Epilogue

EPILOGUE

T hree months later

Castle Mackinnon

As he'd done every day since again making his home at the castle, Arran paced the battlements, his eyes on the road below where it stretched into the distance, seeking signs of a rider brining him the longed-for news.

While the council had accepted him as their clan leader, it was understood that if there was no proof of his birthright, the law would not allow him to inherit the lairdship. It had been a long, lonely time, with only memories of Dahlia's smiling face and soft curves to keep him company in his huge bed at night.

Summer was behind him and now the surrounding hills were snow-capped. The blustery wind that blew his fair hair around his face as he strode the battlements was no balmy breeze but spattered his face with icy sleet and made the blood run cold in his veins.

Rubbing his hands for warmth, he returned to his solar. All traces of Bairre and James had been removed and now the fire blazed merrily in a room painted in bright colors and hung with rich tapestries from France. With Emilia's help, he'd done his best to transform the grim, grey stones of the castle into a place that would welcome his love.

If only the damned documents from Eire attesting to his parents' marriage and relieving him of the title of ‘bastard' would arrive.

He shook off the sleet and a few snowflakes from his cloak and took a seat before the fire with a heartfelt sigh. He was meeting with the council again tomorrow and they were almost as eager as he was for the news from Eire.

A manservant entered with a flagon of ale, a trencher, eggs and bannocks to break his fast. Once his fingers were warmed, he ate his hearty breakfast and prepared for his morning's work. His table was littered with parchments, matters that required his adjudication and resolution. There were grievances of all kinds, from a pig who had wandered from his owner's yard and ended up in the cooking pot of a neighbor, to a dispute over the measurements of a plot of land. Some of them tried his patience while others tugged hard at his compassion.

His morning passed quickly as he immersed himself in the problems of his clansmen and it was a welcome break when his mother bustled in, her eyes alight with excitement.

Emilia had happily taken over the role of housekeeper and busied herself each day, in company with the new castle seneschal, returning order to the castle. Following news of Bairre's death, many of the castle staff, freed from his tyranny, had chosen to return to their villages. Emilia had been slowly selecting and training a retinue of new servants.

"There's news, Arran."

He glanced up, pleased to see her looking well, a plumpness in her cheeks and a new spring in her step.

"We're tae receive guests. One of our scouts located a small party on the road a few miles off, heading to the castle." She looked around. "I must get one of the servants tae tidy this room. Ye dae make a mess." She scanned the bundles of parchments on the table and the books piled up on the floor beside his chair

"Dinnae fuss, Maither." He chuckled. It was impossible for Emilia to accept he was a grown man and not her wayward boy in need of chiding and tidying.

"Who are these guests who are arriving without invitation or prior notice?"

Her face broke into a smile, displaying two dimples on her pink cheeks. "It seems they're on their way from Castle MacLeod."

His heart leapt, beating hard against his ribcage. Dear God. Could it be the news he'd been waiting fer? And who was in this party from Castle MacLeod? It was too much to hope that the Lady Dahlia might be among them.

Emilia hastened off to alert the cook and the kitchen maids that they were expecting guests and to advise the chambermaids to ensure there were sufficient freshly laundered bed linens, and clean bedchambers and chamber pots ready.

After a hasty visit to his own rooms to change his clothes, wash his hands and face and brush his mane of fair hair, Arran dashed up the stairs, returning to the battlements. There he strained his eyes, impatiently scanning the road.

It was not long before his surveillance was rewarded as, at last, the riders came into view. He was busily trying to count them when Emilia joined him. "I count ten of them," she turned to Arran, grinning mischievously. "And there are ladies among them."

His stomach lurched as hope rose in his throat. He'd missed Dahlia with an ache that only grew worse when he was in his bed. If this cavalcade from Castle MacLeod was bringing the news he'd been waiting for, the mayhap Dahlia was one of the riders. He could only pray this would be so.

By the time the first of the horses clattered into the courtyard, Arran and Emilia were eagerly waiting on the steps to the keep, their eyes glued on the portcullis.

Leading the group was Laird Haldor, accompanied by his wife Sofia. Arran went forward to greet him and shake him by the hand as he dismounted. His mother took the diminutive Sofia in her arms, all smiles. The next to enter was Ivar MacLeod, with his pretty wife Catalina.

Arran was greeting Ivar when the next rider entered.

And, there she was at last, the one his somersaulting heart had been longing for these past months. The Lady Dahlia, radiant, smiling, her long hair flying behind her, as she trotted her little mare across the cobbled courtyard toward him, bringing the horse to a standstill by his side.

He reached up both arms as she dismounted, enfolding her in his embrace, breathing in her lavender fragrance, planting kisses in her hair, sighing, laughing with delight that she was there and he was holding her.

"Me love," he whispered.

Her arms were around him, clinging tightly. "I'm here," was all she said. The sweetest sound Arran had ever heard.

As the remainder of the group dismounted and the grooms took possession of the horses, taking them to the stables, Arran took Dahlia by the hand. With Emilia beside them, he led the little assembly inside the keep, where a group of servants clustered, ready to attend to the guests and see to their luggage.

