Extended Epilogues

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 I start a new series, I usually… *

• Read all available books in that series before starting another series by the same author
• Don't mind exploring other series by the same author while waiting for the next installment

My ideal Scottish romance is… *

• Romantic with an element of humour
• Romantic with an element of mystery

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One month later

The carriage wheels slowed over familiar gravel, the sound echoing too loudly in Elsie’s ears.

England looked the same—soft, orderly, almost painfully gentle after the wild edges of the Highlands. The air smelled of damp earth and spring blossoms, not salt and iron. The estate rose ahead through a veil of budding trees, its pale stone warmed by the afternoon sun. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, domestic and comforting.

Elsie’s breath caught at the sight. It hadn’t been so long since she had been taken from there. And yet now, everything had changed; she had changed. She was not the same girl who had left.

She was glad to be back, of course, especially with Halvard by her side. For a long time, all she had wanted was to go back to England to see her sister, and now she was here. And yet, it seemed that she was too used to the Highlands now, to the life there, to the people. Nothing in her home seemed as familiar as the cliffs by Castle Brochel, as the winds that whipped the castle, as the people who greeted her every single day as if she was one of their own.

I suppose I belong in Brochel as much as I belong here, if not more.

Elsie pressed her gloved hands together in her lap, trying to still the trembling that had begun the moment she had recognized the curve of the drive. All her surroundings were familiar and foreign to her at once, like a dream she used to have every night but had not visited again in years.

“That’s it,” she whispered, leaning forward.

Halvard followed her gaze in silence. He looked out of place there, she thought with a pang—too large, too carved by wind and war for those manicured grounds. And yet, the steadiness of his presence beside her was the only reason she was breathing at all.

Sten craned his neck toward the window. “Seems quiet. Are we certain they expect visitors?”

Elsie laughed weakly. “Selene must be somewhere.”

When their carriage came to a stop, Halvard was the first to step out, followed by Sten. Then he offered his hand to Elsie and she took it, letting him help her down.

The familiar scent of roses drifted up to her and she inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp air. It was warmer there, much more so. The breeze stirred her cloak and her hair, but there was no wind to whip her cheeks red. Though it was a cloudy day, the sky had a brighter quality to it, something Elsie couldn’t quite name, even if she felt it in her bones.

And just as Elsie took the first step towards the estate, the front doors of the house flew open.

A woman burst out onto the steps, her skirts hitched up without a care, her hair half-pinned and wholly forgotten. She stared toward the carriage as though afraid it might vanish.

“Elsie?” she called, her voice trembling between hope and disbelief.

Elsie broke into a sprint immediately, her heart leaping to her throat.

“Selene!”

They collided halfway down the path. Selene’s arms wrapped around her so tightly Elsie’s feet left the ground. A sob wrenched itself from Elsie’s throat even as she laughed in delight—a sob that was echoed by Selene, the two of them clinging onto each other as if they could hardly believe the other was real.

“You’re here,” Selene said. “God, Elsie… I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. For the longest time I thought… I thought…”

Selene couldn’t even finish her sentence, but she didn’t need to. Elsie knew precisely what it was that her sister had feared. For a long time, she had thought her dead.

“I know,” Elsie whispered into her sister’s hair. “I know. I’m here now. I’m safe.”

Selene pulled back just far enough to cup Elsie’s face, her hands trembling.

A sigh of relief escaped Selene. For a long time, she simply stared at Elsie, but then footsteps echoed behind them as Halvard and Sten approached.

Selene froze.

Naturally, Elsie had written to her sister at the first chance she had gotten, and she had told her everything about Halvard and their wedding. Now Selene was looking at both him and Sten with suspicion, as if she didn’t quite trust either of them with her.

“My husband is the one on the right,” said Elsie. “The blond one with the blue eyes.”

Selene’s eyes narrowed as if in disapproval, and Elsie immediately knew it was not going to be easy for Halvard to gain her trust.

