Highlander Ever After

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mary would always have a place here, a room of her own, but she’d be a hanger-on, a mother living to push her son into a good marriage. Valentin was offering her a way to take life by the hand, to live it on her own terms.

  Even so, she hesitated, nervous. “I could not leave right away. There are many things to be done …”

  Valentin kissed her again, this man of wild strength and mysterious power. “You will come when you are ready. I will be there, waiting.”

  Mary’s heart leapt in hope, and she found herself smiling. “I would scandalize everyone.” She laughed.

  “You do what you must,” Valentin said in all seriousness.

  One last kiss, then Valentin took up his bag. He was tall, strong, intense, frightening, and yet gentle. Mary thought she could follow him anywhere.

  “I will come,” she whispered.

  Valentin turned back, his blue eyes dark. “I know you will.”

  Then he slipped out the door, and was gone.

  * * *

  Egan came to Zarabeth’s chamber where she and Meagan were pouring over the seamstress’ sketches for more gowns for Zarabeth. He was smiling over some secret amusement as he took her by the hand and pulled her out to the gallery. He would not tell her what he had in mind, as usual, but he carried the sword of Ian MacDonald.

  The rest of the family had gathered on the landing, Adam and Piers with them, all of whom looked as mystified as Zarabeth. Mary left her chamber to walk downstairs, her eyes lined in red and suspiciously wet. Valentin did not appear.

  They crowded onto the upstairs gallery, the seven Highlanders and their ladies with Olaf and Alexander watching from the stairs. Egan, firmly gripping Zarabeth’s hand, raised the sword of Ian MacDonald.

  “With this blade I rescued my lady, Zarabeth, from the clutches of her enemies,” he said in a booming voice. “Zarabeth is a magical woman from a land far away, who has come to help break the curse of the MacDonalds.”

  “But the rhyme,” Jamie cried. “What about th’ rhyme?”

  Egan pointed dramatically at a faded painting at the end of the hall. “Behold the portrait of Ian MacDonald.”

  Zarabeth craned to look with the others, at the picture she’d noted when she’d first explored the castle. Ian’s portrait was dark with age, painted in the style of Holbein. Ian had red-brown hair, the characteristic MacDonald face, and an aquiline nose. He wore a dark kilt and a bonnet stuck full of feathers, and carried a sword identical to the one Egan held.

  “I noticed this when the two debutantes ye brought to plague me were staring at portraits of our ancestors.” Egan walked to the picture, took a rag out of his pocket, and began to scrub at the painted sword.

  Zarabeth watched the grime of years come away, her eyes widening. “There are words on it.”

  “Aye.” Egan continued rubbing. “When Jamie said he thought the rhyme might be on the sword itself, I wondered.”

  “Did ye?” Jamie turned an anguished glare to him. “But I crawled through the attics at Ross Hall for hours. They have boxes and boxes of old junk up there.”

  Egan grinned, and Zarabeth saw a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “Kept ye out of trouble, didn’t it? I wasn’t certain, though, so ye didn’t look for nothing.” Egan straightened up and tucked the dirty handkerchief into his coat pocket.

  The sword bore markings, tiny letters that had obviously been added after the portrait was finished. The letters were clear now, but Zarabeth couldn’t make out the words.

  “’Tis in Scots,” Angus snorted, leaning over Egan’s shoulder. “Can anyone read it these days? Bloody English made our fathers stop teaching us the old language.”

  “I can,” Egan said calmly. “As Jamie said says, Nanny Graham was a wise old woman and knew the laird would need to know Gaelic. ’Tis not that difficult, only two lines.” He read them out, the musical lilt of them pleasing.

  “What do they say?” Zarabeth asked him.

  Egan translated for her, then the two of them closed hands over the hilt of Ian MacDonald’s sword and repeated it together:

  When the sword is broken,

  Love will prove its worth.

  Egan glanced at Zarabeth, his eyes as warm as his grin. “Shall we?”

  Zarabeth rested her hand over his on the hilt, and as before, Egan brought the sword up over his bent leg. “One … two … three!”

  The blade broke over Egan’s powerful knee, a ringing note echoing all the way to the top of the castle. Zarabeth thought she heard the sigh of something released, a thin darkness that flowed upward and through an open window high above, and then dispersed.