Arran released Dahlia's hand with great reluctance so she could join the other ladies and their maids being escorted to their chambers. "I shall meet ye in the great hall toward evening," he whispered. As the ladies disappeared up the stairs, Haldor stepped forward and gripped Arran's arm.

"Much as I look forward tae brushing away the morning's travels, I wish tae speak urgently with ye. Is it possible fer us tae meet without delay with ye and yer maither?"

"Of course." Arran gestured to one of the manservants. "The Lady Emilia and I will be in me solar if ye could serve us and our guests' refreshments there." The man hurried off and Arran and Emilia guided Haldor and Ivar along the passageway leading to the laird's solar.

Following a few steps behind was a grey-haired monk in his robes who had somehow escaped Arran's notice in the courtyard.

They assembled in the solar and were about to take their seats at the timber table before Haldor introduced the dignified old man.

"This is Faither Deiran, the priest who performed the marriage ceremony fer yer parents."

Beside him, Emilia gasped loudly. "Faither, apologies. I didnae recognize ye."

The old man gave her a gentle smile. "Child, I didnae expect ye tae ken who I am. The years have changed us both."

Arran felt his knees turning to jelly and he clutched the back of his chair to prevent himself from stumbling.

Haldor's men had found the priest!

And he was there.

Now, at last, there was nothing standing between him and the lairdship of Clan Mackinnon. And once the Council installed him as their rightful laird, he would have every right to present himself as a possible husband for milady Dahlia Mackinnon.

He shook his head, slowly taking in this shattering news, his heart singing with joy.

At that moment, the door swung open and several serving-men entered the solar carrying platters of cold chicken, cheese, bannocks and flagons of ale, which they placed at the center of the table.

Still standing while the others sat, Arran raised a tankard. "I thank ye Haldor and Ivar fer what ye've done on me behalf. Slàinte mhath. "

The others raised their tankards in salute. " Slàinte mhath."

Haldor unbuckled the leather satchel he'd been carrying and withdrew several sheets of parchment which he placed on the table in front of Arran.

The first of these sheets was easily recognizable for the scrawled signatures and the date of the wedding. Arran held it aloft. "This is all I need fer the Council. We meet on the morrow and once they have this," he turned to the old priest, "and have heard ye swear tae the truth of it, they will declare me Laird of the Mackinnons."

The second parchment was folded, and he saw at once it carried King Robert's seal. He picked it up, suddenly aware that his hands were trembling slightly. When he broke the seal and opened the parchment, it took moments for his head and heart to align. This was everything he could have hoped for. He read aloud:

Me desire tae see the MacLeod and Mackinnon clans in peaceful alignment is as strong as ever. Tae this end, and in light of the unfortunate, recent demise of Bairre Mackinnon I continue me existing decree – that there should be a marriage between the two clans.

Arran looked up to see Haldor grinning at him.

"The king sent me the same message. If we are tae retain the king's goodwill, it seems me sister Dahlia will, once again, be forced tae contemplate taking a Mackinnon as her lawful, wedded husband."

The atmosphere in the great hall was buzzing and lively. Arran's guest were all seated by the time he stepped into the hall and he waited a moment listing to the thrum of friendly voices and laughter. Several members of his council along with Haldor's accompanying guards were also present and he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight of the Mackinnon and MacLeod tartans side-by-side, bright splashes of vibrant color and pattern amongst the more somber colors worn by the servants.

As he made his way to the high table, a hush fell over the gathering. His men rose to their feet as he walked through the central passage, acknowledging the company with a quick salute, and then the hubbub of voices resumed.

Scanning his guests, his eyes came to rest on Dahlia, seated at the end of the table beside Ivar's wife, Catalina. Tonight, she was not clad in blue silk as she had been for her betrothal to Bairre, but was wearing a rose-colored velvet gown, the low neckline displaying the rise of her creamy breasts trimmed with gold embroidery and white fur cuffing the long, elegant sleeves. Her eyes sparkling, she was as bonny a sight as he'd ever beheld.

As he caught her eye, she smiled at him and his spirits soared in anticipation of what he planned for this evening's celebrations.

He walked to where she sat and she stood to greet him, bobbing a deep curtsy.

"Good evening me Lord Arran," she said, dipping her head.

Without further delay, and in the full sight of the assembled crowd he knelt before her on one knee.

Looking deep into her blue eyes, he took her hand in his.

"Dahlia MacLeod, ye've more than I ever dreamed of. Ye make me the happiest man on earth and I'll spend the rest of me days trying tae make ye just as happy. Would ye dae me the great honor of consenting tae marry me?"

A hush descended over the diners, and the bustling servants came to a standstill. The serving of food came to a halt as every eye in the hall turned to Dahlia and Arran, waiting with Arran for her response.

"I gladly give me consent. It will make me the happiest lass in Scotland tae be wed with ye, me dearest love."

They laughed together, tears of happiness moistening Dahlia's cheeks as Arran seized her in his arms and twirled her about, her skirt flying, while an almighty cheer rang through the great hall from MacLeods and Mackinnons alike.

But there's more…