“Did he kidnap you?” Selene asked flatly.

“What?” Elsie laughed outright now. “No!”

“Because if he did, I will kill him,” Selene continued calmly.

A shadow fell across them.

“Understandable,” Sten said, appearing beside them. “I had the same thought when I met him.”

Halvard stepped forward then, removing his gloves with deliberate care, as though unsure where to put his hands. He inclined his head, clearly bracing himself.

“Lady Selene Montgomery,” he said, his accent thick and unmistakable. “I am Halvard MacLeod. Yer sister’s husband.”

Selene turned to him slowly.

She took him in from head to toe—his height, his breadth, the scars he did not bother hiding, the quiet watchfulness of a man who expected trouble even here.

Her brows rose.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re that kind of Scot.”

Halvard blinked. “I suppose so. Whatever that means.”

“You look like you wrestle storms,” Selene continued. “And occasionally win.”

Sten snorted, glancing at Halvard from the corner of his eye. “Aye, he’s the kind o’ man who would fight a storm. Stubborn as a mule, this one.”

“And you are?” Selene asked Sten, her eyebrows shooting even farther up, all the way to her hairline.

“Sten MacInroy,” said Sten, offering Selene a bow. “Laird MacLeod’s right-hand man an’ second-in-command.”

“Right,” said Selene, clearly unimpressed. “Another warmonger.”

“Only a hired hand, I assure ye,” said Sten, in his usual charm, with a smile that was almost enough to blind everyone in the gardens. “An’ in the past, too. Now I occupy meself with nobler things.”

“Such as?” Selene asked.

“Embroidery.”

Next to her, Halvard had to suppress a laugh, and Elsie found herself groaning as Selene glared at Sten. But knowing her sister, Elsie was certain she would come around soon enough. It was all for show—just so that neither man would underestimate her, as they often did. Once she was certain neither of them meant harm, there was no doubt in Elsie’s mind she would soften right up to them.

But until then, her gaze returned to Halvard.

“So, what makes you the right husband for my sister?”

Elsie groaned. “Selene, please.”

Selene crossed her arms over her chest, showing no signs of backing down. “I’m assessing him.”

Halvard nodded gravely. “As ye should.”

That earned him a sharp look—and then, to Elsie’s surprise, a small smile.

“He’s polite,” Selene conceded. “That’s a point in his favor.”

They moved inside together, conversation overlapping, their footsteps echoing through halls that suddenly felt full of life once ore. It was strange for Elsie to have Halvard there.

Selene sat beside Elsie, their knees touching, as though unwilling to let go even now. A servant brought out tea and snacks for them, quietly laying everything out on the small table of the drawing room. From her seat on the plush velvet couch, Elsie could feel the warmth of the sun, scant as it was, through the large windows.

Her sister seemed agitated, shifting in her seat and huffing as if she could hardly contain herself. Then, she finally spoke the words that seemed to cause her such strife.

“You’re really going to live in the Highlands,” Selene said, wonder and worry threaded through her voice. “On an island. With…” she gestured vaguely at Halvard, “this man?”

Across from her, Halvard raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. It was smart on his part to remain quiet; Elsie, at least, was glad for it, as the last thing she wanted was for him and her sister to clash, especially during their first meeting.

“Yes,” Elsie said. “We are wedded now and I have a duty to him and the clan. And besides, it feels like home now.”

Selene pursed her lips into a thin line. “I see,” she said quietly. “More than here?”

“Oh, Selene, you know I can’t answer that,” said Elsie as she reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “This place will always be my home. You will always be my home. And I want you to come back to Raasay with us, at least for a while. I want to show you my new home, too. I want you to meet the people, to spend some time with us all.”

Selene froze, as if she had not expected the request. Then, tears glinted in her eyes, but she was quick to clear her throat and wipe them away with the back of her hand.

“So?” Elsie asked when her sister didn’t respond. “What do you say?”

