Through it all, Aidan held her and soothed her. Told her he loved her.
“What a story this will be to tell our child,” she said finally. “When their father proposed, their mother wept.”
“Ah, well, they will know us both. They'll understand. That will be quite a story to tell our child someday.”
“Say... in eight months, perhaps.”
Now it was Aidan's turn to stare at her, shock on his face.
“You mean—”
“It is early. But yes. I am as sure as I can be.”
She had never seen joy overtake anyone like it overtook Aidan in that moment, He held her close again, but this time, there was a care there, as if he was afraid he might shatter her.
“Margaret. Darling Meggie. Say it. Please. I fear I'll die if you don't.”
She knew it so truly in her bones that she almost wondered that it needed to be said at all, but he was right.
“I love you, Aidan. I will marry you.”
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epilogue
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Doone Castle, Scotland
April 1303
They had married fast, only partially because Margaret was right, and she started to show. All of the sly jokes from the MacTaggart clan aside, however, it was more as if neither of them wanted to wait any longer. They had been through so much, waited so long for each other, that every day they were not man and wife was a kind of affront.
The wedding was on the first of December, brilliant white snowflakes coming down to kiss her face, and when Margaret faced Aidan in front of the priest, as the ancient words were said and their kin cheered for them, she knew that her life was full. The love that bloomed between them only seemed to get stronger every day, and as she took on her role as the lady of Doone Castle, she knew that she was where she was supposed to be. Her mother came to live with them, leaving her drafty cottage. She and Mairi were fast friends, their tongues moving as fast as their spindles as they wove together.
As Margaret's body swelled, Maisie came to sit with her more and more. Her love for the silent pale girl surprised her, and when she pressed Maisie's hand to the growing rise of her belly, she felt as if a circle was complete.
Things were quiet that winter. It was a little lonely, with Reade and Elizabeth at Leister Castle, but Margaret had Aidan, and when the day's work was done, when they could stop being the laird and his lady and only be themselves, she felt happier than she ever had.
“Do you ever worry about it?” she asked him one night, when the winds blew hard over the towers of the castle.
“Worry about what?”
“That this will end.”
“All things end, Meggie. I just trust that the next thing will be just as good. We will be stronger. We will love each other more. We will have more children to share that love with, and we will grow wiser.”
He leaned over to kiss her furrowed brow.
“Don't buy trouble before you need to, lass. I will be here to care for you then, too, and to tell you that you ought not worry.”
Their kiss turned deeper, and she put her thoughts away, because after all, how could she worry about anything when she was overcome with the passion that they shared? In their bed, trouble was never allowed, and whether they were giving in to their passion or they were simply holding each other, it was perfect.
Then one day, change did come, and Margaret knew that she could never, ever be ready for it.
The rider had come from Aberdeen, and at first, there was no getting anything out of him. He fell out of the saddle as if he were a ragdoll, and it was only after they fed him and gave him some well-watered wine that he could speak.
He's only a boy. Margaret’s hand rested on her belly. The people of Doone Castle clustered close, but the messenger only had eyes for Aidan.
“Edward's broken the peace,” he said, his voice surely too thin and reedy to deliver such terrible news. “He has broken the king's peace. He prepares to march north to Aberdeen.”
The cry went up immediately, the people around her outraged, afraid, and confused. Eventually, Aidan would speak to them, tell them what it meant for Clan MacTaggart. For now, he only glanced at her, and in that one look, she could see the grief, the bravery, and the love that lived in him.
Oh, my darling. What shall we do?
Aidan went to question the boy further, but she was the lady of Doone Castle. She sent the people back to their tasks, asking them not to gossip until they knew more. She found the gangling young boys who served as riders and messengers, because no matter what he decided, Aidan would want to get word to Reade at Leister, to the MacKinnons and the MacRaes and all the others who would want this news sooner than later. She told the boys to be ready to ride, and she went on about the business of being who she was, a part of Clan MacTaggart. That was, after all, Aidan's heart as much as she was.
Maisie appeared at some point, shadowing her steps, and squeezing her hand when Margaret had to rest for a moment.
“Trouble,” Maisie pronounced.
Margaret choked on her laugh.
“Yes, but we will still love each other throughout it. I love you so much, Maisie, and we will always take care of you.”
Comforting the little girl helped comfort her, and she held it together all day.
When Aidan finally came to their bedroom, however, she threw herself into his arms. For a moment, he hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her head. She could feel him drawing his strength from her, and she swore to be strong enough to support him, to protect him as fiercely as he protected the world they lived in.
“It might be nothing. Longshanks likes to show his teeth. He might simply move his troops north and south again to air them out.”
She looked up at him, searching his face. She knew him well now, and neither of them could lie much to the other any longer.
“Do you truly believe it?”
Aidan paused, and then shook his head.
“No. I do not.”
Margaret swallowed hard, taking his hand. She knew where she belonged. She knew that she would never be parted from him in the ways that mattered, even if he was on a battlefield far away.
“I love you, Aidan. I love you so. We will survive this.”
