Highlander Ever After

by Jennifer Ashley

  The passage was only wide enough for one at a time—or rather, one Highlander like Egan at a time. Zarabeth and Mary might be slim enough to walk side by side, although they’d have to squeeze next to each other.

  The stones had been unevenly cut but fit together almost perfectly, and were smooth with age. The tunnel floor sloped upward and ran on for a long while, Zarabeth’s legs aching with the constant climb.

  “What were these tunnels for?” she asked, her voice falling flat in the close space.

  Egan didn’t slow. “In ancient times—who knows? When the first MacDonald lived in the castle he used the tunnels t’ get behind his enemies, or t’ flee from enemies to safety. I cannae discover whether the tunnels were here first and the castle built on top, or they were made after my clan chose this place to live.”

  “What do you use the tunnels for now?” Zarabeth asked, a bit breathlessly. “Entertaining foreigners?”

  Egan barked a laugh. “Ye have a fine sense of humor, my lass. Ye raised a termagant, Olaf.”

  “She does have a forthright manner,” her father answered from behind her, amusement in his voice.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Zarabeth said, curling her fingers away from the cold walls. “You may cease now.”

  Zarabeth kept her tone crisp, but tears in her eyes threw the light of Egan’s lantern into spangles. It had been so long since she’d heard her father’s gentle banter, so long since he and Egan had bantered together. Her father was here, Egan was here, and maybe—just maybe everything would be all right.

  At last Egan halted and shone his lantern above him. Zarabeth and her father stopped behind him and followed his gaze to a black iron grill set into the ceiling. The grill was fairly new, the iron holding little rust or grime.

  Egan unlocked the grill with another large key and pushed it open. He caught the low opening above, hauled himself up to sit on the grating’s edge, and then reached back down.

  “Lift Zarabeth up,” he told Olaf. “And don’t let her look up me kilt.”

  Laughing quietly, Olaf put his hands around Zarabeth’s hips and hoisted her up to Egan. Egan caught her under the arms and pulled her through the hole, to deposit her gently on snowy ground.

  Zarabeth scrambled up and looked around her, turning in a circle. It was dark now, the stars and moon glittering on thin snow cover. The lights of Castle MacDonald twinkled in the distance, and bonfires dotted the hills above the village.

  Egan helped Olaf climb out of the hole, then he replaced the grill, locking it.

  “Where are we?” Zarabeth asked him.

  “On the hill behind the Ring of Dunmarran.” Egan creaked to his feet, brushed dirt and snow from his kilt, and signaled them to follow as he trudged down the low rise.

  The standing stones were ghostly in the moonlight, giants marching in a stately circle. The area between them was clear of snow as before, the ground in Egan’s lantern light brown-green with autumn grass.

  “A magical place,” Olaf said, his breath streaming fog. “I once came upon a stone circle in Nvengaria, high in the mountains of the north. No one knows what the stones were for—they are far older than Nvengaria itself.”

  “This one makes you tell the truth when you’re inside it,” Zarabeth said. “Or so Egan says.”

  “That’s the legend,” Egan said cheerfully. “But that’s nae why I brought ye here. Tread carefully.”

  They followed him to the first stone. The ground beyond it was snowy, but next to the stone, just outside the circle, the snow had been trampled, and something dark stained it. Egan flashed his lantern over the spot.

  “This is where I found Valentin.”

  Zarabeth stared, drawing a sharp breath. Valentin must have fought hard.

  “That’s nae all.” Egan held his lantern high. “I came out here this morning and had a look at the place. No else one has been here, because I didn’t let on where I’d found Valentin. I discovered a trail leading back to the tunnel entrance. Whoever shot Valentin was waiting for him—they were inside the tunnel looking out. When they saw him, likely in his wolf form, they emerged and went after him. Valentin was shot as he attacked, by someone ready and waiting for him to come this way.”

  Zarabeth listened in shock. Someone waiting in the tunnel until Valentin came to patrol the area meant someone who knew the tunnel was there. Knew how to open it. “You unlocked the grate from the inside,” she said, her throat tight. “Was it locked when you came out here this morning?”

