The Highlander’s Iron Hold – Extended Epilogue
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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I want to thank you for putting a man on the cover that looks exactly as you portrayed Colin. So many times, book covers do not represent the inside. IE: subject cowboy and cover has clean shaven, dress shirt, pressed slacks as the cowboy! Nooooo. We sometimes choose a book by the cover. I chose Iron Laird because of his picture. Best decision in a while!
I’m so glad Colin’s cover caught your eye and matched the man on the page! It means a lot to know Iron Laird was such a good pick for you. Thank you for sharing that—it made my day Maureen ❤️
What an enjoyable novel! I had to take breaks during the Armstrong-Fraser battle – it was so intense but detailed and well written.
So happy to hear that! Thank you so much for the support 🙏
Curious as to why Colin’s eyes are described as ‘dark’ and ‘almost black’ in the book, but in the extended epilogue, his son has ‘eyes as green’ as his own?
Thank you so much for catching that & I apologize for the confusion Sally!! Colin’s son’s eyes should be described as dark/brown, just like his father’s ❤️ Everything is fixed now, I really appreciate your attention to detail and your thoughtful reading! 🙏