny Highland warrior, his dark hair tousled and his brown eyes—so like his father’s—bright with mischief.

“Da! Ma!” Alasdair launched himself onto the bed with the fearless enthusiasm that made Morag’s heart stop at least once daily.

“There’s me lad,” Colin laughed, catching his son and pulling him between them. “What mischief have ye been causin’ this morning?”

“Helped Sheena make porridge,” Alasdair announced proudly.

Morag bit back a laugh. Their son’s definition of “helping” usually involved more mess than assistance.

“I’m sure ye were very helpful, mo chridhe,” Morag said, smoothing his unruly hair. “But next time, perhaps wait until Da and I are awake before yer adventures begin?”

“Can we visit Uncle Ruaridh soon?” Alasdair asked with the single-minded focus only a toddler could achieve. “I like swords!”

Colin and Morag exchanged amused glances. Her brother had indeed made that promise during his last visit, much to her horror and Colin’s secret pride.

“Actually,” Colin said thoughtfully, “that’s not such a bad idea. What dae ye say, wife? Shall we pay the MacDuffs a visit?”

***

Three days later, their small party crested the familiar hill overlooking MacDuff Castle, and Morag felt tears sting her eyes at the sight of home. The massive stone keep stood proud against the Highland sky, its banners snapping in the crisp autumn breeze.

“Look there, Alasdair,” she said, pointing toward the castle. “That’s where yer ma grew up.”

Her son’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Big castle!”

“Aye, and full of people who cannae wait tae spoil ye rotten,” Colin added with a grin.

They’d barely reached the courtyard when the castle doors burst open and her family poured out. Ruaridh reached them first, sweeping Morag into his arms and spinning her around despite her protests.

“Mo phiuthar! Look at ye, bonny as ever and twice as fierce!” He set her down and immediately turned his attention to Alasdair, who was watching this display with wide eyes from Colin’s arms. “And this is my favorite warrior.”

“Uncle Ruaridh,” the boy announced solemnly, puffing out his small chest. “I want sword like me da.”

“Are ye now?” Ruaridh’s eyes twinkled with mischief that Morag recognized all too well. “Well then, young laird, perhaps ye’d like tae see where yer ma used tae get intae trouble?”

“Ruaridh MacDuff, ye’ll dae nay such thing,” came their mother’s voice as Niamh emerged from the crowd, her auburn hair now streaked with silver but her green eyes as sharp as ever. “Morag’s boy has enough mischief in him without yer encouragement.”

“Ma,” Morag breathed, moving into her mother’s embrace with tears threatening. “Ye look wonderful.”

“And ye look happy, mo chridhe. Truly happy.” Niamh held her at arm’s length, studying her face with a mother’s keen eye. “Marriage agrees with ye.”

“It daes indeed,” Colin said warmly, approaching with Alasdair still in his arms. “Lady MacDuff, ye’re as beautiful as ever.”

“Flattery from the Iron Laird himself,” Niamh laughed, but Morag could see how pleased she was. “And this handsome lad must be me grandson.”

Alasdair regarded his grandmother with the serious consideration of a child meeting someone beloved but that he did not remember meeting. “Aye, Grandma.”

“Hello, me sweet boy,” Niamh said, her heart swelling with love.

He reached for her with chubby arms.

“Oh, me love,” Niamh whispered, taking him from Colin and holding him close. “Ye’re just as bonny as yer da but with yer ma’s stubborn chin. And look how ye’ve grown.”

The naming ceremony had been a grand affair at Armstrong Castle, with the MacDuff family traveling there when Alasdair was just a month old. Following Highland tradition, they’d gathered at sunrise in the great hall, where Tasgall the healer had blessed the babe with water from the sacred well, and Colin had spoken the ancient words that welcomed the child into the clan.

Young Alasdair had been presented to the four winds, his name called out so that all the spirits of the land would know him and protect him. Then they’d celebrated with a feast that had lasted three days, with music and dancing and stories told late into the night.

“Where’s Da?” Morag asked, looking around the crowded courtyard.

“In his study, pretendin’ he’s too dignified tae come running out like the rest of us,” Sorcha said, appearing with her own children in tow. Morag’s eldest sister looked radiant, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight. “But I saw him watchin’ from the window like an anxious faither.”

“Some things never change,” Morag laughed, remembering her father’s tendency toward emotional restraint in public.

They made their way into the great hall, where Alistair MacDuff waited with studied casualness by the hearth. But the moment he saw Morag, his composure cracked completely.

“There’s me lass,” he said gruffly, opening his arms wide.

Morag flew into them, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine that always meant safety and home. “I’ve missed ye, Da.”

“And I’ve missed ye, mo chridhe. Every day.” He held her tight for a long moment before stepping back to grip Colin’s forearm in the traditional Highland greeting. “Son. Ye look well.”

“As dae ye, sir. Thank ye fer welcomin’ us.”

“This is yer home now too,” Alistair said firmly. “Family is family, nay matter what name they bear.”

“Grandda!” Alasdair had escaped his grandmother’s arms and was now tugging on Alistair’s kilt, his face bright with the joy. “Ye have horses! Can I ride a big one?”

“Can ye now?” Alistair’s stern features melted into a besotted grandfather’s smile as he scooped up his grandson. “Ye’ve grown so much since we last seen ye, lad. Well then, young warrior, let’s see what we can arrange.”

