Then Rory put up his hand. A gesture not so much of surrender as a bridge reaching.Reaching. Farlan accepted that hand and hauled Rory to his feet, an act that, as boys, they must have performed a hundred times.
Saerla had a glimpse then of Moira’s face—eyes wide with wonder and relief—before Farlan pulled Rory into his arms. The two men embraced, clapped one another on the back almost as if the breach between them had never occurred.
Moira, with tears standing in her eyes, raised her sword over her head. “I declare the warring between MacBeith and MacLeod done! We shall each hold to our own lands and henceforth defend Glen Bronach together.”
The muscles of Rory’s back tensed, and he stepped away from Farlan. Would he be able to accept such an abrupt end to his dreams and ambitions? Would he embrace a peace so swiftly forged?
But it was he—he who had gone down in the turf and let Farlan win the contest. Had he not?
The ranks of warriors had broken up into babbling groups, some cheering, some grumbling. For most, battling against oneanother had been a lifelong endeavor. They might not accept this either.
Including Alasdair, who grumbled in a steady stream under his breath, staring incredulously at the scene before his eyes.
Leith rushed forward, a big grin splitting his face, and threw his arms around the necks of both Rory and Farlan, hauling them together again. Moira stepped up also and embraced Farlan, her relief and joy as tangible as the light Saerla could feel filling her. Upholding her.
She stayed where she was. Waited, waited for the man whose hair gleamed like the wing of a blackbird to look around and search for her.
When he did, when he pulled away from his companions, there was no searching. Their eyes met surely and exclusively. Peace flooded Saerla from head to toe.
She stepped from the unhappy Alasdair’s side just as Rory stepped from Farlan’s. She wanted to throw herself into his arms but would not, here, before so many eyes.
He caught her hands. “Tha’ was for ye, Saerla MacBeith. No’ for Farlan, nor even for the glen, but for the sake o’ the love between us. I should ha’ told ye before ye left me. I love ye, lass. I love ye full well.”
“I love ye also, Rory MacLeod. Ye—of all men.”
“Of all women.” His gaze consumed her, vital as the heat of his fingers on her own. His mouth quirked at one corner. “It seems fate must ha’ a sense o’ humor, presenting me wi’ the one woman I can love, and her a MacBeith.”
“Naught else could ha’ united Glen Bronach, save love.”
He tossed his head, an echo of the arrogant man he had been. “Saerla MacBeith, will ye be my bride?”
She continued to hold his gaze as joy spilled through her, sparkling and bright. “I can think o’ naught I want more than to live my life at your side, Rory MacLeod.”
She saw his joy take hold from hers and ignite him.
“There will be difficulties,” she warned. “A glen that has been at war for generations will no’ fall into a state o’ agreement wi’out some rumblings.”
“So there will.” His eyes met hers. “I reckon if Farlan and I can forgive each other, can sit down and talk out a peace, then aught is possible.”
“So be it.” Saerla bowed her head over their joined hands, and he did also until the black hair met the red-gold. Then, hands still joined, they turned and faced all those who loved them.
Epilogue
Ten years on.
The three ladsran across the bright green turf with the sun sparkling overhead and the wind chasing them up the glen. It might be seen that one of them had a head of golden thatch with a hint of a red cast to it. A second bore a mane of tumbled brown curls. The third had a crop of hair as black as the wing of a raven.
Though the fair-haired lad was the oldest, it was clear the black-headed boy led the way, his young voice calling out eager commands his companions followed good-naturedly.
All down the loch side they ran and tumbled and contested with one another until they fell into the sparkling green turf precisely like three weary young hounds.
They lay in an untidy row, arms folded behind their heads, and looked up at the achingly blue sky.
“I do love it here full well,” declared the brown-haired boy, his dark blue eyes full of contentment. “’Tis a braw place to live, is Glen Bronach.”
“A braw place, aye,” the other two agreed without hesitation.
“My ma says,” the brown-haired lad went on, “the strength o’ this place is in the stone upon which it stands, and that will never break asunder.”