He touched her face and then reached down to touch her swelling belly as well. He thought a girl, and she a boy. She wondered which of them would be correct come the height of summer.
“We will. Our love will guide us, and I will love you and our children forever.”
Despite the darkness that had suddenly come to overtake their world, Margaret felt as if they were lighting a candle together
Hope and love, she thought, and the world grew a little less dark.
* * *
Elsewhere
Others might like to divide the world into increasingly smaller territories, MacKinnons here, MacRaes here, MacLeods over there, and MacTaggarts here, but Ava liked to think that she was beyond all of it.
Scotland was hers, hers to roam, hers to see, and from the time when she had lit out of her father's control when she was fifteen, it had all been exactly as she wanted it.
She was Ava Fitzpatrick, the bastard girl of Patrick Blair of Clan Blair. She rode as well as a man, and she had stolen more cattle than some clans had herds, and no one liked to get in her way.
Yes, it's been a great deal of fun... I suppose it had to end sometime.
The people who had surrounded her, howling their heads off about theft and witches, were not people she knew. She had roved farther than she should, stolen something that ought not have been stolen, and now it sounded as if they were not going to be satisfied until they had her blood.
“Witch!” they howled. “Demon!”
Well, make up your minds. Ava worked frantically at the ropes that held her hands behind her back. Am I a witch or a demon?
She had to continue thinking like that because if she didn't, if she looked ah
ead to what was being built in the square just a dozen yards away from her, she would freeze. She would beg and scream and cry, and she may not have known much, but she knew that Ava Fitzpatrick did not do any of those things.
So instead, she kept her face down so that no one else would think she needed another kick, and she worried at the ropes behind her. Her wrists were worn raw, but she kept twisting them, trying to get some kind of looseness into the thick fibers, any inch that would let her slip her hand free.
I just want a hand free, just one hand. Please. Just one.
Of course, she had no idea what she might do if did get a hand free. The square was still crawling with people. She was still surrounded, and with her short black hair and her trews, she looked nothing like the women of the town. They knew a stranger like they knew a weasel in the rabbit hutch, and they would be happy to tie her up again if they caught her.
If she didn't try, however, she would freeze, and she refused.
So, she kept working on her bonds, and the entire time, the men of the town, the ones too busy to scream for her head, worked on setting the stake at the center of the square, worked on bringing in wood, so much wood, as much wood as they could get.
That's so much wood for one woman, Ava thought, but then she wrenched her thoughts away from it again. No. Don't think of that. Think of your hands. If you can get your hands free, that will be more than you had a little while ago.
Then the cry went up, and two brawny men wrenched her to her feet. Ava gasped at the new bruises she was getting on top of her old bruises, and they started to drag her forward.
Now there was no way to avoid looking at the stake and the tinder around its base, cords of firewood enough to keep a family warm through a month of cold days. Ava Fitzpatrick did not break, but it was a close thing just then.
Please, she thought, even if she didn't know who she was asking. Please. Please.
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Preview of Next Book
Thank You
for reading my book.
The Highlander’s Lost Bride is Book 02 in the series.
The next book is targeted to release on 05th April.
While waiting…
If you have enjoyed reading it, I believe you will enjoy reading the previous book.
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Here is the sneak preview of the previous book
See below …
PROLOGUE
April 1302
Blaken Keep near Ayr, Scotland
The nights in Ayr felt longer than they had ever felt in London. Elizabeth Kendall had not slept well since coming north, and close to dawn, she gave up sleeping at all. She rose from her bed, ignoring the cold flagstones under her feet, and walked the long halls of Blaken Keep, not sure what she was looking for, but knowing she would not find it in her own cold bed.
Her mind was still a blank most days, a tangle of grief and sorrow and anger at the circumstances that had taken her family from her. She felt like a ghost, but then, just as she was coming to a corner, she overheard two women talking, and it changed everything.
“Go on wit' you, Gwen. Surely not!”
“As I live and breathe, it's the truth! He's already sent for a dispensation from the king himself in Londontown, hasn't he?”
“Oh, but he can't, not with that little mouse.”
Elizabeth froze. Instinctively, she stepped a little closer to the wall.
Elizabeth knew how they spoke of her in Blaken Keep, and when she heard the word mouse, there was only one person that they could be speaking of.
She was the Southern girl, too delicate for the Northern winters, too pale for prettiness, and too quiet to be a favorite. In her mourning black, she was as washed out as a ghost, an unattractive one at that, with the tip of her nose always pink from the cold drafts that swept the castle from north to south and a cool damp to the air that left her hands and feet stiff.
She didn't mind it, and there was even a part of her that liked it. There was a kind of justice to it, after all. Her mother and father and baby brother were all dead from the plague that had swept through London, and it seemed a frightful injustice that she should be left behind, still healthy though pale and thin as a stick of sugar.
“True as I am alive! Sally had it from Tom that all his lordship was waiting on was the king's yes, and then he'll take Little Miss Mouse to wife,” continued the one named Gwen.
“I don't believe it. There's no way the church would stand for it. She's his own niece, his sister's girl. It isn't right!”