The afternoon passed in a blur of joyful chaos. Alasdair was passed from relative to relative, each one eager to spoil him thoroughly and marveling at how much he’d grown since his namin’ ceremony. He charmed his way into extra honey cakes, convinced Uncle Ruaridh to let him hold a real sword (much to Morag’s horror), and managed to fall asleep in his grandfather’s lap during the evening meal, just as he had as a wee babe during that first blessed gathering.

“He’s got the MacDuff charm,” Sorcha observed fondly, watching her father’s face soften as he gazed down at the sleeping child. “He’s got everyone wrapped around his tiny finger.”

“And the Armstrong stubbornness,” Colin added ruefully. “Yesterday he decided he was old enough tae saddle his own pony. It took three of us tae convince him otherwise. I swear he gets more determined every day.”

“That sounds familiar,” Niamh said with a pointed look at Morag. “I remember a certain young lass who tried tae ride her faither’s warhorse when she was barely four years old. Nearly gave me heart failure.”

“Ye never told me that story,” Colin said, grinning at his wife’s embarrassed blush.

“Oh, there are so many stories,” Ruaridh said with wicked delight. “Did she tell ye about the time she climbed onto the castle roof because she was convinced she could fly? Or when she decided tae ‘improve’ the stable by lettin’ all the horses run free?”

“Or the time she tried tae teach herself swordplay and nearly took off poor Hamish’s ear?” Sorcha added with a laugh.

“Enough!” Morag protested, but she was laughing despite her mortification. “Ye’re givin’ me husband too much ammunition.”

“On the contrary,” Colin said seriously, “I’m learnin’ that me wife’s adventurous spirit saved her life.” He shook his head. “That tomboy spirit ye’re teasin’ her about is part of what brought her home tae me.”

The hall fell quiet for a moment as everyone remembered how close they’d come to losing her. Then Alistair cleared his throat gruffly.

“Aye, well. The lass always was too stubborn tae die easily.”

“Speakin’ of which,” Morag said, seizing the moment, “Colin and I have some news tae share.”

She stood, moving to Colin’s side and taking his hand. “We’re expectin’ another child.”

The reaction was immediate and joyful. Niamh clapped her hands together with delight, Sorcha squealed and rushed to embrace her, and Ruaridh let out a whoop that would have wakened Alasdair if he hadn’t been so thoroughly exhausted from his day of adventures.

“When?” Niamh asked, already mentally planning nursery preparations and another namin’ ceremony.

“Spring,” Morag replied, her hand moving to rest on her stomach. “Just after the Highland flowers bloom.”

“Another grandchild,” Alistair said wonderingly, his weathered face creased with joy. “And perhaps a granddaughter this time? Another babe tae bless and welcome tae the clan?”

“That’s what Colin’s hopin’ for,” Morag said with a smile.

“A daughter would be wonderful,” Colin said, “though another lad would be just as welcome. Either way, we’ll have another grand namin’ ceremony.”

“Just promise me ye’ll name her something sensible,” Sorcha said with mock sternness. “None of these fancy Lowland names that no one can pronounce.”

“Says the woman who named her daughter Caoimhe,” Ruaridh pointed out.

“Caoimhe is a perfectly good Highland name!”

As her siblings dissolved into their familiar bickering, Morag felt a profound sense of contentment wash over her. This was what she’d missed—the easy laughter, the gentle teasing, the warm embrace of family who loved her unconditionally.

“Happy?” Colin asked, his arm coming around her waist.

“Perfectly,” Morag replied, leaning into his warmth. “Thank ye fer bringin’ me home.”

“Thank ye fer givin’ me a home worth defendin’,” Colin replied, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Watching ye with yer family today, seein’ how Alasdair belongs here as much as he belongs with us… it reminds me why we fight tae protect what we love.”

“He’s growing up so fast,” Morag murmured, her hand resting on her stomach. “Soon he’ll have a braither or sister tae play with, another babe tae present tae the clan.”

“Another namin’ ceremony,” Colin agreed with a smile. “Though I suspect this one will be even grander, with Alasdair helpin’ tae welcome his sibling.”

“Aye, he’ll want tae hold the babe during the blessing, I’m sure.” Morag laughed softly. “Just like he wanted tae help when we blessed the Armstrong foals.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the stars emerge one by one in the darkening sky. The wind carried the scent of heather and pine, the eternal perfume of home.

“I love ye, Morag Armstrong,” Colin said finally. “Now and always.”

“And I love ye, Colin Armstrong. Me heart, me soul, me everything.”

The End.

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Three years later

The sun rose golden over Armstrong lands, casting a soft light through the narrow windows of the master bedchamber. The keep below was already stirring, but in this room, it was still quiet.

Agnes lay nestled against Tav, her back to his chest, her hand resting gently over the swell of her belly. The child stirred within her, a flutter beneath her palm, as if it too sensed the day’s promise. Behind her, Tav breathed slow and deep, arm curled around her middle, his fingers splayed over her hip like a claim made long ago. She didn’t want to move—not yet. The warmth of his body, the safety of it, wrapped around her like armor.

Three years. Three years since she had walked down that aisle and kissed him with all the fire and hope she possessed. Three years since they had rebuilt this place from ash and blood and memory.

Now they had a home. A sister who was a daughter in everything but blood. A son. And soon, another child.

She tilted her head slightly, watching the soft morning light gild the lines of Tav’s face. He had aged well. Softer now in the cheeks. More shadows at the corners of his eyes. But every one of them was earned. She reached back, brushing her fingers along his jaw. He hummed, stirring.

