We dried ourselves in the sun and dressed as best we could with the ripped and soiled clothing we carried.
Our fortune had taken a turn for the better, it seemed. The keep, as we walked back to it, was overrun. Not with Campbells; they had either fled or were likely being held captive. These visitors were many, huge, and clad head to toe in the now-familiar green and blue tartan that caused my husband to smile widely and sweep me into his arms.
The Mackenzies had arrived.
EPILOGUE
IT HAS BEEN exactly ten months since Kade and I made our marriage official. Between that day and this, my life has taken on an enchanted quality that astounds me each and every day with its beauty. Glenlochie is practically unrecognizable. Its refurbishment is an ongoing process, but the manor has never looked more magnificent. The gardens are gloriously lush, the fields bursting with crops that will soon be harvested.
The wider clan has enjoyed a startling transformation. Gone are the days of resentment and idleness. Now, as a people, we pride ourselves on hard work and endeavor, and we are, more than ever before, reaping the rewards of both our individual and collective industriousness. We are sought out by other clans for reasons of bartering and commerce, as our tradesmen are becoming newly recognized as some of the most productive and skilled in Scotland. Not only the manor but our village and the surrounding orchards and agricultural lands have benefitted from the new prosperity this trade brings. New shops and houses are being built, of bigger and more elaborate designs. Experts are taking on apprentices. Bartering stalls are everywhere, offering useful and innovative supplies that are not only necessary but increasingly grand and frivolous, from food to furs, from goats to gold. The walls of our keep are strong and well kept.
The army is becoming a well-oiled machine, and is more loyal to my husband with each passing day. In the end, my husband issued the men of the army who disputed his leadership a choice: exile or a challenged duel to the death against him. One man fled, and several others lost their lives. After that, there were no more protests about his leadership. We maintain ironclad alliances, of course, with both the Mackenzie clan and the Stuart clan, who possess the two strongest armies in all the Highlands. We also have close ties with the Munro, Buchanan and Macintosh clans. With the combined forces of the six armies, my husband feels confident we could win any war that might be waged.
Laird Campbell’s rebellion died along with him. Without Campbell to rouse skirmishes across the Highlands, the landscape of our countryside has taken on—at least relative to what we had endured in recent years—a diplomatic, hospitable character. We are frequently invited to balls and gatherings at nearby keeps, and we entertain more visitors than ever before. An unprecedented number of interclan marriages have taken place in recent months, and our territories seem to have entered a time of peace and prosperity that is being celebrated far and wide. Kade and his brothers suspect that small rebellions are discussed and planned among the less-prosperous outliers, and they remain ever watchful, but their confidence and preparation have, for now, proved adequate.
My sisters, as I am, are happier than I have ever seen them. Clementine decided not to retreat to the nunnery after all. She has found great satisfaction in the kitchens, and runs them with a flair that I didn’t even know she possessed. Cooking, and especially baking, has become her passion, and she spends every waking hour orchestrating our family’s shared meals with great success. My husband even commented once that our menus are now rivaling those even of the Mackenzie cooks—his highest compliment.
Bonnie married Jamie as soon as his recovery allowed. He walks with a limp but has regained his strength almost entirely. He remains one of Kade’s most dedicated soldiers.
Lottie renewed her romance with Aiden Buchanan, married him soon after and was swept away to the Buchanan keep in a flurry of festivity. Each month she writes us elaborate letters detailing the very boisterous and sometimes scandalous activities of the lively Buchanan clan. Her husband, she relays with obvious glee, entirely lives up to—and perhaps even surpasses—the Buchanans’ well-known reputation for ���exuberance.”
Ann and Agnes have been inspired by the close friendship they have made with Kade’s sister Ailie and have taken up dressmaking, with surprisingly creative and successful results. Their designs reflect both Ann’s whimsy and Agnes’s style, and they are overrun with requests for their skills, so much so that they now have a number of assistants. For this reason, and that of our newfound prosperity, the ladies of our clan are looking more refined and fashionable than ever before.
Maisie, of all my sisters, is the one who still lacks a certain calling, save one. I suspect, however, that the past several days have introduced new and pleasing possibilities. We have been entertaining a group of Mackenzie and Stuart clanspeople, including soldiers who have come for a special event. The first evening after their arrival, Maisie met a Mackenzie officer named Rory who just so happens to be Kade’s—and Wilkie’s—first cousin. The resemblance is somewhat remarkable. Late that evening, I noticed Maisie and Rory in a rather intimate embrace. I caught my sister’s sparkling eye as she was being led, quite willingly, away. I haven’t seen her since.
I still run into Caleb from time to time. He has become a respected sword maker. He and Kade have even formed a somewhat stilted working relationship that seems to have eased, especially after Caleb’s betrothal to one of the village girls, a sweet, fair-haired weaver named Hazel. I wish them only joy.