“Of course, it ain't right, that's why he sent a fat purse of gold with the letter, didn't he? And poor old Longshanks, fighting the barbarians in the North, he'll let a lord marry a goat if it puts some money in his war coffers, won't he?”
“Augh, you've got a filthy turn of mind, girl, and no mistake!”
The voices faded away, and Elizabeth pressed her hand over her heart, which was surely beating too fast.
No, there's no way. He cannot think to marry me...
As the idea sunk in, however, Elizabeth could feel the pieces that had heretofore been left cluttering her mind locking together like links in a chain. It made all too much sense.
Why else would her uncle, Lord William Blaken, the coldly formidable Earl of Wessex, appear after her family's burial, preventing her from entering the convent as she had intended? Why else would he bring her to Blaken Keep, so close to the border and so far away from her father's family?
Elizabeth had never met the Earl of Wessex before he arrived two days after the funeral. He appeared out of the January storm like some kind of fairy out of a legend, and the next morning, she found herself packed up like a load of luggage on a rather ill-tempered gelding, wrapped up in a wool cloak that barely kept out the chill, surrounded by grim-faced guards and following her uncle north.
She hadn't had a great deal of time to question much of anything as they traveled through the freezing temperatures, and when she arrived at Blaken Keep, she had fallen into a fever so deep she'd thought she would die.
Elizabeth didn't like to remember the dreams that she had during those times. She dreamed often that she was lying in an oven, the hot flames rising up around her. Outside the iron slats, she could see twisted and demonic faces laughing at her as gnarled hands pumped the bellows. That was when her fever had grown so great that they had thought she might die, and a priest had been brought in to administer her last rites. Those dreams were terrible, but worse were the dreams where she was still in the house in London, the one her mother kept so sweet and her father protected so well.
In those dreams, she was still herself, Elizabeth Kendall, Mary and Paul's daughter, Peter's loving older sister. She sang and laughed and spun and danced, and she was more than a narrow girl in black who sometimes could not speak because her grief was so great it sat in a lump in her throat. In her dreams, she helped her mother manage the house, and she helped little Peter with his letters. In her dreams, she was properly living rather than being a shade who couldn't decide whether she should stay or follow the rest of her beloved family.
On the night before her fever broke, Elizabeth remembered her mother standing beside her bed. Mary Kendall looked not as Elizabeth had seen her last, pale and sunken, her face marred with pox, but smiling and plump as Christmas.
“Now, darling,” her mother had said with a voice that sounded as if it came from far away. “You must not linger here. This is not your place yet. We will be together again, but not for a very long time. Right now, you have other work to see to, my girl, and I know you are no slug-a-bed.”
“Mother... Mother, I miss you so. It's so hard, and I am so tired...”
Her mother had leaned in to kiss her, and the press of her mother's lips against her forehead brought a refreshing cool to Elizabeth's entire body.
“I know you are, my pet. And I'm sorry to say that you will be more tired and more ill-used still. But take heart. Go nort
h and find the answers that you need. Go north.”
“Mother, what's in the North? I don't understand.”
“North. Remember it, my baby, my most precious girl. Go north.”
The instructions had echoed in her head, whether she wanted them or not, for the next two months. In the end, that was why when Elizabeth Kendall fled her uncle's house in a maid's stolen dress. With nothing more than a bag of food, some pilfered money, and a few pieces of her mother's jewelry, she went north.
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CHAPTER 01
Glasgow
Reade MacTaggart had thought he liked Glasgow for about two weeks. It was Scottish, after all, and after his travels through the South, it was a blessing to eat food the way he liked it best, to talk with people who didn't stare when he forgot to smooth down his accent, and where he could get a proper drink or three if he was so inclined. It was a wild town, full of people displaced by the war between Edward Longshanks and the lairds of Scotland, full to bursting with people out to make their fortune, save their lives, and see what might be left after Edward of England and Robert the Bruce began their unsteady peace.
In two weeks’ time, however, he had also found it to be cramped, dirty, and full to the brim with men who had lost one fight or another and were looking to get their own back, whatever that meant.
All right, Aidan, I've been in the damned Lowlands since before Christmas. If you want more, I'll send you south myself and stay snug at Glen Farren for summer.
Reade knew that his older brother hadn't asked him to go south lightly, and as the heir to the clan head, doing so might have proved costlier than Clan MacTaggart could bear.
“It's going to have to be you, Reade, and sorry I am for it,” his older brother had said.
“Of course, it has to be me. You'd lose your temper inside of a day, and we'd hear of you hanging off the Tower walls, wouldn't we?”
“Just be careful. We can't spare a one of us, and much as I would love to be free of your stupid jokes, Clan MacTaggart needs you, little brother.”
Reade had left almost as soon as word had come north of Robert the Bruce's capitulation to Longshanks. There was too much going on in the South for Clan MacTaggart to stay ignorant, and so Reade had gone.
The Highlander’s Lost Bride (The Highlands Warring Clan Mactaggarts Book 2) Page 21