“Mornin’,” he rasped.

“Sleep well?”

“With ye here? Always.”

They lay in silence for a moment longer before the distant sound of giggles drifted up through the stone.

Agnes smiled. “Tristan’s up.”

Tav groaned. “Already? Thought he’d sleep like a bear.”

“He’s yer son. He’ll never sleep longer than he needs tae.”

Tav leaned forward, kissing her shoulder. “I’ll get him.”

“I’ll come down soon.”

But he didn’t move right away. Instead, he pressed another kiss to her skin, then rested his hand over hers on her belly.

“Can ye believe this?”

Agnes turned her face toward him. “What?”

“All o’ it.”

She smiled. “Every day I wake up and try tae.”

The words had barely left her lips when a shriek of laughter echoed down the hall. Agnes and Tav exchanged a look—half amusement, half weary resignation. Tristan.

They both moved to stand, Tav getting there first and offering her a hand. She took it, rising slowly with the weight of their unborn child pressing low in her belly. Together, they left the warm hush of their room and descended the spiral stairs into the life they’d made.

Breakfast was chaos, as always.

Tristan was already covered in jam by the time Tav and Agnes reached the hall. Isolde sat beside him, patiently showing him how to build a tower out of crusts, her own face remarkably clean.

“Since when have ye been up?” Tav asked, settling beside them.

“Since the cock crowed,” replied primly, not looking up from her crust tower.

“That long?”

“Tristan wanted tae make a crown fer the sheep. But I told him sheep dinnae wear crowns.”

Tristan, smeared with jam and grinning wide, clapped his hands. “Sheep! Hat! Baaa!”

Isolde beamed. “I made the crown fer him instead.”

“O’ course ye did,” Agnes said, kissing the top of her head. “Ye’re brilliant.”

Isolde preened.

They ate together, laughter breaking constantly across the table like surf. At one point, Tristan threw a biscuit and Tav caught it midair without looking. Agnes stared at him.

“That was impressive.”

He grinned. “Fatherhood.”

They left the hall together, strolling through the familiar walkways of the keep as the morning light spilled gold across the stones. The sound of hooves in the yard and voices raised in cheerful chatter floated around them. Tristan darted ahead, chasing a butterfly, while Isolde skipped just behind, humming a song she’d made up.

Tav and Agnes walked at a slower pace, their fingers laced together. Tav’s eyes flicked down to her feet, then back up to her face, worry tightening his brow.

“Are ye sure ye should be walkin’ this far?” he asked, slowing just a bit more. “We can rest. Or I can carry ye, if it comes tae that.”

Agnes gave him a look. “Tav, I’m pregnant. Nae dyin’.”

He huffed. “Aye, well, it’s my job tae worry.”

“And it’s me job tae remind ye I’ve been walkin’ in worse conditions.”

They exchanged a grin, his reluctant and fond, hers impish and dry. She nudged his arm with her shoulder.

“If ye keep hoverin’, I’ll make ye even more scared on purpose.”

“Ye wouldnae.”

“Watch me.”

Before he could retort, a loud squeal cut through the orchard path.

“Da!”

Tristan came barreling back up the path, arms outstretched, face red and breathless from running. Isolde jogged just behind him, breathless but laughing.

“He wanted tae race,” she explained. “But he lost.”

Tav scooped up the boy, grinning.

Tristan laughed, hands grabbing at Tav’s beard. “Isi fast!”

“Aye, she is,” Tav said, and kissed his son’s cheek. “But ye’ll get fast too.”

Agnes watched them with her heart full to bursting, her hand resting over her belly. Then she looked to Isolde and opened her arm. “Come here, love.”

Isolde ran into her side, and together they continued walking, a family woven together by choice, by blood, and by all the battles they’d already won.

As they neared the orchard wall, townsfolk began to wave and call greetings. Tav returned each with a nod or a lifted hand. Agnes smiled, stopping to speak now and again, her warmth undimmed despite the weight she carried.

Agnes turned to find Tav watching her, his expression unreadable.

“What?” she asked.

“Ye’re beautiful, that’s all.”

“Even this swollen?”

“Especially this swollen.” Tav grinned and bent to kiss her temple, his hand never leaving the curve of her back. They continued walking, following the path until it led them through a break in the trees. The orchard stretched out before them, dappled in soft golden light. They found a quiet corner beneath a gnarled apple tree, where the shade was cool and the ground scattered with petals. Tav walked beside her, one hand resting at the small of her back.

“Dae ye ever think about it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Back then.”

“Aye. All the time.”

“It still feels like… another life.”

He stopped walking, pulling her gently to a halt beside the stone monument nestled in the grove. Names etched deep in granite. Some they’d known. Some they’d lost. He reached out, fingers brushing Armstrong’s name.

“He was a bastard. But he gave me Isolde.”

Agnes nodded. “She loves ye. Fiercely.”

He looked at her. “Dae ye think I’ve done right by her?”

“I think ye’re her whole world, Tav.”

He exhaled, long and shaky, and took her hand again. They stood together beneath the apple blossoms, quiet.

Not long after, they joined the children for a small picnic on the edge of the orchard. Tav spread a blanket beneath the dappled shade while Agnes and Isolde unpacked a small basket of honeyed bread, apples, and soft cheese. Tristan, sticky with juice and joy, was already toddling toward the nearest tree, chasing a ladybug with singular focus.

“That one’s on a mission,” Tav said with a grin, already rising to follow.

