Page 138 of Ghost of the Ton

“No,” she said. “What did you say before that?”

A light flickered in the depths of her eyes, the soft hazel deepening into shades of green and brown. Dare he believe that her eyes showed a hope to match his own?

“I said that I love ye, Mia.”

He took her hand and ran his fingertips over her skin, which was dotted with callouses on the underside—the marks of her toil and dedication—and pockmarks on the back—the marks of her bravery.

Then he placed his hand on her face. Her chest rose and fell in a sigh and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. He ran his thumb over the marks on her skin and moisture pricked his eyes.

How could anyone think her scars distasteful? He had long since seen them as marks of her beauty—that he loved as much as the rest of her.

She opened her eyes and doubt clouded their expression, as if she still felt shame. She moved to withdraw, but he drew her close and placed a kiss on her cheek, his lips brushing against her scars.

“Ye’re beautiful, Mia.”

“But I’m—”

“Ye’re beautiful,” he repeated, his voice firm. “I’ll cut the ballocks off anyone who says otherwise.”

Unable to stand before the goddess he wished to worship, he lowered himself to his knees.

“Hamish, you shouldn’t—”

“Hush, wife, and hear what I have to say. Ye promised to obey me, didnae ye?”

Her eyes flared with defiance, and his cock—that treacherous part of him that yearned to be buried in her once more—stirred at the prospect of taming that defiance in his bed.

And perhaps elsewhere, such as against the wall, over the table, or among the heather on the slopes of Beinn Blath…

“Stay,” he said. “Not for obligation or duty, but for love. I love ye, and I need ye like the fish in the river need water, like the trees need the light and the air, like the sinner’s soul needs redemption.”

He bowed his head and brushed his lips against her hand. Then he flicked his tongue against her fingers and was rewarded with a little gasp of pleasure.

“Ye’re a strong lass,” he said. “Strong enough to rule Glenblath by my side, and in my stead. We need ye—I need ye. And though ye may never need me, I am yours if ye’ll accept me—ready, and here. For ye. All for ye.”

He bowed his head, uttering a silent prayer to the Almighty.

Silence fell, which, though it might only have been a few heartbeats, was, to him, an eternity of agony. Then she slid her fingers against his, until they interlocked.

“You’re wrong, Hamish,” she said quietly. His stomach clenched with apprehension and he opened his eyes to see her smiling at him, her eyes gleaming with tears.

“Wr-wrong?”

“Aye,” she whispered, her lips curving into a smile. “I do need you—and I love you. I loved you from the moment I realized it was you who brought me the logs—that it was you who watched over me, unseen, to make sure I was safe.”

“Then I win,” he said, “for I believe I loved ye from the first moment I saw ye—the ghost whose final act was born of generosity and kindness. And I thank the Almighty that He brought ye back to life and into my arms. It now only remains for me to ask ye one question. Will ye consent to be my wife—not for convenience, nor an act of kindness to a stranger. But as a woman, willingly cleaving herself to the man who loves her?”

He almost wept at the joy that flared in her eyes. A tear splashed onto her cheek and she nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will marry you—not as a dying woman wanting to help a stranger, but as a woman, utterly, completely, and devotedly in love.”

He rose to his feet, lifted his head, and let out a roar of joy. Then he circled his arms around her waist and spun her around.

“Hamish!” she said, laughing. “Let me go!”

“No, lass,” he said. “That is something I shall never do. Ye’re my beloved wife, and I’ll never let ye go again.”

Chapter Thirty-Six