Was there a part that bored or that you didn't really like in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything. You could say no if nothing bothered you.

Which was the part you liked most in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything that you enjoyed.

When it comes to Scottish romance, what level of steam do you enjoy? *

• 2–3 steamy scenes that serve as key turning points in the relationship
• Little to no steam — closed-door moments only

When it comes to series, you prefer: *

• Long series (10+ books) where each story stands on its own with only light connections between them
• Shorter series (5–6 books) that are more closely connected but still standalones, with recurring characters appearing across sequels
• Shorter themed series (5–6 books) united by a common premise — for example, a royal decree forcing Scots to wed English brides, a nunnery setting, single fathers, or a secret bride auction

Anything else you'd like to share?

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Eilean Donan Castle, ten months later

Ewan was sweating. He’d been training with Duncan all morning in the training yard and his arms were aching with the effort of holding his lance for far too long.

Duncan dismounted. “Enough, Braither. I cannae last without taking some nourishment and quenching me thirst. Ye’ve had me here since daybreak and I’ll nae continue being pounded by ye.”

“Apologies, lad. It was nae me intention tae wear ye tae a husk, but me mind is elsewhere as ye well ken.”

“Och, Ewan. Mayhap ‘tis time fer ye tae take yerself tae the chamber and consult wi’ the midwife. ‘Tis a while since Tyra’s pains started.” Duncan rubbed his arms. “D’ye wish me tae keep company wi’ ye. I ken ‘tis a matter that sore troubles ye.”

Ewan shook his head. “Nay, lad. ‘Tis me duty tae be there.” He laid down his lance and splashed his face with water from the barrel beside the fence. After drying off on a rough towel he looked up at the window in the steep stone wall of the keep where he knew the chamber he shared with Tyra would be.

Only now, the room had been transformed into a birthing chamber.

It had been shortly before dawn when Tyra had gently tugged his arm and wakened him. They had been ready for their wean for at least a week, Tyra feeling hints of labor pains almost daily.

“’Tis our wean. He’s coming,” she said quietly.

He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding like Thor’s hammer in his chest.

After that, things had happened fast.

In no time, Esmé had arrived, followed soon after by the village midwife Senga and two of her young apprentices.

He had been bundled unceremoniously from the chamber while orders were given for water to be boiled and for a small mountain of clean linen cloths to be made available on a nearby table.

Meanwhile Senga had laid out a collection of bowls, ladles, and other implements he was unfamiliar with while the healer had prepared a tisane for Tyra to drink, which she claimed would help to shorten the painful process of giving birth.

Tyra had looked at him and nodded before he left the room. He’d given her a quick kiss on her forehead and allowed them to shoo him out. He’d waited outside for some time as the women took over, but, aware that he was about as useful as an udder on a bull, or, for that matter, as a husband at a laboring woman’s side, he’d taken himself off to Duncan’s chamber.

As he’d fidgeted and paced, his brother had suggested they take to the training yard for a bout of jousting. It was as good a way as any to distract himself from the fear roiling in his belly and the thoughts that were taking him back almost six years to another time when he’d waited, just as he was today.

“Well, ye can come wi’ me tae the solar. I daresay ye could dae wi’ some nourishment. Ye’ve nae had a crumb tae eat or so much as a drop of water past yer lips.”

Ewan accompanied Duncan to the solar although he had no appetite. He knew Tyra would have naught but a tiny cup of water or ale as the hours wore on.

They were served the usual fare to break their fast – bowls of porridge, eggs, oatbread, butter and jam – but he might as well have been eating sawdust. Every mouthful was dry and tasteless in his mouth.

Duncan poured them each a tankard of ale. “Braither, have some ale tae quench yer thirst after the joust. Ye must be parched.” He quaffed his own ale thirstily.

He sipped the ale, losing himself in restless thoughts. Finally, when he could bear the waiting no longer, he heaved himself out of his chair.

“’Tis past time when I must be there fer her.”