“Mind he daesnae eat it,” Agnes called after him.

Tav turned and winked. “Nay promises.”

Agnes settled herself beside Isolde, stretching her legs carefully and pressing a hand to the curve of her belly. Isolde reached for an apple, turning it over in her small hands with a tiny frown.

“Can ye help me with this?” she asked, holding it out. “It’s too big.”

Agnes took the apple and pulled a small blade from the basket, slicing it into neat wedges before handing them back. Isolde’s face lit up.

“Thank ye,” she said, her voice sweet and solemn.

Agnes smiled softly, letting the moment settle over her like sunlight—warm, golden, and slow to fade. She watched Isolde crunch into a slice of apple with exaggerated delight, her small hands sticky and her face alight with pride. The hum of bees in the orchard, the gentle rustle of leaves above, the distant sound of Tav laughing with Tristan as the boy squealed with glee—it all folded around her like the pages of a story she never thought she’d live to write.

“Dae ye think the baby will like me?” Isolde asked suddenly.

Agnes turned to her. “The baby will adore ye.”

“Even if it’s a boy?”

“Even more if it’s a boy. He’ll need a big sister tae keep him from daein’ foolish things like his Da.”

Isolde giggled. “I can dae that.”

She pulled the girl into her arms, kissed her brow, and held her a long while.

“Tired?” he asked, brushing his fingers through the ends of her hair.

“Aye. But it’s a good kind.” She tilted her face toward him. “The kind that says the day was full.”

He kissed the top of her head, lingering. “This place, this life… it’s more than I thought I’d ever have. More than I knew how tae want.”

Agnes shifted to look up at him, her brow lifting gently. “Then let’s never take it fer granted. Nae a single day.”

He met her gaze, something tender and unspoken passing between them. “We’ll protect it. Always. Whatever it takes.”

She reached for his hand and placed it carefully over the swell of her belly.

A tiny kick met his palm, soft and startling. Tav’s eyes lit up, wonder blooming across his face. “Another little warrior. Just like his maither.”

Agnes laughed softly, her voice a hush against the crackle of the fire. “Gods help us indeed. He’ll be wild if he’s anything like ye.”

“Or stubborn if she’s like ye,” Tav murmured, kissing her forehead. “Either way, we’re doomed.”

She smiled. “Doomed in the best way.”

They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, letting the stillness settle into their bones. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, but whole. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees. Inside, the embers glowed low. Peace, hard-won and deeply cherished, wrapped itself around them.

And in that hush, with her heartbeat against his ribs and his palm guarding the life between them, they let themselves dream—not of war or grief or vengeance, but of harvests and lullabies, of laughter in the halls and tiny feet on stone. Of days that would grow slowly, beautifully, together.

The End.

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Five months later, Comyn Estate

Willelm sat back on his heels, wiping the sweat off his forehead. It was a chilly day, and yet he was sweating profusely as he nailed plank after plank down on the roof of the barracks. For the longest time, they had been in need of some serious repairs, but he had neglected it in favor of working on the villages and the buildings in the surrounding lands. Before anything else, he wanted his people, the common folk, to have their homes and farms back, to have their livelihoods restored.

The burned crops were long gone and in their place, new crops grew. The burned land was fertile now and Willelm had made the decision to plant mostly oats—a staple crop, and one that grew quickly. The ash would give the plants the nutrients they needed, and in turn, the villages would avoid the famine that was sure to come before they managed to rebuild.

Long gone were many of the homes, too, and those were harder to rebuild. Willelm could send his men now in times of peace to help the farmers sow the land, which took days, but building new houses took weeks of work. Even now, five months later, rebuilding the villages and the farms was a slow process, one that everyone in the Comyn lands had accepted would take a long time, even with the help of the MacDuffs.

It was strange, having the MacDuffs as allies—a group of people who were now working alongside his own to rebuild what had been lost. Willelm couldn’t be more thankful for the help. He took any help he could get, he was not a man who put his pride over his people.

But now that all the other restorations were well on their way, he could spend some time working on the estate, along with his men, even if that meant spending grueling hours under the sun or the rain. Everyone in the keep was happy to help, all of them working together to bring the estate back to its former glory.

Willelm remembered the estate from his childhood days—the colorful tapestries, the shining armors standing empty in the hallways, the grand portraits of those before him. It had once been a sight to behold, a place of beauty and luxury, and now Willelm was determined to restore it.

If his ancestors were watching, if his parents were watching, then he wanted them to be proud.

He caught his breath as he glimpsed Sorcha as she stepped out of the main part of the estate, carrying a tray in her hands. On it rested several cups and a pitcher of wine or ale, which she brought to where the men were working on the barracks.

Standing to his feet, Willelm walked over to her just as she began to pass the cups around to the men. They were all quick to thank her with a kind word and smile; most of his people had taken to her from the moment she had come to the estate, but the men were the ones who were the most reluctant, considering they had fought against her family for so long. Now that the truth had come out and his men had gotten to know Sorcha better, they had however mellowed.

With a smile of her own, Sorcha passed one cup to him and Willelm took it gratefully, gulping the contents down.

He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he had been. Only now that the sweet wine hit his tongue did he notice.

“Thank ye,” he told her, pulling her in for a quick kiss. Just as he pulled away to go back to work, though, Sorcha pulled him back in and kissed him again, a smile spreading over her lips as she stared at his eyes in a weighted silence.

“What is it?” he asked with a small, bemused smile.

