A kiss of promise. Of hope. That out of painful remnants, love can be reborn—strong, forgiving, and bright.
“Marry me, Chris,” he whispered. “For keeps, this time.”
“Y-yes,” she hiccupped.
He kissed her in reply, the sort of kiss that crumpled her knees and made her heart gallop.
“Be warned,” he said against her mouth. “I will likely track down the sheriff this morning and ask him to marry us. I cannot bear another day without calling ye my own.”
“Please,” she gasped. “I want that life with you.”
As he had on the fateful day of their first handfasting, he clasped her hand in his. “Forever, Chris—yourself and me.”
“Forever,” she repeated and sealed the vow with a kiss.
Epilogue
September 10, 1859
Kinord Castle, Aberdeenshire
Scotland
Alistair awoke with a start.
Moonshine streamed through the window, the curtains pulled open and the shutters unlatched.
Blinking, he sat up in bed, looking to his right where Chris should be but noted only rumpled sheets and the coverlet thrown back.
“Ah, my love. We didn’t mean to wake you,” Chris murmured stepping in from the dressing room, bouncing a fussy white bundle in her arms. “Our Alice is having another rough night. Who knew growing teeth would be so dreadful? I could hear her crying in the nursery and simply couldn’t bear it. Besides, Nurse could use some sleep.”
Swinging his legs out of bed, Alistair was already halfway across the room before Chris finished speaking.
“Ye should have awakened me, Wife. Let me tend to our lass.” He held out his arms and Chris nestled their daughter into the crook of his elbow.
Alice scrunched her wee face, preparing for another bout ofgirningand lament.
Accustomed to his daughter’s fussy ways, Alistair transferred her to his shoulder, rubbing firm circles on her back as he paced the floor. As usual, the babe instantly settled down.
Chris watched, an amused grin on her lips.
“Well, we always knew you had a way with the lasses, Alis. Our tiny Alice never stood a chance.” She pronounced their daughter’s name in the Italian way—Ah-LEE-chay—to ensure that father and daughter were never confused.
“Go back to bed, Wife,” Alistair scolded. “I shall wake ye if she needs to feed.”
Chris grinned. “And miss watching you cuddle our child? I think not.” She sat in the armchair before the fire, leaning forward to stir the glowing coals to life before adding a brick of peat.
The sweet scent of burning moss and grass filled the room.
Alistair continued to pace, adoring how wee Alice melted her weight into his.
Scarcely four months old, Alice had arrived red-faced and screaming on adreichday in May. Her birth had been a profound moment of healing for both Alistair and Chris—to welcome another child into the emptiness left by the bairn they had lost. Alistair had looked into his daughter’s newborn eyes and offered a humble prayer of gratitude.
But then, everything about life with Chris kindled thankfulness in his breast. Like a robust apple tree that simply kept shedding fruit, the sheer magnitude of his blessings overwhelmed him at times.
Together, they had continued excavating the burial cairn, finally finishing right before the first snowfall last autumn. Now, a manuscript lay atop Chris’s desk—a detailed article chronicling the excavation and everything they had found, all illustrated in Alistair’s hand. Together, they had already reached out to several publishers and had hopes that the article wouldbe jointly published next spring. Never again would Alistair be content to relegate his wife to the shadows.
At the moment, Chris was anything but shadow. She watched him from her chair, gaze hooded and laden with intent.