My husband has been true to his word. His love for me infuses my life. He dedicates his every waking hour to my safety and my happiness. And now, in my delicate condition, he refuses to leave my side.
After our initial trials and tribulations smoothed out, I have found that the complex layers of Kade’s personality, once peeled away through patience and gentle affection, expose astounding revelations. My husband is moody and volatile, aye. He is gruff and aggressive. These traits are natural by-products of his position and his overt masculinity. But underneath his strength, at the very heart of him, exists the kindest, gentlest and most loving person I have ever known. His love is unconditional and overwhelmingly heartfelt.
Over time, as I learned to trust him, Kade, too, has learned to trust me. He is highly tactile, and likes us to spend our private time together close, touching me and caring for me not only physically but emotionally, as well. He takes great interest in my innermost thoughts and my feelings, and each evening asks intricate questions about my activities during the day, when we have spent time apart. If there is something that bothers me, he’ll address it directly and immediately, working through any problem until he is satisfied that I am no longer fearful or distraught. It is one of the most endearing qualities of him: he notices details, proving to me, time and time again, that he cares for me, and deeply. I have never felt more treasured or more loved.
In the past few months, however, my husband’s care has become almost manic in its intensity. I have been appointed a team of not only healers and caregivers, but also guards and attendants. ’Tis not necessary, but I can hardly blame him. Both our mothers’ deaths, after all, were the result of complications during childbirth. Kade’s brother Knox, more recently, also lost his wife and child, and I can read the terror in Kade’s expression, late at night as he lies next to me with his hands on my body, caressing and calming as though attempting to smooth away the dangers.
Three days ago, Wilkie and Roses arrived at Glenlochie with their two-month-old baby girl, named Mackenzie Rose Sophia Stuart, and a large entourage of protectors and attendants. Roses, despite her slender, somewhat waiflike appearance, gave birth without difficulty. Both she and her baby are strong and healthy: I know they must be or Wilkie would never have agreed to the travel. Roses’s personal healer and closest friend, Ismay, is never far from her side, nor the baby’s. And Roses herself is a talented healer. Both she and Ismay have offered to help me at the birth of my child, and although our clan has its own team of gifted healers, I am
comforted to know that they will be on hand.
And Kade’s other siblings are also visiting, Ailie with her betrothed, Magnus Munro, the tall and brooding copper-haired laird-in-waiting for the Munro clan. He is never far from her side. And Knox Mackenzie, much to his siblings’ surprise, has taken an interest in a new arrival at Kinloch—a boisterous, red-headed city lass who, according to Christie, has caused some upheaval which I’ve yet to learn about. What is clear enough is that Knox Mackenzie seems to be sporting an entirely new personality. Gone is his stoic sternness; he is more quick to laugh and lighthearted than he’s been, Kade says, since the death of his wife. Only Christie has yet to find a match as yet, but we have no doubt she will succumb eventually to one of the many men who pursue her. I don’t believe Kade specifically asked any of them to come for the birth, but he readily agreed to it at their suggestion. I know my husband is not only relieved but calmed by their presence here, and so am I.
I am due any day. My belly is huge and I can feel our baby inside me, kicking and nudging; this baby is active and full of life. All in all, after a brief and early bout of morning sickness, I’ve had an easy, uneventful pregnancy. Kade and Clementine make sure I have only the most wholesome foods to eat, and my husband has, of late, forbidden me to work. I obey him without too much complaint; I feel wondrously alive, but I silently admit that the child does absorb much of my energy, and I am content to please my husband by taking care to relax and allow the baby to thrive and grow. My complexion is glowing and my hair is thick and glossy. My body feels healthily rounded and feminine. My husband finds my fertility something akin to a miracle. He is fascinated by the way I look, the way I feel and, it must be said, the way I taste. He cannot get enough of me, he says, and I believe him. He proves it to be so, and I have never felt the inclination to deny him whatever he wants of me.
I wake to his touch. He’s nibbling on the lobe of my ear, playing with my fingers, whispering sweet words. “I love my wife,” he’s murmuring. “You’re so warm, so sweet.”
His mouth is kissing a line down my neck across my breast, and his hands are on my body. My eyes are still closed and I make a small sound of protest when he draws away. There’s a stillness to him that gets my attention, and I open my eyes to the glittering brilliance of his blue contemplation. He’s aghast at something, and I glance down to see what has given him pause. My breasts are leaking. Milk spills from me in glistening droplets. I’m shocked by this—although I shouldn’t be, of course. The sight of the pale liquid seems so simultaneously lusty and life-giving, I am filled with heavy awe. Kade, holding my gaze with his own, leans over me. Instead of covering me or wiping me clean from an awkward distance, as I might have expected him to, he seems mesmerized. He teases me with his tongue, circling, licking the moisture, fastening his lips around the taut bud. I feel mortified by this, and I gasp aloud and try to push him away.
“Kade, you mustn’t.”