For a few moments, Selene said nothing. Then, she looked up at Sten, her expression turning flat. She did not seem convinced about him.

Elsie couldn’t help but laugh, and so did Halvard. And though Sten didn’t, Elsie could have sworn a small smile appeared and disappeared within the span of a heartbeat—brief but no less real for it.

Selene leaned closer to Elsie. She said, “Are you happy?”

Her own question was quiet, serious. Silence fell over them, filling the entire room, but there was no question in Elsie’s mind. She looked at Halvard—at the way he watched her without seeming to, at how his hand was outstretched near hers as though ready to catch her if she fell.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Selene studied her for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and squeezed Halvard’s wrist, hard.

“I shall come. But if you hurt her,” she said pleasantly, “I will poison your food.”

Halvard didn’t even flinch at the threat. “That is fair. Though I must warn ye, I will never hurt her.”

Laughter filled the room, warm and unguarded, and Elsie felt something knit itself whole inside her. And when she looked at Halvard, he knew his promise to be true.

The End

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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.

Which beginning sounds more intriguing? *

• The FMC tries to run away from an arranged marriage but is captured by her father’s men. The MMC saves her and offers protection — but only if she agrees to marry him.
• The FMC attends a ball in secret and shares a kiss with the MMC, only to later realize he is her fiancé’s brother.
• The FMC stages her own death to escape her cruel father and makes a deal with the MMC: she will pretend to be his bride, and he will hide her in his castle.

How much steam do you enjoy in your romances? *

• 🔥 1–2 scenes — just a taste is enough
• 🔥🔥 2–3 scenes — the perfect balance
• 🔥🔥🔥 3+ scenes — give me all the passion and intimacy

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One year later

The Campbell stronghold lay quiet under the pale sun, the mountains rising sharp and blue around it. Snow clung to the pine branches like silver lace, and the crisp air carried the smell of woodsmoke from the great hall.

Michael stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching the frost sparkle along the stone walls. Life had finally begun to feel steady—almost peaceful again. He had grown into his new role as the laird of Clan Campbell. His men trained in the yard. Isabeau was somewhere indoors, likely fussing over their newborn son, the heir who had now secured their positions as Laird and Lady of the Clan, and who would one day inherit all of it.

No one could challenge their claim to the clan now. No one could try to take everything he and Isabeau had built together away from them.

Warmth had returned to that place—warmth Michael never thought he would have again.

Yet his heart still carried a weight he didn’t often speak aloud.

Footsteps approached behind him, light and hesitant. He knew them well. When he turned, Alyson stood there wrapped in a thick cloak, her hair pulled into a simple braid. Her face was thinner than before all this had begun, her eyes older, older than her years. A little over a year had passed since they had rescued her from the dungeons, and it was only now that she had found the courage to visit Castle Inveraray again.

A little over a year since she had asked even those she trusted not to touch her, not to approach too quickly.

“Michael,” she said softly.

He offered a small, gentle smile. “Aye, lass? Are ye warm enough?”

She nodded but didn’t move closer. Her hands tightened in the folds of her cloak, her knuckles white.

“I’ve somethin’ tae tell ye,” she said. “Both ye an’ Isabeau, if she’s about.”

Michael’s stomach tightened. “She is. Shall I fetch her?”

Alyson shook her head quickly. “Nay. Nae yet. Let me say it once first.”

He nodded, stepping back to give her space, and she looked grateful for it.

Michael still remembered her as a child, running up to him, to Tòrr, to Daemon, slamming into them, asking to be picked up, running them in circles. He remembered the times when she was carefree, lively, happy.

Now, it seemed those times would never return.

Her breath fogged the air as she searched for the words. “I dinnae want tae trouble ye with this. Ye’ve only just found peace, an’ Isabeau, she’s already suffered so much. But I… I wish tae go tae a nunnery.”

Her words were certain, unwavering, as though she had given it much thought and had made up her mind. Michael let out a long sigh, his hand coming up to run through his dark hair.