  She also sensed her bond with Egan. She looked quickly at him and saw that his eyes had gone dark, his emotions—relief, happiness, thankfulness, love—reaching for her. But as her thoughts touched his, the bond dissolved once more, leaving her bereft.

  Egan blinked as though waking, then handed the pieces of the sword to a triumphant Jamie. “There ye are, lad. One curse, broken.”

  Jamie grinned at the sword, then thrust both pieces into the air. “God save the laird and his lady.”

  “The laird and his lady!” the Highlanders bellowed with him.

  Egan waved for silence. “Now if you lot will clear off—the laird and his lady have things to discuss. Alone.”

  Hamish whooped, and the younger MacDonalds followed suit. Angus thumped Egan on the back. “Aye, I know what that means.”

  He winked at Gemma, who blushed and said, “Ye have work t’ do, ye great lummox. We’ll have our … talk … later.”

  More whoops from the others, then Adam rounded them up and shooed them away. As he passed Egan, Adam said, sotto voce, “Don’t make too much noise. I haven’t the head today to suffer through the laird and lady drinking game.”

  He moved on down the stairs with the others, Meagan on Alexander’s arm, Mary slowly following.

  “The laird and lady drinking game?” Zarabeth asked when the rest of the party had passed into the Great Hall below them, Jamie crowing about the broken curse. Did you see? Bang, just like that, the sword broke. Like I said it would.

  Egan steered Zarabeth into her bedchamber and closed the door. “In the drinking game, the lads bring out the best malt and throw back a glass of it every time the laird and lady make a noise of passion.” His cheeks stained red. “Ye know what I mean.”

  “Oh.” Zarabeth blinked. “Good heavens.”

  “Adam and your father will keep them under control,” Egan said.

  Zarabeth shivered. “I hope so. How unnerving.”

  More unnerving was the way she melted inside when Egan came to her and cupped her face in his hands. “Ye felt it.”

  She did not need to ask what he meant. “When the sword broke? Yes.”

  “But now there’s nothing,” Egan said in sorrow. “We cannae see each other’s minds anymore.”

  Zarabeth felt the same anguish. “I know.”

  Egan’s hand drifted downward to splay heat at the base of her spine. “’Twas cruel to give us that taste of it. Mebbe Morag hasn’t forgiven the MacDonald line yet.”

  “Or perhaps it was part of breaking the curse,” Zarabeth said, her body growing pliant as she leaned into him. “The two of us coming together to drive her magic out.”

  “Mebbe.” He kissed the top of her head. “But to lose that is like losin’ part of myself.”

  “I know,” Zarabeth said softly. “I feel the same.”

  Egan skimmed his hands to her shoulders and eased her from him to look into her eyes. “To be with ye like that, especially when I was in ye …” He shook his head.

  Zarabeth’s throat ached. Egan looked unhappy and worried, as though he feared they’d never share anything so special again.

  “As you said,” Zarabeth ventured. “We’ll have to muddle through, like any couple in love.”

  A few lines on his face relaxed. “I don’t want to disappoint ye is all, lass.”

  Zarabeth began to laugh. “As though you ev
er could. Egan, my old friend, I have been trying to get you into my bed for five years. I’m not letting go of you now.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, ye’ve been a bit of a seductress.”

  “I’ve had to be. You would never look at me.”

  Egan’s eyes widened, and he pulled her to him with crushing strength. “Never look at ye? Damn ye, woman, I could never keep my eyes off ye. You swaying and sashaying all over the place, and me trying to keep my kilt from tenting up in front of me every hour of the day. I was afraid I’d ravish ye, I wanted ye so bad. It hurt me, watching ye and not having ye.”

  Zarabeth tried to catch her breath, liking the clean scent of his linen shirt under her cheek. “You must have known I wanted you.”

  “Aye, I knew it. But ye teased me with it, like ye knew I was dying inside whenever I couldn’t touch you.”

  Zarabeth raised her head. “I never meant …”

  His grin was knowing. “Didn’t ye, vixen? Did ye nae like having that power over me, knowing I’d do anything for ye?”

  Zarabeth flushed, knowing she did enjoy seducing him, liked watching his longing flare. “So you plague the life out of me in return?” she asked with a hint of her old fire.

