by Jamie Carie
He held her close and whispered into her hair. “Only our story. Merry Christmas, my love.”
They’d made it.
They’d made it home by Christmas Day, just as he’d promised in the letter to his mother and the letter to his clan. He hadn’t lied to Juliet—he had written them of their story and all that had happened…well, nearly all. And he’d reminded them of the power of love—of human love and God’s love and the love of a Father who sent a Son to save them on Christmas Day. He’d done his best to turn their thoughts away from their differences—the English and the Scottish—and turn them toward what they shared: love of the highlands, love of a man or woman, love of God. And then he’d prayed that they would give Juliet a chance.
And they had.
He knew the night to come would be filled with joy and feasting and laughter. And then he would take his bride to the chieftain’s bed and show her the full ardor of his love. And then…then they would find their future together.
He took a long, deep breath, joy overflowing, and took Juliet’s hand, seeing that she had dried her tears, her chin was raised and her face glowed with the gladness of her destiny upon it.
They began walking through the open gates to his castle—their castle—in the fierce beauty of the Scottish highlands to the thunderous welcome of their people.