“Alyson… these things take time, but—”

She shook her head, tears brightening her eyes. “Dinnae tell me I must stay. I feel yer love, I see all the care ye all give me. But I wake every night rememberin’ everythin’. I kneel by me bed an’ I pray an’ I pray, but it never stops. It never stops. Every night, if I manage tae fall asleep, I wake in that cell again. I wake in the dungeons. An’ I ask the Lord tae help me, fer he is the only thing that brings me a little peace.”

Michael stepped forward instinctively, wishing to give her comfort but Alyson flinched, and he stopped at once.

Her tears fell freely now as she spoke, and Michael’s throat closed up, the breath choked out of him. “I cannae bear touch, even from those I love. I need tae be alone or at least among people who willnae expect me tae be as I was. I hope… I wish things will return tae how they were, but if it’s even possible, if I can dae it, it cannae be here, Michael.”

She lifted her eyes to his, their gazes meeting. They held pain, deep and raw, but also determination—more than Michael had ever seen in her eyes.

“At the nunnery,” she said, “they take in those who carry heavy hurts. It’s quiet there, away from people. An’ it’s nae too far. I hope ye can visit me.”

Michael felt something inside him break—and mend at the same time. She was the one who had gone through endless days of imprisonment, of fear, of pain. She was the one who had endured, despite all odds, and if this was what she needed, then he couldn’t refuse.

All he could do was pray for her.

He nodded. “Then that’s where ye shall go, sister.”

Alyson choked on a sob. “Ye’ll let me?”

“Aye,” he said, his voice thick, “fer as long as ye need. An’ if ever ye’re ready tae return, yer home will be waitin’. Have ye told Tòrr?”

“Nay,” said Alyson, shaking her head. “I dinnae ken if he’ll understand…”

“He will,” Michael assured her, no doubt in his mind. “We can speak tae him taegether.”

Alyson wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “Thank ye, Michael, truly. An’ Isabeau… she’ll understand, aye?”

Michael’s lips lifted. “Aye. More than ye ken.”

A soft voice came from behind them. “Understand what?”

Isabeau approached across the frosted stones, her cheeks pink from the cold, her hair wrapped in a wool shawl. She looked between the siblings, reading the tension instantly.

Alyson explained everything—halting at first, then with growing steadiness. When she finished, tears clung to her lashes.

Isabeau didn’t touch her; she knew better than that. But she stepped close enough that Alyson could feel the warmth of someone who cared. “I think it will be good fer ye,” she said softly. “I’ll miss ye terribly, Alyson. But I’ll write tae ye every week. I promise.”

Alyson’s breath shuddered, and for a brief, halting moment, she reached for Isabeau’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before she let go again. It was more physical contact than she had had in weeks, but Michael’s heart warmed at the sight of it. “Thank ye. An’ I’ll write back. I promise.”

Michael watched them both—two women bound by shared hurt and unexpected strength, and something in his chest eased.

She’ll be alright. With time, she’ll be alright.

Alyson slipped away, leaving Michael and Isabeau alone under the quiet snowfall.

Isabeau stepped closer, her gloved hand brushing lightly against his coat sleeve. “Ye did well with her,” she murmured. “Ye always dae.”

“I fear losin’ her,” he admitted, voice low. “I ken she needs this, but—”

“She’s nae lost,” Isabeau assured him. “She’s choosin’ her path. That takes bravery.”

Michael breathed out, the cold air carrying the weight of his worry away with it. He turned toward his wife—his wife of a year, though it felt both brand new and ancient, as though their bond had always existed. Her smile was soft, warm enough to melt every icy fear inside him.

He pulled her gently into his arms, careful and tender, letting her warmth seep into him. She lifted her face, her breath fanning his chin.

“She’ll heal,” Isabeau said.

“Aye,” he mumbled. “An’ so will we.”

He kissed her then—slow, lingering, full of gratitude for the woman who had risked everything to stand beside him. Her arms wound around his neck, and for a moment the world shrank to the two of them, cocooned in quiet snowfall and new love.