  Egan’s eyes glinted. “Of course I do. ’Tis the only way to stop myself taking ye whenever I have the chance.”

  Zarabeth touched his face, her voice gentling. “You wanted me that much?”

  “Love, I want ye all the time. I burn for ye every minute. If my large and inconvenient family would disappear for more than five seconds at a time, I’d have ye constantly.”

  “Then it doesn’t really matter whether we can read each other, does it?” she asked softly.

  Egan groaned. “Nay, it does not. I want ye always. I love ye, my lady.”

  Zarabeth’s heartbeat sped, warmth spreading from her chest to every part of her. “Perhaps the link will come when we most need it,” she said in hope. “You needed me to find you in the ditch in Nvengaria—needed me to take you home and tend you. I never called out to you at the Devil’s Teeth, not out loud, and yet you found me in the dark and cold. You heard my thoughts. Perhaps it happens when one of us is in danger—calling out to the other. Do you not think?”

  Egan mulled this. “Ye might be right, lass. Ye have an uncanny way of knowing what’s what.”

  “When the curse broke, perhaps we connected again to protect each other from the dark magic trapped in the sword,” she concluded in triumph.

  “’Tis a theory worth considering, I grant.”

  Zarabeth went on excitedly. “So when we most need it, I’m certain it will return. When we’re both safe and sound, we’ll be silent to each other, but the bond will be there, underneath.”

  Egan kissed her hairline. “Aye, lass. ’Tis called love, I believe.”

  Before she could respond, Zarabeth found herself swept up in his arms then flying through the air to land on the soft bed. In the next moment, Egan was on her, tearing open her gown, the hooks and catches sailing every which way to ping on the floor.

  “This is how much I love ye,” Egan growled. “And this.”

  He lowered his head and closed his mouth over her breast. He traced her nipple with his wet tongue, then lightly nipped it. Zarabeth groaned and arched to him, her body humming with need.

  Egan raised his head, the gold in his eyes sparkling. “Want me t’ show ye more how much I love ye?”

  Zarabeth could barely speak. “Please do, my Highlander.”

  Egan laughed at her, the laughter low and wicked, and did. Zarabeth opened her arms, and welcomed him in.

  * * *

  Two months later

  March blasted in and lingered, windy and cold, but Zarabeth found it as rosy as the brightest warmth of summer.

  In the Great Hall on a blustery day, workmen high on a ladder continued their repairs to the ceiling beam, with Jamie angling to scramble up to join them as soon as Egan’s back was turned. Mrs. Williams had come up to watch the workmen, hands on hips, wondering loudly where she was to serve supper.

  So much had happened since Hogmanay. Alexander had departed with Meagan and the two footmen, and soon after that, Olaf set off. Zarabeth wept when she said good-bye to her father, but they made many plans for Zarabeth and Egan to travel to Nvengaria in the summer. Lady Beatrice, Olaf assured her, was a kind woman and truly did want to meet her. Zarabeth, now that she’d grown used to the fact that her father had found a lady to give his affections to, wanted to meet her.

  Valentin had vanished the day Zarabeth and Egan had broken the sword. Mary told Zarabeth of his departure and of Valentin’s invitation for Mary to come to him. Mary had been calm, but Zarabeth had read the agitation in her eyes.

  Zarabeth, happy to think Valentin and Mary might be able to relieve each other’s loneliness, promised Mary that when she and Egan traveled to Nvengaria, she was welcome to accompany them.

  Dougal returned to school in mid-January, taking a reluctant Jamie with him. Jamie managed not to disgrace himself, and both returned at the end of the term in March, Jamie chatting about the friends he’d made and the larks he’d had—some of which he begged Zarabeth not to tell Egan about.

  Mary spoke of traveling to England with Dougal and Jamie when they began their next terms in April. Zarabeth wondered if she wouldn’t then find a place on a ship sailing to the Continent, and go in search of the mysterious Baron Valentin.

  For Zarabeth’s part, she did not want to travel anywhere until the autumn at least. There was plenty to do at Castle MacDonald, and besides …

  Gemma, a broad grin on her face, sought out Zarabeth where she stood with Egan to watch the repairs.