Duncan looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. “Are ye sure ye dinnae wish me tae keep ye company.”

Ewan shook his head. “Aye lad. I thank ye fer offering.”

His belly in painful knots and his heart pounding fiercely he made his way up the steps and along the passageway leading to the birthing chamber.

As he neared the room, he heard raised women’s voices. While he could not make out what they said, there was an urgent tone to them that chilled his blood. Then he heard Tyra cry out in a long low moan that pitched higher into a scream.

He rushed to the door, unable to contain the terror and dread. Bursting into the room he cried out “Tyra” and darted toward the bed where she lay before the young apprentice could raise a hand to halt him

“Me Laird, ye shouldnae be here,” the midwife remonstrated with him, but he brushed her aside and paced toward the end of the bed where Tyra was lying back against the pillows.

He clutched her hand. “Me love. I couldnae bear the waiting any longer.”

She turned to him with a faint smile, tightening her grip on his hand on his.

“Ewan, stay…” All at once she screwed up her face, her eyes slammed shut, her mouth a tightened into a determined line. She clutched his hand even tighter.

The midwife, who had seemed to overlook Ewan’s presence in the chamber after her initial admonishment, suddenly turned to him.

“Make yerself useful, lad. Support her shoulders while she pushes.”

He placed a strong arm around Tyra’s shoulders raising her, as she used all her strength in response to the midwife’s urging for her to “Push. Give it, lass.”

The sheet was covering Tyra from the waist, but her legs were bent and the midwife was peering under as Tyra grunted loudly, straining mightily, her face bright red with effort.

By God’s blood and all the saints in heaven, is this how we come into the world? Nay wonder they call it labor.

“One more push and it’ll be wi’ us.” Senga beamed at Ewan as he tenderly lowered Tyra back on the heaped pillows. “Not long now,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, which did nothing to quieten Ewan’s racing heart.

But the midwife’s estimation was correct. With one more almighty straining, pushing, roaring effort, the midwife was proclaiming triumphantly, “Here it comes.”

Ewan thought his heart would burst with a most terrible combination of fear and trepidation combined with the utmost exquisite joy as Senga raised herself up with the wee boy in her hands.

She wiped the wean’s eyes and was wrapping him tightly in his swaddling cloth, when, out of seemingly nowhere for such a wee soul, the wean began bellowing, loud and long.

His son’s lusty cry was, mayhap, the most beautiful sound Laird Ewan Mackenzie had ever heard.

Once the wean was swaddled, Senga passed him to his father.

“Please give this wean tae his mother tae place on the breast.”

Ewan gazed for a moment at the tiny red-faced, noisy scrap with his shock of dark hair and passed the precious bundle to Tyra.

Tyra, all smiles and rosy cheeks now – to Ewan’s amazement –reached for their son and met Ewan’s eyes. In that moment Ewan felt himself to be consumed with a great surge of overwhelming love for the two of them. That tiny new life and his beloved wife.

Dame Esmé busied herself with yet another tisane for Tyra, which she declared was especially for healing after birth.

“Drink this, Lady Tyra, it will help wi’ the after-birth.” She held the cup while Tyra drank.”

The healer brushed a hand across Ewan’s and nodded. “Dinnae fash, Laird Ewan. Yer wean is healthy. ‘Twas a good birth, and all will be well wi’ yer son and yer wife.”

As the knots in his belly slowly unraveled, Ewan leaned in to plant a soft kiss on Tyra’s pink cheek and they both gazed down at their wean who was now nestling at his mother’s breast.

“As our firstborn son, he is Kenneth Mackenzie, named fer me faither.”

Tyra grinned at her newborn son. “Welcome tae Eilean Donan, wee Kenneth.” She grinned up at Ewan. “Methinks he has yer looks, husband. I see a determined chin and yer blue eyes.”

***

Despite the rowdy celebration taking place in the banqueting hall, young Kenneth was snuggly tucked up with Tyra, fed and sleeping quietly. He’d behaved admirably during the long Christening ceremony, with hardly a peep out of him, even as he was doused with cold water at his baptism.