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the keep. And though Michael couldn’t help but feel like he had lost something, he had also gained—Alyson was healing in her own way, and so was Isabeau. He had found love and peace, and whatever awaited them, he knew he and Isabeau would face it together.

“What are ye thinkin’?” Isabeau asked him, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Naethin’,” said Michael with a small shrug. “Only how bonnie ye are.”

Isabeau’s laughter, bright as a ringing bell, was warm enough to melt the snow.

The End

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This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?

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★★★★★ 208 ratings

This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?

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★★★★★ 213 ratings

This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?

Read the book

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?

Submit

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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One Year Later…

Music carried on the warm breeze as Alec, Mairi, and Beitris led a caravan of horses and carts filled with MacMillan clansmen and women through the forest on the path leading to the village. The sun was golden, and the fields along the way were heavy and ready for the harvest.

The return of the harvest festival marked a new beginning, and much change from the previous year. Now both MacMillians and Camerons were joined in a strong alliance. And the love in Mairi’s heart lifted her spirits as much as the pipes and banners that lined the road toward the green.

As Mairi dismounted her horse and stood at the edge of the village green, her hand tucked in Alec’s, her eyes swept across the gathered crowd. Children darted past with ribbons, women balanced baskets of bread and fruit, and men raised tankards in good cheer.

“I cannae believe how far we’ve come since last year,” she said, thinking of how she had been so deep in her own grief at the last harvest fest, and all the danger and obstacles they had faced and overcome since. Where once there had been suspicion and grief, now there was only joy.

Alec looked down at her, his expression warm and teasing. “Aye, and so far there’ve been nay drunkards looking tae take yer honor.”

She laughed, the memory of how they first met still vivid in her mind. He had come to her rescue more than once, but that first meeting in the tavern, with Alec defending her honor was unforgettable. She briefly looked around half expecting to see the men who had attacked her that night lingering in the shadows.

“That may be true now, but should it change, I’m glad ye’re here tae defend me.” Her hand reached and found his, their fingers entwined, and she gave a gentle squeeze.

They moved into the center of the crowd. The festival loud and alive surrounding them, music playing and stalls of ale and roasting meats everywhere.

Mairi immediately spied her brother, Struan, sitting at a long table with his wife, Isolde, a baby on her lap and her belly full with yet another Cameron baby. A small swell of affection rose up in her chest as she approached. Mairi smiled at her brother and his growing family. She could not help but be moved by the sight of him so loved and loving in return.

“Well, look at that,” Alec said. “Is the strong, brave, Struan Cameron so easily softened?”

“Careful, MacMillan,” Struan replied, pointing to Mairi’s stomach with his dirk. “Mock me if ye must, but yer time will come.”

Isolde simply rolled her eyes at the men and their tough banter. “Pay them nay mind,” she said to Mairi. “And dinnae let me husband rush ye intae bairns.”

Mairi just laughed, reaching over and gently wiping a bit of jam from the bairn’s cheek. She thought about her future with Alec. Her heart was so impossibly full.

“When our time comes,” she said softly glancing at her husband, “I’m sure Alec will be jelly in the baby’s hands,” Mairi laughed.

Nearby, Finlay was speaking with Beitris who was sitting on a barrel, a goblet already in her hand, raised as if she were the queen on the throne.

“Keep waving that goblet around, and ye’ll spill wine all over yerself and everyone here,” Finlay said growling at the lass.

“Mind yer manners subject, or I shall have ye flogged.” Beitris laughed tossing her braid over her shoulder as she jumped down, running past before Finlay could get another word out. She leapt over some small children playing in the grass, and Finlay gave chase, only half in jest.

“God help us, if those two ever decided to join forces rather than bicker at each other,” Alec said shaking his head.

“Indeed,” Struan agreed. His smile softening the normally hard lines of his brow.