“I have somethin’ tae tell ye,” Sorcha said cryptically, and Willelm didn’t know what to expect. By the looks of it, though, it seemed that it was a good thing, much to his relief.

“Alright,” he said, his smile widening as he tucked a stray strand of her golden hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

Taking his hand in hers, Sorcha led Willelm away from the other men, down a narrow path that led to what once had been the gardens. That part of the grounds needed plenty of work, but the women in the estate had already started planting. New plants and flowers would bloom soon, filling the grounds with their fragrance—lavender and thyme for the healer’s concoctions, Scottish primrose, bell heathers, peonies for their colors, and an oak sapling that in many decades would shade the entire place. The women tended to the gardens daily.

It’s because they need this, they need this place, their home, tae be special.

After everything they had endured, they needed it to feel like home—to feel theirs.

There was an old stone bench there and Sorcha sat on it, telling Willelm to join her with a nod of her head. Willelm did as he was asked, perching next to her, his fingers idly tracing a crack on the stone.

“Well?” he urged her, curious.

For a moment, Sorcha hesitated, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. Then, she took Willelm’s hand in her own again and pressed it gently over her stomach, smiling warmly at him.

It took Willelm a while to understand what it was that she was trying to tell him, but when he did, his eyes widened comically and his mouth fell open as he stared at her, his heart beating so fast in his chest that he feared it would simply stop.

“Are ye with bairn?” he asked, just to make sure. With a bright smile, Sorcha nodded fervently and Willelm wasted no time before he pulled her in his arms and into a tender kiss. Then, unable to control himself, he pressed kiss after kiss to her face, covering her cheeks, her forehead, her jaw. Sorcha giggled, playfully pushing him away.

“Ach, I think that’s quite enough,” said Sorcha, laughing softly.

“I dinnae think it’s enough at all,” Willelm teased. “When did ye find out?”

“I wanted tae be certain so… I waited a while tae tell ye,” Sorcha admitted, a soft blush rising up her cheeks and coloring them a pretty red. “I’ve kent fer a few weeks.”

Willelm could hardly believe that in a few short months he would be a father. He and Sorcha would have a child of their own, a little boy or girl that would look just like them and run around the estate, growing up right before their eyes.

Ach, I must ensure everythin’ is safe fer the bairn.

There was still so much work to be done around the estate, but since they had decided to renovate it and use it as their home and base for the Comyn Clan for the time being instead of returning to the clan’s main castle, he had to make sure everything was perfect for the baby’s arrival. Panic gripped him for a single moment then, as he thought about everything that needed to be done. There was a long list of things, but one that he would have to tackle immediately.

“Ye’re overthinkin’,” said Sorcha, immediately noticing. “Dinnae think so much. Just enjoy it.”

Willelm supposed she was right. He wanted to make the most of that time. Once again, he pulled her close for a kiss, their lips meeting softly, tenderly. He combed his fingers through her hair and she smiled at him, gazing into his eyes.

“Have ye told yer family?” Willelm asked her. He wished his parents were there so he could tell them. He wished they could have seen their grandchild grow up, but at least his child would have his uncle. Willelm knew Rory would be there every step of the way, and once he would have children of his own, there was no doubt in his mind that the cousins would be inseparable, just like the two of them had always been.

“Nay,” said Sorcha, shaking her head. “Nae yet. I wished tae tell ye first, afore everyone else.”

“Nae one else kens?” Willelm asked with a small, pleased smile.

“Well… Caitriona kens,” Sorcha admitted, a little bashfully. “But only because I asked her so that I could be certain. I didnae wish tae tell ye I’m with bairn only fer it tae be false.”

Willelm could understand that. He could only imagine the disappointment both he and Sorcha would feel if it turned out the information was false. But she seemed entirely certain of it, and so Willelm allowed himself to feel his excitement at its full force, his joy radiating warmth in his chest. Never before had he felt that much love, that much tenderness towards someone, and that someone hardly even existed yet.

“I cannae wait tae meet him,” he said, only for Sorcha to slap his shoulder gently in protest. “Or her,” she pointed out.

“Or her,” Willelm relented with a smile. “What would ye rather it be?”

Sorcha shrugged a shoulder, her hand coming to rest over her stomach. “I dinnae care,” she said. “As long as it’s a healthy bairn, that’s all that matters tae me.”

“That’s all that matters tae me too,” Willelm assured her as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “As long as it’s healthy an’ happy.”

“O’ course it will be happy,” Sorcha said. “It will be surrounded by love an’ that’s all that matters.”

The two of them sat side by side on the bench, content in the silence that followed. They didn’t need to say anything to each other; all they needed was a single look to know what the other was thinking, and Willelm marveled at the fact that he and Sorcha had this kind of connection already, of a sort that up until then, he had only had with his brother.

Still, he wanted to speak the words in his mind out loud.

“Sorcha… I love ye,” he said. “I love ye so much.”

It was the truth, plain and simple, and words didn’t seem enough to express just how he felt for her, but it was all he had.

“I love ye too,” she said with the brightest smile. “An’ I love our wee bairn.”

Placing his hand over her own on her stomach, Willelm smiled to himself. The peace that came with Sorcha’s words was unlike anything he had ever felt and he basked in it, wishing it would never end.

And as long as they were together, he knew it never would.

The End.

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One Month Later…

The sky was a clear field of azure above their heads and the sun cast its rays of warmth over them. Lorne smiled. The day couldn’t have been more perfect if he’d crafted it himself. It had been a fight to get everybody to agree to hold the wedding outdoors. Most feared the volatile nature of Scotland’s weather. If it had rained, it would have made a mess of it all.

