Prologue
Morna’s Inn—Present Day
* * *
“So…what do ye think?” The question tumbled nervously from my lips. He’d taken his time reading our story. Each passing hour might as well have been a day as slowly as the minutes seemed to pass.
Spells, matchmaking, meddling—these were my talents, not writing—but my need to get our story down into a tangible form was so great that it had nearly driven me mad. My hands ached from the hours, days, and months spent working on my great project. Now that it was in front of my husband being read for the first time, I was sick with nerves.
“Did ye exaggerate for creative purposes?”
I knew without looking at the pages, without asking him, just what details in my story he questioned. I wouldn’t lie to him to spare his feelings—not after so many years together. Our secrets were ours to keep but there was no room for lies between us.
“No.”
“Hmm.” He nodded in unison with the small noise. He may have wished for me to say otherwise, but he expected the answer I gave him. “I never knew ye loved him. I thought…”
My husband shook his head as he reached for me. Both our hands were wrinkled and weathered from time, but the feel of his touch still quickened my pulse in a way little else could. Time was powerless in dampening my desire for him.
“I thought ye stayed there to wait for me to return to ye, not because ye were happy at his side. But ye were. No matter how glad ye were to have me back, it broke yer heart to leave him. I dinna see that then. I am sorry for it. I am sorry for anything that has ever caused ye pain, but by God, I am glad that ye chose me.”
“All hearts must be broken now and then.” I smiled and squeezed his hand. “And I was there waiting for ye. ’Tis only that I often wondered if my waiting would do any good. But ye have to know that there was never any choice for me to make. It was always ye.”
I wasn’t sure my words would ease the pain I knew he must feel after reading certain parts of my story, but every word I said to him was true.
“Morna, who is this story meant for? I know that ’tis not only for us.”
My husband knew me too well. Our story was meant especially for another—to lead her to the man worthy of holding her heart.
“There is a lass—the next to go back—that I intend to share my writing with. There are lessons she can learn from our story—lessons she will need before she makes a great journey of her own.”
“Hmm.”
My eyes were still turned toward our joined hands but I glanced up in response to his soft noise.
“What? Say whatever it is ye mean to. I canna stand it when ye beat around things so.”
“Ye keep saying that ’tis our story, but ’tis not yet that. What ye have written here…’tis yer story.”
He was right. It was the story of how we came to be, of all the events that led up to our life together, but there are two sides to every story, and I truly only knew my own.
“Aye, but I doona know what ye wish me to do about it. The only way for me to know all that happened in yer own life during that time is for me to spell ye, and I promised ye long ago that I wouldna do that. Unless ye finally mean to tell me everything.”
Through our years together, he’d shared bits and pieces, but I never saw reason to press him on the subject. As long as we were together, I was fine with letting the past stay there. After all, I had plenty of my own secrets that I’d kept hidden until now.
“I willna tell ye a thing, but perhaps I shall try writing down my version just as ye have done. If ’tis rubbish when I finish, ye doona have to include it with what ye leave for the lass. Will ye let me try?”
Of course I would. Despite his modesty, he knew full well that whatever he wrote down wouldn’t be rubbish. My husband was a closeted creative—I had a chest full of love letters and poems to prove it.
“Aye. Can ye finish it within three weeks? The lass arrives then.”
He stood, still clinging to the pages he held in his hand and winked at me as he moved toward the stairs.
“I’ll have it finished in half that time. The words are surfacing even now.”
* * *
Conall Castle—Three Weeks Later