“Perhaps, they are already plotting against the two of ye,” Mairi chided, before all four of them erupted in laughter. She leaned closer, her shoulder bumping his arm, his warmth causing her to flush and smile lowering her gaze.

Alec leaned down, whispering in her ear. “Ye are quick tae smile, leannan, perhaps I should keep a closer watch on ye throughout the day.”

There was an echo of heat in his voice, the same that seemed to grow between them whenever they were together.

“Perhaps so, me’ laird. Afterall ye would nae want tae lose me.” She ran a finger down his arm before entwining her fingers with his. He ran this thumb in slow circles in the center of her palm.

“I never will,” he said placing a kiss to her temple.

He hopped down from the table where they sat and extended an arm toward her.

“Shall we see what more mischief Beitris and Finlay have gotten up tae? Perhaps we shall join them if the folly is merry enough?”

Mairi stood herself, leaning into him, and giving him a sly grin before reaching up and sealing her lips to his. Alec gave her a small moan of approval before she pulled away, hold his ice blue gaze.

“Or mayhap we should go somewhere quiet and see if we can create any mischief fer ourselves?”

***

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, the food tables were cleared and the musicians moved in closer so that the dancing could begin. The evening made warmer as a series of bonfires were lit throughout the village. Alec and Mairi sat on a worn plaid, her back resting comfortably against a thick tree. Against her tired protests, Alec stood, pulling Mairi up and twirling her into his arms.

“Have ye had a nice day?” he asked as they danced among the other couples flowing in and out of the village green to enjoy the music in the clearing.

“Aye, I have. And ye, husband? Glad we came?”

“Indeed.”

He spun her again, and when he pulled her back, wrapping her closely into his chest, he planted a soft kiss upon her lips. “Ye ken, I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Always a dangerous thing,” she countered twirling back out from him.

“Aye, but this time, I was thinking about Struan and the bairn, with another on the way.” His tone shifted to serious as he pulled her back in. Mairi stilled, stopping their dance to search his face, worried.

“Nay, naethin’ worrisome, lass” he said quickly squeezing her waist. His smile, boyish, dissolving her concern. Looking into his eyes she was settled, finding nothing but warmth in his light blue gaze. “But what would ye say tae maybe havin’ one of our own?”

“A bairn?” The word tumbled out, clumsy and heavy in her mouth. Her throat became tight with emotion.

Mairi had always dreamed of children, of having a large family of her own. Wanting her bairns to have siblings like she did, free to spend their days playing and running along the forest paths and down to the loch. She had wondered whether Alec, already having raised Beitris, would want to have another child. She imagined he would perhaps, but had not dared hope too much. She had decided Alec was enough for her and would not push. But to hear him ask? Something in her heart sprang to life.

“Of course, I want a bairn with ye,” he replied, sliding his hand up her back, holding her close. “Is that what ye want as well?”

That familiar sting of tears was back behind her eyes, as she looked up at her amazing husband.

“I want it more than ye ken,” she said.

He leaned into her, and whispered in her ear, “Then perhaps, we should start tryin’, ye think?” He kissed her lightly behind her earlobe in spot he had recently discovered made her melt. Her knees buckled slightly as he playfully nipped her.

“Ye’ve nay shame, Alec MacMillan.” She whispered before playfully swatting at his chest, a warm blush creeping into her cheeks, as a sliver of hot pleasure shot through her center.

Alec pulled her tightly to his chest, hand upon her waist pulling her close in a way that promised he would follow through with more than just a dance as they began again to sway with the music. “Come, wife,” he said. “Let’s dance until dawn creeps over the horizon.”

And they did, laughter spilling from Mairi’s lips as the world spun around them. Beneath her laughter, however, came the knowledge that when the music faded, and the world got quiet the real celebration would begin in the privacy of their shared chamber.

