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Mrs Muckleford insisted they then have a celebratory dram so it was late when finally Rory and Olivia were able to retire.
“All these years,” Rory said, smiling, as he stripped off his shirt. “Lying in the mud at the bottom of the loch. Remarkable when you think of it.”
“Your father believed in it, though, Rory. Perhaps, like him, we should have had more faith.”
He sat down and looked at her, where she stood by the chair, still in her petticoat. He looked for so long that it was as if she felt his warm gaze, and pretended to be interested in a hole in her shoe. He couldn’t have guessed the truth, she told herself. She had been so careful. Visiting the blacksmith when she had told the family she going to the town to buy a length of woollen cloth, and then swearing the man to silence. An old soldier, the smith had made swords before, and had no trouble creating the sort of thing that would have been used at Culloden.
It had been the perfect plan, and the idea she had come up wi
th when she lay awake on her own piece of Scotland, listening to Rory sleeping and the wash of the waves.
And as for placing the sword in Rory’s path, that had been surprisingly simple. She was in charge of the map and could direct him wherever she wished. Last night, in the darkness, she had slipped out with the sword and rowed to the spot she wanted it found. The blacksmith had already given it a good hammering, enough to simulate years of wear and tear, and it just needed a coating of mud and a drapery of water weeds. Then it was all ready for her to place in the loch.
No one would ever know and she would certainly never tell.
“Olivia?”
She looked up and Rory was holding out his hand. She hesitated but he waited, patiently, and when at last she placed hers in it, he drew her to him, to stand between his knees. His eyes were bright and full of emotion.
“Thank you,” he said softly. He seemed to be searching for words and after a moment he spoke again. “You have made my father a very happy man. Now he can die believing he found the sword and restored good fortune to our family. I can’t tell you how grateful I am, my dearest and only love.”
She blinked and opened her mouth, thinking to deny it, and said instead, “How did you know?”
“You were so particular about where I should dive today, and so insistent we all be there, despite the weather. And then when my hand closed over it . . .”
“Was I right to do what I did?” she whispered.
“You were.” He nodded, and unable to speak any more, he wrapped his arms about her waist and held her tight.
Tenderly she stroked his hair and bent to kiss him, then cupped his face in her hands, lifting him so that she could find his mouth. “We must never tell him,” she warned.
“Never.”
“It will be our secret.”
He drew her down onto his knee. “My father believed finding the sword would bring us our luck, but it wasn’t the sword. It was you, Olivia. You are our good luck and good fortune. The day you saved me from the burn was the day my happiness began.”
“Oh Rory,” she gasped, kissing him again.
Her heart was bursting with happiness. This was a moment to cherish. Olivia knew times wouldn’t always be this perfect, because neither of them was perfect, but she also knew that whatever happened in the future, good and bad, they would stand together.
Rory had called her his good luck, but Olivia knew he was hers. Because she had married him for love, and that made her fortunate indeed.
Epilogue
Late Autumn 1816, Monkstead House
Mockingbird Square
The dinner was one of the earl’s monthly affairs. He liked to wine and dine his neighbours, probably so that he could keep an eye on them.
Margaret smiled at the sight of her cousin and her husband, hand in hand. Apart from the sadness of losing Rory’s father, they were very happy. Soon they would be returning to Scotland, but Olivia had promised the town house would remain theirs for now, and Margaret must stay and watch over it.
“I won’t hear a word about you returning to Northumberland,” she added sternly. “Your father can do very well without you, Margaret.”
Margaret thanked her, deeply relieved. She did not want to go back to where nothing awaited her but parish duties and long, dreary days under her father’s watchful eye. To make it worse, lately her mother’s letters had been full of their new curate, and wouldn’t it be pleasant if Margaret were to marry him, and then they could all be comfortable.
Margaret would not be comfortable, she was certain of it. Even the interfering Monkstead was better than a curate chosen by her parents. Of course the earl was congratulating himself on Rory and Olivia’s happy ending, as if it was all to do with him. Really, the man was insufferable!