  Egan nodded. “But I’m nae the only one with a key. Adam Ross has one, which hangs on a peg in the back stairs of his house—where anyone might take it. Another hangs in the kitchen of Castle MacDonald. There was a horde of people at the castle last night for Hogmanay.”

  “Still,” Olaf said slowly. “This indicates someone who knows your family’s habits.”

  “Yes.” Egan gave him a pointed look. “Someone who for some reason wouldn’t mind seeing Valentin dead.”

  Olaf held up his hands. “Not I, my friend. I arrived at Castle MacDonald in the middle of the night last night, when you first beheld me walking through your front door. I did not know Valentin was here, or who he really was until I saw him unconscious in your guest chamber.”

  Egan turned his questioning gaze to Zarabeth. She returned an amazed look, the wind whipping a tendril of her hair from its braid. “Why should I try to shoot Valentin? I barely know him, despite traveling with him. He’s …” She stopped, wanting to say he’s nearly as unreadable as you, but she changed her words. “He’s enigmatic.”

  “I don’t think either of ye did,” Egan said. “But I wanted to show ye. To warn ye that this is close to home.”

  “I see that.” Zarabeth pulled her fur cloak closer against the cold. “Do you have any idea who?”

  Egan shook his head. The breeze stirred his hair in its queue and his kilt and coat. “I’m sorry t’ say no. But I have something else to tell ye.”

  He stepped close to Zarabeth. In spite of their quarrel this morning and Egan avoiding her the rest of the day, Zarabeth’s body heated, her heart speeding as he slid his arm around her shoulders. It felt natural to lean into him, comforting and right.

  “I had another letter from Damien today,” Egan said.

  Likely on their magical paper. “What did he say?” Egan’s voice was so subdued, Zarabeth’s worry stirred.

  Egan’s eyes were quiet. “I’m sorry, love. Damien wrote that your husband was killed. Sebastian and his crowd tried to storm the palace, and there was fighting. Sebastian was shot by Damien’s defenders and died almost instantly.”

  Chapter 16

  The Stone Kirk

  Zarabeth didn’t move for an entire minute while she stared at Egan, her blue eyes wide with shock, then she wrenched herself from him and whirled to pound her fists on the back of a standing stone.

  “How could he?” she cried. “How could he?”

  Egan had no idea whether she meant Sebastian storming the city or Damien letting his men shoot him. He started to go to her but Olaf rested a hand on his arm. “Let her rage. She deserves to.”

  Zarabeth continued to pound the stone, then her fists stopped and she leaned into the stone, her body shaking.

  Egan couldn’t stay away. He eased out from under Olaf’s touch, went to Zarabeth, and gently drew her into his arms. “Hush, now,” he said, stroking her hair. “Hush, love.”

  He half expected her to burst out in anger, to say she was glad Sebastian was dead. Egan then realized he wanted her to say that, to tell him Sebastian meant nothing to her—good riddance. But as horrible as her husband had been, she’d lived with him for years of her life, shared his house, shared his bed …

  Egan glanced at Olaf and found his emotions mirrored in the older man’s eyes—anger, love, guilt, relief.

  “Olaf, my old friend,” Egan said softly. “I’d like to marry your daughter.”

  Olaf’s eyes widened. Egan waited for the man to deny him, to tell him once a
gain that he wanted much more for Zarabeth. Egan was a laird, but he was merely a landholder, not a clan chief or a titled man. Egan’s father had once been offered an earldom but had turned it down with scorn—no MacDonald of his line would accept a handout from a bloody English king, his father had said. Worse, Egan wasn’t Nvengarian—if Zarabeth married him, her home would be far, far away from her father’s.

  Olaf hesitated a long moment, then he nodded gravely. “I ought to have given you my blessing long ago.”

  “I haven’t changed much in five years.” Egan pointed out.

  “I am cursed with stubborn pride, and I had such ambitions for my only daughter,” Olaf said. “But my ambition should have been for her happiness, not her position in society—or mine.” Olaf looked sad. “I should never have sent you away.”

  “Aye, well, at the time I was a drunken lout and probably would nae have done well by her.” Egan’s face heated as he remembered some of the bloody fool things he’d done to forget first his grief over Charlie, second to forget Zarabeth. He gave Olaf a nod. “We’ll go to the kirk in the village and have it done in the morning. I know ’tis not the Nvengarian way.”