“Aye, wife. I must,” he murmurs against my breast. He seems overcome. “I love you,” he says. “I love everything about you. Everything, everything. You. Your face. Your hair. I love you. Your body. Your breasts. And this, most of all.” He’s holding me down with his hands, suckling me, pulling tenderly with his mouth. The sensation is indescribable. Needy and demanding. Potent and sublime. But then, without warning, a low pulse of pain blooms deep within my body, swelling uncontrollably. I cry out, my entire body clenching with this deep-rooted burn. I push at him. I sit up, moving to the side of the bed, and my husband stays with me, helping me stand. I don’t know why, but I feel a restless need to stand, to walk, to get away from this discomfort. But as soon as I do, there’s a momentous fluid shift inside me, and a torrent of liquid streams down my legs, wetting the stone floor. We both stare at it for a moment.
“’Tis time,” I say, surprised at the calmness in my own voice. “The baby is coming.”
Kade, for all his bravado, is frozen, his eyes affixed on the growing puddle on the floor. His face registers fear—it’s an expression that rarely surfaces in him and looks strange and unnerving, wrong somehow. It clashes with him, but there it is.
And he is still frozen. He stands like that for a minute or more. I, meanwhile, am coming to terms with my own situation. I’m holding my swollen stomach and drawing in long lungfuls of air, exhaling, and again. Another deep-aching wave comes over me.
“Kade,” I cry, and he instantly comes to life. He seems torn, hesitant to let go of me. But then he disengages, running for the door.
“I’ll summon the healers.”
“Wait,” I say. “Kade.”
“What, lass?”
I smile at him, despite the deep, lingering pain. “You’re not clothed, husband.”
He looks down at himself. Then he grabs his kilt and wraps it around his waist, not bothering with the sash or a shirt. Nor his weapons. It is the first time I have ever seen him willingly go anywhere without them. “I’ll not be long, Stella. All right?”
I nod at him. Kade’s eyes are full of worry, and he bolts from the room.
I wrap a sheet around myself, and I half sit on the bed, waiting for the next contraction. Already, the waves seem close together.
And one does come, an unfathomably agonizing ache that rolls through my body with a force that stuns me. I can’t suppress the moan, but I don’t fight the pain. Behind it, there is life and promise. An instinctual impulse tells me to go with it, to ride the wave, that fighting against it will only prolong it and endanger my baby. And me.
My awareness shifts, as though veiling me in a protective trance, which gives me an odd comfort. Time takes on a dreamlike, elongated quality.
I am vaguely aware that Kade is with me again, and many others besides. Roses. Ismay. My own midwife named Bea. My husband is shouting orders at people as he lifts me and places me carefully on the bed. Another wave. And another.
There’s arguing, and I’m covered with furs momentarily while Kade’s brothers enter the chambers to gently but insistently guide my husband out of the room. I know he’s not far, though; I know with certainty that he’s outside the door, pacing and anxious and ranting. And probably being given a whiskey.
Roses is holding my hand, telling me to push the baby out. “’Tis time,” she says. “This baby is ready to be born.”
I focus on the white glow of her hair and the green light of her eyes, and I do it. I push. I have never known any pain equal to this; it is extreme and all-encompassing, but I let it come. After what feels like a very long time, finally, I feel the beautiful, slithery relief as my baby slides from my body. The relief of it is unspeakable but, inexplicably, short-lived.
“A boy,” Ismay says, handing the baby to Bea, and I am overcome for two reasons. A boy. A son. I want him. I want to hold him. But there is more pain—so much more—and I can’t understand it. Why? Is something wrong? Am I dying, as my mother died, and Kade’s mother, and Knox’s wife? Is this the tragic tradition of our lives and our deaths and our families? I want to call to Kade. I want to see him one more time. I moan, but the sound is primal and inarticulate. I want him, I try to say. I need my husband. I want Kade.
“Push again, Stella,” Roses tells me, squeezing my hand. Her eyes don’t look sad or frightened. “You’re not finished yet. Push again.”
I’m having trouble understanding how or why or what it means. My coherence seems swathed and clouded by a thick layer of pain. Where’s my baby? But the urge to push overwhelms me, and I do as Roses says. I push again. And again.
This time the relief is more profound, more final. The pain is, quite suddenly, gone. It takes me a moment to adjust to its absence and to realize that a second child has been born. Two babies. Twins.
“A girl,” Ismay says, beaming.
I am cleaned and covered, and the tiny wrapped babies are brought to me.
The door opens. My husband’s vivid blue eyes are only on me, riveted and concerned. He looks at the tiny babies nestled against me. He comes to me, brushing my ha
ir back from my face.
His face is close to mine, our gaze connective and real. He kisses me lightly and his touch returns me to myself. Even our words are joined. We say them together.
I love you.
* * * * *
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ISBN: 9781460313220
Copyright © 2013 by Juliette Miller
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
Juliette Miller - [Clan MacKenzie 02] Page 29