It was a roll of the dice and had taken some time and plenty of arm twisting, but Lorne had eventually managed to convince everybody that an outdoor wedding would be wonderful. And it worked out. For that, he breathed a small sigh of relief and said a silent word of thanks. He never would have lived it down if it had gone the other way.

He stood at the head of the aisle, Diana on his arm and across from them, Gavin stood with Beatrix on his. Knowing those two didn’t want to wait to be married, Lorne and Diana had decided to hold a dual wedding. It was unorthodox, but the way Lorne saw things, it was a day of joy for everybody. Adding Gavin and Beatrix’s nuptials to the day only spread more joy. It only made sense.

Laird Dunn and Lady Elayne stood on the dais before them. Lorne’s father stood beside them. They looked out over the gathering, smiles on their faces. Tiernan gave Lorne a knowing nod and a smile. The pride and unfettered joy he saw in his father’s eyes, something he’d never seen before, made Lorne’s heart swell.

Over the weeks after Diana’s rescue, they had become close. They were developing the sort of relationship Lorne had always wanted. Had always chased. It seemed odd to have that sort of relationship developing now that he was older, but he thought perhaps because it was something he’d always craved but never had, he had learned to appreciate it more than he would have if he’d had it as a child. Whatever the case, he was glad to have grown as close to his father as he had.

“Are ye ready?” Diana whispered. “Last chance tae back out.”

“Maybe I should take it then.”

She slapped his arm playfully and giggled. “Beast.”

“Aye.”

Lorne looked across the aisle to Gavin, who was puffed up and smiling. Moved up in position had done wonders for him. But not nearly as much as being with Beatrix had. In the weeks since they’d first come to Castle Macgillivray, Lorne had seen his cousin grow and change. Had seen him eschew some of his childish habits in favor of a more adult view of things. He had started to take things a bit more seriously.

Oh, he was still sarcastic and prone to bad jokes, and there were times he didn’t seem to take things all too seriously, but Gavin was growing into a man before his very eyes. More than that, he was growing into somebody Lorne knew he could count on as his chief advisor whenever they both assumed their roles once his father stepped down.

“Friends, thank ye for comin’ today,” Laird Dunn intoned. “We come together for the most auspicious of reasons. We come together to celebrate love. And joy. Tis nae often faithers and maithers get tae celebrate the weddin’ of nae just their oldest daughter, but their youngest one at the same time.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd behind them. Lorne snuck a peek over his shoulder and saw people from his own lands and many he had only just started to get to know from Diana’s. There were good people here in Clan Magillivray. They reminded him of the people back home. Hard working. Honest. Charitable. Compassionate. The two clans seemed to share many of the same values and he knew because of that the alliance they’d forged would stand for generations.

Tiernan stepped forward. “I am very proud of me son. And his cousin. Good men both. Honest. Devoted. Earnest. I am hard pressed tae name two better men,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “But now that I’ve had the chance tae meet and get tae ken the women who will be their wives, Beatrix and Diana, I cannae think of two better women for them. I dinnae need tae tell most of ye just how special these two women are. But what I admire most about them is their ability tae make both Lorne and Gavin better. I can see that Diana and Beatrix have inspired me son and nephew tae grow. Inspired them tae be more thoughtful. More compassionate. And I believe that is a testament tae how they were raised. Laird Dunn and Lady Elayne are a couple of the finest people I’ve gotten a chance tae ken.”

Lorne listened to his father words, stunned at his eloquence and loquaciousness. Growing up, he had been hard pressed to get a full sentence out of his father. But hearing him go on made him realize there were layers to his father he had yet to discover.

“We come together, Lady Elayne, Laird Tiernan, and I, tae join our families. Tae join our clans. Tae build an alliance and a kinship we all hope will last forever,” Dunn said. “And I cannae think of a better family tae unite with.”

The gathered crowd behind them applauded and the buzz of conversation filled his ears. He held onto Diana’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her smile was radiant, and she was ethereal in her wedding dress. Lorne looked at her and felt himself warm from the inside, his entire body flowing with emotion. Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked back at him.

“Are ye all right?” she whispered.

“I’m better than all right,” he replied. “Tis like a dream, tae be honest.”

“If this is a dream, I dinnae want tae wake up.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Will our brides and grooms step forward,” Dunn called.

“Here we go,” Diana said. “Last chance tae run.”

“I’ve never been so certain of somethin’ I want in all me life.”

She smiled. “Nor I.”

As Dunn, Elayne, and Tiernan stepped to the side of the dais, their priest stepped forward, looking at them with a wide smile on his face. He had been Diana’s family priest since they were young, and he knew them well. Perhaps even better than their parents in certain ways since he’d been hearing their confessions all their lives.

“We are here, before ye all and in the eyes of the Lord and in thae spirit of their love, tae join these two couples in Holy matrimony,” the priest began. “I’ve always kent that I would one day have tae marry these two women away, but I never expected it tae be the both of them on the same day.”

That got another laugh from the crowd and the priest gazed upon Diana and Beatrix affectionately. He gave Lorne a nod then Gavin.

“Ye two are marryin’ two of the finest, most upstandin’ women I’ve ever kent,” he said. “Be sure ye appreciate them. Cherish them. From today tae the end of yer days. Can ye make that commitment today? Before all these witnesses and in the eyes of God?”

