‘Always,’ she promised.
Epilogue
by Janice Preston
Lochmore Castle—October 1849
Lady Flora McNeill stood on the front step of Lochmore Castle, her thoughts anchored in the past. The weather was mild for the time of year, warm enough for her to wear a simple shawl over her black gown. A soft breeze whispered across the inner bailey and she could hear the gentle shushing of the waves on the rocks below the castle, which was built on a high, rocky promontory.
She did not hear her husband of one year, Lachlan, come outside until two strong arms wrapped around her from behind. She leaned back into his hard body, glanced down and smiled as his hands caressed her swollen belly.Their first baby was due in January and they could not wait to be parents.
‘Well, Flora.’ Lachlan’s breath tickled her ear. ‘Today is the day you’ve been waiting for.’
Flora’s gaze flicked across the inner bailey to the old chapel, visible above the perimeter wall. In there, Ailsa Lochmore, née McCrieff, lay waiting to be reunited with her beloved husband, Rory. Dead for over five hundred years, they had been entombed together in the stone crypt under the old chapel until their double tomb had been desecrated during a raid on Lochmore Castle in the sixteenth century and Rory Lochmore’s remains had been spirited away. But the secret of why that particular body had been taken, and by whom, had gradually been lost in the mists of time until almost nobody knew what had happened, let alone remembered details of whose body was missing and, more importantly, why.
Flora would never forget the day when—aged twelve and in a fit of pique at her father for constantly dismissing her ideas because she was a mere girl—she had gone exploring in the forbidden Great Tower at her childhood home, Castle McCrieff. She could still feel the wave of grief, anger and aloneness that had battered her when she found the skeleton she now knew belongedto Rory Lochmore. She’d had a similar experience, just last year, when she discovered the empty tomb next to Ailsa’s, down in that cold, lonely crypt.
The desolation. The isolation. Thelonging.
‘I still cannot believe that Benneit finally managed to persuade Father to allow Rory to come home.’ Flora turned within the circle of Lachlan’s arms and smiled up into his dark eyes. ‘Or that the McCrieff lairds kept that secret all these years.’
The story had been passed down through generations of McCrieff Chiefs—mortal enemies of the Lochmore clan through most of those centuries—to the present incumbent, Flora’s father, Lord Aberwyld. It was only three months ago that Flora had finally summoned the courage to challenge her father about the identity of the skeleton hidden at the top of the Great Tower and the link between that and the empty tomb in the old chapel at Lochmore Castle, now her marital home. Father had admitted the skeleton was that of Rory Lochmore and that it had been stolen by members of the McCrieff clan during a raid but, true to character, he had stubbornly insisted Rory—sired by a McCrieff and not a Lochmore—must remain at Castle McCrieff.
‘Well, none of us would be any the wiserhad you not found Rory in the first place, and then refused to take “no” for an answer.’ Lachlan dropped a kiss on Flora’s nose. ‘So it’s all thanks to you. I am proud of you for challenging your father...and continuing to challenge him.’
‘I could not ignore it—I knew when I first found Rory that I must do something to put things right, but I had no idea what that might be. It was only once I knew their story that I understood—Rory and Ailsaneedto be together.’
Flora trusted her instincts. They had never let her down and that same sixth sense had driven her to keep insisting to her father that the lovers—for she knew instinctively that theirs had been a great passion—must be reunited.
It had taken the current Chief of the Lochmores—Benneit, Duke of Lochmore—to finally bring Father to his senses.
‘If what you tell us of Rory Lochmore’s paternity is true, Aberwyld,’ he had said, ‘then there is no justification for keeping his remains at Castle McCrieff. Think about it—is there not as much McCrieff blood running through the Lochmores as through the McCrieffs? We are, like it or not, one clan. And do not forget that Ailsa, too, was a McCrieff. You must do right by them.’
Father had huffed and puffed but, in the end, he’d had to concede that there was no reason to keep Rory and Ailsa apart in this modern day and age, not now that the centuries-old feud was firmly behind the two clans.
The distinctive rumble of wheels along the track that led up through ancient woodland to the castle alerted Flora to the approach of a vehicle.
‘They’re coming!’
Their friends and neighbours, Benneit and Joane—former owners of Lochmore Castle—were joining them for the reunion of Rory and Ailsa.
‘Drummond.’ Lachlan turned to summon their butler. ‘Would you please ask our guests to join us? It’s time.’
Flora’s father and brother had arrived last night, escorting Rory’s newly enshrouded remains, and the former Lochmore Clan Chief now lay on a trestle table set up in the new chapel, awaiting Ailsa. The ‘new’ chapel adjoined the castle itself. It had been built in the sixteenth century by Ewan Lochmore, the Lochmore Chief at the time, who had decreed the old chapel in the outer bailey too vulnerable to attack after the raid on Rory’s tomb.
Ewan Lochmore and his lady, Marguerite, hadbeen the first occupants of the new chapel and were buried in a double tomb in the chapel itself, whereas subsequent Lochmores had been buried in the crypt below. It seemed fitting that Rory and Ailsa would now be re-interred in a double tomb constructed next to that of Ewan and Marguerite.
Flora fingered the disc-shaped silver brooch pinned to her shawl: Rory’s brooch. Every curve and indent was achingly familiar—she had worn it and cared for it from the day she found Rory until the day she discovered the empty tomb in the old stone crypt and recognised the matching, smaller brooch on Ailsa’s tomb.
The Lochmores’ carriage drew to a halt and Benneit—tall, broad-shouldered and still straight-backed, despite being in his sixties—climbed from the carriage and turned to assist his Duchess, Joane—as petite and elegant as ever—to the ground. Flora and Joane had forged a strong friendship, despite the gap in their ages, and Flora eagerly greeted the couple.
‘So,’ said Joane, once they had all exchanged greetings. ‘Is Rory home at last?’
‘Yes. He is in the new chapel. But Ailsa is still in the crypt. I—I know it is silly, but I felt it was important for you and Benneit to be here when they are reunited.’
‘We have come to trust those feelings of yours, Flora.’ Benneit’s voice held no hint of mockery, unlike Father, who made no secret of his scorn for Flora’s intuitive streak. ‘Besides...’ Benneit paused as Father and Donald joined them at the bottom of the steps. The greetings over, he continued, ‘Besides, there are four men here and I think it fitting thatweescort Ailsa to her final resting place. Not servants, but Lochmores and McCrieffs. It’s a shame Jamie is away, but Lachlan is an honorary member of both clans, is he not? So he will be a more-than-fitting substitute.’
Jamie was Benneit’s son and heir by his first marriage. Lachlan smiled his appreciation of the Duke’s words and Flora knew they would mean the world to him. All he had ever wanted was to belong. As the four men headed for the old chapel, Joane’s large grey eyes settled on the brooch Flora wore. A frown creased her forehead.
