by L. L. Muir
He dropped to the floor beside her and took the lace jabot from his neck to dry her tears.
“We got all the children, lass. All the babes are in their mother's arms. The mine is no more. It was collapsed on Marlowe’s own head. Everyone else is safe and forever beyond Braithwaite’s reach.”
She nodded, and tears splashed in a race down her cheeks. To the right, the priest crumpled gracelessly on a step. Tears filled his eyes as well, but he succeeded in not weeping, at least. The man had held up grandly for the past four days and nights. They were lucky he'd been able to pretend a normal mien thus far.
There was no reason to keep her in the dark any longer, but Rory wondered where to begin the explanation. Finally, he let his heart take the lead.
“Bridget? Sweeting? Do ye think ye'd mind living a wee bit to the north?”
She stared at him, suddenly sober. “You didn't come just to ruin the baron's wedding?”
“I did not. Ye see, my grandsire's clan was in dire need of women and young folks. Braithwaite's people were happy to fill the need, happy to leave this torment behind and have the entire Northumberland Forest and the Middle Shires between themselves and Braithwaite now. If the Queen gives the land to someone new, they are free to return. We're hoping more than a few will wish to stay on Graham lands by then.”
Her face dropped. He shouldn't have teased her.
“So, you came to save them—”
“Aye. And to spare ye as well.” He nudged her, urging her to smile with him.
Phinny came to sit to her other side. “Vivianne told us of the burden you'd been carrying. Why did you not come to me, Bridget? Did you think I was too young—”
“No, Phinny. No. Grandfather was still alive, but unwell. The baron convinced me that what happened on his land was his business, that he was God here and not even the king would question his right to deal with his people as he saw fit. If I'd come to you, I thought it would only haunt you because you'd be powerless to stop it.”
“And ye didn't tell me.” Rory looked at the floor and nudged a bit of dirt back and forth with his boot while he waited for her answer.
“I didn't tell you because you hate all things English. I didn't want to give you one more reason…”
He looked up. “Unfair. I've recently come to love all things English.” He tried to tell her, with his eyes, that he'd really only meant her. The smile she gave him said she'd understood perfectly. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her up against him and wrapped his free hand around one of hers, content to never let go of her again.
“Well, I have lost my love for England.” The priest found some volume for his voice. “In fact, I'm wondering if Scotland has room for one more man of the cloth.”
“No.” Rory shook his head as he stood. “Ye've hardly finished yer duties here, Father. And I wish ye'd see to it, man. We have plans for the afternoon.”
Bridget swallowed nervously. “You do?”
“No, lass. We do.”
She smiled, hopeful. “We do?”
His grin wasn’t quite so innocent. “We do.”
Moments later, the priest said with delight, “Then I pronounce you, Alistair Rory Macpherson and Bridget Kennison, man and wife.”
THE END
Thank you so much for coming along for the ride!
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About the Author
L.L. Muir lives in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains and uses a machete to defend her writing time from the hordes of children and dogs demanding she come out of her office to play. On the inside of that office door, she uses a cattle prod to keep her characters in line while they wait for their turn at the mic.
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