Tyra looked up smiling at the pride and happiness in Ewen’s eyes as one by one the elders filed past with their wives, each of them pausing to admire Kenneth asleep in his mother’s arms before they planted their silver coin in the bowl on the table. They were followed by the members of the Clan Council, each of them being careful to donate the silver coin that would promise long life and happiness to the newly christened member of Clan Mackenzie.

Once they had returned to their seats, the new Godfather, Laird Edmund of Clan MacNeacail stood to make a toast. Holding aloft the quaich, the very same loving cup that Ewan and Tyra had shared, and which had served to bear the holy water for today’s ceremony, he called the guests to order.

“On this happiest of occasions, let us all drink tae the health of me godson, Kenneth Mackenzie.” He filled the cup with wine and called on his wife, Annora, to join him as godmother, in his toast and they each took a handle and one after the other sipped the wine.

The cries of “Slàinte mhath,” rang loudly throughout the hall as the multitude of guests raised their tankards and goblets with good cheer. Most were aware of the tragic story of Ewan’s marriage to Marjory MacRae and those who did know, were doubly pleased to see his happiness.

It was much later, when the splendid banquet had been consumed and bellies were full, the musicians had played their last note and many guests were making their tired steps to their chambers that a tall and stately gray-haired man, clad in the tartan of the MacRae Clan, accompanied by a tiny, sweet-faced woman, approached the table.

Ewan rose to greet them at once. This was Laird Alexander MacRae and his wife the Lady Ellen. Marjorie’s parents.

He shook the hand of the man who had been his father-in-law, feeling a hint of trepidation.

How will they be, seeing me wi’ another and a new, healthy wean, while Marjorie and their grandchild are lost tae them ferever?

Alexander smiled, patting Ewan’s shoulder. Ewan understood at once that these two brought nothing but goodwill to him and Tyra.

“It is good tae see yer happiness after these long years of sadness.”

Ellen bent by Tyra’s side exclaiming at wee Kenneth.

“Oh, dear Ewan, he is fer all the world simply the image of yerself.”

She looked delighted, her face alight with joy as she gazed on the sleeping wean’s face.

“This is the Lady Ellen MacRae,” he said to Tyra. She went to stand to greet the older woman, but Ellen placed her hand on Tyra’s sleeve and gave a soft laugh.

“Dinnae disturb the wee soul, he’s so peaceful.”

He exchanged a glance with Tyra and she gave a tiny nod, indicating she understood who these two were.

“Would ye care tae hold him?” She cradled her wean, offering him to Ellen.

His heart swelled as he watched Ellen tenderly take the wee one from Tyra’s arms and cradle him against her breast. Her eyes glazed with tears but she smiled, gazing down at the tiny face, so round and peaceful in her arms.

Alexander was watching his wife carefully, a line of concern on his forehead. Yet when she looked up her happiness as she held young Kenneth was plain to see.

The tall man held out a small package folded in white linen. “We’ve brought this fer the wean.”

It was a silver christening cup finely wrought by a master silversmith. It was decorated with a scroll and flowers on the base and handle.

Ewan looked up with amazement. “This is a very fine gift, Laird Alexander. We are most grateful, fer it is a fine start tae our wee lad’s life on this earth.” He dipped his head, overwhelmed by the generous gift

Alexander gripped his shoulder. “Lady Ellen and meself are both hoping that when the time comes – when the lad is around seven years – that ye will send him tae us fer learning.”

Ewan understood the honor the old Laird was bestowing on him. Kenneth would become as much a part of Clan MacRae as he was part of the Mackenzies and, when he became laird, there would be an indivisible alliance between the two clans that would last forever.

“Marjorie would have wanted tae see ye happy, Ewan.”

He nodded. Alexander’s words meant more to him than gold. If there had been a tiny sliver holding back his complete happiness, it was now gone. He gazed down at his wife and his son and his heart overflowed with a joy he’d never thought possible.

The End

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