  “Well,” she said brightly. “I thank ye, Zarabeth. It worked.”

  “Worked?”

  Gemma dipped a hand into her apron pocket and drew out a stone with a bit of wire wrapped around it. Tiny marks had been etched into the crystal. “Whether it was your magic, or me and Angus pumpin’ every night, we’ve done it. I’ll be havin’ a bairn when the leaves turn.”

  Zarabeth cried out in delight. She threw her arms around Gemma and hugged her hard.

  Egan watched them with a blank look on his face.

  “Ye gave Gemma magic?” he asked Zarabeth as Gemma rushed to spread her good news to the others.

  “Of course. A little magic always helps.”

  Egan’s brows rose. He was dressed in his great kilt, the plaid looped around his shoulder over his linen shirt. He’d tried to tame his hair into a queue, but as usual, curled locks had already escaped to brush his face.

  They had not shared their thought bond since Zarabeth’s rescue and the subsequent sword-breaking, but she’d come to realize it didn’t matter. She and Egan had a strong connection no matter what, sharing their thoughts in words without secrecy. And every night when Zarabeth lay in the warm nest of their bed, she felt it stretching between them, the shimmering, silken bond of love.

  “Helps?” Egan asked.

  “With conception,” Zarabeth answered cheerfully. “But do not worry, I have not brought any charms to our bed. My magic never works on you, remember? Instead, I simply followed Gemma’s excellent advice.”

  Egan glanced at Gemma, who was being hugged by Mrs. Williams. “And this advice was wha’ exactly?” he asked in trepidation.

  “To take you to bed as often as I could.” Zarabeth slid her hand into Egan’s strong one, feeling hugely satisfied. “She is very wise. Our bairn will come along near the end of August.”

  Egan stilled, his eyes darkening then lightening as Zarabeth’s words penetrated his understanding. “Our bairn.” He repeated, his lips stiff. “Did you say our bairn?”

  “I believe I did, yes.”

  Zarabeth waited for his reaction in slight trepidation. Egan had so wanted Jamie to inherit the lairdship of the castle and its lands, although lately he seemed to have made his peace with Charlie MacDonald and bad memories.

  Egan’s face, which had lost color,
swiftly suffused with red, and his eyes took on a wild look. He spun from Zarabeth, kilt swinging, threw up his arms, and whooped.

  The workers jumped and cursed, catching the beam before it fell. Hamish and Jamie swung around, looking for the problem.

  Egan swept Zarabeth into his arms and whirled her off her feet. “Did ye hear?” he bellowed. “Fetch up the best malt, Hamish, I’m t’ be a father.”

  Hamish gaped, his unruly red hair floating about his flushed face. Jamie went round-eyed, then he launched himself into the air, punching upward with his fists and screaming madly.

  Then Hamish was next to them, pounding Egan on the back, Mrs. Williams wiping her eyes, Gemma shouting for Angus and Dougal and Mary to come hear the news.

  Egan set Zarabeth on her feet and protected her from the mob, but she was so happy she didn’t mind being mussed by their bear hugs, and a tearful, more gentle one from Mary.

  “I’ll be an aunt,” Mary sniffled, then laughed. “Again.” She whispered into Zarabeth’s ear. “Thank you for making my brother so happy. You’ve worked a miracle.”

  Jamie did cartwheels all along the perimeter of the room and finished in front of them with a flourish. He flung out both hands toward Zarabeth’s abdomen. “All hail the new laird of Castle MacDonald!”

  The whisky had arrived by then and glasses shot high. “To the new laird of Castle MacDonald!”

  “It might be a girl,” Zarabeth pointed out over the noise.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jamie clutched a brimming glass of whiskey, ignoring Egan’s frown. “I expect ye’ll have many, many children, the way your bed creaks every night. One of the lot will be a boy, and I’ll never have to be laird—thanks be to God and Zarabeth of Nvengaria.”

  “Zarabeth of Nvengaria!” the others chorused, and drank to it.

  Egan pulled Zarabeth aside from his dancing, whisky-quaffing Highland family and gathered her into his arms.

  “You’re the brightest light that ever entered this castle,” he said, his lips brushing hers. “Thank ye for keeping the light here with me.”