  “No matter,” Olaf conceded. “A marriage in another country is still legal in Nvengaria, and when we return home we will have a proper ceremony at my estate, with all our old friends. As it should have been years ago.”

  Zarabeth came abruptly to life, flinging herself out of Egan’s arms and swinging around to face them both. Tears wet her face, shining in the cold moonlight.

  “When were either of you going to bother to ask me?” she demanded, glaring at her father and then Egan. She spoke in Nvengarian, likely far too agitated to shout at them in correct English. “One husband is dead—here, Zarabeth, take another.”

  Egan said quickly, “Of course I intend t’ ask ye, love. But ye were afraid and grieving.”

  “Making plans while I stand here as though I can’t hear you? My wedding.” She jabbed her finger to her chest. “My life.”

  Her dark hair swirled about her face, the wind molding the furs to her body. She might be a wild witch of old, like Morag, who’d cursed his ancestors—ready to point her finger at Egan and make dire things happen.

  Egan’s body tightened at her beauty, but he pretended nonchalance and raised his brows. “Are all Nvengarian ladies so defiant, Olaf? A Scottish lass does her father’s bidding wi’out question.”

  “Ha!” Zarabeth shouted, but as Egan had intended, her tears ceased. “I will tell Gemma and your sister you believe so. I am certain they will want to have a chat with you. Mrs. Williams too.”

  Egan imagined the three ladies backing him against a wall, three pairs of Scottish female eyes glaring as they told Egan what they thought of him. He blenched. “No, thank ye.”

  Olaf remained somber. “Being the widow of Sebastian will be dangerous, my daughter. His death will not stop his faction from wanting their vengeance against you for betraying him to Damien. Allying yourself with another family will help, and Egan’s is well respected and strong.”

  Egan nodded. “Aye, I’d thought of that. I intended to make ye part of Clan MacDonald to better protect you, but as laird’s wife, ye’d have even more protection. And ye need a husband who can look after ye.”

  Zarabeth clenched her fists. “Don’t you dare marry me because you feel sorry for me, Egan MacDonald. Poor Zarabeth, all alone in the world, alone and unsheltered. I am acquainted with plenty of widows who muddle along just fine, thank you, and in fact lead fuller lives now that they’re not married. I will live in Paris or London and keep bodyguards to defend me against Sebastian’s men. I do not need a husband.”

  “But those ladies have money,” Olaf pointed out patiently. “Sebastian’s lands, wealth, and title were stripped from him when he turned traitor. Damien took everything of Sebastian’s back for the crown.”

  Zarabeth made a noise of exasperation. “Damien will not leave me destitute. He’s not a despot—he’s family. And then there’s my mother’s legacy, which Sebastian couldn’t touch, not to mention I’m your heir, Father. I thought you’d ask me to keep house for you now, seeing as you are alone.”

  Olaf’s cheeks turned pink in the lantern light. “Of course, you are welcome to come home once it’s safe. But I have only half the wealth Sebastian had, and you’re used to moving at the top of society.”

  Zarabeth gave him an astonished look. “I care nothing for that—you know I do not. I am more than ready to let the cream of society do without me.” She peered at her father in puzzlement, as though she tried to see the true meaning behind his words.

  Olaf cleared his throat and gave Zarabeth a sideways glance. “And then there’s Lady Beatrice.” He pronounced it the Italian way, Bee-ah-tree-che.

  Zarabeth blinked, her anger momentarily vanishing. “Who on earth is Lady Beatrice?”

  “Lady Beatrice Laurant. A widow.” Olaf’s flush deepened. “She has taken to staying with me.”

  “Oh.” Zarabeth stared at him as though seeing her father for the first time. “Oh,” she said again, and took a long breath. “I see.”

  “That is not to say I would not welcome you home, daughter,” Olaf said quickly. “I have told Lady Beatrice all about you, and she so hopes to meet you.”

  Zarabeth clenched and unclenched her hands, but she looked past her father, into the ring of standing stones. Egan’s heart ached for her as he watched her realize that the world had moved on, that her father perhaps no longer needed her as much as he had in the past.