The End

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Four years later, MacKenzie Keep

The yard of the MacKenzie keep bustled with the sounds of daily life, hooves striking stone, voices carrying across the walls, the clang of steel from the training ring. Yet Constantine’s attention was caught not by the people, but by the peals of laughter from the small figure darting across the packed earth.

“Mama, water!” A small voice piped up from behind him, accompanied by the determined patter of tiny feet.

Constantine turned to see his daughter, Isla, toddling toward the pool of mud with the fearless confidence of a two-year-old who’d never known danger. Her copper hair, so like her mother’s, caught the light as she reached chubby hands toward the mud.

“Nae so fast, little one,” Rowena called, scooping up their daughter before she could stomp in fully clothed. Isla squealed with delight, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

“She has yer sense of adventure,” Constantine observed dryly, earning himself a pointed look from his wife.

“And yer complete lack of fear,” Rowena countered, though her voice was warm with amusement. “Remember who taught her tae climb before she could properly walk.”

“Constantine!” Lilias’s voice carried across the yard as she approached, her grown woman’s grace a far cry from the uncertain girl she’d been four years ago. At twenty-one, she’d blossomed into a beauty who turned heads at every gathering, her dark hair and quick wit drawing admirers from across the Highlands. But she’d also grown into a confident, intelligent, and fiercely loyal woman.

“The messenger’s arrived,” she continued as she reached them. “Alasdair will be here before sunset.”

Rowena shifted Isla to her hip, her expression growing thoughtful. “Good. If anyone can help us sort out what’s really happening on our borders, it’s me cousin.”

Alasdair MacDougall was Rowena’s maternal cousin, laird of a clan whose lands bordered both MacKenzie territory and the regions where the trouble had been brewing. More importantly, he was a man Constantine had come to trust completely; a steady leader with a strategic mind and the fighting skills to back up his decisions.

As if summoned by their conversation, the sound of approaching horses echoed across the gates. A small party of riders appeared, their MacDougall banners snapping in the evening breeze.

At their head rode a man Constantine recognized immediately. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of quiet authority that needed no announcement.

“That’s quite an escort fer a social visit,” Lilias observed, watching the dozen well-armed warriors who accompanied their guest.

“These aren’t social times,” Constantine replied grimly. “If Alasdair’s bringing that many men, the situation’s worse than we thought.”

“Cousin,” Alasdair called, striding forward to embrace everyone. “This bonnie lass must be the famous Isla I’ve heard so much about.”

Isla, normally shy around strangers, studied the newcomer with serious eyes before apparently deciding he was acceptable. She reached out one small hand to pat his bearded cheek, earning a delighted laugh.

“She has excellent judgment,” Alasdair declared, gently catching the tiny hand in his much larger one. “Just like her maither.”

“Flatterer,” Rowena accused, but she was smiling. “How bad is it, Alasdair?”

“Bad enough that we need tae talk privately,” he replied, his expression growing serious. “But first, let me greet the rest of the family properly.”

His eyes found Constantine, and the two men clasped forearms in the warrior’s greeting. “Braither,” Alasdair said simply. “Good tae see ye again.”

“And ye,” Constantine replied, meaning it. “How was the journey?”

“Uneventful, which is more than I can say fer—” Alasdair’s words died as his gaze fell on Lilias, who had been hanging back slightly, letting the family reunite. Something shifted in his expression, a subtle change that Constantine caught immediately.

“Alasdair,” Rowena said, following his gaze with growing amusement, “ye remember Constantine’s sister, Lilias.”

“I…” Alasdair seemed momentarily at a loss for words, which was unusual for the articulate clan leader. “I dae. I believe it’s been some time since we last met, Lady Lilias.”

Lilias stepped forward with a smile that held just a hint of mischief. “Indeed it has, Laird MacDougall.”

“Ye’ve grown intae a remarkable woman, me lady,” he managed, his voice slightly rougher than usual.

Constantine exchanged a meaningful glance with Rowena, who was trying not to smile too obviously at the byplay between their cousin and sister. This was an interesting development.