Lorne nodded. “Aye, faither.”

“Aye faither,” Gavin echoed.

“Very well,” he said. “Dae we have the bridal cloths?”

Tiernan stepped forward and produced the cloth he and Lorne’s mother had bound themselves together with so many years ago. The moment he saw it, Lorne felt a stitch in his heart. He raised his gaze to his father who stood before them, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Thank ye, faither,” Lorne whispered.

“Aye.”

Their hands clasped together, Lorne gave Diana a smile as he raised them. Tiernan wound the cloth around their hands then stepped back. On the other side of the aisle, Dunn was doing the same with Gavin and Beatrix, using the same bride cloth he and Elayne had used. The two men smiled then stepped back to the dais and Elayne leaned against her husband, tears of joy spilling down her cheeks.

“In the eyes of the Lord and by all the witnesses here today, we join these two couples, Lorne Davidson and Diana Magillivray, Gavin Davidson and Beatrix Magillivray, in the bonds of love and marriage from this day until yer last,” the priest intoned, then with a proud smile, said, “yer union is recognized by God and is now sealed.”

The crowed erupted in applause and cheers as Lorne pulled Diana to him and kissed her deeply, letting her feel the depth of his emotion. She returned his kiss with equal fervor. Eventually, they parted and stared into one another’s eyes.

Lorne smiled. “From this day—”

“Until our last,” she finished.

The End.

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• The FMC appears cold or unfriendly toward the MMC, but we can tell from her inner thoughts that she’s actually interested.
• The FMC is kind or respectful to the MMC without acting overly bratty or difficult, since excessive brattiness can make her unlikeable.

I like stories where the MMC saves the FMC from danger (e.g. bandits or brigands) and then... *

• Plays the hero — He ensures her safety, promises to take her home, and acts like a protective savior (damsel in distress trope).
• Plays the villain — He decides to use her for his own purposes, takes her with him, and their dynamic becomes one of opposites attract (enemies to lovers trope).

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Two months later, Castle Ferniehurst

“’Tis time tae go down tae the chapel, Constance,” Agnes said, her voice full of excitement as she looked admiringly at the bride.

“Yes, I am ready, if Morag has finished with my hair,” Constance replied, jittery with nervous anticipation.

“Aye, just a few more moments tae get things perfect,” the maid told them, fussing over the folds of Constance’s beautiful ivory brocade wedding gown in front of the long mirror.

“I love my dress,” Constance sighed happily, hardly believing how flattering it was to her figure and how sophisticated she looked. It had a high, tight bodice that nipped in her waist, a fashionable sweetheart neckline, and long, narrow sleeves trimmed with the same floral embroidery as the overskirt.

“She makes a lovely bride, tae be sure,” Agnes agreed, opening the chamber door in readiness for their departure. “Bane is gonnae be thrilled when he sees ye, Constance,” she added with a giggle. “And I bet he’s gonnae be lookin’ right braw in his weddin’ clothes as well.”

“I think he will, and I can hardly wait to see him,” Constance replied with a twinkle in her eye.

“Ye mean out of them, surely?” Morag observed cheekily, finally satisfied with the adjustments to Constance’s dress. That sent them all off into fits of laughter, even young Amelia, though her cheeks turned bright pink, as did Constance’s when she looked in the mirror.

“Now, have ye got yer strip of ribbon fer tyin’ the knot?” Morag asked, bustling around the room in search of it.

“I have it here,” Agnes aid from the doorway, waving a piece of lace ribbon. “Come along, girls, we must hurry or Connie will be late fer her own weddin’.”

“We’re coming,” Amelia said, joining Agnes in the doorway. Constance tuned towards them and stopped for a moment, flooded with emotion to see her sisters side by side in their beautiful bridesmaids dresses.

“Oh, you both look so lovely. I am honored to have such gorgeous ladies as my attendants,” she told them, going over and kissing them both on the cheek.

“I would hug you, Connie, but I am afraid of creasing our dresses,” Amelia confessed, blowing her a kiss instead.

“Aye, me too,” Agnes agreed, doing same.

“Nosegay, Nosegay!” Morag muttered, picking up the posy of flowers and handing them to the bride.

“I cannot hope to be wed without my nosegay. Thank you for remembering, Morag,” Constance said, laughing. She held out her wrist to Agnes, who tied the strip of ribbon around it. It would match the one Bane would be wearing on his wrist. The forming of the knot around their joined hands would be a symbol of their union that would be carefully kept for future generations to admire.

“Now, come along, ladies,” Morag chivvied them out of the doorway and into the hall, where Constance took up the lead of the procession, with her bridesmaids following behind, holding the short train between them as they made stately progress along the hallway towards the staircase.

“Are ye nervous?” Agnes asked Constance as they carefully negotiated the stairs.

“I am, yes, but I think I am happy more than nervous,” Constance replied.

“She cannae wait tae be Lady Graham officially,” Agnes teased.

The bride’s party reached the bottom of the staircase, glided across the vestibule, and came to a halt outside the great doors of the castle chapel. There, her father was waiting, done up in his fully lairdly regalia, smiling warmly at them.

“Father, you look splendid,” Constance exclaimed, impressed.

“I need tae dae me daughter justice. Ye look radiant, lass,” he told her, proudly. “And the bridesmaids will be attractin’ a few admirin’ looks from the young feels at the cèilidh later on, I venture,” he told her sisters jovially, taking Constance’s arm in his.