  “It seems my choices have been narrowed for me,” she said, her voice quieting.

  Egan drew a breath. “I told ye a long time ago, lass—I’m naught but a whisky-soaked Scotsman in a wreck of a castle. My home wasn’t near good enough for ye then, and it isn’t now, but as ye say, your choices aren’t much.”

  “Thank you, Egan,” Zarabeth said coolly, her blue eyes flashing. She was stately, a princess in more than just name. “A proposal every young lady dreams of.”

  Egan scowled at her. “’Tis the middle the night and bloody freezing. ’Tis the best I can do.”

  Zarabeth abruptly reached out and seized both his hands in hers. “Come with me.”

  Her fingers were warm through his gloves as she dragged him into of the Ring of Dunmarran. They stumbled out of the snow onto damp grass, which did feel warmer beneath his boots. Perhaps his theory about a hot spring was not so farfetched.

  Zarabeth put her hands on Egan’s shoulders and studied him closely. He’d seen that look before, when she took a measure of a person—her eyes steady and clear, and not a little unnerving. If Morag had looked at Ian MacDonald like that, no wonder he’d found himself a nice, safe, dull bride instead.

  No, the man had been a fool. Zarabeth was beautiful, spirited, vibrant. Egan needed her in his life.

  “Why do you wish to marry me?” she asked.

  Egan cupped her shoulders, knowing that here she’d believe he spoke true. “To keep ye safe, love.” That was the truth—he’d die if it meant she’d be all right. “And because I wish to.”

  “What about Jamie?” she asked, her gaze persistent. “You are adamant about him inheriting and becoming laird.”

  Egan gave her a nod. “He still can. I dislike t’ ask ye this, because I don’t want to hurt ye. But … can ye have children?”

  If the legend of the Ring were right, Zarabeth wouldn’t be able to lie to him about this. He wondered—she’d been married to Sebastian for years, and Egan knew from their encounter the night before that she was not a virgin. Unless Sebastian was daft or impotent he’d have bedded her often. No man in his right mind could have stayed away from her.

  Zarabeth answered in a low voice. “I never conceived.”

  Her expression broke his heart. She was trying to be brave about it, hiding her longing for children, her deep hurt that she’d not been gifted with any.

  “I don’t mind,” Egan said quickly. “Children come or don’t, I have a ready-m
ade heir in Jamie, much as it pains him.”

  “It seems the perfect solution,” Zarabeth said hollowly.

  “Nae perfect. But the best I can do.”

  “I never wanted to marry again,” Zarabeth answered almost savagely. “Not even you. Not like this.”

  The words stung, but Egan only nodded. “I’ll nae let ye regret it. I promise.”

  Zarabeth looked as though she regretted it already. Egan gathered her against him, vowing to make it all right for her. He was laird, and he would keep her safe, no matter what he had to do.

  Zarabeth didn’t struggle away from him but neither did she respond when he brushed a kiss to her lips. He kissed her again, harder this time, never mind her father standing by, and finally Zarabeth moved her mouth beneath his. She kissed him back then, making it fierce, all her anger, grief, and misery coming through.

  Egan held her close, tasting her, vowing he’d win through and make Zarabeth happy, whether she liked it or not. As long as it took.

  * * *

  Zarabeth wore plaid for her wedding the next morning—she insisted, to Gemma’s and Mary’s distress. They tried to persuade her to wear one of the numerous silk gowns that had been made for her since her arrival, but she stood firm.

  “I will be a laird’s wife,” Zarabeth told them with conviction. “I should look the part.”

  For their sake, she lightened her tone. Both ladies had been ecstatic when Egan made the announcement at breakfast, and they’d whisked Zarabeth upstairs to get her ready with much hugging and tears. Jamie had whooped, his cry shaking the high windows. Zarabeth had stood through it all in a daze.

  When Zarabeth entered the small stone kirk where Gemma and Angus had wed, Egan was the first thing she saw. He waited patiently by the altar in formal kilt and dark coat, a sword at his side—Ian MacDonald’s sword from the Great Hall.

  Egan’s family surged in, followed by the Rosses, the kirk filling with plaid and laughter. Jamie danced about, up and down the aisle, unable to keep still even in this solemn place.