“Why dinnae we get everyone settled,” Rowena suggested. “Supper will be ready soon, and I’m sure ye’ll want tae rest before we discuss business.”

“Actually,” Lilias interjected, “I was planning tae show Laird MacDougall the new fortifications Constantine had built on the eastern wall. If he’s here about border security, he might find them interesting.”

Alasdair’s face brightened considerably at the prospect. “That would be most helpful, Lady Lilias. I’d be honored by yer guidance.”

“Then I’ll leave ye tae it,” Rowena said, hefting a squirming Isla higher on her hip. “This little one needs her supper before she becomes completely impossible.”

They made their way back inside the castle, Isla chattering happily in her mixture of words and babble as she pointed at everything that caught her interest. The domesticity of the moment, his wife beside him, his daughter in her arms, struck Constantine with unexpected force. Four years ago, he’d been a lone mercenary with no ties beyond gold and survival. Now he had everything worth fighting for.

“Ye’re matchmaking,” Constantine murmured to Rowena as they headed inside.

“I’m nae,” she corrected primly. “If anything develops naturally, well… Alasdair is a good man, and Lilias deserves happiness.”

“And a MacDougall alliance wouldn’t hurt our strategic position,” Constantine added pragmatically.

“That too,” Rowena agreed with a grin. “Though I suspect our Lilias is quite capable of making her own choices about such matters.”

As if to prove her point, the sound of Lilias’s laughter drifted across the courtyard, followed by Alasdair’s deeper chuckle.

***

Later that evening, after Isla had been settled for the night and the family had gathered for supper, the conversation inevitably turned to the troubles plaguing the borderlands.

Alasdair’s news was grimmer than expected, organized raids, coordinated attacks, and evidence of foreign coin backing the violence.

“‘Tis nae random banditry,” he explained, his weathered hands gesturing over a map spread across the table. “Someone’s stirring up the smaller clans, promising them rich rewards fer destabilizing our territories.”

“Any idea who?” Constantine asked, though his expression suggested he already suspected.

“Nay. But there’s English gold involved,” Alasdair confirmed grimly. “They’re trying tae weaken us from within before making any open moves. Classic strategy, let us bleed ourselves fighting each other, then step in tae claim the spoils.”

Lilias spoke up unexpectedly. “What about the coastal routes? If they’re using English ships tae move supplies…”

“Aye, if we could intercept their supply lines, or at least disrupt them…”

“Then the smaller clans would lose interest quickly enough,” Rowena finished. “Take away the gold, and most of these alliances will crumble.”

The discussion continued late into the evening, with ideas flowing freely between the four adults.

“It’s time fer us tae retire,” Constantine said and rose from his seat, reaching for Rowena’s hand. He guided her from the great hall, leaving Lilias and Alasdair still seated by the hearth as the fire burned low. The keep was quiet at this late hour, the heavy stones holding the day’s chill.

At the stair, Rowena hesitated, glancing toward the door of the chamber where their daughter slept. Constantine caught the look and answered softly, “She’s safe, lass. Her maid keeps watch close by.”

Rowena’s shoulders eased, though the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “Ye ken I’ll always look first tae her.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice rough with pride. “As ye should. But taenight…” Constantine stopped in front of their chamber and drew her hand more firmly into his. “Taenight I’ll have a share of ye as well.”

He opened the door to their chamber and pulled Rowena inside. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting the room in a soft, ruddy light. Constantine closed the door behind them and turned to her, his gaze dark and intent.

“At last,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “At last, we’re alone.”

Rowena laughed, the sound low and warm. Constantine bent, capturing her lips in a kiss that was tender at first, then deepened with a hunger long restrained. She leaned into him, her hands curling into the folds of his plaid, her breath quickening as his arms closed around her.

Constantine lifted his head only long enough to whisper against her mouth, “Ye’re mine, Rowena. Wife, lady, heart of me. And I’ll nae let another hour pass without showin’ ye just that.”

The End

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