“Do I look well? Do you think Bane will like my dress?” Constance asked her sisters, feeling a little more nervous than before, now the ceremony was only minutes away.

“Why, ye’re as pretty as a picture, Sister,” Agnes assured her, her own cheeks pink with excitement.

“Ye are the most beautiful bride ever, Connie,” Amelia said, nodding her agreement with Agnes. “I am sure Bane will fall in love with you all over again when he sees you.”

“Oh, you are both so sweet!” Constance exclaimed, thankful to have both her sisters with her on this most important day of her life.

“Are ye ready?” her father asked her.

Constance took a deep breath. “Yes, I am ready,” she replied, “but my legs have suddenly become awfully wobbly. I hope I do not trip over and make a fool of myself.”

“Dinnae fear, lass, lean on me. I’ll hold ye up,” her father assured her.

“Aye, ye willnae trip, silly. Now, let’s go and get ye married,” Agnes said, beaming at her joyfully. “Just try tae remember yer vows and dinnae swoon too much over yer groom,” she added jokingly, pushing the doors open.

The chapel was brightly lit by hundreds of candles, and the enormous space was packed with friends and dignitaries from the neighbouring clans who had come to witness the wedding. The congregation turned to smile at Constance as she entered on the laird’s arm.

She began the walk up the aisle between the pews, smiles and happy faces on both sides, glad to have her father’s steadying presence next to her.

Her attention went instantly to the imposing figure waiting for her at the altar, her heart leaping in her breast as she drank in Bane’s appearance. It began to race as reality set in. After all they had gone through together, it was like a dream come true to know that the big, handsome, splendidly attired man waiting for her would soon be hers forever.

A thrill ran through her to see how handsome he looked in his dark, fitted jacket, white linen shirt with ruffles at his throat, and a full kilt in her father’s tartan. The outfit set off his powerful physique perfectly. He was gorgeous!

As she drew nearer, and he turned and smiled at her, she thought her legs would finally give way. She leaned on her father’s arm and gathered the strength to walk the last few paces to stand at his side.

“Good luck, lassie,” her father whispered to her as he handed her over to the groom. Bane took her hand gently in his and looked deeply into her eyes, his own twinkled, full of love for her. She squeezed his hand and gazed up at him in a daze of happiness, trying to tell him silently how much she adored him.

“Ye look stunnin’ in that dress, Connie, I didnae think ye could be more beautiful, but I was wrong,” he whispered, his gaze sweeping over her appreciatively.

“Thank you, Bane. And you look incredibly handsome,” she whispered back, basking in his admiration while simultaneously thrilled by the sight of him.

The minister took up his position behind the altar, then and opened his bible, so they both looked forward. The ceremony began. Most of it passed in a daze for Constance. She found it very hard to focus on the solemn words with Bane standing next to her looking so dashing. She simply could not wait to be his wife.

Nevertheless, she managed to remember all her vows, which meant so much more when she spoke them looking into Bane’s eyes. When Bane said his in return, she felt tears of emotion threatening to fall, they meant so much to her. But somehow, she held back the tears.

Before she knew it, it was time for the handfasting. Tav was acting as Bane’s helper. He too was resplendent in his full kilt as he stepped up and used his dirk to make long, shallow cuts across the bride and groom’s palms. He pressed them together so the blood would mingle, then bound them up with the strips they both wore around their wrists.

The centuries-long tradition was completed after the ritual words were spoken, solemnizing the handfasting. The happy couple exchanged loving looks as they slowly pulled their hands apart. The strips formed a perfect knot, which Tav carefully removed and took away, to be carefully kept as a lasting symbol of their union.

Soon after that, the minister closed his bible and announced with a benevolent smile, “I now declare ye man and wife.” He nodded at Bane in encouragement and told him, “Ye may now kiss the bride.”

Elated to be his wife, Constance returned Bane’s kiss with enthusiasm as they stood before the congregation. “I will always remember our first kiss as a married couple,” she whispered to Bane.

“Aye, ’tis engraved on me heart, but ’tis just the start of many more tae come,” he promised, giving her another just for good measure.

“I am now officially Lady Graham,” she said excitedly, hugging his arm. “Oh, I feel wonderful!”

“Aye, I think I’m gonnae enjoy bein’ yer husband very much,” he told her, squeezing her arm with his.

The congregation roared their approval of the kiss. Constance’s heart felt as though it would burst with joy as she clung to Bane’s arm and they walked down the aisle to accept the storm of congratulations awaiting them.

Bane received a hefty backslapping from Tav and her father, as well as a hearty handshake from his brother-in-law, Laird Knox Stewart, the husband of their adopted sister Fia. Fia showered him and Constance with affectionate kisses, obviously delighted to see her big brother happily wed.

Agnes and Amelia were now being escorted by a happy looking Henry, and all three wished them both every happiness and kissed the bride, while Henry enthusiastically pumped Bane’s hand and said he was proud to call him brother- in-law.

“This the happiest day of my life, Bane,” Constance told her new husband, ecstatically. “I do not think I could ever be happier.”

“’Tis the best day of me life bar the one when I abducted ye in that wood,” he told her with a grin, seizing her around the waist and kissing her. “I’m sure I can find some way tae make it even happier fer ye, but that will havetae wait until a bit later,” he told her with a cheeky wink.

Constance laughed as she blushed, knowing he always kept his promises.

The End.

Best selling books of Shona

★★★★★ 201 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 127 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 186 ratings

Read the book